tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606524334474717212024-02-19T08:17:23.317-08:00Whimsical Musings of a LoonSianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.comBlogger124125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-82996705525771570322019-02-21T13:54:00.001-08:002019-02-21T18:00:44.768-08:00Brutalism Architecture Study 1: Trellick TowerBrutalist architecture is an addictive beast that has a bewitching spell on those who delight in its elephantine aggression.
Coined from the french phrase "beton brut" - raw concrete - by the British architectural critic Reyner Banham, Brutalism described the style of simple, blocky concrete constructions which flourished in the 1950s & 60s (its origins begin earlier in the 20th century). It was, of course, a pun on the french word to reflect the overall general disgust in which the style was received in the country. Yet I have come to learn that whilst it often evokes much distain amongst critics and the general public alike, there are many, like me, who have an insatiable appetite for the utilitarian concrete ogres whose mundane functions, like a gaping wound, are left very much exposed.<br />
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I have been traveling the world to take photographs of buildings for the past 15 years, even before I knew I was doing it. Now I actively seek them out mostly for that purpose, as well as hunting out the derelict and abandoned. Sometimes I feel as if I did not find Brutalism, but it rather splendidly and violently, discovered me.<br />
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The more brutalist structures I find; in Berlin, Bulgaria, Ukraine, London....the better. Each concrete structure I ponder upon, I realise that each are different and beautifully unique in their ugliness; and I love one as much as the other. Each one I approach and get that same excited twinge in my stomach, as if starstruck. These buildings are my boyband obsession, my excitement, my love.<br />
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In the next few weeks I am going to look at some of these buildings I have photographed in a little more detail, placing these monstrosities underneath my hypothetical microscope (a concrete one obviously). I want to consider why are these buildings so alluring? Why are they so divisive? What is the story behind the ugly?<br />
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London is a treasure trove of beautiful architecture, and is well served with Brutalist buildings. <b>Trellick Tower</b>, built on the Cheltenham estate in Kensal town, is an accommodation block designed by the infamous architect, Erno Goldfinger. The building was opened in 1972, and its purpose was very much a reply to the outdated social accommodations of the time - replacing the Victorian housing of the area which had long become sub-standard. It was actually Goldfinger's follow up apartment block - the first being the <b>Balfron Tower</b> in East London.<br />
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It's hard to miss <b>Trellick Tower</b> as you approach from little Venice; all 322ft tall, it dominates the skyline with its high-rise form looming, yet it is almost thin and precarious. It resembles the large body trunk of a giant headless robot transformer, it's unusual service tower its robot arm, looking like it is ready to swing out at any moment. This stand alone service tower feature was very unique to such a building - with a projecting plant room that contains the main heating system. One of the benefits of this design, was the reduction in the need for pumps, and indeed resulted in a reduction of pipework compared to its contemporaries - this also meant less heat loss.<br />
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The apartments inside themselves were designed in such a way that was to utilise every single inch of space as much as possible, and efficient design choices were taken. For example, bathrooms were given sliding doors to save space, and the light switches were embedded in the door surrounds.<br />
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Thought was also given to the overall experience and communal aspect. All apartments in <b>Trellick Tower </b>were given a balcony and large windows - this is to maximise the amount of natural light for each occupant. Goldfinger even designed slight variations to each accommodation, so that every apartment was slightly different. The intent was to provide quality throughout, using quality materials Goldfinger aimed to provide an exemplary example of social accommodation, intertwining this with modern design.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Renovations are still being carried out as of January 2019</td></tr>
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Goldfinger himself describing <b>Trellick Tower</b> said "the whole object of building high is to free the ground for children and grown-ups to enjoy Mother Earth and not to cover every inch with bricks and mortar".<br />
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Much thought went into the design, with Goldfinger using his earlier <b>Belfron Tower</b> to gain learnings and feedback from residents there to make an improved living experience in his new creation. Almost like a method actor, Goldfinger even lived in a <b>Balfron Tower</b> apartment to submerge himself in this high-rise lifestyle himself.<br />
