Whimsical Musings of a Loon

Celebrating Captain Scott

2012-01-22T14:08:00.000-08:00

Hundred years ago this month, Captain Robert Falcon Scott and four other members of his British Antarctic Expedition 1910, reached the South Pole. What should have been triumphed as a great achievement of effort, bravery, knowledge and exploration, was diminished when it was realised that Scott's expedition had been 'beaten' to the Pole first by the Norwegian expedition lead by Amundsen.

What followed after Scott reached the Pole was a decreasing circle of fate. Upon reaching the South Pole and the crushing reality that they had been beaten to the race, Scott and his small team began the even more exhausting 800 mile return to their base in constantly deteriorating weather and ill health.

By March 1912, Scott and his team had lost their lives; perishing in the horrifyingly frozen temperatures. They had been hungry, frost bitten and fatigued for weeks. Captain Scott, Captain Oates, Lieutenant Bowers, Edward Wilson, and Petty Officer Evans had all passed away in their final battle.

Growing up I had long been interested in the tale of the Terra Nova expedition to the South Pole. Cardiff's Roath Park lake has a memorial to Captain Scott's team, and visiting the park, I often asked to hear the tragic story. It both intrigued and horrified me; the marvel of exploration counter-acted with the death and sickening end. To me, the romance of real hero adventurers was there in plain view - these were not comic book heroes, they were real people who took on challenges of enormous height. And unlike the hollywood heroes I saw on screen, there was not always a happy ending.

The Terra Nova expedition ship set sail from Cardiff in 1910, with the aim of being the first to reach the South Pole; although it had a secondary aim of scientific exploration. By the 1970s, criticism of Scott had seen his name rather tarnished - criticism of leadership and judgement. A cloud of blame hung around the story. TV adaptations of Shackleton - Scott's contemporary explorer - had raised the profiles of these early twentieth century explorers, and yet Scott was left to still flounder amidst the blizzard of shame. Rumours churned about rivalries between Scott and Shackleton, innuendos and soap opera stylee myths that were leaving behind the real story.

The new exhibition traveling around the country and to celebrate the 100 years since Scott's reaching the South Pole, does much to help champion and pay respects to the bravery of these men, as well as highlight the fact the expedition did much to aid scientific knowledge with the data and artifacts collected.

Criticism of Scott was wonderfully batted away for 6 (and over the pavillion and into the car park) by the epic modern-day adventurer Sir Ranulph Fiennes in his fantastic book, Captain Scott. As easy as it is for academics and historians to criticise Scott and the expedition from the comfort of their warm desks, Fiennes has done it himself - he has braved the harsh realities of the Antarctic, experienced the battles and extremities, the stresses, the pain. In a nut-shell, he has lived what he's talking about. Fiennes writes that Scott achieved so much, that Scott should be championed for these as victories. The expedition was one of huge scientific importance.

Scott and his team should be remembered as true heroes. It's through the bravery of people like them that man learns and develops. Gaining scientific progress; discovering the limitations of the human body alone. It is why I admire explorers/astronauts and pioneers - they try new things, experience what there is; see life as a quest to discover, to learn. Otherwise what is the point.

And that is their legacy.

"We took risks, we knew we took them; things have come out against us, and therefore we have no cause for complaint, but bow to the will of Providence, determined still to do our best to the last ... Had we lived, I should have had a tale to tell of the hardihood, endurance, and courage of my companions which would have stirred the heart of every Englishman. These rough notes and our dead bodies must tell the tale, but surely, surely, a great rich country like ours will see that those who are dependent on us are properly provided for."
Captain Scott's last diary entry, March 1912

The Captain Scott expedition is on at the National Museum of Wales, Cardiff until May 2012.

Best albums of 2011

2012-01-10T13:10:00.000-08:00

It's that time of the year again - Lazuary; no, not some annual homage to the former Bond star (whom was vastly underrated in my opinion); but the month of lazy journalism and blogs as we review the year just departed with endless lists and reminders of what happened as if we can't remember just a few months ago (to be fair, I often can't).

It's as if we can't be bothered to think of any new blog topics of originality so just wheel out geeky lists of things we like as if to define ourselves as having a purpose of existing because of the elements in life that we favour.

Which is exactly what I am going to do. It would be against my geeky religion not to. And besides, it's jolly satisfying. So here is my top 10 of favourite albums from 2011.

Real Estate: Days
Real Estate have been a favourite band of mine for a while. They produce simple pop of understated goodness.

White Denim: D
Lushness. A touch of the psychedelic groove.

Cerys Matthews - Explorer
Cerys' finest work, fusing world influences with a newer, mature textured layer. Really great stuff.

Lykke Li - Wounded Rhymes
An intense record of dark beauty. It's quite devastating.

tUnE- yArDs: Who Kill
Merrill Garbus is probably my new hero; she's part bonkers, part genius, part ukulele R&B artiste. It shouldn't work, it damn well does. One of the most original musicians out there.

PJ Harvey - Let England Shake
The Peej is one of my favourite musicians, so I may be biased, but this is amongst some of her finest work. Critical, different, haunting, ballsy, beautiful; in ways only the Harvey can manage.

M83: Hurry Up, We're Dreaming
O the joys! A stunning album of the supreme 'shoegazer' genre. Eclectic, soundtracky and just a supreme record.

Kurt Vile: Smoke Ring For My Halo
It's 'just' a rock record, but my, what a good one. Unique vocals; twinged with a bit o' the sad.

St Vincent: Strange Mercy
This is her best record yet, and I love it. I loathe to compare and contrast with HRH Queen Kate of Bush, but yes, this is not dissimilar to Kate Bush.

Kate Bush: 50 Words for Snow
Kate is default awesome. A stunning album of stripped, bare, simplicity. Kate may not be leaping around moors anymore singing about literary firgures, but she still writes hauntingly melodic masterpieces.

My six favourite photographs

2011-10-22T14:29:00.000-07:00

Photography is one of my passions, and today whilst on a long walk with the dog up Caerphilly Mountain, I stopped at a style that overlooked Cardiff and wished I could master capturing the view. For years I have tried, and I have never quite achieved to replicate the oddly part-picturesque-part-M4-induced-city-scape exactly how I wanted. I will continue to try every time I trample past, but it did make me ponder over what was my actual favourite image of all time.

Growing up, it was press images of sporting moments that captured beautifully split-second action, that got me fascinated photography. The images, perhaps, of Wales scoring a try in a rare victory - they were such exciting photographs - the excitement in the players' eyes, the mud, the emotion, the faces of the crowds; you could sit and pour over the image and live it for much longer than you could watching the replay endlessly on TV.

As I studied photography more, I saw the power this medium had for letting us concentrate on a split second of time delve deeper than the joys/woes of sport.

But what was my actual favourite image? There are many famous iconic images that I love - or perversely think quite stunning, despite being of a rather uncomfortable subject. My mind is cast immediately back to the horrifying stills of the Hindenberg and Challenger disasters - awful, terrifying, in so many ways - and yet the pin-point capture of the split second detail (the ability of photography itself to capture life and keep it forever) is actually almost poetic. This is something I wrote about in a previous blog post, and gave me much mental turmoil in how much I appreciated the medium's capabilities to preserve such shocking moments. The context of a photograph means more sometimes than the actual aesthetic itself.
I love the photograph of Ieuan Evans on his way to scoring a try against England in 1993, because the occasion meant so much to me at the time. This picture remained on my wall for my entire childhood; it takes me back to the exact moment where I was, the thrill, the excitement.

But choosing my favourite images is a personal preference, just like any favourite list. I can pick images others may think awful, pointless, irrelevant, or just plain ugly. Some may even think distasteful. But the power in the image, just like any art particularly more modern, lies often in the context of the piece; and what we, the viewer, bring to the imagery ourselves.

Just six of my favourite photographs:

This is stuff of dreams and science fiction; and yet, a reality of technological triumph. Simply a great image in so many different ways - not just the contrast of the lights and shadows, the framing and composition; but a symbol of achievement and ambition.

Winogrand. One of my favourite photographers; a great master of street images with an incredible skill for the composition and the commentary of the society at the time. The aesthetic 'third of heads' as I like to call it, with this image is a joy to behold.

There wouldn't have been a Winogrand without a Robert Frank. The iconic street photographer's work was once described as a: "meaningless blur, grain, muddy exposures, drunken horizons and general sloppiness." And it is precisely this what makes his images so wonderfully truthful of life in their very essence. Frank visited Wales and took a series of images of miners and their lives. It is a life now dead and gone.

Ansel Adams. Quite simply a beautiful, utterly incredible, image.

I have no idea who took this photograph, but it is so quintessentially and deliciously Hitchcock - my favourite director of all time.

Andreas Gursky. Architectural abstract images of herculean scale that evoke such impressive wow factor on a visual level, it is almost easy to forget they portray a strong commentary on harsh realities of capitalism and modern life. A photographer who made me interested in the abstract and architecture as photographic themes.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Love....Running

2011-09-25T11:35:00.000-07:00

I love running. No, I LOVE running.

When people hear this or see how enthusiastic I get about running long distances, clocking up the miles early morning, or struggling up a Caerphilly mountain training run, some respond in sheer recoiled horror. I may as well have admitted I enjoy eating puppies for dinner before washing them down with a mug of vinegar once owned by Hitler.

But I genuinely love it. And I wasn't always sure why; until I read Murakami's 'What I Talk About When I Talk About Running' short book; his philosophy on his love of the pursuit. What he writes is essentially this: running is part of what he is. Like an artist's art, or musician's music. Just because it is an exercise (a sport!) makes it no less valuable or trivial to study and philosophise about.

I had always liked sport as a kid. I spent the first 10 years of my life kicking a football against the garage door, winning Wimbledon against the side of the house, and using my mum's hydrangea plant as a scrummaging machine. But my dad used to run. My main memory of him growing up is disappearing off on Sunday morning jaunts, covered in talc and in tiny running vests- returning back sweated and covered in mud.

My dad was a serious runner. He took up road running after he retired from rugby - and transformed from a chunky prop forward into a spindly running waif - clocking up some great times for marathons in the process.

It put it into my head. I wanted to run. The enjoyment didn't come immediately though, mostly because....Running is tough. In fact, it's not just tough, it's cruel, ruthless even. The pain can be great, the fatigue can be destroying; the mental games your body will play can be exhausting alone.

Why put yourself through such pain? Why choose to hurt yourself so? I went through years of stop-start running training. It never lasted. It was like trying to solve world peace - I wanted to, but it's practicalities just seemed too complicated.

It was during a moment of self-discovery where things clicked into place. I was in the worst shape of my life. I had spent my first year away at university slowly suffocating my body with junk and lack of exercise. I felt terrible, both mentally and physically. I came home from my misery, and visited my Nan.

Pain happens to us all, she said suddenly randomly, giving me a hug. None of us can escape pain. You just got to keep moving and not let it ruin things.

I made a decision. I was going to get fit, I was going to change my attitude, I was going to work hard. And I did. And I barely looked back. When that moment arised where I wanted to quit, I just kept moving - and the sense of achievement of thinking I had beaten the negative, beaten the pain, was incredible. Slowly but surely, things felt easier...better...I was getting fitter, stronger, losing weight. I was sleeping better, sharper mentally. My mood improved. The changes, although took a while, suddenly hit me like a steam train.
I can understand why people don't understand my love. But similarly how some people can't understand why I love it so much, I can't fathom why people love reality tv, rom-coms or junk food and Jeremy Clarkson. It would be boring if we were all the same.

Since I took up serious running (several 10Ks a week) I never looked back. Running has become part of what I am.
Murakami wrote: Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. Not just in running, but in life. Running is my me time; I think, I contemplate, I observe the world around me. I see beautiful landscapes up Caerphilly Mountain; I see foxes and other wildlife carrying about their worlds; I see the light rise; I see the world being. When I go running early in the morning - I feel like the only person alive- the full day lying ahead - all that promise, all that potential, awaiting to be unleashed. You feel alive. Because you are. And I don't want to miss it.

Celebrity by Awfulness Phenomenon (And how I learnt to stop worrying and love Jan Terri)

2011-08-28T00:16:00.000-07:00

When You Tube was in its relative infancy, I stumbled upon a video that made me laugh so much I spilt tea on my keyboard. The late 90s and early years of the new millennium was the beginning of the Internet video cult phenomenon, a time when footage would slip easily through copyrighted nets and the for-father to the iplayer age.

I'd already discovered the power of the internet's time wasting capabilities - hours spent entertaining myself as a student building websites on geocities- on Bargain Hunt's leathery badger haired David Dickinson; aging ex tennis players and their similarities to various zoo animals (of course my sites were hilarious [sic] and satire witticisms and not just er [sic]). I spent whole evenings looking up 'celebrity morgue.com' with my flatmates; finding out when I would die on deathclock.com; and conspiracy theories pages with flashing GIFs (the animated GIF - the comic sans of early internet elements - which naturally made any 'fact' seem less credible every time they, well, animated themselves)

But when it came to videos, I was left a bit underwhelmed. I enjoyed watching retro kids tv shows, like the rest of us. But I bored quickly with jackass stylee stunts, and UFO videos that were actually not-so-unidentified after all (It's a cloud dear).

it was this one particular video that I must have watched hundreds of times. On a random video search for 'something full of comedy value' I found a music video by a singer/songwriter called Jan Terri. And it made me cry with laughter.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OE2l6CPna4M

Jan Terri. A limo-driver from Chicago. She made two albums in the early nineties that originally gained a small cult following on their VHS releases - already their kitche awfullness attracting fans. But it was the internet that put her into the limelight - well before reality shows were making millions on the unashamed seemingly awful-attempts of people to make it big in the music industry.

This particular piece is labelled 'The Worst Music Video Ever'. And sadly for Jan, this is possibly true. The camera work would be failed for GCSE media students, wobbling shots and jerky zooms; the choice of scenes a little unimaginative at times - Jan sat in the back of a limo - Jan stood at the water edge in Chicago like a badly-fitted-leather-clad fish out of said water; the man of her affections is like a Steve Coogan spoof-character - a mulletted biker who seems the most unlikely suiter for our dear Jan. Jan herself - frizzy blonde bouffant and dodgy leathers. And the music. Production means Jan manages to sound slightly off-key the entire way through; the synathised backing sounds relatively prehistoric, and the lyrics deliciously bad 'My heart is open like an open book'....

However. When my original guffawing fits died down, something began to quickly trouble with me. It all seemed, well to me, a bit cruel. Maybe it was my inherent sensitivity to all things nasty (I'm boringly prone to the need for niceness, I must admit) but it all seemed rather unsavoury, like someone had filled the bottom of a lovely chocolate cake with salt icing.

Just as the Internet is so wonderful to spread and share information and creativity and knowledge; it can be equally as successful in sharing and encouraging negativity and cruelty. It is akin to the school bully syndrome. Let's pick on someone a little bit vulnerable, let's all jump on the bandwagon because then it means the bullies won't give their attention to me.

Part of me actually admired Jan - she had a dream, wrote songs, recorded songs, filmed the videos. She went out there and did it. How many of us sit there dreaming up schemes or plans or wishes - and yet they never leave that initial phase; they never actually materialise into anything more concrete than thin air. But Jan went out and tried something - in an notoriously difficult industry. And are Jan's songs that bad? They're catchy with some nice little riffs. Certainly I would prefer listening to her songs than most Westlife efforts, although that's obviously my personal taste.

This celebrity-by-awfulness now seems to be an entire business of its own. Reality tv shows combined with the internet give us all the opportunity to show the world what we don't have. TV shows will deliberately put forward bad singers on singing shows, or people who look strange, or have some kind of freak-show-talent - in the hope their terribleness will attract more viewers. You could argue if you put yourself up for this, then you only have yourself to blame, and this of course has elements of truth - but at the same time, it all seems rather exploitative - a patronising view perhaps, but they're making money on deluded dreams, publically making fools of people who perhaps don't know any different.

In a way, Jan Terri was one of the early internet Celebrities by Awfulness. And in a way, I was almost a little jealous. Envious that she had the courage to go out and just did what she wanted to do. That she created something. Who cares that she didn't make her millions, at least she tried. And I was full of admiration for this, myself guilty in the past of becoming paralysed by the fear of failing.

Whatever Jan is doing, she had her moment in the sun. Jan wins.

Engulfed in a Sea and Attic

2011-06-20T13:52:00.000-07:00

When it comes to literature, I am not usually particularly keen on spin-off books or novels based on classic characters. When I first read Jane Austen as an 11 year old, I was so captivated by the sparkling characters in Pride & Prejudice, so desperate to be part of their lives and learn more, I read a 'sequel' written by a modern writer. It was based on Elizabeth Bennett's married life with Darcy. It was one of the worst pieces of writing I had ever read, even worse than the deliciously awful Point Horror books I use to devour as a sort of pot noodle literature alongside the gourmet Austen.

It was like a bad Hollywood sequel where the actors couldn't act, the director couldn't direct and script was was written with invisible ink on thin air.

So it was with trepidation that I began reading 'Wide Sargasso Sea'. Recommended by a good friend of similar tastes and with whom I trusted with my cultural life, I took it up with the sort of enthusiasm of a child about to ride a bike without stabilisers. I wanted to, but it could hurt.

'Wide Sargasso Sea' was written by Jean Rhys in 1966. The book is regarded as a "parallel novel"; a prequel taking the characters from Charlotte Bronte's classic 'Jane Eyre'. A backdrop of the Caribbean, Rhys muses over the mysterious story before the infamous Rochester and "Bertha" end up in England (and thus, Bronte's novel).
'Jane Eyre' is one of my most sacred books; when I first started reading it for A Level English, I enjoyed it so much I stayed up the whole night to complete it in its entirety, returning to school the next day blurry eyed and accused of being out partying.

Reader, I was worried. Worried, essentially, that 'Wide Sargasso Sea' would fail me. That it would not do justice to the wonderful piece of literature it is affiliated to. I need not have worried. Rhys carves an intrinsically well drawn portrait of racial inequality, an oppressive world of harsh life and not belonging with a postmodern style of switching view point. The setting of the Caribbean is fresh; colloquialisms give the book an original take, and yet it is not a difficult read despite the tragically complex themes and psychological conundrums it deals with - mental health, the theme often tackled with either terror or simply ignored altogether in the hope it'll go away.

Some passages are so heartbreakingly beautiful, so melancholically poignant; you become just as engulfed as 'Bertha' herself. Rhys cleverly fills in gaps of fictional history and yet leaves us with even more question marks hanging solemnly and mystically, over the attic. A classic in itself.

A few of my favourite things....

2011-03-14T15:42:00.000-07:00

At a late night post-rugby celebrational conversation on Saturday night mulling over "what is your favourite symphony", it occurred to me that chosing favourites when it comes to music, film, literature, art and culture is indeed, a troublesome task that can cause a lot of in-house conflict.

Deciding on our favourites, our lists of what we consider the best or most enjoyable, seems for so many to define who we are. Author Nick Hornby wrote a book dealing with this very theme; High Fidelity, a tale of man's obsession with lists and favourites.

Essentially, it is trivial. Who cares if we rank Neighbours above Emmerdale, or Quincy above Columbo (even if it is true...) but at the same time, it is always enjoyable sifting through the options. For me, it is akin to solving a crossword puzzle - works the brain, the outcome isn't important, but if you love these things, it is deliciously satisfying to complete.

One area I often ponder is on the subject of music and film, and in particular the cross over of the two. It is through film that my love of music blossomed; an awakening of the cinematic genre brought alongside with it a voyage of musical discovery. I was brought up with little popular culture for reference: a Sgt Pepper's LP, The Yellow Submarine & Chitty Chitty Bang Bang on warped VHS. And The Frog Chorus on a 45.

When I first started studying film, it astounded me how much music enhanced the cinematic experience and vice versa. One director, aside from Hitchcock, Lynch and Kubrick, who I instantly adored was Wes Anderson. Aside from the melancholy; tragi-comic themes and slightly eccentric tones, the main element of why I loved his films so much, were the soundtracks. It was on The Royal Tenenbaums soundtrack where I first heard the haunting sound of beautiful Nick Drake. Anderson's soundtracks are, standalone, musical journeys. They take you back to the film itself, and yet further on again; like the behind the scenes extras on the DVD, only inside your brain and in your bones.

So naturally, despite it meaning nothing, despite my opinion being completely subjective for my personal tastes, and despite it likely to change on my mood; here are my top ten soundtracks.

1. The Royal Tenenbaums
2. Lost In Translation
3. West Side Story
4. The Virgin Suicides
5. Chariots of Fire
6. Taxi Driver
7. The Talented Mr Ripley
8. Mulholland Drive
9. Psycho
10. A Clockwork Orange

And I have to live with myself that I have left out The Sound of Music and Mary Poppins....And Bedknobs & Broomsticks....

Snowdonia

2011-01-17T14:26:00.000-08:00

Sudden vast beasts wall the scape,
Gone are greens, now reds do drape;
Moist air so still, yet majestic, proud,
Rocky streams gush force and loud.

Bony trees, clawed and long,
Mountain King Peacock struts and strong,
Artery dry stones reach so high,
They pathway up beyond the sky.

The mist above clouds darkened dream,
Crystal water so pure, barely seen,

O now understanding why Eryri gave blame,
Resplendent dramatics inspired Ray of Light, his name.

I wish I was the mist that swirls the air,
I wish I was the peak that towers to dare,
I wish I was the force of beauty that all can see;
I wish I was the feeling of so meant to be.

Visiting Nick Drake

2010-11-15T12:40:00.000-08:00

The autumn colours of gold and dark reds flitter through the Warwickshire countryside as the foliage rustles in the wind; creates a presence of eyes watching, amidst the arm-like branches that adorn the hedgerows and gardens of pristine red-bricked houses and snug thatched cottages. The bright sun betrays its November setting, yet the crisp bite in the air snaps at the skin mischievously. The atmosphere is drenched in the melancholic dregs of summer - the winter is soon upon us, the animals are preparing to hibernate, nature is about to shut-shop, the dying year has not long to live.

This is Tanworth in Arden. A serene, small village that seems quintessentially English. It is, to music fans across the world, a special place, associated with one of the finest songwriter's the country has ever produced.

Nick Drake.

The tragic story of Nick's life and work has touched many people. Nick's struggling musical career, along with his battle with depression and ultimately premature death at the young age of has fascinated a generation and has been written/studied about extensively. What makes Nick's tale so poignant is the success and adoration he so dearly craved, was only achieved years after his sad death.

I discovered Nick's music through my love of the Wes Anderson film, The Royal Tenenbaums. Snuck away on a soul-searching soundtrack of delights, was an unusually sounding folky song; amidst the storyline of a character reaching a crisis point, it was a simple melody and yet hit that particular soft spot for the reflective. I was caught in Nick's alluring net, and quickly sought out more of his music.

