Whimsical Musings of a Loon

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 prem...

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 peopl...

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 t...

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 ...

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.

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 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...

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, s...

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 ...

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.

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 slee...

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 m...

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 fil...

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.

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.

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 oc...

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 insu...

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...

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.

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 - mobi...

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.

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 ...