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Unfortunately, by the time <b>Trellick Tower</b> opened, the very idea of high rise social accommodations were already out of date. By 1972, the council had been replaced and the replacing new council body refused Goldfinger's request to vet tenants and provide a concierge in the tower. Subsequently the tower became vandalised even before it opened, and rough sleepers and drug pushers took residence in the corridors and areas where they could access. By the late 1970s, the high serious crime rate and social issues had escalated to such a scale that no one wanted to live in the tower - it reached such critical point the building was nicknamed the <i>Tower of Terror</i>. It was to be Goldfinger's last major project, and one he never saw to live to its potential.<br />
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It wasn't until the 1980s that <b>Trellick Tower</b> began a resurgence with the establishment of a residents' association. Security measures and a concierge were finally put into place, which saw crime levels drop.<br />
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In the 1990s, the Tower really began to prosper. The popularity, and affluence of the Notting Hill area helped improve <b>Trellick Tower</b>'s status, as well as a BBC documentary praising the tower's merits. With property prices booming and apartments suddenly selling for excellent money. The general respectability of the area was changing <i>and had</i> changed; the tower became a sought after place to reside. The building was awarded Grade II listed status in 1998, furthering its importance.<br />
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<b>Trellick Tower</b> has since appeared in many films and TV and even books. Its dystopian look makes a tremendous backdrop. I first learnt of it whilst reading Amis' London Fields, whilst it is said to have inspired Ballard's classic novel Hi-Rise. This contradiction is terms repeats often when I have studied these buildings - they were designed and built with such modern (for the time) outlook - and yet became so quickly outdated and negatively associated. Yet <b>Trellick Tower</b> is an example of how this has become full circle.<br />
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This beautiful, fascinating and precarious structure stands tall today and is seemingly prospering, but not without warning or caution. The tragic Grenfell tower fire has highlighted this only too well, questioning (and quite rightly) the very core of the suitability of high rise accommodations yet again. Nothing is more painfully obvious than the poignant graffiti tributing the loss of lives that should never have occurred.<br />
From concept to creation, <b>Trellick Tower</b> had an ingenious birth - with innovation and user experience at its helm. For a Brutalist building, it is not overtly obvious compared to some. And its slender appearance gives it almost a subtlety. Yet <b>Trellick Tower</b> was never truly able to live to his true potential as a gigantic great, its means of its aim and purpose of its creator. And its declining years leaves a tainted and tragic history to its past.<br />
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<br />Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-66563040858911458432018-12-02T09:27:00.002-08:002018-12-02T09:27:38.766-08:00Ticket to nowhere<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Flickering past the regimented tall blocks of the city, the train ploughs forward at speed, passing the rows of the building traffic on the roads adjacent. Like sterile dolls houses, the office towers are lit up in the horizon, ready for the drudge of the corporate facade that awaits. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">I feel like I am watching the world from the outside, only not from above. I am very much deep within the dregs of the dark. Hidden amongst the faceless. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">All these people whizzing by - in cars, on bikes, in buses, on trains. All with a place to go. A purpose. All have their story to tell; their tale, no matter how exciting or indeed, mundane. Everyone on their own trajectory heading towards their goals, their dreams, or just an aimless whim. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">I am an aimless whim. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">It is early morning and I am being taken to the airport. The ultimate hub of all things potential. All these journeys about to start, the possibilities budding and spreading across like a spilt liquid of happenings. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Only it doesn’t feel like a possibility to me. It feels like a death. The end of an adventure, the end of feeling alive. Returning back to the life of the undesired. How can it be called a life when you feel so dead inside it, when it has turned you into something you never wanted to be. It feels more like a disease that eats away at your soul. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">As my eyes scan across the barely indistinguishable faces of the masses, I randomly pick ones out, secretly hoping I can magically swap places. You can be anyone. You can wake up one day and be a different person. You can go and jump on a different track, one going in an alternative direction. Sometimes you dare to envision yourself in that new place. But the dark thoughts put a stop to that, reminding you you’d fuck that up, just like everything else. A creeping sense of panic arises, soaking up any nicer thoughts of newness. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Maybe you can be someone else. But I am shackled to me. My own ball and chain. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">When you are a child, a small acorn, you have all these dreams and ambitions. You’re stood on the vast platform with a ticket to anywhere, and just need to pick a train. It’s confusing, but it’s there, millions of choices laid out before you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">You do get on the wrong trains. That’s all part of the game. You just get off and get another one. But suddenly you notice the timetables have started to dry up. You cannot consciously pin point the moment the lines closed and the services stopped running, but suddenly you realise you have missed the train. And bus. And possibly plane too. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">So where to now? The digital ticket I have says one thing, and what the digital says, goes. Time to go home. Whatever home is. For I don’t really have a home, not anymore. There is a place I end up; I am all but a squatter, an inconvenience inside walls that I should no longer be part of. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">I have nothing in that city anymore. Nothing that excites me. Nothing that can comfort me. I am thousands of miles away, always, even when I am there. The loneliness and lack of purpose eats away: you become a walking carcass. Every day, like flicking through the same old tv channels. Nothing is worth watching. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Is this it? Is that what it is all for. Becoming the wallpaper that is not your taste at all. Everybody needs a meaning. Mine is hazy and indecipherable. And likely doesn’t exist anymore at all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">It’s a scary place to be, awaiting a plane back to nowhere. Sometimes the pain is just too much to contain anymore. If you violently shake a bottle of pop and leave the lid on, something inevitably has to give. I used to have things to give. Now I just wait. Wait for planes or trains to whisk me away. Only they now never come. Even when I leave.</span></div>
Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-7356998156471325132018-09-24T13:24:00.000-07:002018-09-24T13:44:26.341-07:00Hitler's HospitalTentatively stepping past the strange woods where trees marry metal fences, the overgrown grass submerges the concrete pathway underneath my feet. Suddenly autumn has been switched onto 11, the leaves are golden and raining delicately around me, yet the sun is shouting down creating gorgeous colour pallets.<br />
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Every now and then, you hear movement, but it never shows. The brambles shake, a voice worms through the air. It's that sensation you are being monitored. A small glacial ripple slithers across my skin.<br />
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As I continue forwards, the branches part reluctantly like unveiling the curtain to the red and yellow bricked beauty that lies beneath.<br />
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There it stands. Just. The red roofs and towers still tall, the distinctive 19th century architecture crumbling but still standing. Just. It is hard to imagine Heino Schmieden, the famous German architect, seeing his creation now. Watching his magnificent construction, once proud and grand, now decaying and withering away.<br />
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The corridors are peeling, sometimes only lit through the shafts of escaping sun bursting through the gaps between the boarded up broken windows. The curling broken wall paper and paint cast beautiful artistic patterns. Walls are fractured and often adorn disrespectful scrawls of past visitors. The floors are a spongey lottery of support. Every step can be rolling a dice. Either beneath you or above. Ceilings gape open, lights swing noose-like above. Hopefully you will win this dice game.<br />
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That familiar dank smell of years of dust and rust; a cornucopia of disintegration hangs around you. Sometimes you catch a waft of chemicals. Animals. Decay. Dirt and grime. Sometimes you think you catch a stench of mortality, but I move away too fast to discover more.<br />
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Ignorance is a dangerous kind of bliss.<br />
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Occasionally you stumble upon small glimpses of life. Of the people that came here, sick, wanting to be cured. Their lungs struggling, you can imagine them lying on their beds staring at the soothing greenery outside. The ghosts of past patients still take a dip in the bath pool, the tall domed ceiling above their heads. A shoe here. A hair brush there. Items lost amongst the ashes of forgotten. Things. Structures. The bread oven rusting slowly; it will no longer bake any bread. The wash rooms, starved and dehydrated. The vast dining hall, now a famine of nourishment. The surgery wards, desolate and carnage ridden - they need surgery themselves.<br />
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The structures are empty and gaunt. Yet they are obese with memories, full of emotions, captured in the sinking bricks and rotting interiors.<br />
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Once a lowly German soldier attended this hospital, wounded at the Somme, sent to recover. This ordinary mundane person, nothing of note. For this short period, this building helped incubate a murderer. Bricks and mortar sometime contain more stories than living bodies. That icy shiver sweeps by my skin again.<br />
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Why is all this dilapidated corrosion so alluring. Why is the haunting uncomfortableness so beautiful.<br />
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The rotting building is life itself; a giant still life growing mouldy and fading away. We are but all fleshy crumbling bricks, forgotten in time.