I wondered where Nick had been all my life. The sadness, the subtle beauty, the tragic elements of life. His exquisite guitar playing accompanied with haunting lyrics of poetry; his sadness at life, his ghostly, even rather odd tone of voice. Part of me fell in love with Nick's music, his words, and even Nick himself. Listening to his work made you plead to some other-worldy presence, to tell him he had made it, that we loved him, that it was going to be okay.

Visiting Tanworth In Arden was perhaps, a musical pilgrimage. You could imagine Nick strolling his long legs through the small village in autumn, his eyes casting at the golden colours...and suddenly it was understandable how he could have been inspired to write such reflective songs of delicate sensitive succulence.

Nick's grave lies in a quiet, tranquil churchyard, overlooking a landscape of English countryside that makes you tingle. To visit the grave, is to pay your respects, to appreciate his life and what he achieved. There is something comforting in the knowledge that this is his resting place. There is a silent respect, an atmosphere of calm, and of something, just that little bit exceptional.

One of the aspects of Nick's music that makes him so effective is that he sings and plays as if he is performing especially to you. It is comforting, if heartbreaking, that he seems to understand feelings you may experience yourself.

The sad story of Nick Drake is also positive. Positive that so many have enjoyed and loved his work, positive that he will never really die; that he created something that has united people and that will live forever, and last longer and past a time where we ourselves will be nothing but the rustles in the foliage of an exquisite countryside. We rise. We are everywhere.

The complete set of photographs I took at Tanworth In Arden

11/11

2010-11-11T04:44:00.000-08:00

Armistice day is the right occasion to pause and reflect on sacrifices made by others which have enabled us to sample many of the freedoms we enjoy today.

It was studying Wilfred Owen poetry in school that captured my interest so painstakingly to World War I in particular. Amidst the black and white grainy photographs in history text books, it was difficult to truely relate to the horrors of the trenches, to the terror of the gas attacks, to the squalid diseased conditions and war of attrition that so many thousands of men faced daily. But the poems got you. The poems were sheer evocative gut-wrenching reality.

Pictures paint a thousand words. But the poems painted a thousand pictures.

At a time where we have media obsessed with celebrities, bombarding us with images and portrayals of a lifestyle which we begin to think we want; it is easy to be fooled. It is easy to forget the truth. We forget what has gone before us, we forget that life is about people and having good people in your life.

DULCE ET DECORUM EST

And lest we forget.

Lost In Translation

2010-10-18T14:01:00.000-07:00

The Guardian and Observer publications are running supplements featuring their "Greatest Films of All Time" in various sub-categories of genre. Deciphering culture greatness is always a contentious subject of classification. I relish perusing these types of lists; to criticise, to agree, but most of all, to observe why we, as humans and devourers of arts and popular culture, love listing these things in the first place (and subsequently argue about it like it actually means anything).

I was intrigued to see one of my favourite films featured in the "Greatest Romance" section; Sofia Coppola's most beautiful and wonderfully underplayed Lost In Translation. I was curious, because as much as I love the film, it never even occurred to me to even class it into the 'romance' film genre.

Lost In Translation is a film that appears to divide many. It seems to leave many either completely cold, disinterested or feeling as if Sofia Coppola had snuck behind them and pick-pocketed their purses; or like a union of chords had been struck, and the director had sent Bill Murray & Scarlett Johansson around to their homes to touch their hearts personally. I am, obviously, firmly in the latter category. The film has such softness of focus, such subtle of performances, such minimal action, such musically touching soundtracks, that it makes me want to melt.

It was as if watching made my brain wires connect to a long-lost port to enable the motherboard to finally work.

Lost In Translation is a film that appears (to some) to have little plot, but in fact, there is a maelstrom-complex multitude of happenings beneath the seemingly mill-pond surface. The touching snippets of comedy mixed amongst the tragic sadness of reality are all too real - ok, we may not all be aging depressed movie stars stuck jet-lagged in a boring hotel in Japan, but we have all had feelings of solitude, of lack of direction; the sense life is happening elsewhere and we are unable to gain access into the greatest game of all.

It doesn't matter who we are, where we are, or what we are doing; ultimately, if we are not happy with who we are, we will feel lost and alone. And the crux of Lost In Translation, at least to me, seems to be one of the most inevitable aspects of existing - how life is made up of moments, events, snippets of time, where we can meet a person, connect, share a moment, maybe even touch someone's life...and yet never see that person again. Meetings and departures.

Wherever you go, you always have to leave.

Choose (Online) Life

2010-10-12T07:19:00.000-07:00

I was reading the latest news on the BBC website, having finished writing an email for submitting an e-form application; and after logging-out of my online bank account where I was keeping a 24 hour eye on finances; whilst listening to streaming music on spotify, and also quickly checking the train timetable on the railway e-route planner; before buying some groceries on an e-shop, whilst speaking to a friend in America on instant chat, and also quickly monitoring the daily lives, and their breakfast contents, of thousands of strangers on twitter....when it occurred to me, that actually, I really DID spend quite a lot of time on the internet.

This shocking [sic] revelation made me think. What did I do before the internets? Could I even remember a time before online media engulfed my life like a smothering python of digital information.

I remember the very first time I saw the World Wide Web. I was studying GCSE I.T in high school. Just like how my father points to areas of Cardiff to me sometimes and claims; "In my day Sian, it were all fields..." ...in my day, it were all Windows 3.1. The memory of the retro graphics fill me with happy pixelated nostalgia.

One drab Wednesday morning I trudged into class and sat down at my computer, ready to crack open a spreadsheet and devour it whole. But no. Today, we were being shown something NEW. Something DIFFERENT. Something that was apparently, THE NEXT BIG THING. We were being shown - "The World Wide Web".

I had heard of the World Wide Web, of course. But it was spoken and comprehended very much in the same way I now try to fathom the phenomenon that is "High School Musical". I sort of knew what it is, but also very much didn't.

Only one computer in the school I.T room had the Internet. The whole class clambered around the huge monitor (the days when monitors were the size of dog kennels and weighed the same as a baby rhino) and the teacher began her splurge. We were gathered around like how I imagined they would have watched the Coronation in 1953, only we weren't dressed like Just William.

"This is the WORLD WIDE WEB. This is THE INTERNET." She spent about 25 minutes clicking on icons before the computer started to make strange other-worldly noises. This was bizarre. And yet strangely alluring. The INTERNET was dialing. Whatever that meant. Something about phone-lines. Little did I know how familiar that little mechanical tinny tune would become, the sound that was like someone had put a spectrum underwater mid-space invaders.

SO WE WERE ONLINE! Whatever that meant. The teacher told us she was taking us to "Yah. Hoo. Li. Guns" which was actually Yahooligans. I thought this sounded rather inappropriate for school class. But apparently, this white screen in front of us was linking us up to the corners of the globe! It didn't seem to make much sense. The whole world was at our fingertips! She said. We could access all this information! And what would we look up? The BT Yacht Challenge. It looked like a slightly slimmer lined version of Pong, with a few map lines. That was it.

My first experience of the internet was a damp squib. So damp it was more a drenched squib left out in the rain that got Noah. And yet over the years I have grown to love it.
Since that very first day, the Internet has slowly become such a systematically normal part of my daily routine, I can barely remember how I coped without it. People may complain about change, bemoan the loss of the old ways, which may be justified, or maybe not. But I love the way the Internet evolves and morphs. It may not always be positive, and we should be wary of potential dangers, but the Internet has and can bring people together, and share incredible information. Besides, life is about change and knowledge. Let's embrace it. Or express my love for it via social online media....

I'd like to be a pond

2010-10-08T10:58:00.000-07:00

Lost amongst the woods & trees,
The same, but different, such a tease,
I found familiar, of which I was fond,
A beautiful, solitary, lucky old pond.

Quiet & still, content so rare,
Standing me, the water there.

I don't know why, we had such a bond,
I decided I'd quite like, to be a pond.

National Poetry Day

2010-10-07T09:00:00.000-07:00

Creative juices, once fluid, now rock,

Static numbness, such wicked block.

O such horrors when, there's nowt to say,

On a National, Poetry Day

Moving

2010-09-24T13:37:00.000-07:00

Moving out.

Two simple innocuous words. Do not believe their deceit. The reality is the tiresome packing of clothes, the boring sifting through worldy possessions, the mucky dirt of the past - even grubbier than the actual cobwebs and dust that have accumulated en mass over the passing years. Dust is like my fan base, a loyal crowd of particles that stalk my airspace.

Oh what a laborious, woebegone task. Few things are more soul destroying than spending hours packing bags, only for the flimsy plastic to rip as soon as you pick them up; the cheap material looking like someone squished into clothes two sizes too small, before stretching, splitting and vomiting up the entire contents.

Worst of all, the memory jogs of old, and always with the most bizarre object; a yellowing christmas card from Nan, her scrawly, spidery handwriting that now just symbolises a huge gaping hole in myself; a ticket to the Empire State Building in 2001, a heart-wrenching time when anything still seemed possible against a backdrop of smooching couples; a well-chewed book, that is like looking into a mirror that instead of a reflection, reveals every single mistake I have ever made.

Even worse still - the plethora of receipts. The guilt of flittered away pennies; papered judge & jury of waste. What was I doing buying a flumklpe from Ikea? What actually IS a flumklpe? How could I spend so much money in B&Q? I don't even like DIY. And did I really need 12 packs of ice lollies in one week...

Moving out. Moving on. And yet it is almost more like moving backwards.

Autumn Changes

2010-09-23T07:28:00.001-07:00

yellow leaf
Originally uploaded by sian_quincy

Autumn. It sneaks upon us, arrives quietly and unassuming, bringing the soft browns mingling gently amongst the dregs of luscious greens and brightness of warmer months.

Autumnus. Blue turns darker. The greys gradually descend upon us, trickling down like water-colours across the canvas, before the harsh, thick oil paints of winter black submerge them into the landscape.

Fall; as the leaves drop, so does the temperature, so does our temperament. Woebegone drops start to seep onto the skin. A lament of summer gone, the sun and promise gets lost amongst a polaroid of saturated faded memory.

Autompne. Nature begins to age. Once blooming foliage crumbles into wrinkled maturity. Like dying bud heads, our brittle selves start to buckle. Things are changing. It turns. The true New, despite the fraud of January.

Autumn is the reflection in the gentle water of the ancient small stream that flows through a country field; so endless in its journey, so quietly relentless. It's seen it all before. Mellow but triumphant; the dark reality lays dormant underneath. It patiently waits for the inevitable next mortal to find it and catch the brief reflection before they become the next victim; leaving nothing but a shadowy phantom of what was, at one stage, a seemingly endless summer.

Happy Birthday Roald Dahl

2010-09-13T05:23:00.000-07:00

On what would have been Roald Dahl's 90th birthday, it seems fitting to pause and marvel at one of the finest writers Britain has ever produced.

Easily my favourite author as a child, Dahl's books are as captivating as they are surreal; beautifully eccentric characters amongst a world of random extremes and magical wonder. At the heart of Dahl's work is often a dark macabre humour; there's the comedy of a bearded man who manages to contain half his lunch in his beard, or a drink that makes you fly by control of bottom burps, mixed amongst witches, cruel aunts, orphans, and brutal teachers. The world is hilarious, but not always fair, and yet there is a hope that the miraculous can happen to those who are good people.

Essentially, Dahl's books may embrace the fantastical - giants, witches, yet there's an underlying reality to the harshness of real life. His children protagonists often find themselves in horrid situations, through no fault of their own. But it is the belief in hope that shines through as strongly as the Trunchbull herself.

But what made Dahl's writing so engaging, arguably, was his uncanny knack for tapping into the child's point of view, understanding how children view life, their surroundings, and adults. He wrote for children, rather than at them. Adult characters in Dahl's books are often shockingly appalling creatures; cruel, mean, tyrannical (although even some younger characters behave in terrible ways, usually corrupted by the evil adults). The situations his protagonists find themselves in are often horrific, ready to make the reader want to leap behind the sofa for fear of a 60 foot sinister grandma or the giantess Trunchbull flexing her muscles.

Roald Dahl's books were so beautifully textured and descriptive. Dahl paints elaborate pictures of hilariously outrageous human beings (or beans as the BFG would say), comical and yet equally terrifying. Perfect to ignite a child's artistry, or adult for that matter.

His stories were a creative red rag to a dormant bull of imagination to whoever read them. And taught us to embrace the magic of life, even if it was often, just a little bit scary.

A Stretched Band

2010-09-04T05:58:00.000-07:00

Your understanding, if exists, is stealth,

For comprehending, I can't, even myself.

Beneath the surface, a smile will wilt,

Shackled, pounded, and wretched guilt.

Battled hard at the endless crease,

For you I wish, I could give a piece,

Desiring to scatter across any,

But too colossal, it is too many.

With you, so true,

I want to stand tall,

But please, no tease,

And afterall:

A stretched band is, a flawed guise,

It'll break before, it eventually dies.

The Talented Ms Highsmith

2010-07-23T14:02:00.000-07:00

I often say sometimes I love a song so much it's probably illegal, and very often I love a book so much it makes my heart want to crumple into pieces so devastatingly, I feel I might cease to be.

Of course the melodramatic in me often gets carried away, but the overall sentiment is true. The Talented Mr Ripley is such a book that has that kind of beautiful effect of satisfaction, a bit like wolfing down a chocolate bar when you have not eaten all day; a delight and warming satisfaction rolled into one.

Written by Patricia Highsmith in 1955, The Talented Mr Ripley was the first Highsmith novel to feature Tom Ripley, a troubled protagonist Highsmith would go on to write five novels about. A psychological crime thriller, Highsmith writes the book from the perspective of Ripley, a struggling sociopath; a New York misfit small-time con-man, whom aspires to so much more than his dreary existence. From the dirty, mundane streets of New York city, Highsmith takes the reader to the sleepy beauty of coastal Italy, and the sophistication of the wealthy, the beautiful; thrown amongst a backdrop of crime.

What makes this book so effective is Highsmith's almost simplistic style, which flows easily and engages you. Yet there is an underlying level, a complex psychological undertone in the narrative that draws the reader into engaging with, essentially, a very sinister and disturbed mind.

As every thriller novel should be, it is moreish. But this is also due to the affinity Highsmith achieves between the reader and the protagonist. And this is what is so wonderfully unsettling in itself. The acknowledgement that you almost accept Ripley's utterly amoral actions, even though you also know they are very wrong indeed. You begin to fear for Ripley, fear for him getting caught, wanting him to succeed in his plans. Highsmith makes you fall in love with the lifestyle of the beautiful in the Mediterranean almost as much as Ripley himself. This is partly why you can almost empathise with Ripley's behaviours. It is this complex sensation of the human psyche that makes the book so deliciously remarkable.

This draws strong parallels to Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho which often leads the audience into ambiguous feelings towards Norman Bates (interestingly enough, Highsmith's work often reads like a Hitchcock film, with similar themes and suspense. Her excellent novel Strangers on a Train was made into a successful Hitchcock film).

Written at a time before criminologists and Cracker-style TV shows that endlessly bombard us with glossy crime dramas of elaborate psychopaths, Highsmith draws attention to the idea of what a criminal thinks, how a criminal behaves. Just like Norman Bates, Ripley is and can be, charming, likeable, seemingly normal. Unlike classic melodramatic evil villains in books and film, Ripley is subtle, unassuming, sensitive, intelligent. He enjoys art and high culture. The book challenges the too often screaming tabloid headline notion of criminals only being 'monster uncultured lowlifes'.

The book also deals with strong themes of identity, questioning the idea of who we are, what makes what we are. Ripley is a fantastic mimic, assuming new idenities with ease, acting out roles. It not only highlights how we act out different roles ourselves throughout life, but also the interesting paradox of what the self actually is to what we appear to be.

Highsmith may not be a particularly fashionable writer now, and seems to be too often underrated or forgotten about. A troubled personality herself, her own life was filled with personal turmoil. She had a difficult relationship with her mother, and as an adult became an alcoholic. She often suffered from depression, and Highsmith found it difficult to have relationships with either sex. Acquaintances often called her 'cruel' and 'difficult'. Her behaviour was often erratic and reclusive. Yet she did also have a dry sense of humour. This dark humour can often be seen in her writing.

She was, arguably, one of the finest modern crime thriller writers, paving the way for characters such as Hannibal Lecter and various psychopathic literature since. She writes with such matter-of-fact-ease, and yet deals with such intrinsically convoluted psychological issues. It is this skill of making such sagacious insights on such a difficult subject accessible, which makes Highsmith's work so remarkable.

Reading The Talented Mr Ripley is very much like indulging in delicious chocolate. It is wonderfully enjoyable, supremely satisfying, and yet, also, you have the guilty feeling. The guilt that we humans are all, like Ripley, flawed, and it questions our own capacity to be just that little bit wicked.

Betjeman Beats

2010-07-16T13:35:00.000-07:00

Music and poetry is a potent combination. Like music and images, they are entangled together in forms of exuberant brain-pleasuring or indeed heart-wrenching experiences that seem to make life just that little bit more purposeful.

When I was growing up, my parents used to play us a vinyl 45 of this elderly gentleman reciting his poetry to music; crackling clicks of the record against the slightly eccentric English whimsical tones, set against clarinets and bands that sounded like something out of Wind of the Willows. There was a resonance with The Beatles' Yellow Submarine-type of pieces. Whatever the comparisons, it was bizarre. Utterly strange. And yet also rather alluring and admittedly, catchy.

The 45 my parents enjoyed playing us so much was the single release of "A Shropshire Lad", by John Betjeman. Already a fan of his poetry, this particular poem (and single) was all about the place where my mother grew up, somewhere that rarely got any kind of limelight. For my mother, it was like Justin Bieber singing about his greatest fan's home street in the middle of nowhere.

In 1974 the poet laureate Betjeman released an album of his poems accompanied by music called Banana Blush. The well-loved poet of a specific English quaintness; his poems are humorous, touching. They are reflections of a by-gone age. When reading Betjeman's work or indeed, listening to him perform them, it seems almost incredible to ever connect Betjeman with, essentially, a form of rap music.

And yet, it very much works, if not for everyone's taste.

The idea behind Banana Blush belonged to Hugh Murphy, the producer who would later bring us Gerry Raftery's Baker Street. Murphy had already made a record of poetry to music and sought out Betjeman for his next project. The music was written by Jim Parker, who now writes music for TV shows (Midsummer Murders included).

A Shropshire Lad both enthused and unnerved me. The catchy tune and pace was enjoyable for a kid, very much in the same way I enjoyed on Sgt Pepper at the same time. The crackling of the vinyl and odd accent bellowing about ghosts also made me a little spooked. There was an eerie tone to the record as he recited the poem against the clash of cymbals, making me think of ghouls in the personal place which I knew so well, and yet most people didn't; where my Nan lived, and in a place which I was already oddly convinced was haunted.

Moreover, I wondered when my parents might play me a record that involved Kylie or Madonna, but I was already accepting they didn't do things like this. Unless Philip Larkin was going to be remixed to a Jason Donovan number.

That these Betjeman albums have been forgotten about by the mainstream is intriguing. Poetry struggles to be seen as cool by the younger generations, whatever the exaggerated Hollywood films involving Michelle Pfieffer may lead you to believe. And yet the same generations submerge themselves amongst rap music, which has never been more popular.

In 2006, the Guardian reported the Betjeman music albums had resurfaced and become popular with DJs, including the tracks in mixes. The vinyls are apparently highly sought after on ebay for their "dope bass action". Aptly enough, Betjeman's own grandson is a DJ, and he played his grandfather's albums at a set at Glastonbury in 2004. The set went down a storm.

Betjeman's 'rap' efforts have also inspired a range of musical artists such as Suggs and even the great Nick Cave. An unlikely fan you would think but the legendary Cave described them in the Guardian as "beautiful, fantastic stuff. You have these blissed out memories of Betjeman's youth over wah-wah guitar. It's odd and brilliant..."

Odd and brilliant. Absolutely. With emphasis on the brilliant. Perhaps my parents were cooler than I ever gave them credit for, just a little before their time.

Comics will be the culture in the year 3794 - Salvidor Dali

2010-07-03T15:37:00.001-07:00

The Guardian featured a recent article on graphic novels, which immediately caught my eye. What particularly interested me was the writer's admission that for years, 'picture books', were to her, just read by nerdy men.

In a lot of ways, something there resonated. However, I grew up with graphic novels, mostly in the form of Asterix, but more importantly, the work of the legendary Posy Simmonds. I did not realise it at the time, but they were helping to shape my humour, as well as beginning to hone my observational skills. As a child, I thought in pictures. I lived in pictures. I drew things daily. I played out my drawings, creating characters with costumes and accents. The world was a giant, living, colourful graphic.

Then I suddenly stopped reading graphic novels. Perhaps it was a time I was discovering Shakespeare, Dickens, Austen. I became entangled amongst Chekhov and Harold Pinter. I wanted the word. I dreamt pretentiously of acting. I also became obsessed with film and cinema, particularly Hitchcock, and perhaps this fulfilled my visual need.

But I forgot. I forgot the magic of the drawn image that had been conjured as a kid. I forgot that graphic novels weren't all superheroes in silly tights, read by greasy teenagers (an unfair stereotype if ever there was one). I forgot there was more to a cartoon than met the eye.

Fancying reading something different, years later I remember picking up a copy of Alan Moore's V for Vendetta that was lying on the floor of my friend's bedroom, amongst fag ends, Vogue mag, Sex in the City DVDs and photograph negatives. It seemed a tad out of place.

I quickly rediscovered my love affair with the graphic novel. I stayed up all night to finish it and the next day I re-read the Posy Simmonds books. It was back. For not only did I enjoy the comedy and witty observations of 1980s life, I could appreciate fully, for the first time, jokes and insights that had been lost on me as a child.

I dug out the Asterix books from the cobwebs of my parents' attic. I even rescued the Tintins. The drawings were visual delights. The stories entertaining yarns. Tintin books had taken me to far away lands as a kid. And I still used to refer to Asterix books for a lot of my Roman history knowledge.

I have since been amassing and reading as many graphic novels as I can. I had already spent years studying photography and art. I was being submerged back towards the still. And whilst I am not a particular fan of superhero books, I adore the medium more than ever. And it brought me back to drawing.

What fascinates me most about the graphic novel is how diverse they come in style or form, in theme or type. A Posy Simmonds novel is beautifully drawn in intricate detail, but often with a lot of text. Her observations portray the minute of middle class life perfectly. Daniel Clowes' Ghost World is more 'cartoony' and yet simply beautiful in the illustration, depicting adolescence so wonderfully tragic and yet so humorously enjoyable. Alison Bechdel's Fun Home is graphicy and drawn on computer and more text heavy, a memoir of personal experience, tender, tragic, self discovering, dealing with sexuality, of coming of age. Alan Moore's From Hell is a sketchy graphic tale of gloom and grim 1880s London, taking you back to the Ripper murders, in a wonderfully gruesome world that seems so vivid and real. Like Maus, a rather more crudely graphic novel that deals with coming to terms with the Holocaust, with the characters as animals, these images stay in your vision when you have long put the book down and closed your eyes tight.

Do not be fooled into thinking graphic novels are not literature, not worthy for study, not 'serious' enough to be treated as art. Or that they are just for kids. Or for nerds. Even if I, admittedly, am both a nerd and a kid.

My top ten favourite graphic novels at the moment, it changes (and is in no order):

1. Ghost World - Daniel Clowes

2. From Hell - Alan Moore

3. Tamara Drew - Posy Simmonds

4. Jimmy Corrigan, Smartest Kid on Earth - Chris Ware

5. A Drifting Life - Yoshihiro Tatsumi

6. Fun Home - Alison Bechdel

7. Roach Killer - Jacques Tardi

8. Maus - Art Spiegelman

9. Exit Wounds - Rutu Modan

10. American Splendor - The Life & Times of Henry Pekar - Robert Crumb

The Sounds of the Morning

2010-05-29T23:25:00.000-07:00

Bird song disperses mental fog,

This the hazy morning prologue,

The mind in limbo, the limbs will sprawl,

The feathered mimics soundtrack their call.

Day embryo, respite with pretty,

Before humdrum grit birth, of the city.

Footsteps through the air do float,

A neighbour hacks, clears his throat,

Spluttering and lungs a-kicking,

Like car engines that start a-clicking,

Tweet vocals are left to ignore,

Mechanical cogs drone in their roar.

Distant sirens, the jingle of keys,

Swooping up amongst the breeze.

Crates from lorries crash with a clatter,

Amidst high shrill of children's chatter.

The day maps out, its own plan,

Echos only like, a morning can.

Mind still fathoming, mental numb,

A road sweeper chugs past, with a hum,

Monotonous tone, engine so constant,

Like me, so there, and thus so silent.

The light transforms and morphs its disguise,

As morning grows ancient, and relentlessly dies.

Mourning the morning, harsh to learn,

Sounds the same, but will never return.

Ant

2010-05-21T12:28:00.000-07:00

When Adam Ant,

Went on a rant,

He was adamant.

When Adam Ant,

Was adamant,

He visited his aunt.

When Adam Ant,

Went on a rant,

Being adamant,

Visiting his aunt,

He was a cro(i)ss-ant.

It was all irrelev...ant.

For adamant, Adam Ant.

Rufus Wainwright and the Es Muss Sein

2010-04-24T00:29:00.001-07:00

Last week I saw Rufus Wainwright on his Songs for Lulu tour, the new album released last month, just a few weeks after the sad death of his mother Anna McGarrigle of cancer, in January.

The album itself is the most stripped bare of Rufus' works - it is simply Rufus at his piano. And yet the whole record is arguably his most complicated, intricate and emotionally textured of anything he has ever produced before.

The performance was exquisite. Criticised by some as being pretentious, Rufus played the entire album in full, clapping in between songs forbidden. The usual Rufus banter was absent. No little quips of welcomes. Or face pulling. Just Rufus, his piano, and the heart-wrenching musical tale of losing his mother.

Typically, the audience illustrated the amazing wide spectrum of fan-base Rufus attracts. From grannies to teens, to trendies to punks, from men wearing skirts to straight-laced middle-aged tweeds; it matters not, and everyone has a wonderful time. If solemn on this occasion.

Rufus Wainwright's music has had a big impact on me. When I first discovered his unique tones, his rather (almost) odd sound and alternative style, I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was, but I was instantly intrigued. Part grandiose orchestral epics, part melancholic piano or guitar compositions, it hit a nerve inside my stomach that I did not even know existed within myself.

Rufus' songs were like Columbus, roaming around new territories, discovering new wonders. Only the territory was my own self.

His voice sounds like melted chocolate, yet with sprinkles of glittering spikey sawdust. The melodies are soft and dripping with intricately layered emotion, and yet others are upbeat (almost) pop. Yet this was pop if Chekhov had written it...dressed as Judy Garland and sacrificing himself on a cross.

Rufus gave me a new love of music. I couldn't get enough. My every day life required a Wainwright soundtrack, even just walking down to the shops I wanted to be singing along about old whores and their diets or gay messiahs. His soulful tunes touched my own feelings of sadness. It resonated. And yet his lyrics were poetry alone, metaphors of romance literally or not. Relationships strained, relationships lost; self destruction, self love, ridiculously self obsessed and yet often unselfishly tender. It's a whirlwind, as dramatic as a Greek tragedy. Evocative words that danced around my heart, warming me when sad or making me more melancholic with their truths.

Music, art, literature....what it means to us individually is often through our own experiences and feelings, and what we bring to it ourselves. They say the genius in film making/writing is what is not said on the screen before us. Rufus' talent is throwing indulgences to gorge upon, to feast; and yet also leaving us gaps and corners for us to settle down in, bringing our own interpretations and spheres, to find solace or enjoyment. A reflection of what we live, of what we have.

Or sometimes, the hallowed tone of a single note, expressing in someone, the sheer pain of existing.

Es mus sein.

A Shropshire Lass

2010-04-13T11:01:00.000-07:00

It is always a peculiar feeling going back to somewhere you spent time at as a child. It's like visiting a parallel universe, where things often look similar, but don't seem quite the same. Possibly because you are twice the size and your viewpoint has a few extra years of baggage and cynicism clouding your view.

Or maybe just because things change.

Last weekend I returned to Shropshire, with my family, unusual in itself for us all to be away together, but even more unorthodox in that this was a weekend of manual labour. No strolling across Ironbridge back and forth marvelling at the divets, pointing at the severn river and commenting whimsically on the currents, slurping on an ice cream whilst perusing over novelty keyrings in the shape of the Ironbridge with the words "oh the irony (bridge)".

No this was manual labour. Helping out the family. We had to put fences up, and get scrammed by thick brambles. Holes are often dug on family get-togethers, but usually by insulting comments, not literal spade out and tunnelling away. But so it was.

It began arriving at the hotel of kitsch. A beautiful building from the 1770s, decorated like the 1950s but playing the music of Elton John. It was like a musical montage of time travel. The brother in law had the entire contents of B&Q in the back of his huge trailer, painstakingly packed; it resembled an Escher painting. If Escher had drawn chainsaws, wooden posts and cementing bags.

Mother had packed an entire SUV boot of food, possibly to feed the British Army (and their wives, dogs, lawyers, window cleaners, tamigotchis and grandchildren who hadn't even been born yet). Because obviously, there were no food shops in Telford.

Worst was to come. I had to share an hotel bedroom with the parents. Two seconds into the first night, I suddenly remembered why I had left home in the first place, as a cacophony of warthog snores began to bounce around the walls. For a split second I thought a giant cyborg psychotic combine harvester was picking the building up, ready to devour it whole. How ironic, I thought, for a building from 1770 to last through the years, through economic decline, through world war, only for two middle aged sleepers to destroy it in seconds with their orchestra of nuclear snores. Needless to say it was a sleepless night.

Next day saw action stations and getting down to work. And that was just unloading the trailer. We assembled our motley crue and stood in the middle of a field. I surveyed the scene and immediately thought of Dad's Army, with a hint of Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em. It was an ominous sign when my Uncle accidentally stabbed my mother's hand with a giant knife when he went to kiss her a greeting.

I was stood clutching a pickaxe when some kids had walked by. There were giggles directed at me. Perhaps my Ted Baker sunglasses were not appropriate. I pretended not to hear. Mother had already told me to "wear old clothes" and had not been too impressed when I said I didn't have any.

Holes had to be dug, holes through thick earthy shropshire mud. Which turned out to be mostly stone. Surprisingly it was only by the fourth time my 'oh between a rock and a hard stone' gag became mind numbingly irritating.

My dad digged a lot, attacking the earth like it had accused him of supporting the England rugby team, and his face turned purple. He was making strange noises, sort of quacking. I brandished the spade off him. It was all too much like Arthur Fowler's demise on his allotment, and I was still traumatised by that.

Mum spent the whole time waving tools around. "Ooo me ends need cutting!" She was foraging around in her element, like a squirrel in a Holland & Barratts trolley dash. Then suddenly I saw a hatted middle aged walking secateer disappear behind the bank "Got a prick in my bottom!" she squeals as I went to help her back up again. I am sure that happened to Corporal Jones on more than one occasion.

The brother in law (The Gaffer) did all the really important (and dangerous) tasks. Like chain-sawing posts. Cue many Chainsaw Massacre "jokes". Uncle and The Gaffer had pressed ahead the military operation, whilst I contemplated pitching "digging machines" on Dragon's Den to Duncan Ballatyne for his Gyms. More calories burnt wielding a spade than you would ever get using the entire celebrity endorsed fitness dvd section in HMV.

I kept thinking of myself as a child. Imagine if someone had told me then aged 10, that one beautiful sunny scorching day, in the middle of Wimbledon; amongst the claps of the tennis crowds on the TV, the buzzing of bees in the garden, the family chattering, the metallic whirr of the electric fans trying to dampen the stifling heat....that something would happen that would change your life forever. And you would never go back to this place for years and years. When you did you would be a world-away, at an age that had once seemed geriatric, in a sphere that you promised would not occur. I would not have believed it....

We stopped only for tea. Tea and the endless supply of mother's muffins. I came to the conclusion if ever terrorists really wanted to disable a nation, they should destroy all tea supplies; the UK would implode within minutes.

Locals thought we were strange tourists having some sort of a bizarre picnic. A picnic involving spades and digging holes. The nearby pub were wary of my camera. "Is a boster is that".

Two days, dozens of aching limbs, a roll of barbed wire, 6,8329 gallons of tea, infinite swearwords and one sunburnt nose (mine) later, we had finished. A fence was up. Mother went around putting stickers on posts warning of barbed wire. "Tell me where to stick it Sian" She didn't understand my titterings in reply.

By the time I got back to Cardiff I had lost all trace of time and space. It had been a strange weekend, an exhausting weekend, and one I would not forget in a while. A blast from the past I have so often struggled to fathom, and yet I had learnt nothing new. Aside from how to hold a chainsaw. Perhaps next time I went back things would seem even smaller again.

I begged to the family that we could meet up in normal circumstances next time. But then realised immediately, that I had no idea what normal meant.

My Photos from Shropshire

A Day in the Life of Cardiff

2010-03-13T01:48:00.000-08:00

The light is bright, the essence is full of promise, if but a slightly seedy one.

On the busy train into Cardiff, two white-haired old ladies sit on the battered seats, their Dot Cotton house coats visible underneath their rain-macs. Tightly pursed lips, arms folded cross their robust darlek-shaped bodies, clutching their handbags as if their lives depended on it. There is a slight smell of odor de cooking-oil.
"No discipline" utters one critically to the other, whilst staring directly ahead with a glare of a Terminator.
"Dave says he needs to go back to the doctors for his pills". Replies the other, frowning.
"They don't listen."
"That'll be another bus trip."
"We were brought up to listen."
"John Lewis is nice."
The mouths fasten shut and the two masses of old cotton-wooled hair bob up and down in complete un-agreement with each other. The train chugs along, a DJ tracked monotonous soundtrack.

The light is yellow and bright, giving Cardiff a vintage, almost sepia atmosphere.

On Queen Street the fruit seller is pushing his stock, his stall packed full with colours amidst scrawled little price signs- miniature jackson pollock-esque biro efforts. His grubby woolly hat is delicately tilted, appearing to defy gravity as he paces up and down, his stubbled cheeks red raw like one of his shiny apples.
"STREEEWB-BERRIEES FOR A POWND!" He yells, echoing down the street, ironically past the Echo vendor. "STREEEWB-BERRIEEES FOR A POWND!" Consistent, tone, pace, every 10 seconds. He is the Cardiff-accented metronome of fruit pushing. This is consistent hollering the speaking clock would be proud of. "BAAAAAAAG OF GRAAAAAPES FOR A POWND!" It shrills through the slightly musky, cold air.

Trundling the other direction, amidst the aimless shoppers, dreadlocked chuggers with permanently fixed chirpy grins and southern accents, and suited-smart commuters pretending they can't see anything clamped to their smartphones; a middle-aged man dressed in a dirty pink-from-wear-Welsh rugby shirt from the terrorisingly horrible early 1990s - the period taste and wins forgot - begins to mimic and repeat the fruit seller's shouts as he carries on down the street, his arms swaying as he carries beer cans, his eyes large but very proud of himself indeed.
"STREEEEEWB-BERRIEES FOR A POWND!" goes the fruit seller. "STREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEW! BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRREEEEEES!" repeats the man, at passersby, who scuttle away, ignoring the scene.
"STREEEWB-BERRIEES FOR A POWND!" The fruit seller continues.
"STREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEW! BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRREEEEEES........" He continues down the street with a swagger of an X-Factor auditionee.

There's a slight smell of beer in the atmosphere. Outside a hairdressers on St. Mary Street, two young ladies are puffing on cigarettes in a doorway, both identically dressed in tight clothing, both identically gravy-browned with fake tan, their eyes giant spider-legs of thick mascara. They clutch their phones in one hand, their cigarettes in the other. Both text away manically, and yet in full-conversation with each other. Their hands gesticulating and multi-tasking rapidly, a hazy blur of arms and manicured nails. They appear to have more than two arms each, Shiva-esque. If Shiva was a hairdresser in Cardiff stood next to a load of empty goods boxes and Big Issue sellers.
"Yeah well," one quips in a thick Merthyr accent that could pierce bank vaults. "he looked just like wassiname. Wassiname. Lenny Henry." She pronounces the "ry" like Rea and goes so high, the pigeons nearby fly off.
"Yeah. But white." replies the other taking another drag on her cigarette whilst simultaneously yanking her tight top over her protruding belly.

An old, olive skinned woman is playing the accordion, asking for money as she shuffles along. She is clad like a fortune teller from a film, her clothes ragged and strangely other-worldly. The tinny music hangs around the sound of shoppers, cars and police sirens from the distance. A short while later the music stops, but no one cares. She nips down a dark alleyway, lifts up her long skirt and pisses into the wall nonchalantly.

The light is fading and the day takes on a harsher hue from it's photoshopped scene. The bars begin to open & the shadows lurk.

Later on, a peroxide-dyed blonde podgy man in shorts- despite the cold March temperature- rollerblades past Burger King. He is dressed like Timmy Mallett in 1988, a mixture of fluorescent acid trip and kids TV. As he passes, he spins around and dances a pose. You half expect a musical to break out.
Instead, there's a tall athletic young man with tights on his head. He is preaching loudly to passersby who seem to barely even notice his presence. One or two people smile to each other knowingly. This is Ninjah, everyone in Cardiff knows Ninjah; usually seen playing drums on various bins across the city centre. But people seem to think it's best to avoid eye-contact. Ninjah finishes his speech and ambles on to his next non-audience.

Trotting towards Cardiff Castle, there's a young trendy girl, completely over-dressed with so many various accessories and layers, she looks like a walking rail in Top Shop. On jimmy choo stilts. Her hair is bundled up in elaborate curls that appear to be made out of airfix model plastic. She turns to the skinny, spiky haired young man she is with, whose tight black jeans are half way around his bottom, displaying designer pants complete with washing label. 40 degrees in case you're wondering.
"Is that a castle?" she asks him, pointing a bangled, jangling arm to the huge Cardiff castle...that looks like a huge large castle.

It is dark. The promise is now all but dead. The seedy Jokers are being played. On the station platform awaiting the train home, the orange street lights fill the scene, a backdrop of BRAINS BREWERY signs and strange smell of sewers. Two teenage girls clutching books speak in a mixture of Spanish and English excitedly. The muffled tannoy plays indecipherably, although you can make out badly pronounced Welsh place names. The air is biting.

The train approaches to take me home from this giant jigsawed world I have been viewing.

"Isisthetraintomeeeeerthyrrrrr?" A young man asks no one in particular. "Cantbethetraintomerrrrthyyyyyyyrlike." He turns to his friend. "Rugbytomorrowinnit"

I mind the gap, wondering why we do. One day, I might at last, become part of it all.

My photographs of Cardiff.

Tears of a Robot

2010-03-12T14:02:00.000-08:00

A shiny chassis, you cannot tell,
That all beneath is sick, unwell.
Futile false that dares to flatter,
It looks fine so does not matter.
When too late, pretend they knew,
That robots have feelings too.

Power of Photography

2010-02-13T14:57:00.000-08:00

Last week new photographs of the 9/11 attacks in New York were published for the first time. September 11th 2001 is a date forever etched in our minds, an infamous day where the world seemed to freeze in terror as sinister events unfolded; and yet there was a sense the world we lived in was poised to change, and not for the good.

Historic events in contemporary times are often defined by the way they are recorded, the solitary photograph or short video clip has become the symbol of what occurred. The impact of 9/11 seemed so real and great, possibly because of the blanket media coverage that brought it all into our lives so vividly, swamping us. Never before had such an event been captured on so many live TV streams, photographed by so many people with access to cameras, commented on via the internet and mobile phones. A technological new century meant a technological new experience of world events. It meant a bombarding of footage, of images and the most chilling aspect of all - mobile phone voice messages of people about to lose their lives. We may not have been in New York on 9/11, but we were all engaged, terrified, connected, like never before.

But like past key events in history, it is often the photograph which becomes the icon and thus basis, of people's memory. We all watched the horrific TV footage, but it is the photograph still, that prints onto our memories. The photographic image allows us to pause, reflect, contemplate, study. It is a frozen moment. Still. Video footage is raw and has huge impact, but often details become blurred as the linear flows on, your brain sometimes only remembers fleeting elements. The video camera captures the event, the photograph captures the possibility of seeing the intricate core of what is actually happening.

One of the most fascinating aspects of 9/11 was the photographic work that was produced of the attacks, of the aftermath. Quite simply put, the photo-journalism of that day was breathtakingly stunning. New York seemed awash with photographers, either professional or not, and aided by the fact by 2001, digital photography was breaking into a medium of its own.

I write this with a strange mixture of self-conflict when I reflect on some of the incredible images taken of the towers collapsing, or the planes colliding with the buildings. These images are utterly horrific. Some show plumes of fire, of smoke, of carnage. Twisted girders, blackened materials, a razored-cut web of wires; all that resemble some kind of apocalyptic metal hell. It is a blazed horror film, purgatory even, inconceivable if for the fact you know it is real. Some images show people - and these are the most utterly terrifying and disturbing of them all. People covered in dust, in burns, terror on their faces. Grayed indistinguishable figures standing at windows - innocuous enough perhaps, but the context of knowing their fate turns the shadowed forms into ghostly gut-wrenching symbols of mortality and tragedy. Lives are lost. This is the worst thing of all.

Yet amongst this, the images of the impact of explosion, are incredible to look at. There is a warped sense of not beauty in the photograph itself - far from it - but from the medium of photograph's own ability to capture so much detail, so much of the split second moment, in all it's colour and clarity of sharpness. It is a reminder of the medium's ability to do what it does. The magic of an image appearing on the paper. And the more detail, the more focus makes it that much more incredible. Part of me still finds photography such a wonder, a beautiful contradiction of processes; the science and yet also the other-worldy creativity.

Images of such events are crucial to remember what happened, but also illustrate to us, what a major impact Photography has to all our lives, whether we are even conscious of it or not.

New images of 9/11
Incredible Ground Zero images from photographer Joel Meyerowitz.

The Old Woman in the TV Store

2010-01-30T12:58:00.000-08:00

Deviate outwards, of the sphere,
Part inevitable, causes fear.
Amble past, rows of glassy
Rectangled puzzles, in their chassis.
Time itself she cannot postpone,
She knows that once, she'd have known.

A forlorn object on the shop flaw:
The old woman, in the TV store.

Phosphorescent and shiny, they overwhelm,
Her clockwork dark, in a cybernated realm.

Reaching for Those Stars

2010-01-07T15:56:00.000-08:00

Twenty four years ago this month, I was sat in the back living room of my childhood home watching the TV. It was early tea-time, just having got back from school. I was filling my ruddy pouches with ribena and crumpets. This scene wasn't a rarity, given how many hours I used to spend with my eyes attached to the screen by visual telebox adhesive, watching Australian soap operas, learning and mimicking the accents to annoy my siblings with. But what was about to happen in front of my eyes was one of my earliest and most vivid childhood memories, and one that has haunted me ever since.

There came a sudden change in tone by the presenter, and the BBC kids' show Newsround - one of the main staples of my early televisual diet - appeared with breaking news. I can still hear the tinny, 1980s retro dot-dash-theme tune that sounded like it was created on a fisherprice keyboard accompanied with bongo drums.

The Space Shuttle appeared on the screen. It was a familiar sight of sorts. For weeks and months the Space Shuttle and NASA had been in the news, and it had been talked about in school endlessly. NASA were sending up a teacher into space, a civilian. It was huge news. Forget Star Trek and the plastic TV shows. This was real. An impressionable child, I had become caught up in the excitement of this, of the very notion of space travel, and my elder sisters in particular had been charting the whole progress of the mission avidly, clutching their Kids' Encyclopedia of Space. One of the first complete pieces of writing I had ever produced was a poem on a spaceman. I may have spelt it spaseman, but the whole-hearted sentiment was there.

We felt like children of the new space exploration world. One day, maybe we would travel off the earth as easily as you might catch a plane to another country. The unexplored universe felt at our fingertips.

But something wasn't right. Before we could even speak, the pictures showed the Shuttle bursting into plumes of smoke, and the words "disaster" and "explosion" boomed out from the speakers, sifting through my ear drums and directly into the pit of my stomach. Something bad had happened. Extremely bad.

The horror and shock at the realisation over what had happened, still resonates today. Not that I actually fully comprehended for a short while what was going on at the time. Later we would learn, similar to the Titanic sinking, that complacency with new technology should never be allowed to affect our sensible judgements over what could go wrong. But I did know the main facts - the shuttle had broken up, the mission had become a tragedy. The footage was replayed over and over. The plumes of jet-stream, of smoke. The worst of all - the images of horrified onlookers, of the families of the astronauts, of the heart-wrenching grief.

I can still remember my sister asking my mother, days later, if the astronauts were alive, that maybe they could have survived and were stuck on a desert island somewhere like Swiss Family Robinson.
But this was not a Disney film, nor was there much of a happy ending. A small chunk of my very world had been blasted away along with the Space Shuttle. Rather than children of a new space exploration age, we were becoming fast, the children of a mass-digital-media-news reporting world, a concept we would begin to appreciate more and more as the 1990s and new century loomed. I pondered on Challenger briefly whilst I was viewing the horrific events on September 11 2001, live on rolling news channels with updates via the internet. It was almost a heart-breaking preparation of what was to come.

This was also my first experience of the impact of photography, how a still image - in this case the tragically iconic photograph of the strange Y shaped smoke trail - could actually have a bigger impact than video footage, for it is a moment frozen in time, allowing us to pause, consider, scrutinise what we are experiencing and emoting.