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Full set of photos from my trip to <a href="https://flic.kr/s/aHsmsJgCfR">Hitler's hospital, Germany</a>.Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-1664450322505745012018-05-10T13:21:00.001-07:002018-05-10T14:17:51.353-07:00<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext";"><b>Auschwitz</b></span><br />
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The gate of iron, the outrageous lies;<br />
That work sets free, yet in truth? All dies.<br />
Endless horizon, eyes become sore;<br />
Claws of barbed wire, for ever more.<br />
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Red brick, red brick; a sickening trick.<br />
Row after row, all the same;<br />
Horrifically normal; even mundane.<br />
Reality hits, slapped out of slumber.<br />
Terror, fear; it’s more than a number.<br />
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Mountainous items- bags, clothes, a bowl;<br />
Each different shoe, belonged to a soul;<br />
A life that sang, laughed and cried;<br />
A life so taken, cruelly, and died.<br />
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Wrong indeed, and without cover-<br />
To believe one life, more value than another.<br />
Cannot un-see; it won’t be rid;<br />
Tattooed right into, your closed eyelid.<br />
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But atrocities we, cannot spurn;<br />
Even though it seems, we never learn.<br />
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I recently visited Auschwitz and here are the photos I took:<br />
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I am still processing the experience. It was unlike any other. Something in the pit of my stomach was gnawing the whole time; I think the place surprised me in ways I was not expecting. The sheer <i>scale</i> of Birkenau shook me - an endless sea of concentration camp. Wave after wave of barbed wire and outlook posts. It was mammoth - and yet conversely, made me feel so very claustrophobic. The mundanity of Auschwitz surprised me too - it felt like a slightly old fashioned industrial estate, and was in better condition than I was expecting. The ordered red bricks, in their inherent normality, chilled me beyond my worst nightmares.<br />
But it was the personal items of those who lost their lives that will live with me forever. The mounds and huge piles. A number is just a number and can be arbitrarily extrapolated away from emotional connection. Seeing the items destroys this; it makes it real. These were people. They had things like us. This could have been you.<br />
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I still do not know how to describe Auschwitz, which is why I wrote this poem. I might never know. I wasn't sure if to take photos, and definitely if whether to post them. I decided in the end to do both. I have long been fascinated with the idea of documenting stories and the past somehow - and I felt this was even more important in this case. It is not comfortable, but unless we face these past histories, we risk repeating the same atrocities. God forbid, we may already be doing so, which makes it more important we talk and discuss and share - so that we will never forget.Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-46166025161542733462018-04-18T14:46:00.002-07:002018-04-18T14:50:18.089-07:00Cardiff and Buildings PastArchitecture is one of my main loves. For someone who adores trees and countryside as much as I do, I find the aesthetic of buildings and structures as beautiful and intriguing as pieces of art.<br />
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Cardiff has never interested me architecturally like other cities and places do/have done. Growing up in the 80s and 90s, Cardiff was ugly and unremarkable even to a child.<br />
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Wandering through the city centre in 2018, which I do pretty much daily, I am always struck by the changes this small but sturdy Welsh capital where I was born and raised has undertaken. Rumblings began in the 1990s; a shape-shift exercise. The rugby world cup final in Cardiff in 1999 saw one of the main new developments - a brand new 74,500 seated stadium slap bang in the heart of the city. A spikey ship masted-like structure (with a retractable roof which sometimes reminds me of a giant bread bin); it seemed so space-age and giant. A burst of new bars and hotels subsequently opened - and as an sixth form student at the time, all this was particularly exciting. I cringe a little at the naivety of this exuberance at the time, but it was what it was - the rawness of a mid-size town beginning to hit with the big boys.<br />
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The developments have continued into the 21st century, as Cardiff has matured and evolved into a place where world events are held. It is great, of course - more choices, more things to do.<br />
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However, I pine for the old structures. The shadows of the past that told stories now lost in a city where barely nothing old remains - the swarms of students tapping their laptops in bland generic coffee shops (which are boringly the same anywhere in the world) in Cardiff Bay <i>may</i> not have any appreciation that they are sitting on top of a place which was, at one point, the busiest port in the world. And in fairness, why would they. Barely nothing remains of these remnants amongst these soulless chains.<br />
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Beyond this, there are particular buildings I personally yearn to stand beneath one last time, and appreciate their wonder.<br />