The Teacher in Space programme had gained world wide attention, making the Challenger disaster a world wide tragedy. One of the reasons why the programme had captured people's imaginations so vividly was due to the chosen teacher herself - Christa McAuliffe. Aside from the fact that NASA were sending 'one of us' up into space, Christa's personality, intelligence, exuberance for life proved to be inspirational. Her ideology was focussed on teaching how the ordinary person was just as important to study historically as the politicians, the Kings and Queens; that essentially, the ordinary person could make an impact on the world. She had also grown up watching the epic Apollo space race, and had long yearned to be part of this something special.

Christa had become my hero. Her aim was to inspire kids - and actually us all - to go and live your dreams, to believe you can do anything. There was nothing more inspirational than Christa herself, practising what she was preaching. Her mantra was 'reach for the stars', and while she lost her life, her legacy lives; Christa had the courage to not just have a dream, but to also live out this dream. Her story touched millions, and whilst I was taught an extremely harsh life lesson, I have also retained an interest in astronomy and NASA ever since. Christa succeeded by reaching out to so many, and fixing her place in history which would burn as long as any star. No one ever forgets a great teacher.

I wish I had her courage. For a so-called 'ordinary' person herself, Christa McAullife was actually anything but.

Christa's NASA bio
NASA photographs - contemporary and archived - arguably the finest source of copyright free images you will ever find anywhere.

Futiletide

2009-12-28T15:12:00.000-08:00

Yuletide gaping void of lack,
Causes recollecting back.
Imagination, rampage wild,
Transformed into, wretched child.
Tis season jolly, bright and gay,
But rotten, forgery, and cliche.

Seeking Ghosts, threads entwined,
Hidden in corners, of the mind.

Intense stillness hangs around,
Suspending body, quiet sound,
Stinging cold, yet inside warm,
Want tomorrow, yet feeling torn,
For arrival fast, is such a boon,
Yet means all is dead, far too soon.

Bombarded with, seasonal finesse,
Overwhelm draining, to excess.
Suffocating spend, gorging glee,
Leaves me polar, numb, empty.

Cheer tarnished, excitement dent,
Expectation greater, than event.
Sudden dawning, sharp like knife,
Innocence lost: lachrymose life.

Despite all efforts, to re-create.
Gasping for air, reluctant, too late,
Like a drowning soul, struggling for breath,
We cling to memories & fade to death.

Merry Sianzmas

2009-12-24T11:10:00.000-08:00

On the first day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
A cartridge in a sharpie.

On the second day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Two Hounds of Loves,
And a cartridge in a sharpie.

On the third day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Three sharpie pens,
Two Hounds of Loves,
And a cartridge in a sharpie.

On the fourth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Four Thora Hirds,
Three sharpie pens,
Two Hounds of Loves,
And a cartridge in a sharpie.

On the fifth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Five DOODLE-INGS!
Four Thora Hirds,
Three Sharpie pens,
Two Hounds of Loves,
And a cartridge in a sharpie.

On the sixth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Six words a-playing,
Five DOODLE-INGS!
Four Thora Hirds,
Three Sharpie pens,
Two Hounds of Loves,
And a cartridge in a sharpie.

On the seventh day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Seven Wainwrights singing,
Six words a-playing,
Five DOODLE-INGS!
Four Thora Hirds,
Three Sharpie pens,
Two Hounds of Loves,
And a cartridge in a sharpie.

On the eighth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Eight post-its-sticking,
Seven Wainwrights singing,
Six words a-playing,
Five DOODLE-INGS!
Four Thora Hirds,
Three Sharpie pens,
Two Hounds of Loves,
And a cartridge in a sharpie.

On the ninth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Nine Sianzbots dancing,
Eight post-its-sticking,
Seven Wainwrights singing,
Six words a-playing,
Five DOODLE-INGS!
Four Thora Hirds,
Three Sharpie pens,
Two Hounds of Loves,
And a cartridge in a sharpie.

On the tenth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Ten hours a-gyming,
Nine Sianzbots dancing,
Eight post-its-sticking,
Seven Wainwrights singing,
Six words a-playing,
Five DOODLE-INGS!
Four Thora Hirds,
Three Sharpie pens,
Two Hounds of Loves,
And a cartridge in a sharpie.

On the eleventh day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Eleven tweets a-typing,
Ten hours a-gyming,
Nine Sianzbots dancing,
Eight post-its-sticking,
Seven Wainwrights singing,
Six words a-playing,
Five DOODLE-INGS!
Four Thora Hirds,
Three Sharpie pens,
Two Hounds of Loves,
And a cartridge in a sharpie.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Twelve gins a swigging,
Eleven tweets a-typing,
Ten hours a-gyming,
Nine Sianzbots dancing,
Eight post-its-sticking,
Seven Wainwrights singing,
Six words a-playing,
Five DOODLE-INGS!
Four Thora Hirds,
Three Sharpie pens,
Two Hounds of Loves,
And a cartridge in a sharpie!

The 12 Delays of Christmas

2009-12-24T10:45:00.000-08:00

Photos

Beauty of the Decayed

2009-11-22T12:38:00.000-08:00

I remember the day I became interested in Photography.

I had always been engrossed by art and film, always finding them rather magical in a way that almost seemed sordid. As if receiving such pleasure from a film screen or canvas was somehow naughty in its frivolity. But it was not until I was visiting MOMA in New York during my year out before University, that a fascination in photography ignited instantly. There was a Cindy Sherman exhibition, her untitled film stills, and it captured my imagination so strongly, that I left New York that snowy January in 2001, dreamily determined to purchase an SLR manual 35mm film camera as soon as I got home. It was like someone had switched on a light in my brain, or rather, pressed a shutter release and captured the split second my life had been opened up to a whole new world of expression. Only this image of myself did not upset me at how fat my brain had gotten around the intrigue zone.

Despite Cindy being one of my early main influences, I became fascinated with a different branch of photography. One of the main themes of photography theory that captured my own interest, like a snapshot, during University, was the theme of death and decay - the strong bond between the medium and the idea of death.

One day I was surfing the Internet for random online photography galleries, and stumbled upon, quite by accident, a series of photographs taken of and actually inside, a derelict former asylum. I felt a strange buzz of excitement in my stomach, a thrill of viewing something that seemed to make my eyes smile and my heart awaken. There just seemed to be something so beautiful in the images of empty buildings, decaying walls, a true athesthetic in the empty and abandoned. You could sense the aspect of danger - was the building out of bounds? Was the building likely to disintegrate and collapse at any moment? It was almost like looking at stills of a horror film. Only it was real.

Aside from the quite magnificent victorian architecture of the photographs, the images of abandoned, random objects - a decaying shoe, a broken chair, a coat-hanger with a former patient's name covered in mold - hit me with such a melancholy and tragic force, I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. The sight of a solitary object forgotten about, amidst a decaying building of emptiness, seemed to contain a lost story forever, confined to a past abandoned. It also highlighted the incredible way photography tends to raise more questions that it answers. Who did the object belong to? What was their story? The connotations floating around, simply because it was an asylum, were mammoth. High emotional intensity, tragedy, pain, suffering, and yet maybe also hope things turned out ok.

After I finished looking at the photographs of the derelict asylum, I knew I had found a new love, and I quickly discovered that many photographers felt the same way, dedicating themselves to the exploration of decayed urban buildings, an entire medium on its own. I knew I had to try it.

When I began taking my own images of abandoned buildings and objects, it raised much a bemused face from others. Particularly if I was out with them and spotted a derelict building. I would have to photograph it. I could almost see what people were thinking - why can't you take pictures of nice things? But to me the beauty in the decayed goes beyond what is simply in front of the eye. Nothing excites me more than an abandoned building. It doesn't have to be a hospital, or even big, but any building that has been left to ruin. The images become a record of things about to be demolished or disintegrated.

As Marc Augé wrote, looking at ruins makes you contemplate time itself - periods that seem to transcend record and exist in their own world, absent from our consciousness. It makes you aware of your own existence, your own pointlessness in the grand scheme of things. And it is something that can only possibly be recaptured, or examined through art - and in this case, photographs. The image of a decayed building, a dead moment, symbolising a dead place - beauty in the time that has been lost, the inevitability of life. And death.

My images of urban exploration.

Graphic Growing Up

2009-11-06T11:40:00.000-08:00

I grew up with books. They were like little bound and papered siblings. Officially my childhood home was made with bricks, but it may as well have been built with 1960 retro Penguin paperbacks (with terribly convoluted undecipherable titles and communist russia style graphic design covers). I thought all families had their tea alongside shelves of Lenin's biography, all washed down with a sip of Pinter.

But one particular book series I grew up with, both confused and delighted me more than any other. My parents had few graphic novels, but being stalwart Guardian readers, they did have the wonderful work of Posy Simmonds, the Guardian cartoonist, illustrator and writer extraordinaire.

Posy's books captivated me. One on level, they were cartoons, even a child could read and enjoy the drawings. On another, they were highly satirical accounts of the political/social climate in the 1980s. It wasn't until I re-read them as an adult that I really appreciated how ingenious the jokes and observations were. But what fascinated me particularly was that the Wendy Weber books seemed to portray my very own family.

Wendy Weber, the protagonist, the mother of the middle-class family, resembled my mother exactly. The hair, the glasses, the clothes. As if that wasn't enough, Wendy's political leanings and behaviour seemed to echo my mother exactly. Even Wendy's reaction to dog mess fouling the pavement mirrored my own mother's obsessional crusade against dog droppings on the street. Wendy was married to a Polytechnic lecturer, George; my own father was a Polytechnic lecturer. George's intellectual ramblings seemed to portray my Dad's own waffling (I never understood what it was my dad taught. And admittedly, I am not sure I do now). Wendy's mother looked exactly (and behaved) like my mother's own mother. Benji, the youngest Weber child, resembled me in my tom-boy phase - the same hair and rosy cheeks. And fascination with finding the word "bottom" hilarious.

And yet it continued. The Weber's network of friends and family seemed to resemble relatives or other people my family knew. Jocaster, the rather laid-back eldest daughter of the Webers' friends the Wrights, resembled my own eldest sister (although she will possibly not speak to me again if she reads this).

The similarities were so great, even though I knew the book was a cartoon and fiction, I was partly convinced Posy knew our family. The only element missing was the Welshness. So much of what she wrote seemed to be what I was growing up around. A lot of this is due to Posy Simmonds' fantastic way of capturing the essence of real people, of the way people really talk, as apposed to cliches or melodramatics we often see in TV or film.

Posy is the consummate observer of the world, an Alan Bennett of graphic novelists - traveling on buses and sat in cafes observing people around her, picking up characteristics and conversations. Read her latest graphic novels and you can see how much her finger is on the pulse; the teenage characters talk like real contemporary teenagers, just like her 1980s characters spoke so much like the people around me at the time.

We were lucky enough to meet Posy a couple of years ago, at the Winter Hay on Wye festival. She gave a fascinating insight into how she works - observing people, armed with a notepad and pencil. My mother was so excited to meet her, she practically spoke for 10 minutes without breathing, too eager to reveal to Posy how much the Weber book series had captured so many elements of our family's existence. Quite what Posy must have thought of our sheer enthusiasm is anyone's guess, but she chuckled heartily. Posy drew me a George and Wendy doodle, which is still one of my most treasured possessions, for I learnt to draw by drawing my own versions of Posy's cartoons.

Given Posy's penchant for using real people for character templates, I half expect to see my mother appear in one of her new cartoons. But then I guess, in a way, she already has.

Online gallery of selected Posy Simmonds work
Some of my cartoons.

The Unattainable Bush

2009-10-20T12:48:00.000-07:00

The winds may sweep forth and cry,
And moods a-wuthering, it is no lie.
The spirit dances, free and twirled,
Yet Dreaming of a Sensual World.

Our Lionheart doesn't yearn for much,
Just a Moment's Pleasure with her touch.

Oh such beauty, in such truth,
Melancholic of old and youth,
Song of love, swagger and joy,
Yet tender silk of conflicted coy.

Symphony of Clouds, disguise and ruse,
Wowing with Hounds and dancing Shoes.
Running on Gaffa with teasing smirk,
Yet Lionheart! He treasures her Work.

A tailor of velvet tones she sews,
A poet of being: ourselves she knows,
Our Lionheart reaches for the Pin to Push,
For mystical & knowing, unattainable Bush.

(Dedicated to Lord of the Lucans)

My Very Own Moondial

2009-09-29T01:13:00.000-07:00

Television is often criticised for damaging children's minds, corrupting young brains, the source of all eville and wrong in society. Whilst it is true we perhaps watch too much television or spend too long sat in front of a computer screen, it is an injustice to think television cannot be educational or inspirational.

The other day I visited Dyffryn Gardens, a stately home in the Vale of Glamorgan with vast, beautiful gardens. The house is a typical Edwardian structure, a superb building to gaze at (if you enjoy architecture as much as I do). The gardens are a wonder, even to a gardening/flower ignoramous such as myself. Each section with a different theme, almost like outdoor rooms - my favourite, for example, is the Pompeii styled garden, with it's Roman-esque pillars and layout.

My parents used to take us to Dyffryn Gardens regularly when we were growing up, but I had not been there for years. Returning there was a sudden passage back to my childhood, reminiscent of Sunday afternoons; the exhiliration of running around on the grass of the gardens, elaborately ridiculous games with my sisters; the sensation of slight sadness that only Sundays seem to be draped in - that the weekend was on the wane, that the shackles of school beckoned, and that fun freedom was to be banished soon.

But most of all, I was struck with the memory of a tv show. Back in the 1980s, Children's BBC had a wealth of wonderful tv programmes, and the adaptations of books were most definitely my favourites. Two of my favourite books growing up as a child, were also adapted into enchanting TV series. These books were Tom's Midnight Garden written by Phillipa Pearce, and Helen Cresswell's Moondial. Both wonderful books and the two subsequent tv shows had a profounding effect on me as a child, and have stayed with me ever since.

Both stories involve supernatural, other-worldly occurances; both look at themes of time, of the past and history. These storylines captured my imagination, and possibly influenced my later interests.

But it was Moondial that I loved the most. A ghost story, a dark tale, where bad things happen in the world. It is a rather mature storyline, and rather sinister undertones. And I don't just mean the spooky music. I feel forever indebted to Helen Cresswell's superb writing.
Dyffryn Gardens reminded me of the house and gardens in the story. Every time we visited I used to pretend I was in the story, dreaming up my own ghosts and images of the past. The statues were the ghosts, whom would come alive if I stared at them long enough. I adored the pretence, the being the characters; all so much more interesting and exciting than myself. As most children do, I used to pray and dream that this other world would pay me a visit. I would stand at the gardens' sundial and pretend it was the moondial in the book, imagining the landscape spinning me into the past.

I saw the tv version before I read the book. The programme introduced me to a whole new world of the supernatural, of darkness. It led me to read the novel, which I devoured eagerly. Ever since, I have loved these dark themes. It was the forefather of my love for David Lynchian perspectives, that has influenced my view on the world through writing and photography.

All these memories came flooding back when I re-visited the estate. The walls are cleaner now, the gardens tidier; there's a visitor centre all shiny and new, but the mystic spark of the gardens is still there, the dreamy connotations amidst the creeping ivy and array of bony hand-tree branches, that something special existed beyond the mundane reality. Like in Tom's Midnight Garden, as I thought about my childhood, I was struck by the sad reality of time passing, of us all falling into the inevitable. And I was left to ponder the influence some fantastic television storytelling had on me, as I walked amongst the statues whose stony eyes stalked my movements, still dreaming of that something beautifully magical whispering amongst the leaves.

My photographs of Dyffryn Gardens

Lights! Camera! Action! If only it was that simple...

2009-09-14T00:59:00.000-07:00

Forgive me, I hath sinned...and I've neglected my film watching of late. I have been known in the past to watch a film a day. Hour. Minute even (maybe stretching that a little). All I wanted to do was watch films. It was almost tempting to buy a wall of televisions, and have different movies on each screen at the same time. The next stage would have involved surgically implanting extra eyes onto my body to increase the movie watching levels. I await Apple to develop an iEyeEyei technology.

Then mundane things get in the way of my film nerdery. I shamefully began to lose opportunities to waste my life in celuloid fantasy to block out the pain of reality. Especially when I have t'interwebs to see to, post its to draw, people to annoy. However, the one positive of feeling flu-esque is that it gives me a good excuse to watch copious amounts of dvds.

This past week I have watched a begillion and one films, including what I believe is possibly the worst one of the lot. Even worse than SpiceWorld. It was a film that made my eyes bleed. It attacked my intelligence so much, it called it a plethora of insults before stuffing its head down the toilet. It was about as funny as a mass suicide of puppies (it was supposed to be a comedy). The name of this abomnination of a movie, is Burn Hollywood Burn. Imagine everything that could be wrong about a film, triple that by 10 Jim Davidsons and a Crossroads, and you have this piece. Even the title begs for correct punctuation. It is truly magnificently awful, it makes Neighbours look like a Dennis Potter adaptation, starring Ian McKellen and directed by Felini.

But it did make me ponder about the whole film-making world. Last week I photographed some film stills for a short film in Cardiff. Despite making films at University, it still always amazes me just how complex a process making movies is. You cannot beat seeing the workings at the coalface to really appreciate this. I found being on set fascinating. Even for a relatively small project, there needed to be a wealth of organisation, and a never ending stream of components.

It's not just the writing, the camera shots, lighting, the costume; it's the acting, the continuity, the attention to detail. There are money constraints, weather issues, location considerations. Make no bones about it, producing and completing a film is a rather difficult, intricate process. One that people take for granted as being easy, simply because it is in the media/entertainment industry. Which admittedly is a bizarre and surreal world at the best of times, but it isn't always as shallow as some of the plastic stars that often take all the limelight.

Good film (and TV drama for that matter) makes it all look simple. You don't at first, notice the cuts and edits, or the fact that one scene would take possibly hours even days to film. I used to love film editing during my degree for precisely this reason. Putting numerous pieces of footage from different angles together to make it all look as if it was simply happening in front of your eyes in real time, was a gloriously satisfying task. It really is like completing a jigsaw, only a moving image jigsaw with bells and whistles. It is also painstakingly lengthy, and made me appreciate the early masters of film direction and editing.

No one sets out to make a bad film (hopefully, anyway). Sometimes there is even a warped charm with a bad film or TV. You know it is bad but it is still enjoyable. Why else is Murder She Wrote so popular? It can't all be the lure of Angela Lansbury and her remarkable shoulder pads, as wonderful as she is.
It is often worth remembering that it is not always so easy to get all the correct ingredients to make a movie a good one, although Burn Hollywood Burn is so ridiculously bad, even I can't excuse it. And I fully admit to loving Neighbours.

Unfathomable It

2009-09-06T12:12:00.000-07:00

Is this it,
Unfathomable it,
Cruel mundane,
A heart to maim.

Every breath, the blood does drain,
Playing this damn waiting game.

In such maelstrom, amongst the fog,
In such vain, a useless cog,
For once the waiting will cease,
The ironing out, at the crease,
It all just continues plodding along,
No standstill, end, fuss or song.
Barely memory, hardly a sign,
Not even a shadow, a faint outline.

That is it.
Unfathomable it.
Otiose, but It.

A Torrid Void

2009-09-06T12:11:00.000-07:00

The elation of curious feeling,
Certainly left me double-reeling.
Finally grasping that message sent
By so many, at last I knew it meant:
It made breathing more than to survive,
It was to be, exist, enjoy - alive.

And yet it's like an eville curse,
To make the whole thing even worse.
For every up it's double low,
For every good, a harder blow.
Because this is severely blighted,
A futile exercise, damned unrequited.

So back forever, there I sit.
In that wretched woebegone pit.
Hope and good unemployed,
Nothing to fill a torrid void.
The barren solitude so great to fear,
Causes pain so copiously severe.

I kid myself that it never mattered,
But the crux of my being is shattered.
I am so cruelly blighted,
Damn you fucking unrequited.

Edge Away

2009-08-08T14:18:00.000-07:00

Edge Away; I am drifting off course,
Even the Cat's Paw seems quite the force.
Yet back here again, within my reach,
Returning to this cobbled beach.
Vaporous sounds, crashing and free,
This exquisite meeting of land and sea.

Edge Away; before I am found,
Before the hull is run aground,
Climbing down the perilous path,
From decades of erosion wrath.
Reaching point seems now a miracle,
Despite the state of this worn binnacle.

Edge Away; I am still raw,
Stepping down upon the shore,
Realisation no mean feat,
As shingle sinks between my feet.
The frothy tide submerges fast,
Awash my soul with memories past.

Edge Away; and yet catching sail,
Sun warmth smothers, dampening frail,
Glistening water, sparkle eyes,
Centuries of shadows float through skies.
Carrick band head nothing to fear,
The eyes, the warmth: she is here.

Sedimentary cliffs do crumble,
Through it all I will stumble.
The textured sea, it's moods and wealth,
Will always win, like life itself.

A rock, a timber, please let me stay,
I might erode, but as she'd say;
Haul her Wind, I'll Edge Away.

Uncle Bleddyn

2009-07-06T15:13:00.000-07:00

"The very sight of a rugby ball was like a feast to a starving man".

When I was 10, I came home from school one day with a homework assignment. I had to write a piece on a famous Cardiffian. The second the task entered my ear drums, and the words diffused into my brain, I knew who I was going to write about. There was only one famous Cardiffian of any note or importance whatsoever as far as I was concerned. And that was Bleddyn Williams, ex-Wales, British Lions and Cardiff RFC rugby legend.

Wales lost one of its true sporting heroes on the 6th July 2009, when Bleddyn sadly passed away.

To say the term 'legend' is brandished around like a cliche, is in itself a cliche now. But in Bleddyn, Wales did really claim a gem, a sporting great whose name was mentioned in high regard across the rugby world, let alone in little old Wales. Bleddyn's rugby world couldn't be more different from the modern sport of Rugby Union. It was, as he used to say himself, a different world.

Regarded as one of the finest players ever, his achievements were great. From humble beginnings in Taffs Well, one of eight brothers, he went on to captain Wales, captain the British Lions, gaining himself a superb reputation for being the finest centre-threequarter in the game.

But he was my uncle. When I was growing up, Uncle Bleddyn had a mythical iconic status. A sport-obsessed kid, particularly rugby (I used to bring my rugby ball to bed with me after all), he quickly became my hero. I was told countless times by my Nan, by my father, by just about everyone, of the legend that was: Uncle Bleddyn. Nan would speak his name in the same regard as some kind of humble saint. At a time when Wales were languishing at the bottom of the rugby elite, Bleddyn's status only seemed more infallible, more awe inspiring. I thought he was wonderful, the grandfathery figure we seemed to lack in our family. He also drove a beautiful jaguar car and to this day I have always wanted one. Yet to meet him, such was his modesty, you would never imagine this softly spoken, articulate great uncle was such a world renown icon.

Uncle Bleddyn at a recent Cardiff match.

We would see Bleddyn at all the home Cardiff RFC matches, always there for every match at Cardiff Arms Park. Our seats were a few rows away from him and he rarely missed a game. I sat next to him as we watched Wales play France in the 2009 championship on a big screen at a Cardiff rugby club. Before the match started there was cricket on the TV, and he told me about when he used to play. There seems little he couldn't try his hand at.
When Wales went on to lose the rugby match, he turned to me and said, "Well dear you were right" He chuckled; I had claimed all throughout the match that Wales would lose. Whilst I was rather struggling to hide my disappointment, Bleddyn was pragmatic and as cool as a cucumber. But when Wales had scored a lovely try in the first half, his face had sparkled, and he had clapped with joy. I think I saw first hand the pure love he had for the game, the spark that fueled the passion. It was exactly his meaning when he had once written that after he had retired from the sport; "The very sight of a rugby ball was like a feast to a starving man". What an evocative image.

I have such fond memories of visiting with my family, our Uncle Bleddyn and his fabulous wife Aunty Vi in Cardigan. Aunty Vi, whom I secretly aspired to be, would never fail to entertain me with tales of Bleddyn's various experiences and friends, such as Richard Burton and Stanley Baker. There was one particular story I loved, of Richard bringing Liz Taylor to Cardiff so that he could watch the rugby, and Aunty Vi being left to entertain Liz for the afternoon. Or Sean Connery knocking on the Baker's home whilst they were there. To an impressionable child, this was glamourous brilliance. It was all part of the course for Bleddyn naturally, who would just sit back and let Aunty Vi regale us all, as if it was nothing at all. And let us not forget his brave service in the RAF during WWII, flying beyond enemy lines in true Kenneth More style. Sometimes you wondered if Bleddyn's life was, indeed, a film.

What made it more incredible for me was how many other people adored him. Complete strangers would strike up conversations by the very mention of his name. Faces would light up, eyes would twinkle. Bleddyn was special. Bleddyn made people happy.

There was an occasion when my father had taken me to see Wales play South Africa at the old National Stadium. Needless to say, Wales lost, and as we drudged out of the stadium and into the wet, dreary Cardiff night (Cardiff is always more gray after Wales lose. No matter what the weather), this pleasant elderly chap began chatting to us about the match. It didn't take him long to mention years gone by. "We need players with flair. We need class again. We need...another Bleddyn Williams." I looked at my dad excitedly at his very mentioning of the name and my dad smirked knowingly but said nothing as the man continued. "...ahh...there's only ever one Bleddyn Williams." The old man beamed. "He could beat a man! He could side-step off both sides!"
I'll never forget the sheer joy on this chap's face or that little conversation. It symbolised how much rugby means to us Welsh, how much pleasure we get, and especially, how Bleddyn lit up people's lives and gave them such wonderful memories.

In May 2009, we attended a WRU event for players at the Millennium Stadium. It was a lovely day, an occasion to celebrate players past and present. As we were leaving, we said our goodbyes and I looked back at Uncle Bleddyn, stood on the Millennium Stadium pitch wistfully. People were chatting happily, kids were playing rugby on the grass. The big screen was playing great Welsh tries from over the years, the sounds of the crowds' joy on the recordings ringing in our ears. The atmosphere was content, of a swell of pride - this was what sport was all about. Friends, family and enjoying yourself. And there was Bleddyn, amongst it all, cutting a dignified figure surveying all that was around him.
My sister and I were worried about leaving him alone but we need not have worried. Just that moment, he was suddenly surrounded by people, old friends, more fans, beaming at him, inviting him over to their groups. It seemed to sum up the man, a fitting memory of him. Ever popular, approachable and pleased to chat to people. He brought so much joy and pride to so many. And yet was always so modest about his achievements, always eger to stress how much rugby had given him. So many friends made, and great memories he himself had gained. And that is what I associate rugby with.

We have lost someone special, and he will be so dearly missed. With every rugby match I watch or attend I feel close to family members sadly departed, and Bleddyn left a lasting impression, that will remain with us all - even to those who never knew or met him. Rugby will always be a part of our families lives, and his name will always be synonymous with the sport. But I will remember him not just as a rugby legend, but as a true gentleman. Thank you Uncle Bleddyn.

BBC tribute
Wonderful Scrum.com article
Telegraph Obituary

Prescription Songs

2009-06-26T15:18:00.000-07:00

If music be the food of love, so said Mr Shakespeare, then don't forget music can also be the medicine to ailments of the melancholic nature. Music can connect with our moods and thinking so effectively, it's a shame BT can't work out the secret formula and apply it to their broadband speeds.

But you don't have to be a music expert, buff, or connoisseur, to have it as a part of your life. One of the wonderful things about music is it's accessibility to everyone, even if you (okay, oddly in my book) only like one tune out of the plethora of musical delights that life offers. Music affects us all.
Sickeningly loved-up couples nearly always have 'their' song. People will often lay down lists of certain musical numbers they want at their funeral (or wedding- maybe the same song, not much difference in occasion if you ask me). Random songs will be held dear to people for the memories it brings back. Shops, bars, galleries etc...they often have music blaring out to provide an atmospheric soundtrack for buying, enjoying or just simply annoying. Is it any wonder road-joggers are all plugged into their ipods as they pound away the miles? Ok it relieves the boredom but there's no doubt the right tempo-track can boost flagging muscles. Music is everywhere. Songs can take you to dreamy worlds and new adventures, it can help you sleep and keep you awake. By jove there's not much it can't do. Aside from your laundry, unfortunately.

What I particularly enjoy about music is how it can lift my mood, accompany my moods, soothe my soul. When I am happy, I want to sing along out loud to certain pieces of music. It makes me more happy (it may make the neighbours vexed, but you can't have everything). Music can be invigorating. It fills my heart with little quavers and crotchets of energetic delight. It might remind me of lovely memories, enabling me to experience part of that time again.

When I am blue, I often want to listen to nothing but depressing songs. True, it can make me feel more depressed. If that is humanly possible. But often than not it will actually lift my spirits (eventually). I even have a special playlist in my itunes for the occasion, entitled: Songs to Die To.
There is something comforting in the knowledge that feeling blue is quite a normal, natural human emotion. Others have, and are, feeling it too. And there is (if seemingly a little warped) a reassuring sensation that you're not alone. There may be different reasons, but the emotions can be the same. It's similar to why Shakespeare is still relevant for study now (despite many kill-joys demanding it isn't). The language may be old, but humans still suffer the same slings and arrows of outrageous mood swings and emotions today as humans did hundreds, thousands of years ago. Music is no different. It's just we are lucky enough to now have the t'interwebs to express to the world our delight/disgust/obsessive natures [please tick where applicable] about it all. (We're also unlucky enough now to suffer X-Factor-type-reality-shows, but let's not fall down that particular boulevard of Zeleb-broken-dreams)
As a child I was haunted by The Beatles' Eleanor Rigby & She's Leaving Home songs. Sgt Pepper was the main album that I grew up with, my parents being avid Beatles (and not much else) fans. (Imagine my shock when I grew up and discovered that other bands than the Liverpool four existed. It was like opening a musical Tutankhamun's chamber of treasures) I first remember hearing them when I was about 6, and even then they seemed to fill me with a strange sensation of sadness. I registered the songs made me feel curiously reflective and were highly evocative, but I had no idea what this response was or meant. But I understood music could make you feel things.

Here are a few of my favourite, most melancholic songs, pieces of music so sad they have often driven me to tears. No mean feat for an emotional retard such as myself. But I go back to them time and time again. And they never fail to pinch me sharply, whether to realise things aren't so bad, or simply to reflect on the fact life is a bit of a bugger at times, but it happens to us all. Sometimes they oddly make me feel more alive than ever, that life is so fragile and beautiful it is too difficult even comprehend. (I'll be videotaping plastic bags in the wind next......)

Nick Drake - Place To Be
Elliott Smith - Needle In the Hay
Johnny Cash - Hurt
Nico - These Days
Rufus Wainwright - This Love Affair
Robyn Hitchcock - I Saw Nick Drake
Radiohead - Street Spirit (Fade Out)
THE BOWIE - Warszawa
Tracy Chapman - Goodbye
The Beatles - She's Leaving Home
Eels - I Need Some Sleep
Rufus Wainwright - The Maker Makes
Sufjan Stevens - Romulus
Elan - At the Edge of the World (This is based on The Challenger disaster)
Kate Bush - The Coral Room

I could list hundreds more. Of course, when all fails, a loud blast of Kate Bush's Running Up That Hill never fails to lift my mood. That song is my personal life-smelling-salt. This is mental viagra of the most potent kind. Sod anti-depressants, just prescribe Kate Bush.

With-a-thank-you to my musical muse the lovely Jon

Have a Happy Hay-On-Wye Time

2009-05-31T04:48:00.001-07:00

It's that most, wonderful time...of the year!

No, not Christmas (thankfully). It's summer festival time, a period of a few months when the media go music-latest-band-mad. Newspapers are packed with photographs of music revelers basking in sun...or wallowing bravely in mud and torrents of rain. And the obligatory retro-comeback star (a la Shirley Bassey) in wellies.

But as much as I love my music (don't get me started on how much I adore Rufus Wainwright and how he re-seals my wounded soul), my favourite festival is actually one of the book variety. The 2009 Hay-On-Wye literary festival comes to a close, and once again I am left counting down the days to the 2010 festival.

Hay-On-Wye has always been a favourite jaunt of mine. My parents took us there frequently as kids on rainy Sunday afternoons when we had exhausted all the local castles and museums. Admittedly, I probably wanted to go to Disney Land if I had had the choice, but I am glad for it now. It was at Hay I realised as a kid how much I loved books, or rather how much I adored a good story.

The Hay-On-Wye Festival reminds me a lot of Wimbledon. No really. And given how much time I spend wandering the grounds of SW19 trying to spot Cliff Richard and Virginia Wade in her pink cardigan, I probably see more tennis at Hay than I do there. You've got the Pimms, the odd queue, the cravats and the DelMonte Man hats. And the celebrities.

There's something about these events that seems to nurture comedy value and entertainment. They seem to harness a microcosm of British eccentricity that makes me feel all warm inside. If you ever start believing the exaggerated claims the country is 'going to the dogs' (thought we were a nation of dog lovers anyway so why should that be an issue...), go to an event like the Hay festival. It reminds you that quite the opposite is true.
It is a photographers' and observer's dream. Personally, this is aided by being accompanied by Mother, who never fails to provide me with amusing interludes. We had only been in Hay five minutes before Mother quipped "Oh! I need to remove my fleece! Never known it so hot. Not on a Sunday."
Not to mention her hyperventilating at the sight of Monty Don strolling towards her, Mr Cool-Clark-Gable-esque, a train of adoring ladies agog at the vision of him. I guess he's the Zack Efron of the middle-aged-gardening world, he didn't even need to wield his parsnips. But I will remember to bring a brown paper bag for Mother to breathe into next year. Or an oxygen cylinder.

Hay gives you an opportunity to see writers, philosophers and politicians, people who often don't scale the dizzy heights of the media attention because they're not in the Big Brother house (yet). Although you do get stars of TV and film too. Where else can you stand next to DJ Jo Whiley in the bap queue (Mother: "She doesn't look like a media personality. Tsk."), and then watch Jane Asher floating by, with Mother commentating LOUDLY: "I was so very upset when she split with Paul!". You learn that Richard Madeley possibly needed a shave that day, or that in real life, Melvyn Bragg resembles Columbo.

Amongst the various eating establishments- I recommend the homemade Welsh cakes, simply exquisite- the little stalls selling fascinators to elderly ladies, or literary-themed merchandise (a hatstand quoting the entire works of shakespeare anyone?), and the grassy areas where you can laze and read away to your hearts content, you can sit and chill. And listen. One of the things I enjoy most about the Hay festival is the people watching, overhearing delightful snippets of random conversation that are so sparkling, they could be part of an Alan Bennett monologue or a Zoe Heller novel.
Two older ladies heading towards the Jenni Murray book signing queue are overheard saying loudly one to the other: "Have YOUR periods stopped now?" rather mockingly as if the one couldn't join the others' gang unless she was menopausal. Or one lad to another: "There's that politician....David Cameron" Labour MP Ed Milliband didn't look impressed as he shifted by the fudge stall. "Pimms Jeremy?" said one cravated middle-aged chap to his friend in a snazzy baige blazer. "I never say no!" replied the friend enthusiastically before pausing. "Apart from earlier. Actually, I'll say no again". "Sammy wanted to come," one trendy young lady said to her equally trendy friend. "But she said she's seen enough of Stephen Fry on twitter to last a lifetime". Oh it was a never-ending wonderful stream of consciousness....

But aside from the comedy aspect, there is a lot of evocative and thought provoking material on offer. As there should be. You share the appreciation in the genius of words and language, an art form into itself. And I must admit, I find the Hay Festival inspiring. Melvyn Bragg's talk on his autobiographical fiction was both heart-wrenching and emotionally draining; he spoke so eloquently about his experiences in writing about topics that had affected him, and it was fascinating. It was also extremely close to the bone, and touched me a great deal. Zoe Heller's warm and sparkling wit combined with a down-to-earth personality was impressive and motivational. With a few titters, I learnt from Susie Dent that Nottingham used to be called Snottingham. The astronomer Royal, Martin Rees, spoke of the possibilities that perhaps, our brains are not designed to ever comprehend the universe in its entirety - leaving my own (already confuzzled) mind spellbound and enlightened. To see Alan Bennett in the flesh, one of my favourite writers was a real joy to behold. Even Mother was about to pass me the brown paper bag to hyperventilate into, her turn to chuckle at my expense.

Ah sweet Hay. You tempt us with your literary treats and do not disappoint. You make us want to dive into a swimming pool of books and gorge ourselves on shakespearean prose. I've seen the festival grow from a small town affair held in the village school, to a major world renown event. I'll even forgive all the 'making Hay' puns. And the cravat-action. Forget Christmas, I wish it could be the Hay Festival every day.

See my 2009 Hay Festival photos here

"I really believe there are things nobody would see if I didn't photograph them." - Diane Arbus

2009-05-22T14:13:00.000-07:00

Thinking back at when I studied photography, *cue Hovis ad music* and yes I can remember that far back, there are always one or two images from prolific photographers that particularly re-appear in my mind's playback facility. Whether I liked the photographs or not, their power or impact obviously tattooed themselves into my subconscious.

One such image was Diane Arbus' photograph: Child with Toy Hand Grenade. It's bizarreness intrigued and fascinated me, I wanted to comb every inch of the print with my eyes. But it also made me want to stride down the lecture room, pull the slide out of the machine and throw it out the window into the path on oncoming escaped wildebeests.

A photograph that draws such a conflicted set of emotions certainly put a firework up my artistic undercrackers. The scrawny boy is pulling a gruesome face, he looks utterly strange; he's stood in an American park, his stance is odd and uncomfortable, his clothes ruffled. He's holding a toy grenade in a bizarre fashion, he looks agitated. Everything about the image seems wrong, and yet a lot of it seems right too. It's an image I've never forgotten, and I've never truly deciphered why I loved and yet also pretty much despised it.

It was with joy that I saw this very image at the National Museum of Wales, Cardiff, last week, where the Diane Arbus exhibition is on display until August.

Diane is one of the most famous female contemporary photographers in the world. And a controversial one. Her images capture people, normal people in settings and surroundings we all recognise and relate to. Yet her talent was in making the normal look...anything but. They are packed with connotations and tensions.
In fact, some of the profiles make the subject look out of this world; it is as if Diane had uncovered a rock from an undiscovered land and released it's alien inhabitants scuttling into our society. It is this conflict of normality and the bizarre that draws and yet also repulses you. They are a fascinating insight into the (alleged) less desirable members of society, highlighting the way people mask their reality, as well as displaying the fact that appearances are deceptive.

Some claimed Diane's images were exploitative and demeaning. And you can understand this view point, particularly with her set of 'untitled' images, of people with mental disabilities. You begin to question the reasoning, whether the subjects were able to make a judged decision over allowing their images to be taken.
You even begin to question your own feelings to feeling this way. Am I being demeaning and patronising towards the subjects by questioning Diane's reasoning in the first place? Quite probably and very possibly. Which for me, makes the images all the more interesting.

But what draws me in particular to Diane's work is not necessarily the photographs themselves, but her ideology behind it, her thoughts on photography as a whole, on how she wanted to use it as medium. As soon as I read her thoughts and quotes, it was as if two loose and lost wires in my head had finally become connected again, allowing the circuit to flow.

'I really believe there are things nobody would see if I didn't photograph them.'
'My favorite thing is to go where I've never been.'
'A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you the less you know.'

These particular quotes struck such a chord, the internal mind strings have been strumming along ever since. Whilst I am obviously no where near Diane's level (she being Everest, me being a mole hill in the back garden), I've long been fascinated in photographing the unusual and in particular the abandoned, inanimate objects that people have dumped or disregarded. I have always been interested in how photography reveals nothing and poses more questions, something which I explored extensively in my 'Memories of my Nan' photography project. And I like nothing more than discovering new places or things/objects under your nose to snap.
I love photographing things people wouldn't normally, 'conventionally' want to photograph. I particularly see a melancholic beauty in derelict buildings, which to me, is actually as picturesque as a Brecon Beacon landscape. An image of a derelict building conjures, to me, so many emotions and questions and possibilities, it makes my imagination water. And yet nothing is ever answered. Tantalisingly.
To read Diane's thoughts was an odd and yet wonderful experience. I now don't care how bad or good I am at taking an image, I enjoy viewing the world this way, and it is reassuring that we actually all see things so differently. Otherwise life would be so 2D, and we might as well jack it all in and become Zelebrity-Zobsessed-Zombies. [Pretentious mode/]

It is sad Diane committed suicide so young, like many talented artists and musicians (and alarmingly like so many of my idols), you are left wondering about the work that was never done, just as much as the wonderful achievements already accomplished.

Go and see the Diane Arbus exhibition. It is a remarkable set of images that will have a lasting impression on anyone who sees it. And you may well find yourself feeling rather conflicted. You may chuckle. You may want to cry. You may feel turned off. You may feel inspired. Just don't try to throw any images out of the window and towards any stampeding wildebeest. Or if you do, just don't tell anyone where you got the idea from and let me photograph it.

BBC article on the exhibition in Wales.
My Memory Photo Project
Urban Exploration - My derelict asylum images

A Battery Life For Me

2009-05-15T16:11:00.000-07:00

Lately I have noticed something that has increasingly taken control of my thoughts, something more annoying than the media's obsession with MPs expenses, and something more additively obsessive than Twitter (don't get me started on that alluring, genius web 2 concept that is the siren of social networking).

No, my life has been taken over by another kind of life. That of the humble battery. It's been there a while, tinkering away in the back of my subconscious...a running process in the system. I think it began when I purchased my first (and only so far, I am proud to say) iPod. This was in about 1789, when iPods were clockwork and you had to carve out your playlists in slate.
It wasn't long into my iPod ownership that I became rather intrigued by how long the battery would last with continuous useage.

It was important to me, I felt at the time, that I could last a whole day away from the sanctuary of a plug socket or USB port, to be able to listen to Rufus Wainwright, REM and Kate Bush for the entire duration. Yes, even whilst still in lectures, to block out that inconvenient noise of someone talking about something. Music was a big part of my day. It was an absolutely calamity if I couldn't listen to any. Even if I actually, well, couldn't listen to my iPod, I still had to have a full battery. I still had to have the peace of mind that I could, at any time, whip out the little magical white box of musical delights, and hear Bonnie Tyler rasping out her gravelly best. Or melt away in the melancholic beauty of Nick Drake as I trudged through dreary Trefforest. If the mood so took me.

I began doing what all good obsessives do. You Google.

Google is to us obsessives, what crack is to...er well crackheads. You Google battery life and discover 8634567890 begillion ipod users with 97766544 trillion different tales of either wondrous, or despicable battery experiences. This has the effect of both reassuring you, but also annoyingly showing what you could have: "BilboBaggins69 says 'I got 7,976 hours of battery life out of my iPod last week...and it made me dinner'", as well as filling your every pore with terror with tales of woe: "DottyComDotCom says 'My battery lasted 2 minutes before it was completely drained and the world imploded into apocalyptic meltdown. Even Beezlebub turned up and prodded me with pitchforks".
But mostly it makes you paranoid, so you do not reach any other conclusion than a state of sheer panic. Well, you do if you're tragically pathetic like me. You start using your ipod and monitoring the battery use/wear. I'd catch myself counting how many hours worth I had had, it was on my mind constantly. Was this normal? Was this defective? I think I even dreamt I was a battery hen.
When I went to Australia, I spent so long stressing over what I would do if my ipod battery ran out during the 12 hour flight (because obviously, there's nothing else to do on a plane. At all. Ever), that I didn't even get around to using the damn thing.

Slowly but surely, I soon got over this. Mostly because I realised these devices were there to be used, and mostly because I realised I was being a complete daftie.

But this obsession has returned with vengeance. It's leaner, it's meaner, it's fitter. It's the battery life obsession GTi with go-faster-stripes. In december I upgraded my mobile phone, and in a moment of sheer reckless lunacy, I plumped for a 3G phone. Probably due to my obsession with t'internet (but that fixation is an entirely different rambling essay for another day).

Battery life now rules my own existence more than ever. I use my phone for everything. It's my watch, it's my alarm clock, it's my music player, it's my communication to the outside world via text, via t'internet, via emails (I don't speak anymore, I only use the medium of mime or URLs). It's where I use twitter to tweet about what fascinating sandwich I am munching on, which thrills the world. It's where I take little comical photographs of whimsical daftness when I don't have my camera on me. It's where I can play games, and scan barcodes and find out my GPS position. It's even my flashlight in the dark. When someone rings me it plays a favourite tune, which I then will often sit back and enjoy so much, I'll forget to answer. Ok, put it this way, I bloody love this phone and can't cope without it (okay, I can. Just).

Alas. The battery is as weak as Wales' attempts to qualify for the football world cup. It makes a pocket calculator look like the NASA control computer. O the woe and disappointment! And yes, the frustration and annoyance that this causes means all day I am keeping an eye out for a plug socket, trying to ration my texting, planning my useage. I get stressed out. What if I am walking home, with no juice in the phone, (rhyme not intended this time honest) and I fall over and break my leg!? What if I am out in my car and I break down with only the Bates Motel nearby!? Even worse, what if I see something hilariously comical and can't share it!? This isn't right. How can the manufacturers do this to me, in this supposed technological-driven world we live in? Kraftwerk lied to me, we are not the Robots.
My spontaneous whimsical texts and tweets have to be...well...spontaneous! Otherwise I'll be turning into a manufactured communicator. For the world desperately needs to know that I am sat contemplating making a sculpture out of paperclips, that I like to chuckle at the chocolate-eating-whilst-exercising-woman in the gym, that I like my plums, or that I can see a man picking his nose in Starbucks.

Hm.

Then again. I could just actually buy a watch and talk to people in person. And have some perspective. Now there's a notion.

A New Poet, And Downcha Know It

2009-05-02T22:12:00.001-07:00

The new Poet Laureate was announced recently. For a split second I was alarmed. Duffy!? All she's done is ride around on a bike sounding like a demented goat in some very un-droll Coke advert.