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The demolished national stadium - a mammoth concrete of a clenched fist. A concrete brutalist lover, I didn't fully appreciate at the time just how beautiful this concrete beast was. The claws of concrete was a comforting grasp of the heart of the city - a place where the country would unite over sporting joys and woes.<br />
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It was demolished in 1997 - I was at the last game there, where Cardiff RFC beat Swansea RFC in the cup final (this was before regional rugby of course). The stadium was outdated and needed change - there was nothing for facilities and there was the huge uncovered stand enclosure which after Hillsborough, always terrified me. But I miss those concrete claws that for most of my childhood had had gripped me tight, and when they went, so did the grip the sport had on me.</div>
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To build the new Millennium stadium, the Empire pool, another building I miss, also had to be demolished. The Empire pool stood on Wood street - a large red brick building with a distinctive curved roof, housing an international size swimming pool. </div>
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It seems forgotten now that Cardiff hosted the Commonwealth Games in 1958 - and the pool was built for these games. In primary school, we were trooped onto old buses and shipped to the pool for swimming lessons. The place terrified and fascinated me. It seemed the largest building in the world, and the diving boards were the tallest structures I'd ever seen.<br />
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It was a cold, old fashioned and harsh structure, and yet I liked it - the walls with diving moving figures - ghosts of all the people that had competed in the games all those years ago.<br />
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The third building no longer standing that I would love to gawp at one last time, is the old national ice rink. Another large building, but without the 1950s charm- it was built in the 1980s, and was typically styled of that decade.<br />
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With the large distinctive yellowing panels and the epic typography for the sign, it was an oddly designed building, but I do so love that retro style. I didn't even go ice skating that often, but I loved looking out for the distinctive panels. It was replaced with John Lewis - admittedly a much prettier structure.</div>
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Cardiff's new library is just a stone's throw away from John Lewis (or the ex-ice rink site) but this replaced the previous "new" library on St David's Link on Frederick street, which had been built in 1988. Concrete and very much of that decade - this was a building I crave and miss massively. </div>
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It had beautiful green typography lettering for the sign, and was another retro 1980s haven. Inside it was all typically pastel and beige. It was like a pair of chinos a male leading protagonist would wear in a 1980s sitcom. I spent many hours here trawling (raiding) the CD library as a student, or the amazing archives rooms right at the top of the building - sifting through old newspapers or microfiche with my dad, researching history about various different things. One time it was Welsh Titanic passengers. This was where I knew I loved history. And nothing beats researching through old newspapers - it beats the Internet every single time. </div>
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The building was demolished in 2006 to make way for the the new St David's II development.</div>
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These buildings are long gone, and the city has made many improvements since. I am nostalgic of course, but at the same time, things must change and grow - this is life and it is a good thing. I just think it is important to remember and respect the past. And I wish I could see these buildings one last time. And take photographs. Many, many, photographs.</div>
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As an aside, I found this wonderful old video of Cardiff. Enjoy how it used to be. </div>
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<br />Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-35674329136706509302017-01-02T14:21:00.000-08:002017-01-02T14:22:06.513-08:00New Year, New Blog<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">As I have just stated, I don't really believe in new years resolutions, but as I am a hot, steaming pile of hypocrite, my new year's resolution is going to be to write more. So I have decided to start a diary/blog on this shiny <a href="http://diaryofaloonbody.blogspot.co.uk/2017/01/a-loons-diary.html">new sister blog</a> to my other ramblings here</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">I was reading some of the wonderful Alan Bennett's diaries over Christmas, and rather like the idea of writing a diary again (something I haven't done since I left high school, mostly ramblings about how miserable and misunderstood I was - so no change from now really). Rather than write every day, Alan Bennett will write when he chooses on topics he finds instigates a curiosity from within - and that is what I am going to attempt. Therein ends the only comparison I would ever </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><b>dream</b></i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"> to make with the legendary national treasure of uber treasures that is His Royal Highness Sir Alan of Bennett (he really should have those titles). </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">And then reader, <a href="http://diaryofaloonbody.blogspot.co.uk/2017/01/a-loons-diary.html">we began</a>.</span><br />