Who would want to be Poet Laureate, writing nice about a royal?
At least this latest literary news, diverts flu and Susan Boyle.
-Me

Don't Talk to the Hand. Coz Only My Publicist is Listening.

2009-04-18T15:49:00.000-07:00

What a cliche. I can't even believe I'm about to say it. But here it is: It seems a damning indicament of the current celebrity-infatuated-media world we live in, when you read a news article on the BBC web site like this.
The story itself is alarming, with the behaviour of Police during the G20 protests needing, unquestionably, to be scutinised. A woman was hit by a policeman, and questions need answering. Was it necessary, was it a breach of regulations? It needs to be dealt with, and this isn't my issue.

But you do worry when you see the words 'Max Clifford' involved. And this is the rub. Why does Ms Fisher need a publicist? Is she planning on carving up a nice little media career for herself? Zelebrity Come Protesting On Ice. Are we to see her on the front page of Heat magazine next week along with 'G20 Star Favourite Hats' pull-out? Just weeks after we saw a rather peculiar media frenzy over the (admittedly very sad) death of a reality TV 'star' famous for...well, having no particular talent whatsoever, it makes you wonder how on earth we managed to reach this very strange point. It is so strange a point, it's not even pointy anymore, but interactive, digital and submerged with botox.

Imagine this bizarre celebrity-obsessed-culture had been so dominant during the 1950s. Perhaps Rosa Parks would have refused to relinquish her seat simply in order to achieve that elusive two book deal, calendar, album record and possibly a spin-off sit-com 'On the Buses'.

Let's go back further. Guy Fawkes might have tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament so that he could get a place on 'Ye Olde Bigge Bretheran', 9070910 inmates in Ye Workhouse, watched 24 hours by passing peasants and gentry, who threw rotten vegetables at the evicted dweller every Friday night. Tasks involve 'who can not catch thy pox'. Or achieve slap and tickle with the bawdy wench.

I bet even Chaucer wished he had had Gok Wan to advise on what sandals to address thine pilgrims in (who were all dying to know what diet he was on). His little known 'Ye X Facctore Britons Wyth Talente' Tale perhaps got lost in translation on Thy Memoree Styck (a twig) on it's way to Canterbury. Which was a shame, as the Wyfe of Bath could knock out a cracking rendition of 'I Wylle Syrvive: As long as ye hath mine pybliciste'.

BBC article

I Loves Life I Do, No I Do

2009-04-11T21:50:00.001-07:00

It's a little like when you've drunk too much of the fizzy pop and extras, the dregs of night have long turned into the early roots of morning, and you suddenly have an epiphany that you absolutely love to pieces your best mate/s who stand over the toilet of a Cardiff drinking establishment yacking their guts up. "I loves you y'know...you're bloody great you are...".
Suddenly everything you hate about the world (which is really everything), that you've been copiously moaning about all evening, is a distant memory faded into oblivion. And isn't life wonderful.

Until the hangover. Then it's full-steam ahead back to Shitsville.

10 Things I Learnt This Week (which I already knew but never remember)

2009-03-28T00:37:00.000-07:00

1. When it is raining, do not wear long trousers. Unless you want to wade around like you have piddled yourself for the rest of the day.

2. Spending 84957y98347658934576 hours straightening your hair is a waste of time when the weather is tempestuous. Just accept the Wurzel Gummidge look is the new black/grunge-Kate-Moss-latest-thing.

3. If you go to bed late, and wake up early, you will feel like you've been run over by a herd of stampeding, hungry Vanessa Feltzes.

4. Fathers+computers = a migraine for me the size of New Mexico.

5. Paper cuts are the most painful injury known to man (aside from stepping on a plug). Amputation must be the only cure.

6. The Apprentice. Well. It's a bit boring isn't it? There's only so many times you can hear the words 'at the end of the day' before you begin to want to put your head through a mincer.

7. Spraying too much Deep Heat into the atmosphere makes one come over a little queer. But I normally see bouncing giraffes, admittedly.

8. When the bath upstairs starts leaking through the ceiling, it's a good idea to stop taking showers. Unless you want to be Frank Spencer.

9. Battery life rules my er life. Phones and iPods....ARGH bane of my life. They can send men to the moon but they can't make a battery that lasts longer than a T&T (tweet and a text).

10. A Pink Lady is not a proper luncheon, no matter how partial I am to munching on one.

Thatcher Infirm(ary)

2009-03-25T16:53:00.000-07:00

I was bemused by this news story. An infirmary in London has been named after our former-love-her-or-hate-her, Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher.

It was opened by Prince Charles. It must have been like a collection of all the people I most admire. [insert smilie contraption here /Sarcastic Mode]

Now, I wonder if the Thatcherism ideals will rub off on the health care? Will Welsh patients get told the ward is closed down for cost cutting measures? Will milk be banned? Perhaps anyone ill turning up will be told to pull their socks up, and that it's their own fault they are ill....

BBC news story, complete with delicious video footage.

Driving Miss Crazy

2009-03-23T16:17:00.000-07:00

The other day I decided to go to London. The coach I travelled on was driven by Nessa from Gavin & Stacey. Well, she sounded like her. Ten minutes out of Cardiff and there came a little tap on the microphone, which jolted me from my early morning doze/daydream of world domination.

"Elow. And welcome to da bus.com." I didn't realise I was sitting on a web site. "'Ere are a few rulez like. Smoking - NO! Don't do it." Was this a new government health warning? Ironically I saw her slouched against the side of the bus with a fag drooping from her lips before we set off.
"DRINKING is not allowed. Alc-wholic." Again ironic, she sounded a tad squiffy herself. "Dere's a toilet on board. Which you can use." Nice of her to allow us to isn't it? I was expecting a bucket on the side of the M4. "We 'ave everything on here to cater for yewer needs. A fire extinguisher, first aid kit." EVERYTHING I have ever wanted. "Oh. There are seat belts. WEAR 'EM!" I felt for my safety more if I didn't fasten mine, I can tell you that now. "Da seat belts are there for a reason, you know." No shit Sherlock. She'll probably tie us up in them and abandon the bus in Newport, cackling manically.
"Sit back then." She pauses dramatically. It's a pause Harold Pinter would be proud of. "Let's see if I gets you to London."

I had no idea there was an 'if' involved in this contract I entered into. You could tell she was smiling as she said it. I must admit, I uttered a little prayer under my breath. And I don't even believe in God.

Luckily I did make it to London. My sanity however, only just got there, having been squished next to a 56 stone Alfred Hitchcock-alike coughing and sneezing for three hours. He was like a walking noro-virus-Daily-Mail-scare-story-super-bug. When I got off the bus I resembled an old crumpled BHS sock recovered from behind the radiator. That had been there since 1989.
I played Dolly Parton loudly on my ipod to seek revenge. He didn't look like a Dolly-man. Although I must admit giggling when the man suffocating me, made comedy trumpet sounds blowing into his hankerchief. Those kinds of sound effects are usually only ever heard on whimsical Carry On films.

I'd miss the comedy real life throws up at me really, no matter how much I complain about it...

See my photos of London here.

Confirmed - I Like Trash

2009-03-14T15:09:00.000-07:00

The other day, I took a photograph.

On reflection of it, I have come to the conclusion that I am a little odd. Well, I've known that for a while, but was in denial. (And people who know me will wonder why it's taken me this long to realise...)

When out and about, I often seem to find things that amuse me. These could be odd objects left behind or abandoned, silly graffiti that just makes me laugh, or just something bizarre and random. I like to photograph them.

I was out walking and spotted this discarded shopping list...as soon as I saw it, I realised there was something about it that really tickled me. I wasn't exactly sure why, but I just knew it did. So I had to photograph it, even just on my camera phone, to preserve it's quirkiness before it disappeared off into the wind, or disintegrated by rain and other elements, never to be seen by human eyes again. The idea of that almost upsets me.

Which is why I realise I am rather odd. What is it about an unwanted shopping list anyway; a piece of rubbish, abandoned, completely obsolete in its purpose, that makes me so intrigued?
Someone once took the time out to write it, either in a hurry or with great thought. It was then tossed aside, or accidentally lost. You can see someone's handwriting. It is said you can tell a lot about someone from their handwriting. Who were they? What were they doing? Was it someone old? Young? Married? Divorced? Rich? Poor? Already a sea of suggestions and branches of interest begin to form. This is what fascinates me so much. The eccentric writing that makes comedy (well, to me) alternative words (Lard peas?), the question mark (questioning the existence of bread? I like to go for the rational explanation after all).

And I guess that is it. Irrelevant rubbish or garbage to other people, just isn't trash to me. They're intrinsically fascinating, because objects and items have stories. They're inanimate items, but they've nearly always got a human story connected to them. The idea of these stories being lost fills me with sadness, which is why I love photography's ability to capture and preserve such delights. And they are delights. You just need to think outside the box. Or the shopping list.

Dial G for Genius

2009-03-03T01:45:00.000-08:00

The BBC have recently produced an interesting documentary about Alfred Hitchcock, concentrating specifically on the English director's early pre-Hollywood works. Presented and directed by the comedian Paul Merton, it includes archive interviews with Hitch and present interviews with those who worked with him. Merton even copies the Master himself and puts himself into the archive footage, for his own little cameos. It's worth watching to see how Hitchcock was ahead of his time with his early films, which crossed the silent-film to talkie evolution, and how a lot of his cinematic techniques that we take for granted, were in fact pioneering.

The first Hitchcock film I saw was Psycho. I was about 14 or so, and saw it on TV, not really knowing what to expect, probably a little skeptical that this old, black and white film would probably just be rubbish. Because, well, it was old and black and white.

How wrong I was. Just from the opening titles and music I was freaked and yet strangely also captivated. The music alone was disturbing and unnerving. The rest of the film just engrossed me. But it was the infamous shower scene that both scared and delighted me with it's wonderful bluntness, shock-value, and yet I could tell this was special movie-making. The editing was incredible, each edit like a stab of the knife, the music shrilling your ears.
It left me knowing instantly that I loved Hitchcock. I imagine I am not the only Hitch fan who felt, when first watching a Hitchcock film, like I had been slapped in the face, grabbed by my shoulders and shaken, and left thinking 'where have these films been all my life!?'

Watching Psycho also made me not only interested in Hitchcock and the rest of his films, but it inspired me to study films, to read up on the meanings, the techniques. I had always liked movies, but it was Psycho that captivated me in a way further. This was a whole exciting medium that went beyond just pure laughs (well, like watching Ghostbusters) and could open up an entire new world of artistic exploration. And the more I read about Hitchcock and his films, the more obsessed I became with his themes and work. I wanted to make my own films. And I also became more appreciative of old, classic movies.

I am a lover of thrillers, crime-stories and suspense, so I guess it was natural that I would enjoy Hitchcock's films so much. Not to mention the dark humour his films contained, despite some rather disturbing or troubling themes that he was fascinated with. Similarly I think this is why I was drawn to Patricia Highsmith and her thriller novels, which I often feel are very much like Hitchcock films in terms of plot. Hitch even made one of her books into a great film - Strangers on a Train.

When you look at Hitchcock's early films, they are still enjoyable today, showing they can last the test of time. You can appreciate his techniques were pioneering, despite the limitations of the medium at the time. Despite my love for Psycho, Rear Window, Vertigo and his other post-colour films, it is actually his early B&W to the 1950s movies which I feel are his best. Blackmail, The Lady Vanishes, The 39 Steps, Shadow of a Doubt, Notorious, Strangers on a Train....

My favourite Hitchcock film is probably The Lady Vanishes. A claustrophobic, wonderful story of espionage, conspiracy and identity. It contains everything I love about a good story, with wonderful direction and great acting performances. It is a joy from start to finish. The Master of Suspense may not be for everyone, but he's certainly for me.

You can see the Paul Merton documentary on iplayer (for those in the UK) here.

Well I loves the valleys I do

2009-03-01T15:23:00.001-08:00

Spotted in Cardiff. Makes a change from the usual 'Clean Me' or 'I wish my wife was this dirty'.

Rugby Sentimentality (& I don't care how whimsical I am)

2009-02-16T15:46:00.000-08:00

With the Six Nations rugby well under way, and with Wales beating England at the weekend (sorry had to mention that), I am often left to ponder the strange hold this sport has over so many people. I can't quite define what it is about rugby, that seems to route itself into the Welsh psyche so forcefully; an intricate web of randomness, that seems to signify so much to our identity.

No, I can't really fathom it out. But I can explore what it means to me.

Last week a video appeared doing the rounds on rugby message boards and emails, someone had compiled footage of great Welsh rugby tries and moments through the ages and put it to music. Some of the tries I had only ever seen once before, or possibly never. Others I remembered only too well indeed. Watching this internet video made me feel incredibly emotional. Yes, I was being a big girls' blouse, and began blubbering into my keyboard.

Rugby can be a beautiful game - flowing moves, darting runs, amidst hard knocks and bloody tough hits. This contrast of physicality and then sudden speed and free movement, it's a bizarre and yet remarkable contrast to the sport. Yes, rugby can be awful, dire spectacles, but at the same time, to me, a high scoring match can be just dull as a forward-battled mud-feast. And that's what I love about rugby. The contrasts - the big, the small, the knocks, the running, the kicking, the passing, the hard fought battles of attrition on some days, the free flowing try-a-plenty on another.

But watching the footage of matches gone by, I was taken back to my childhood. There was Scott Quinnell scoring a great solo try against France, and I was instantly taken back: 1994, my Nan's house, watching the match in her small dining room. I can feel the carpet on my feet, I can taste the lemonade on my lips, I can smell my Nan's cooking, I can hear my Nan squealing in excitement and the sound of her slippers jumping up and down on the floor. I can remember the moment so vividly, I can still feel that tingle of joy, the warmth of my Nan's enthusiasm. It's as if she is back again, alive and bloody loving it, living the moment. It's a bizarre and yet heart warming experience.

There's Kevin Morgan's try against Ireland: 2005, I'm taken back to watching the match on a big screen at a Cardiff rugby club with my dad, I can't hear myself think there's such noise, I'm in complete and utter disbelief that Wales are about to win a Grand Slam, something I never thought I'd ever see. There was such joy, I can only liken it to winning the lottery. No really. And I've never seen my dad so...happy. He's surrounded by all his best friends, guys who he has known for most of his life, friends he met through playing rugby. To see everyone else so happy just makes you feel so euphoric. Who needs mind-altering drugs with highs like that?

Of course, some of the tries were from an era before I was born. The so-called golden age of Welsh rugby, the 1960s and 70s. A time held in such high regard by someone like me born in the 80s and who only ever knew a plethora of losses, false dawns and heavy defeats, it seems to contain mythical properties. The losses and sheer disappointments I grew up with, have instilled in me an inherent pessimism in Welsh rugby that I can rarely shake. The lows were so low they were sponsored by British Coal (before the Tories disbanded it that is). And yet you always had that little glimmer of hope burning, you could never truly turn your back.

There is one particular try, scored by Keith Jarrett against England in 1967...the black and white footage isn't clear, but as Keith catches the ball inside his own half and streaks up the touchline for an incredible score in the corner, for a split second there is the grainy, shadowy figure of my grandfather sitting on the touchline. I have watched this try time and time again to catch a ghostly glimpse of the grandfather I never knew, who used to be a steward at the old Arms Park.

And I think this is why rugby means so much to me. Rugby is a passion of my father, and his father before him. It's a link to my past, a connection to times gone by that I either lived through or even didn't. Loved ones no longer here are somehow back with me again. In some strange way, I feel closer to the grandfather I never knew when there is a big rugby match on, than any other time in my life. This is why rugby will always mean so much, and will always play such a role in my life, no matter what I am doing or where I am. This is why you can never walk away, (even when we will fall inevitably dire again).

When the final whistle went at the Millennium Stadium last Saturday, I could so clearly hear my Nan cheering happily and proclaiming her wish to crack open the whisky bottle and to dance the night away in celebration of Wales' win, it was as if she was there. She was there.

Overheard in the supermarket

2009-02-10T12:58:00.000-08:00

Two old ladies in the house cleaning paraphernalia aisle.

Old Lady 1: Ooo!
Old Lady 2: What, what WHAT!?
Old Lady 1: Just look at that. Stainless steel cleaner.
Old Lady 2: What?
Old Lady 1: I know. An actual cleaner, that cleans stainless steel.
Old Lady 2: How marvelous! I used to leave the stainless steel to soak in soapy water.
Old Lady 1: I know! Isn't it amazing that they can do these days?
Old Lady 2: The world is filled with such fabulous things. Stainless steel cleaner, well.
Old Lady 1: I'm not buying any though.
Old Lady 2: No, neither am I.

Ladies shuffle off. Bizarre.

Snow? SNOW!? Snoooooow I tells ya!

2009-02-09T02:13:00.000-08:00

Unless you went on holiday to the moon last week, or was in a coma, you would probably be rather aware of the snow that hit the UK. It was apparently the heaviest snowfall in about 20 years. And in a typical British way, the country went snow-mad, with a large percentage of the country coming to a complete standstill. You only had to look on Facebook to see that nearly every single status update had SNOW mentioned somewhere, or the white stuff, and they weren't referring to some Amy Winehouse shenanigans.

After about a day, you become tired of SNOW! being all over the news and media. Actually, after about an hour you do. Admittedly, in the rural areas or where it was heaviest, it was a relative big deal. And London had rather a lot, so naturally, the media were interested. London is the centre of the universe after all!
There's only so many "viewers' photos" of snow you can take. Or roadside reports from freezing looking reporters standing in torrid conditions and saying 'there's a lot of snow here'. D'uh.

But it became a political issue. The usual cries come creeping out from behind their Daily Mail-branded scarves and woolly hats. 'Why aren't there more measures in place to stop the country from coming to a halt whenever there is snow?! Typical badly prepared Rip-off Britain' Well probably because apart from Scotland, where they regularly get adverse weather, and I dare-say continue as normal as they're used to it, it would a waste of money. And we all know how much the people who moan about this hate the scandalous waste of tax-payers' money. I can see it now, millions spent on huge snow-plough trucks, only for them to be abandoned on the roadside for 20 years. The Daily Mail would implode with the disgrace, and link it to the fall of house prices.

Oh well, the snow has now melted and it's already being forgotten about. Although I can never work out who wants/prays for snow more....the kids, who want a day off school and to have a good play in the snow, or the teachers, who want a day off school and to have a good play in the snow?

A Blot

2009-01-26T06:04:00.001-08:00

A blot on the landscape,
A smudge on a canvas,
A tear in the wallpaper,
A stain on the carpet,
A hole in the wall,
A crack in the glass,
A chip on the china,
A broken string,
A burnt-out fuse,
A bruise on skin,
A cancerous cell.

A soul who does not belong.

Titanic Theories

2009-01-22T11:35:00.000-08:00

A recent BBC web site article highlighted a study done at the Queensland University of Technology (QUT), where it was suggested that British passengers perished on the ship possibly because of their politeness over queuing.

Britons are apparently famous for queuing. The Wimbledon queue for tickets is one of the biggest examples of this, even now. I should know, I've been part of this queue many times myself. There is a queuing etiquette, queuing rules (printed out on a leaflet - so it is official), and it all must be obeyed. It's taken extremely seriously. And it works too, people don't queue jump. If they were, there would be an outrage of such astronomical proportions, that even the Daily Mail wouldn't be able to equal it.

I've been studying the Titanic for most of my life in my most nerd-esque moments. I've read most of the main books and articles, and it never ceases to amaze me the amount of new angles on the sinking/disaster, that emerge from the depths every so often. There are the conspiracy theories - it wasn't the Titanic that sunk! There are the pointing fingers of blame - the gates were locked in third class! There are the spells and witchcraft stories - there was a cursed mummy on board! There's also the claims the ship was structurally flawed - the rivets were faulty!

It's testament to the amazing power Titanic has to still interest us, that these theories appear so often. It was/is such an amazing tale, and utterly tragic too. That so many should not have died, makes that tragedy more painstaking. There are a plethora of Ifs and Buts, that if just one or two had occurred, the ship striking the berg may well have been avoided altogether. It all adds spice to a story that simply has every ingredient for the most dramatic recipe. And fascination with the luxury ship that sunk on it's maiden voyage shows no sign of waning.

However, while I welcome all interest in the subject, I do get a little wary of the new studies such as this one from Australia. Mostly because I don't think it tells us anything really new or enlightening. It is also based on a great deal of conjecture. The article mentions British politeness as opposed to Americans' being 'individualist', then mentions one gentleman putting his wife on a lifeboat and then dressing in his finest to die gallantly. This sounds rather similar to the infamous fate of First Class passenger, Benjamin Guggenheim - an American.

There was undoubtedly a great deal of stoicism and gallant behaviour that freezing cold night in April 1912. But from many different people, of different nationalities, of different social classes. This is one of the reasons why the story of the Titanic and her people have captured the hearts of so many for so long. Certainly there were different customs and etiquette then, but I raise questions over how big a factor nationality and etiquette had over passenger fate.

That so many people died on the Titanic was due to one fact - there weren't enough lifeboats. The second main reason in my opinion, is that the crew and staff (and even passengers) were completely unprepared for such an emergency. Surviving the Titanic sinking relied a great deal on luck, being in a certain position at a certain time, and in some cases, whether you were a woman or man. There was a 'women and children first' attitude on some parts of the boat, but not by all, again highlighting the ill prepared or perhaps random nature of the evacuation procedure.

97 years on from the most famous sea disaster the world has ever seen, and she still intrigues the world and raises debates. I find all the different angles and theories on the ship that emerge almost as fascinating as the ship and the story itself. Her place in the imagination of so many is truly unsinkable.

BBC Article

January Detox. No thanks.

2009-01-06T12:40:00.001-08:00

January is an odd month. There's the anti-climax of a new year, which, after the build up of Christmas, can be rather depressing. There's also the cold; the harsh, dark weather can dampen your mood. You're left with the daunting prospect that there's still a few months to go of all this until spring.
It makes you want to hide under the duvet and hibernate for three months. With a dvd box-set of the X Files and an endless supply of tea. (I would slip out to watch a rugby match or two though...)

Themes that always seems to crop up in January however, are resolutions, and in particular detox. You hear it everywhere. 'I'll give up smoking'. 'I'll get fit'. 'I'll eat healthily'. 'I'll give up murder'. (Perhaps not the last one) But it's as if we eat so much in the name of Christmas, we try on the jeans on January 1st and freak out. It inspires us to realise this suddenly, something that we should have really twigged in July...when we tried to squidge into that bathing costume and instead resembled cottage cheese spilling out of bin liners. We need to lose weight. Or work out. Or whatever.

And then the dreaded D word crops up. (No, not Darlek) Detox. It's thrown about all year around of course, but particularly now. This is its special time of year. It can creep out of the shadows of organic food and health scares and take the centre stage. All the excess seems to make our bodies weary, all the Christmas sherry has seeped into our veins. All the mince pies have exploded onto our waistlines. We're tired and sluggish. So a detox is in order!