<br />Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-31861654292945540752016-12-31T10:28:00.000-08:002016-12-31T10:33:12.555-08:00MehI'm not sure why I am writing this, neither am I entirely sure who will read it (and indeed, if I even care). But I have to be honest.<br />
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It is the last day of 2016, and I am tired. New year always brings self reflection. And this year is the same. However, every year always has ups and downs, good and bad, and we are misguided if we ever think any different.<br />
But the tiredness I feel is an indescribable cacophony. Its the type of tiredness that no amount of sleep will ever cure, even if you could sleep for multitudinous decades. I am drenched with fatigue. And its the exhaustion of being me.<br />
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This 'me' doesn't even feel like me anymore. Someone has stolen my being and sold it off cheap on eBay like a broken piece of brick-a-brac. I don't even know who me is. Making the mistake of looking back on that digital BEST FRIEND! Facebook, I was dumbfounded. Was I that? Was I this? Social media lies and masquerades; a deadly online menace. Even I start to get fooled. The pixelated versions don't show the pain, the darkness, the terrifying anxieties. The hatred. The reminders of constant failures.<br />
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Maybe my inherent need to be busy, to be occupied, to be overly-exerted comes down to a single thing. I'm running away. And I think I am trying to escape from who I am, who I have become. A poor imitation copy of a person that won't even end up on the 'novelty' section of antiques roadshow; a Margaret Thatcher-esque-haired expert grinning inanely scoffing patronisingly that the carcass isn't worth a penny but 'is tremendous fun' as if 'fun' is a synonym of 'stupid poor person things'.<br />
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My body & brain is riddled and disintegrating. My enthusiasm is the cardigan I once spilled photography chemicals over; eventually browning and shrivelling up like a rotting apple. I forget things. I sometimes can't get out of bed. Coming to terms with losing who I was is the most upsetting. Am I grieving? It is utterly ridiculous to write this and not scold myself for sounding such a melodramatic odiferous pillock. But I am that too.<br />
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Some writers describing depression and decline, say the terrible disease creeps up on you. I can relate to that. In some respects it is the small shadow tied to your boot laces that somehow expands up like a bloated sponge. But for me, it has been more like that bathroom tap with the dodgy leak: drip, drip, drip - fine at first, until you realise it's 18 months down the line, and you're submerging in a room full of water. There's nothing more lonely than drowning in your own self doubt.<br />
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In the summer, I was at Barry Island and sat watching people play the penny slots. They're glued to these seedy structures, feeding in coin after coin like robots. So much effort, for such little gain. That's how I feel I have existed for too long - a worn out dismaland penny machine that should've really paid out more by now, but has a few springs missing and is just waiting to be replaced by a newer model.<br />
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So here we are. Stuck in the hard shoulder whilst the world flies by picking up speeding tickets. I still do not know why I have written this. But things are very difficult. Very difficult indeed. And I apologise to anyone who actually has to endure me. But at least you can walk away. I miss who I was, and the life I used to have, but I'm not even sure I know what any of that was.<br />
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Maybe I just need to pull my socks up. But buy new ones first.<br />
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<br />Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-33480711430130797832016-12-27T09:49:00.002-08:002016-12-29T13:46:09.097-08:00A bug in the codeProcessing power, gradually slowed,<br />
Hardware and wires, begin to corrode.<br />
Memory leakage, renders in vain,<br />
What once was strong, is now on the wane.<br />
Bright lights that were a glittering zone,<br />
Now grey and dark, the pixels are blown.<br />
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There's a wretched bug hiding in code,<br />
Contaminating; nothing will load.<br />
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Spiralling icons spinning and pending,<br />
Churning and twisting, so never ending.<br />
A tiresome flailing nonchalance,<br />
Waiting for.....no response.<br />
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An Epidemic of bugs velcroed in code,<br />
And my own sad self, won't try to load.Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-12910959636335048152016-09-05T15:18:00.001-07:002016-09-05T15:49:16.219-07:00Visiting ChernobylThere are a few places in the world that just by name, conjure evocative reactions. Often these are areas where, unfortunately, tragedy has struck - places where events unravelled that have sent tremor waves of shock felt across the globe.<br />
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One such location has been a fascination of mine for a long time. And that place is Chernobyl.<br />