I didn't really care either way about the whole concept of detoxing until I stumbled upon the Bad Science column in The Guardian newspaper. I suggest a read of this Bad Science blog, or even better, buy his book. It was through reading Bad Science that I eventually stumbled upon this from Sense About Science, which basically debunks the detox myth. It states there is no scientific evidence to suggest 'detoxing' has any benefits whatsoever.

The author of Bad Science, Dr Ben Goldacre is a great champion of poorly portrayed science and how we are often being totally mislead by media perceptions of science reports and statistics. He writes concisely and well. I have also seen him speak at the Hay-On-Wye festival, and he is engaging and above all, makes sense. When you read his writings, you realise how scarily inaccurate a great deal of media reports are. You discover things like detox are a drop in the ocean in the entire schemes of things (scare mongering that should perhaps read). MMR, MRSA, Cancer 'cures', Cancer 'causes', mobile phone masts, fish oil trials on kids, health scares, homeopathy and herbal remedies, brain gyms....they've all been scarily (and in the case of MMR, dangerously) mis-reported. The list continues and it is large.

But Bad Science and Sense About Science write about these topics in depth and better than I could ever even begin. I recommend anyone take a look. It is seriously eye-opening.

Bad Science
Sense About Science

December Sunset

2008-12-30T14:54:00.000-08:00

The year 2008 is at it's sunset, so it seems apt to post a photograph I took yesterday of a December sun setting over the Hampshire countryside.

Christmas Wrapping

2008-12-21T07:03:00.001-08:00

I never saw myself as a rapper. Slim Siany? No, not me, I'd never get the hang of such foul language in public (my mother might be watching). But I quite like wrapping gifts. Although admittedly when you have 3984763984765 begillion to wrap, it is tedious and an annoying chore.

This weekend I did a Christmas present wrapping service for donations to Cancer Research Wales. It was good fun actually, and even better to think of money being raised for a good cause. We were set up in a shopping arcade in Cardiff City Centre, and were quite busy, mostly with guys (sorry) dumping a load of gifts and looking as stressed as a size 6 pair of jeans being squidged onto Kerry Katona.

It was actually quite random to see how much people donate too. I was astounded by the generosity of many, I mean seriously taken-aback. And then (and I know you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth but) disappointed with others. Having said that, it ALL counts, no matter how big or small, and as I said it restores your faith in humanity when most are so generous with what they give.

I also now appreciate even more the wonders of selotape. What an invention. Where would we be without it?

Cancer Research Wales

Homemade Mince Pies

2008-12-16T11:52:00.000-08:00

Forget all those woeful sighs,
Feast on some nice mince pies!
Maybe pour a glass of wine,
Unleash it onto, your waistline.

Music Picks of 2008

2008-12-11T09:54:00.000-08:00

An end of year list, because I am a musical nerd and enjoy compiling these kinds of delights. So nah. Anyway, this list is for the best new musical albums I have heard in 2008. They're not in any particular order, because that's too difficult again.
It's been an odd year for me, as I haven't bought as many records as I normally do, and thus haven't listened to some albums I would have liked to have got my ears wrapped around.

Martha Wainwright - I Know You're Married...
Vampire Weekend - Vampire Weekend
Fleet Foxes - Fleet Foxes
Hercules & Love Affair - Hercules & Love Affair
Lindstrom - Where You Go I Go Too
Devon Sproule - Keep Your Silver Shined
REM – Accelerate
NEON NEON – Stainless Style
Spiritualized - Songs in A&E
No Age - Nouns
Portishead - Third
Fuck Buttons - Street Horrrsing
Sigur Ros - Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust

I've probably listened the most to Martha Wainwright's album, due to my inherent obsession with all things Wainwright connected. It's an excellent record, as ever very much recommended. It was also great to see REM back to form with Accelerate, their best album since the criminally underrated New Adventures on Hi-Fi. And it was good to see Portishead return to the scene with Third. Their last album was 11 years ago, incredible. And they didn't disappoint with this new record. Hoorar.

Vampire Weekend were new to me, but their album is ace, and one of the few acts that gets regular airplay on Radio 1 that I actually enjoy. It's pop-up beat-rock-ivy-league-without being overly quirky into naffness or even worse, pretension. Actually, Fleet Foxes' folk-haunting-rock have also been given a bit of Radio 1 play too...had better watch that. Super band though.
A new discovery was also the folksy Devon Sproule, who was at the Cambridge Folk Festival this year. And she rockz. (On an entirely unrelated note, I also think her name is rather cool). Speaking of names, Fuck Buttons is possibly my new favourite name for a band ever. The best electronica album I heard was probably Lindstrom, well, it's one of the most listened to. While Hercules & Love Affair are still ridiculously far too unknown in the UK.

I enjoyed the new Sigur Ros album, but it does kind of merge into their last record somewhat. But I've just plonked (technical term) them into the list on reflection. Their film from 2007 Heima, was amazing though and definitely worth watching for not only some fantastic live performances but for some quite breathtaking cinemaphotography of Iceland.

I beg to the musical Gods that 2009 will bring a brand new Kate Bush album.

Walking on Tightropes

2008-12-10T12:58:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I feel I am pretty much walking a tightrope. Every day. There's a Rufus Wainwright song, Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk where Rufus sings about lessons for walking on tightropes. He's not wrong.

And then today, I actually see someone walking a tightrope. For real. And playing the violin (quite nicely) at the same time. In fairness, this is one impressive talent. This man needs fame and fortune from Britain's Got Talent. Move aside Paul Potts, a singing embryo and a Hitler impersonator playing the spoons whilst painting a replica of the Sisteenth Chapel ceiling.

Tightrope walking brings me nicely onto my favourite film of 2008 (and I seriously doubt I will see a film from now until the 31st of December that will better it). It was Man On Wire, the documentary about the wonderfully eccentric, yet genius Frenchman Philippe Petit, who decided to tightrope walk between the tops of the WTC Twin Towers in 1974. It's a fantastic film, filled with moments of poignancy, suspence, disbelief, wonderment and humour. Petit is part insane, but mostly part genius. He is a charming, exuberant character, who adores and embraces the slightly bizarre in life with such gusto, he makes you glad to be alive just watching him. And this passion he bursts with for wire walking, is so evident, you begin to feel it too.

Director James Marsh does such a great job with this film. Interspersed with interview clips of the main people involved, are footage and clips from Petit's exploits in the 1970s, along with little reconstructions. It all gels marvelously. There's also some insightful footage of the construction of the towers, which make you appreciate the creation of such magnificent structures. And where Marsh possibly achieves the most is the fact the fate of the Twin Towers is never mentioned. We all know what happened. There is a strong poignancy there, it is all dealt with dignity. But the subtlety is perfect. The film is a testament to the greatness of the city itself.

Philippe Petit is not subtle however. And neither was his achievement. It's an incredible story, and an incredible film. What he did was almost a piece of art work, even if it did result in his arrest. We're all walking tightropes sometimes, but Petit's lesson is to embrace life and follow what you have to do.

See the trailer for Man On Wire here.

Humbug

2008-12-08T04:21:00.000-08:00

Jingle Bells, Santa, Frankincense & Myrr,
Yes it's *that* special time of year,
Christmas, Christmas, it's always the same,
Shopping frenzy, busy, insane.
Peace on earth? There's not much merry,
With a scrum to buy the last cranberry.
Panic buy, as if the world will end- But!
It's only one day the shops are shut.
Homes covered in lights to see,
Tinsel plastered over the tree,
A smorgasbord of endless plastic,
It all looks rather drastic.
And seeing the cake that's over iced,
What's this to do with Christ?
Running around, and trying to jape,
Decorations ruined, from years of selotape.
Packet puddings, it's a bit of a cheat,
Mountain of food that no one will eat.
It's so great, have some wine,
Everyone's having the best time.
Around TV festive specials we group,
Or Shakin' Stevens on a continuous loop.
Once December 25th is over, forget details,
It's off to the shops and scrums, to 'enjoy' the sales.

Buddy Holly lives in Cardiff

2008-12-04T10:20:00.000-08:00

Today's random crappy graffiti. And apparently Buddy Holly is alive and well and living in Cardiff. Nice. Better tell Peggy Sue.

Problem Parents

2008-12-02T10:54:00.001-08:00

Smallest book in the world: "All the Times My Dad Didn't Lose His Rag"

Over the dinner table Sunday night at my parents' house, Dad pipes up with: "Oh you remember that time I argued with that bloke."
Actually Dad, no I don't....there are far too many times to sift through over the years to remember individual occasions...

Mind, nothing was better than his gem of a quote later on. "The Sound of Music...I expect those kids are all grown up now."

No Dad. Kids in films remain the same age forever more. "I know kids in films stay the same age forever..." he replied to much laughter. Stop digging dad! (But don't change. Ever. I'd miss the comedy).

Gabriel Yared Came to Wales

2008-11-30T04:52:00.001-08:00

Gabriel Yared performed a concert at the Millennium Centre on Friday night. Accompanied by the world class BBC Symphony Orchestra of Wales, Gabriel played a selection of his beautiful scores for films such as The English Patient, Betty Blue, Cold Mountain and my personal favourite, The Talented Mr Ripley. It was a heartfelt tribute to the late film director Anthony Minghella, who collaborated with Yared for many films.

When I first became seriously interested in music, it was through film and soundtracks that this love grew from. I must confess I was never much of a classical music fan either, until I started watching more films. One of the first classical composers I began to appreciate was Beethoven, (rather alarmingly you might say) because of Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange. I guess this makes me rather Alex-esque. But I promise I am not into 'ultra-violence'.

But soundtracks awakened my love of music. Which had always been there, but had been lying dormant. The Talented Mr Ripley holds a special place in my heart, both the film and the musical score. I saw it in the cinema four times, the most I've seen any film. I loved it. I loved everything about it. I was still relatively new to the whole film studies world at the time of its release, still in school, and had only been watching Hitchcock films for a few years. I saw a Hitchcock film in The Talented Mr Ripley, the themes, the imagery, the characters. It also introduced me to the books of Patricia Highsmith, whose novels on cold, calculated yet charming villains struck something within me that I liked. She is my favourite author, a master of suspense - in book form. And of course, Hitchcock turned Highsmith's Strangers On A Train into a wonderfully enjoyable film, still one of my all time favourites.

Anthony Minghella was a very good director, and it is sad that he died so young. The Talented Mr Ripley was Anthony's best film in my opinion. The English Patient won all the Oscars, Cold Mountain probably had all the hype but it's Ripley that's the most interesting and striking. The critics didn't always like it, and most people I knew who saw it hated it. But it had a superb cast; Jude Law and Matt Damon are fantastic, the Hitchcock type blonde in Gwyneth Paltrow, the ever brilliant Cate Blanchette; it was fairly and well adapted from the novel, and above all was lusciously directed by Minghella. His love of Italy and music seeps through into the film, drenching it with his passion; you'd need to have a heart of stone not to appreciate it and feel that too. Minghella was a talented director, and passionate about music. He was, from all accounts, a thoroughly decent and nice guy too. It is tragic that he died so young when there was so much more he could have created and brought to the world.

Yared created a beautiful soundtrack for Ripley, one that was perfect for the film. I would love to know if Yared was or has been influenced by Hitchcock's collaborator Bernard Herrmann, as the use of violins and strings for the Ripley pieces evoke that sense Psycho did. Perfectly apt for characters losing their minds, striking and cinematically effective. But Yared also captures Italy so beautifully, in particular the Sorrento-type coast where the film is set, just as much as Minghella did with the visuals. Close your eyes, the music takes you' dreamily back there. Both the film and the music had a huge influence on me. Along with David Lynch's collaborator, Angelo Badalamenti, Yared is one of my favourite film score composers.

It seems incredible, to watch Yared play at the piano, such fantastic music, to think he is also a self-taught musician. A seemingly humble and modest guy, Yared came on stage in jeans, a crumpled shirt and trainers, hardly looking like the Oscar-winner he is but it did not matter. He spoke so eloquently about Anthony Minghella, about how close they were and what a loss he was when he passed away in March.
Yared ended the night with a small independent piano piece he wrote for Anthony, and it was emotionally charged and heartfelt. He said Anthony was his soul mate, played the piece, took his applause and left the stage in floods of tears. I hope he comes back to Wales, and I look forward to his future film scores. For Anthony Mingella's watching parents, it would have been a fitting tribute of beautiful music; the combination with film that has such a power to touch people everywhere. It is an over-used cliche, but Anthony Minghella does live on through his films.

Bearded Man

2008-11-26T12:02:00.000-08:00

Sat right across from me,
Drinking hot, steaming tea,
Munching on a tasty bun,
Whilst reading pages of the Sun.
Blackened fingers and thumbs,
Covered the table with crumbs.
Forgive me whilst I scan,
Every detail, Bearded Man.
Letting out a disgruntled groan,
Trying to text with his phone.
And another long, wary sigh,
The cake-counter catches eye.
Right now I'm your biggest fan,
You there Mr Bearded Man.

(Drawing and poem by me)

My first portrait

2008-11-24T10:06:00.000-08:00

A drawing of me by my good friend.

I've never had anyone draw me before.

Am I really that bizarrely bug-one-eye-bigger-than-the-other!?

TV, well it's a bit boring isn't it?

2008-11-23T14:22:00.000-08:00

I was channel hopping the other night, which sadly doesn't actually involve any hopping, because if it did it might help solve the obesity crisis across the country/globe.
Since the birth of digital boxes, ITV, BBC and Channel 4 now seem to have 34985793487 begillion extra channels. But there still never seems to be anything on TV. Other than reality TV, Jeremy Kyle-style chat shows, cookery shows, house/DIY series and er soaps. I remember back in t'day *cue Hovis ad music* when there were only four channels (well, five really we had S4C in Wales), and I used to manage to watch a considerable amount of televisual delights. Admittedly most of that involved Scott & Charlene in Neighbours. And Mrs Mangel. I loved TV. It was the first thing I thought about waking up, and the last thing I thought about going to bed every night (apart from rugby of course).

But in my channel hopping daze the other night, I am sure I found on separate channels, on the same time, about five different Police shows. I mean real Police. Not Heartbeat, Midsummer Murders or er NYPD Blue (is that even still on!?) type "dramas". So, we had Police Interceptors (eh? What are they intercepting?), Traffic Cops, Cops on Camera, Police, Camera, Action!, The World's Scariesty Scarified Police SCARY Videos of TERROR to SCARE (or something, the guy had a very scary dramatic voice anyway).

I was thinking if I hung around long enough I'd see 'The Antique Cop Show - Where aging ex-policemen are valued by Fiona Bruce' and 'Songs of Police - Graham Norton presents Andrew Lloyd-Webber's new search for a lead in his new WestEnd Police Musical: 'Clink-side Story''. Or 'I'm A Celebrity Policeman Get Me Out of Here'. Hang on, that's already on....

But where's the choice? I'm turning into my father when I pleaded to him to get SKY TV back in the 1990s. "You get more channels, but it's just more bloody rubbish!" he moaned, sounding like one of the Old Gits on Harry Enfield. He was being more Larry David than well Larry David. Maybe I'm just getting old. But still not old enough to enjoy Last of the Summer Wine.

Christmas is on its way...

2008-11-20T14:15:00.000-08:00

I knew Santa had extra help, not even Usain Bolt could get around the world that quick. Are we all to be taken for fools?!

Worse Things Happen At Sea

2008-11-17T03:52:00.001-08:00

Do they?
Well actually, they probably do. Look what happened to Titanic.

Now, I like boats and I love the sea. We went out on our friend's motor boat on the weekend, one of those rib boats that zip around fast with the air blasting your face. It's all rather a lot of fun. Or can be.
Safety first Captain, always; our friend is ultra prepared and he does all the safety checks - lifejackets (aye aye Captain), GPS (aye aye Captain), waterproof radio (aye aye Captain), ipod player (an essential! Aye aye Captain)...ecetera and so forth.

But sometimes you just cannot prepare for the unexpected. Unless you're that psychic scouse guy Derek Acorn (or something) on Most Haunted (maybe). We were pootling around Cardiff Bay - speed restrictions in some of the areas naturally, so nothing too fast. We motored over to Penarth, we motored over towards the sailing club, we motored around the barrage. All lovely, all rather nice and refined. We pass many sailing boats (many of whom the sailors give us stern -no pun intended- looks...there's a certain expression of distain. We have a mototboat, we are not *real* sailors, which is probably a fair comment). We pass small trawler contraptions, which look like they're about to fall apart, the weathered old men on them are sat there smoking with their woolly hats on; they resemble meaner Compos and Foggys off Last of the Summer Wine. Without the bicycle polo.

Just as we are heading homewards towards Mermaid Quay, we faced the sea's peril. Well, another motor-boat's wake in fact. I've been in rib boats before. Half the fun is zooming over the waves and ship wakes and the boat jumps up. Such tremendous larks. Only the larks got a bit too larky for my liking. The boat hit the wake and rose out of the water. I mean rose. High. The boat bashed back down onto the water with a hard smack and we were all thrown forward...."Eek!" we all cry. But before we even have time to think, the boat smashes into another wake and woosh - the boat is up higher than before. It must have looked all rather James Bond for anyone watching. Only it's not so amusing when you're actually in it. And Daniel Craig wasn't in sight.

The boat crashed back to the water and threw us in the back of the vessel forward with a violent force. I was lucky (no really) enough to hold myself up somehow and I only smacked my jaw on a metal bar. It hurt, but no big deal. My dad sat next to me though....he was bent double with blood splurting everywhere. At first I thought he was just throwing up (much joking had gone on prior leaving as he has a tendency to get sea-sick on round-abouts). He had hit his head and cut it open. There really was blood everywhere. My endless watching of TV hospital dramas must have had an effect because I didn't feel squeamish at all - who said TV isn't useful? The gash was nasty and we needed a first aid kit....but alas! There wasn't one on the boat! The one thing that wasn't on the boat, I hasten to add. So we had to use a glove to stem the blood flow. Make-do-and-mend, that's was what they used to say during the War. You live and learn.

So off to A&E, where I must praise the NHS for being quick and effective. No, really. For once I am not being sarcastic. There was no wait, we went straight through, had excellent service and brilliant doctors and nurses. The NHS probably does its job like this every day, and yet there are no Daily Mail headlines declaring: "NHS DOES JOB WELL". Shame. Dad was treated by an Iraqi surgeon, who was excellent. He told us how he was working out in war zones, and came to Wales because he had treated Welsh patients out in Africa (I love the idea of the Welsh Tourist board out in War Zones telling people to come to Wales, wait until they see Newport...). He was very experienced but had to work his way up in the NHS, pass more exams, including English tests. I wonder what the Daily Mail would make of this great guy, who was working his arse off; to be polite, courteous as well as perform a begillion tasks at once. Well, they wouldn't be interested in something so positive.

Oh what Navy Larks....I wish we had been going Dead Slow though....

Missing

2008-11-14T05:09:00.001-08:00

He left the house on one dark day,
On his mind perhaps things did weigh,
Maybe not and his life did glow,
He never returned, we'll never know.

He looked older, but was only a teen,
At the chippie, he was last seen,
Grainy video shows him alone,
He disappears from frame into unknown.

Photos remain of his handsome face,
Last movements are a subject of trace.
Memories from those who loved him most,
His image, his person, is now a ghost.

Questions his family always do vow,
Just what does he look like today & now?
They suffer in their constant reviewing,
For not knowing what he is doing.

Amongst all that, dark thoughts of wrong,
Someone's foul hand, he is forever gone?
Nothing is answered, things left to rue,
What happened to him, I wish I knew.

(Many people across the country go missing every week. If you have five minutes to spare, please check out the Missing People charity web site here)

Bad Graffiti

2008-11-12T12:19:00.000-08:00

Read what?

It seems bad form to instruct someone to read something, only then to spectacularly let them down by not providing any reading material. It's a broken promise, it's an anti-climax. Most of all, this is just plain bad graffiti. Does the author not realise the graffiti etiquette that must be strictly adhered to!? At least throw in a trip-esque mural representing a mis-spent youth.

Could you imagine the uproar if I did such a cruel thing on this blog? Demand my legions of readers here to read my musings, only to go all minimalist, and just leave an empty space. There would be chaos. The internet would probably implode with the huge weight of apocalyptic disappointment. (In my dreams)

But bad graffiti grates like a giant grate at a grating convention. I'll forgive incorrect spelling, and even *shock horror to the teachers amongst us* the misuse of the dreaded apostrophe (There's no excuse for signs and supermarkets though, but I'll stop there before I sound like a complete nerdly pedant, which I am, but don't tell anyone).
Bad Graffiti - don't do it kids. Just say no.

See images I took of good graffiti in Cardiff here

Cafe Melancholy

2008-11-10T11:56:00.000-08:00

The cafe in the rain,
The people all the same,
Fixed seats to the floor,
Menus make my heart sore.
Tables coated in ancient grime,
It's really going back in time.

Come to Cafe Melancholy,
Serve with a smile and trying jolly.

Yellow pictures on the walls,
An old man to his paper, drawls.
Young worker dreams of being sacked,
Handling china already cracked.
Italian owner makes a sigh,
Of things and changes that go by.

Come to Cafe Melancholy,
Neon sign, attempt at jolly.

It's Only a Game...

2008-11-09T01:52:00.000-08:00

I hate losing. I am a bad loser. Losing is terrible. Wales lost to South Africa at the rugby yesterday. And yet...we should have won.

Whenever Wales lose, I always try to work out what is best/worst: to play well, compete and lose to a good team who had that more luck; to get well beaten by a team far superior; to narrowly lose playing badly and beaten by a better team; to lose by 60; to lose to a criminal piece of despicable refereeing.

Definitely the latter is the worst way. Possibly even worse than losing by 60 points. So I take crumbs of comfort from this moldy old biscuit of hope that is my optimism when it comes to Welsh rugby. It's somehow gutting to lose a match when you create opportunities but fail to take them though. Which is why I feel particularly peeved this morning, on reflection. All the Ifs and Buts come flooding out, but it's pointless. We lost. At home, the Millennium Stadium. End of. No loss is good in my eyes, no matter how many positives there are.

I still can't fathom why Wales losing feels so personal, so against the grain of the natural order. If you are Welsh that is. I am sure my English rugby fan friends are chuckling into their cornflakes this morning. Just like we do when England lose.

Waiting

2008-11-07T02:41:00.000-08:00

She stands at the window, outside looking in,
She watches the world, her head in a spin.
The people, the lives, are bustling en masse,
She wants it so bad, but can't break the glass.

She stands at the window, outside looking in,
The glass at her touch, feels cold to the skin.
She catches her reflection, a double-take glance,
Who is this person, who never had the chance?

She stands at the window, outside looking in,
Her decay is shrouded by a face mask grin.
No body knows of her utmost fear,
Concealed, frozen in an eternal tear.

Her demons, with their bony grip are rife,
As is the realisation, she's scared of life.
Tomorrow she'll return again, alas,
One more futile effort to break glass.

She stands at the window, outside looking in,
She watches the world, her head in a spin.
She watches. Watches. And Watches....
But never goes in.

Gym Exploits

2008-11-06T11:54:00.000-08:00

Dear reader, as you may know I spend rather a lot of time in the gym. So much time, I will soon be charged rent and will end up paying their council tax.
Anyway, I’m going to the gym today and I have to walk through the main hall to get to the gym itself, and there’s some bowls going on. Indoor bowls. I try to walk through. Big mistake. BIG MISTAKE. Forget hoodies, it’s grannies playing bowls you have to be scared of. ‘Cardies’ - call the Daily Mail, it's the new scare that will hit Britain! It is, apparently, the worst crime imaginable to sneak past at the back whilst a game of lawn bowls is continuing. By a fat old woman on a motorised scooter. I was stared out and feared for my life. They may have been carrying knitting needles and knuckle-feather-dusters.

Saving Bletchley Park

2008-11-06T04:16:00.000-08:00

I read this news article this morning on the BBC web site on Bletchley Park.

It's sad to hear Bletchley Park needed emergency funding. Bletchley is such an important part of British/European history - it was here famously that the German enigma code machine was cracked, a crucial twist in favour of the allies during World War II. Wars can turn on these kinds of efforts, and this was utterly integral towards achieving success. It also saw huge developments in the technology of computers; Alan Turing, the legendary Cambridge mathematician working there.
I have always thought something so important to our heritage should be protected and looked after so that future generations can visit and learn what people did for us and our freedoms. It's also a matter of respect of what people had to go through so that we could enjoy these freedoms too. Let's hope Bletchley continues to get the funding it needs to preserve an important part of our history.

Recently I visited a place called Rhydymwyn Valley Site, which is almost Wales' Bletchley Park, albeit of a different nature. Deep in the Welsh countryside near Mold in North Wales, Rhydymwyn is a small place but holds it's own importance to British war time history. It was at this site during the Second World War, that the British Government built a Chemical weapons plant. It was all kept such a secret, the area didn't feature on maps and workers were sworn to secrecy. It is now open to the public, having remained shrouded in mystique for so long, even after the war ended. It holds the rather amazing accolade of being the only British wartime installation that the German intelligence never ever located.

It is a fascinating place to visit; a large industrial area in the middle of rural landscapes. The long roads, now silent and empty, the overgrowing trees blowing in the winds...not only can you imagine the over 1500 people going to and fro their work, but you start to envision the small little 'town' feel the place must have evoked - not just the factory buildings themselves, but the canteen, railway station and other various buildings. You can see graffiti on the walls, names of workers, chemistry equations scribbled away because workers weren't allowed paper...If those walls could talk, you imagine the walls would have some incredible tales to tell.

But the plant has an important place in world history and scientific fields. Work here (research into methods of making enriched uranium for an Atomic bomb) involved some of the scientists who were later working on the Manhatten Project.
For a short while during World War II, Rhydymwyn was the most cutting edge of world atomic bomb warfare science. This is one of the many reasons there was such sworn secrecy surrounding the events at the plant.

It is chilling to think that factories with the intent of building chemical warfare were built, with the intent to cause much destruction and death. But sadly, that is the reality of war. But the fact this happened in Wales, to me, brings it all rather home to me. I find it incredible to imagine such a sleepy area was so crucial to the world's precarious predicament for that short period during WWII.
Rhydymwyn, like Bletchley is significant to our history and heritage, and these areas need to be preserved for future generations, reminding them of the cruelties of war, of our past, and essentially teaching the destructive way humans can treat each other. Teach, and learn from these mistakes of the past, so that they won't be repeated.

The rest of the Rhydymwyn photographs can be seen here.

Remember Remember the Fifth of November

2008-11-05T04:16:00.000-08:00

Bonfire night. A celebration of a foiled plot to blow up Houses of Parliament, and we do this by...setting off fireworks! An intriguing tradition if you think about it, a free reign to act as roaming pyromaniacs for the night. It's not like we celebrate catching murderers by....well killing things.

As a kid, I loved Bonfire Night. One my favourite days of the year. I used to love making a 'Guy' to burn on the bonfire - usually raiding my dad's wardrobe for clothes to dress the Guy up in (often without permission). A strange tradition really, teaching kids to burn effigies on fires. One year I collected a load of clothes and then thought it would be funnier to dress up in my dad's clothes and pretend to be him all afternoon instead. Luckily I didn't end up on the bonfire.

One infamous bonfire night, my dad was letting off fireworks in our back garden. In my parents' infinite wisdom, they had planted a huge tree in the middle of the lawn (ruining most games and other jollies), so finding the right spot to set off fireworks wasn't always easy. Now, my dad, full of the joys of the occasion, had had one or two shandies before the firework festivities. Not really recommended. We used to have a children's plastic slide in the garden. Dad had a brain wave. So that all of us could see the fireworks properly, he would put the firework on top of the plastic slide, elevating the view, and set it off from there.

I am no science expert, but even I know plastic and fire don't always go well together. Dad set the firework off and it proceeded to set the slide on fire. He of course, was watching our faces up at the house and we were all shouting and pointing at the slide - which he took for a sign that we were enjoying the show. Luckily he soon noticed, the pungent smell of burnt plastic that now engulfed the Cardiff suburbs sky, was probably a give away. He had burnt a large hole in the slide. It had that wonderful melted plastic consistency - a bit like Michael Jackson's face if he stood too closely to a spotlight. The slide was never replaced, and remained a childhood staple for years; I used to get my leg trapped down it on regular occurrences. I think dad was secretly proud of this burnt monument - a testament to his skills as an firework entertainer.

Of course this November 5th, we wake up to a new President in America. Despite what some think, it matters very much here. We breath a collective sigh of relief as we welcome Obama into the Presidency, although part of me (the sadistic part) will miss Palin's Pearls (of Wisdom).

Although I approach the euphoria with a wary heart; it is not that dissimilar to the hype surrounding Tony Blair in 1997, and with all the emotion after that incredible night when New Labour finally ended 18 years of Tory rule, it does feel now rather a let down. But let's hope Obama can change some things around. He will be a breath of fresh air. Good luck to him.

It Smarts

2008-11-03T00:54:00.000-08:00

Despite the humour I did feign,

I cannot deny you caused me pain,

Time moves on and you don't care,

Yet hurt is still very much there.

The wound feels like it's rubbed in salt,

And yet I don't feel it's your fault,

You had the head fuck to a tee,

But the problem here has to be me.

You have moved on with life's flow,

The sadness I feel you'll never know,

I'll slap you but also won't,

I hate you but also don't.

The pain you caused can never mend,

And this you'll never comprehend.

For in this mess I do drown,

And worse of all I let you down.

2008-11-02T00:42:00.000-07:00

Today's photo of the hour.

It never ceases to amaze me the courtesy people have for one and another...I was rambling along a lovely woodland on Caerphilly Mountain and stumbled upon this delightful message to the masses. How poetic. Future generations are left with this heartfelt and in-depth prose. Unless a Gary Glitter-y personage wrote this and it has an entirely different meaning...

And now that means I have to tag Gary Glitter. I never thought that would occur in a hurry.

Pinch-Punch-First-of-The-Month

2008-11-01T02:28:00.000-07:00

Another month is over, another new one begins. 2008 is entering it's twilight weeks, soon destined to nothing more than the dust of history books. The year has, and is, going fast. But on the other hand, it seems like a millennium ago when Big Ben chimed twelve and we welcomed in the new year, and all it's anti-climaxes. The summer never really got going, the sun refusing to leave its blocks, whilst the bitter cold has gripped our skin and bones with its icy claws over the past few weeks, reminding us we really are in winter now.

I used to love this time of the year as a kid. Hallowe'en, Bonfire Night, then the always enjoyable run-up to the madness of Christmas festivities. Yet as time passes they all fade into insignificance; a barrel of anti-climax, which I always felt but always managed to conveniently forget.

One Hallowe'en in 1992, we visited my Nan in the midlands, and it is still possibly the most terrified I have ever been in my life. I had always been convinced this large, spacious, cold house on the top of a hill was haunted. Ever since I had known it. It looked slightly odd, looming, had a spiky feel. We visited that Hallowe'en and it was even colder, darker, and more atmospheric than ever. And this was before I had seen Psycho to corrupt my young mind.

During the evening, my sister played the violin - a violin that had once belonged to our dead grandfather. My Nan made a passing comment that she hoped he could hear it...she thought he could. A passing comment became cemented in my brain, filling me with an excitable terror, and I became convinced he was there. Haunting.

Later that night, with the eerie echo strains of the violin still in my ears, I snuck downstairs and put on the TV. The BBC were showing Ghostwatch - a now infamous TV programme, that convinced a nation that Michael Parkinson had become possessed. Of course, we all know now it was not real. It was the Blair Witch Project of its time. But as a 10 year old, already scared by the idea of ghosts and ghouls, I was petrified. But I couldn't stop watching. Car-crash TV. I believed everything - here was a real life ghost vigil on TV, a scary ghost named Pipes terrorising. It could happen here. To me.

I scampered up to bed and hid under the duvet covers. I was shaking with fear. I honestly do not think I have ever been as scared as that since, not even when I saw Celebrity Re-Hab on cable. I didn't sleep at all that night. I was convinced there was something in the room with me (there was....my sister, we shared a room). There were shadows crawling the walls, knocks and bumps on the floorboards; the wind was howling around the house, engulfing nooks and crannies. I could still hear the echos of the violin, straining from somewhere in the pits of my fear.

In a way, I miss that. I miss believing. The utmost terror wasn't admittedly, fun, but at the same time it was more excitement than being a boring skeptic. A skeptic's world is rather flat and colourless. I try to believe sometimes, but...it's just not the same. I miss a good haunting. Do ghosts exist? I have yet to see any hardcore evidence. I saw a 'ghost' once, and it was a bizarre experience, but was it real? Was it actually a ghost? I cannot trust my own foolish imagination. But there's a lot about the world, our brains we still do not understand....that's a given...

Gyming It

2008-10-31T10:15:00.001-07:00

Spotted in the gym today - the woman who works out on the cross-trainer whilst munching on a chocolate bar. I kid ye not.

Big Pit & and thanks to Thatcher

2008-10-31T07:38:00.001-07:00

I went down a mine the other day. Not that it was a working one. They don't exist anymore, not since Thatcher popped along with her armored handbag, and kindly raped the Welsh Valleys.

Big Pit is now sadly a museum although a terrific one; you're taken down into the mine and shown around by an ex-miner, themselves becoming rare species alone. You have to wear hard hats, you have to carry gas masks. Everything and anything with a battery or electronics is confiscated. You descend in the mine-shaft, which eerily carries you underground against the soundtrack of the drip-dropping of water, the echos and screeching of the mechanics. Underground you see the cramped conditions, you see the harshness, the dangers. Most of all, you paradoxically see the darkness. It is a black blackness that you can only imagine in your deepest and darkest nightmares.

That's it.

That's all that's left of the coal industry in South Wales. A tourist museum. There are traces of what was once there, something I touched upon in my Valleys photography project. You see run down towns, now struggling communities; areas that were once bustling and thriving, now dying on their feet. And for what? To save money? Money that now has to go back into these communities for benefits and dole? Thanks Maggie.

Big Pit

Ow

2008-10-30T12:55:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I came here and said,

'Don't let a plank fall on your head'

For it'll get too late

for fixing a broken gate.

Today I come here to say;

When trying to get out the way,

Of a falling saw off the sill,

Don't step on that nasty drill.

Ouch.

A Random Box (of Rubick's Cubes)

2008-10-30T02:18:00.000-07:00

Carrying on from the theme of stumbling upon such random things, here is a photo I took in the summer. I was doing a little photography project on the South Wales Valleys, and frankly, it is a hot-bed of brilliant, bizarre occurrences.

I was walking down a small side-road when I noticed this box just sat on the wall. There was no one else around, naturally. I approached and snapped a pic, and as I inspected the box I realised it was....a box of Rubick's Cubes. Of all things, perched on a scabby wall, a box of Rubick's Cubes in the depths of the Welsh valleys. Why, how, or what? And why do I, of all people, keep finding these things?

See the rest of the photos...

A Garden Fence

2008-10-29T10:17:00.000-07:00

When putting up a garden fence,

Always use common sense.

You're sure to always fail,

If you use the wrong nail.

Try to use your strength and will,

But it's wise to try and use a drill.

And the law books say, I'm sure I read,

Don't get a plank of wood on your head.

Fed Up

2008-10-29T01:57:00.000-07:00

I am fed up.

Not the good kind of fed up, like eating a good meal or gorging on my favourite food - ice lollies (washed down with jack daniels).

No, this is the fed up with life feeling, that stuns your brain and engulfs your body with malaise. But on the other hand, there is a burning itch to do something; ants in your pants, you can't sit still. Restless. But I do not know what to do. I am a model aeroplane kit without the instructions, a self-assembling IKEA shelf without the screws, but a similar wooden existence.

I might become the first person in history to die of boredom. What's the point? I don't use any of my so-called talents for anything. No good, not even eville. It's all a big waste, it's the dripping of a tap that no one can be bothered to tighten; that's my life.

No one even reads this crap.

Best. Sign. Ever.

2008-10-28T00:59:00.001-07:00

When out and about on my jaunts and whimsical wanderings, armed with only my camera and a bottle of pop, it never ceases to amaze me the very bizarre and wonderfully random occurrences and things I discover. More often than not, there's a great deal to chuckle about too.
I found this sign in Talgarth, Mid-Wales. It is a tiny town in the middle of Welsh wilderness, you can half imagine the music from Deliverance as you stroll down the street. But it houses one or two little gems like this sign, which I have decided is probably one of the best signs I've ever seen. When was the last time the phrase 'car transporter' was used since 1970? I would have liked to have seen a sign on the house next to it 'Car transporter, please hit this house'....

See the rest of the photos from Talgarth

Driving Miss Sian

2008-10-27T14:04:00.001-07:00

I love driving. No, I do. I'd do it all day long if I could.

But parents and cars do not mix happily. It is not a natural union. My dad hates driving with a passion, he treats driving as a battle between man and car - and will not leave second gear. He even went into second gear from fifth doing 70mph on the motorway once. I needed a change of under-crackers when that occurred, I can tell you that.

Tonight we went out for a meal. Mum drove us there. Big mistake alone, as she never goes over 10mph (bless her), but that wasn't the main issue. Coming out of the drinking establishment on Caerphilly mountain, mum attempts to maneuver out of the car park space. She wasn't blocked, there were no cars parked next to hers either side but there was a car behind. Easy. Surely.

I think she thought she was driving a tank. That had no windows. Or steering. And that she was blind. And deaf. With her hands tied behind her back. Needless to say, there was a 7,938 point turn, without the turn element. 20 minutes later, I ordered her out of the driver's seat and reversed the car out in about 30 seconds.

Maybe she had had a long day.

Tiger, Tiger

2008-10-27T05:36:00.000-07:00

No, not the nightclub. The animal. Here I am doing my David Attenborough impression....only at Chessington Zoo/Theme Park last week instead. Given I actually sometimes try to be a photographer(!), this is not exactly the best photo ever....

I do wish I could go on safari one day, see the animals for real. Real, real, as opposed to zoo real, which isn't too real at all. Although at least they aren't those (lying) cartoons. And are alive. I found the Natural History Museum in London last August rather troublesome on my conscience. It all sat very uneasy, like John Candy standing on tip-toe on my knee. All those stuffed animals, beautiful animals...yet all dead. If I want to see dead animals I just go to the frozen aisle in Tescos. Perhaps the taxidermy reminds me too much of Norman Bates from Psycho. And we all know about him.

But how wonderful it would be to see the animals in their natural habitat on safari (and also have my own TV show....).

Tigers and Lions are my favourite animals. Closely followed by giraffes. There's nothing more comical than a giraffe, and I do not just mean aging, lanky ex-tennis stars. There's something about those long, impossible looking necks. I am also fond of monkeys. Perhaps I relate to the cheekiness. I like gorillas too, probably because they remind me of my dad.

Monkeys and gorillas....there is something in their eyes....they are thinking, they contemplate. Hell, if you gave them a laptop, they'd probably write better blogs than me. Their hands are like human hands. They ruffle their brows in confusion, they play and laugh with their brothers and sisters. Now look at those animals and tell me how Creationism is the reality and not evolution?

Overheard in Bristol

2008-10-27T03:17:00.000-07:00

Autumn afternoon
A Bristol street
"yeah but no but yeah but no"

October sun
beaming down
"yeah but no she had big wangers..."

Nick Drake

2008-10-26T02:34:00.000-07:00

I love Nick Drake.

Few musicians have moved me quite like the singer who tragically died way too soon in 1974. He was only 26. His music is beautiful, melancholic, rich, whilst the lyrics are often heart-wrenching. His songs haunt you, his voice sounds often weak but yet still the message is strong. The guitar playing is intrinsic and precise, and yet the melodies seem so simple.

Nick suffered from depression, and poured these depths into his songs. They reflect on the sadness of the passing of the time, they concentrate on the evocative way the world is drenched in melancholy. It is the struggle of some in a life that they cannot fit into, they struggle to reach for the surface. Delicate, brittle, fleeting. It is a hopeless fight.

My favourite Nick Drake song has these lyrics.

Place To Be

When I was younger, younger than before
I never saw the truth hanging from the door
And now I'm older see it face to face
And now I'm older gotta get up clean the place.

And I was green, greener than the hill
Where the flowers grew and the sun shone still
Now Im darker than the deepest sea
Just hand me down, give me a place to be.

And I was strong, strong in the sun
I thought I'd see when day is done
Now Im weaker than the palest blue
Oh, so weak in this need for you.

Nick Drake

This is something, I wish I had written.

Parents+computers= desk rage

2008-10-25T14:10:00.001-07:00

My dad has a computer. He bought his first 'real' PC in 1995. When I say real, I mean a modern computer with Windows (which to father, were only contraptions to look through a house wall). I remember the occasion well. It took him approximately 4,9382 weeks to make the purchase, and double that number in visits to PC World. Rumours had it they gave him his own parking space in the car park and suicide rates of PC World workers in Cardiff rose by 98%.

Poor dad isn't a natural at technological advances. He struggled to show me how to use the VCR when I was 4, but the most thing I learnt was how to swear; "bloody hell...bloody machine". A year later, I was showing him how to use said machine to record an episode of Dad's Army. This was an important landmark in my life. I realised parents weren't good at everything, in fact, they could be damn awful at things. It was to prove an understatement of the millennium when it came to anything electronic coming into contact of my parents.

In fairness, dad has learnt a lot. When I think at how his caveman approach to computers has developed in about 14 years. Now he has the stone-age approach. I.e. error message flashes up, and he reaches for the stone club from his lair. Since the dawn of the internet, dad has become a fully fledged silver surfer. He would never admit it, but he bloody loves the internet, even if it does take him an hour to type out a web address. But I have seen the love in his eyes when the word 'Google' is uttered.

Problems are minor but nevertheless pesky. Usually he has just minimised 342 windows, and doesn't know how to maximise them. Sometimes he has moved a file (but the "COMPUTER DID IT! I DIDN'T DO A THING!" I love this phenomena. If computers really did do these things on their own, I suggest Scotland Yard arrest a few million machines for all those unsolved crimes that are floating around). Other times he's accidentally changed the layout on screen and becomes convinced the entire hard drive is wiped. Some occasions I am sure he just forgets to switch the something on (insert joke about switching his brain on here).

However, years have been taken off my life in dealing with his 'computerial issues'. Being the youngest sibling is a curse. You get lumbered with parental problems of the technical type that the elders seem to escape. The phone will ring, I will answer. "SianthebloodycomputerisbrokeIcantaccessmyemailsIcantgetontheinternetThisbloodymachineImbloodyfedupofit!" "Hi dad, I'm fine thanks for asking...."
Things can rarely be solved over the phone, no matter how small the problem. Anyway, there's only so long you can listen to your own father's heavy breathing as his blood begins to boil because he can't find 'File' and 'Save As'. You can hear the clicks of the mouse, they sound like he is shooting a pistol against an iron door (perhaps he is). The typing sounds like he is punching the keyboard (he probably is). Subtlety, thy name is not father. Sometimes I think he has swallowed a raging, deranged pit bull, cross-bred with a psychotic steam engine in a genetic experiment gone horribly wrong. "I fucking hate this machine. I hate computers. This fucking thing."

Computer-rage. It can make grown men cry. Although...it is possibly worth it to hear your own dad turn around to his mates in the pub, and with a smile that could only be matched when Wales beat England at rugby, he proudly proclaims much to the adoration of his audience as if he has returned from the battlefield as a war hero; "I learnt how to cut and paste today."

Why is it so?

2008-10-25T02:24:00.000-07:00

Why can I conquer the world one moment, and yet cannot barely muster the strength to breathe the next?
Why are there times when I feel 10 feet tall, and others I feel 10 centimetres?
The extremes play with my head.

Some days, the world seems an endless sea of opportunity - stretched out before me like a golden dream; welcoming me with soft hands that beckon me into this perfect existence. Everything fits. The t's are crossed, the i's are dotted. There is nothing in my path, nothing that is, but sunshine, warmth, colours, the possibility.

But.

Some days, the world seems an endless pit of blackness, bombarding me, engulfing me at every angle. Bony fingers reject my every move, my every thought. Nothing works. The pieces are scattered around, but none belong to the same set. Nothing fits. I do not fit. Before me lies a plethora of obstacles, I am paralysed. I fall before I even make my first step.

Is this the same place? How can it be so? But the major question I cannot fathom, I cannot decipher, I cannot solve, remains on my lips. Is the one even worth the other? I am left in no-man's-land.

Sian hath murdered sleep

2008-10-24T00:22:00.000-07:00

Insomnia is the disease that has the power to turn sane people loony, and loony people (me) even more insane.

I cannot sleep. It's as if my brain refuses to sit down, it's kamikazee, it's too proud to thrown in the towel. So it soldiers on like a dying horse, determined to get to the finish line. I don't have any comprehension over what this finish line my brain feels it has to aspire to, but something tells me this destination is rather far away in space and time. It's like the 100 Years War, only less fun.

I must have had about three hours sleep last night. Then I was awoken to an apocalyptic wail, that stunned me into action. For a split second I believed I had arrived in Cold War times - this was the four minute warning wasn't it? The world was about to implode, a boom, a flash of light, and then we'd all crumble into dust. O the humanity! For that split second my confused head was half terrified, half contemplating: "I'm too young to die. There's too much I haven't done....like eat a kebab." There was a small percentage of me that worryingly, didn't give a fig. Not that I had a fig to give to anyone anyway, and why would they want one?

Thankfully, I snapped out of my daze. And realised the desperate cry that had filled my ears was just the greedy, fat cat wanting to be fed at 5am.