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Photographing decaying and derelict buildings has long been an obsession of mine, something I've written and blathered on about many times. I yearn for it. I crave the ability to traipse through stale, dank crooked structures; rotten walls, peeling paint. Their ghostly existence crying out to be photographed - the documentation of manmade decline as nature engulfs it.<br />
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Photography lends itself so well to capture these haunting scenes, the emptiness, the decay - which never stops, never pauses - only within the four walls of the photograph.<br />
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Visiting Chernobyl had become a dream of mine. I had dreamed of seeing Pripyat, the city near the Chernobyl nuclear reactor, where nearly 50,000 people had lived between 1970 and 1986. On April 27th 1986, the day after the Chernobyl nuclear disaster, the city was evacuated, what is left is a ghost town. Buildings not used in thirty years; roads not been driven on, the swimming pool not swum in, the kindergarten cots not slept in.<br />
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This July, I was lucky enough to finally visit Chernobyl. The two day tour was probably one of the most incredible experiences of my life. I have explored many derelict buildings over the years, but apart from Imber, the small English village taken over by the military during WWII, I had never before had the chance to visit an entire ghost town - a cornucopia of abandoned treasures.<br />
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Trips to Chernobyl, have been allowed since the area has been deemed more safe, but there are still many precautions one must take when visiting (and quite rightly so). We had been given advice on what clothes to wear, and told to not touch things, or step on certain things. Moss for example, is particularly good at absorbing radiation so is likely to emit high levels of radiation so you are warned to not walk on it. You can imagine how difficult it becomes trying to avoid doing so whilst exploring Pripyat, trying to take in everything around you.<br />
It is also strictly forbidden to remove anything from the exclusion zone. Entry into Chernobyl requires passport control, and the area is heavily guarded. You are not allowed to eat or drink whilst walking around Pripyat - and you can only do so whilst on the bus which would transport us around parts of the city which we could not travel by foot. During our stay in the <a href="https://flic.kr/p/LKQbNE">Chernobyl hotel</a>, there is a curfew by evening and no one is allowed outside after 8pm. You are screened regularly, having to stand in these bizarre 1970s sci-fi film-esque machines, that check you for any radioactive contamination.<br />
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When faced with these rules and regulations, the reality of where you are visiting very much strikes you. This is not a game, not a jolly. This is something that must be treated with respect, as you risked putting yourself in grave danger otherwise.<br />
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The trip began as we were taken to a kindergarten. The walls were seeping with branches and foliage and peeling crusty paint. What was left was a tragic reminder of the young lives who frequented there - dusty broken shoes, toys, torn books. So many items that looked like they had just been dumped. Rotting dolls like something out of a Stephen King film, and rows of skeletal wire cots that resembled an odd communal prison cell.<br />
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The personal items strewn across the decaying floorboards conjure so many questions - who wore this small shoe? Who did they grow up to be? Did they survive? Who clutched the teddy bear and dropped it that day in 1986, not realising they would never get to return to fetch it?<br />
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We were taken to many buildings and various areas in Pripyat. The culture palace, with a theatre and its stunning broken backstage.<br />
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It was a myriad of lighting rigs and grids of wires, now spookily silent, patiently waiting for the next performance that will never come.<br />
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The culture palace as it is today from the outside:<br />
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As the same culture palace as it was originally:<br />
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We saw one of the vast empty swimming pools, looking gaunt and hungry without its water; bright light streaming down onto white tiles through the huge windows - bizarrely striking against the dirt and graffiti that was building up. The suicidal looking diving platform still proudly erect, angular and defiant.<br />
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We explored a school. Pripyat had around 20 schools for the 5,000 children who lived there.<br />
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The school we visited was a zombified grange hill. So much of the ghostly remains resembled memories from my own school days: the corridors, the small chairs, books, science labs - yet these were all decomposing and decaying - vast broken rooms filled with empty dying desks, crumpled text books, written work books in perfectly scripted Russian/Ukrainian which was still legible. The poignancy was striking - when a child had worked so hard and taken so much care on this work I was stood near, little did they know it would one day be dirt ridden and lying upon a decaying floor, as part of a strange time capsule fodder for photographers.<br />
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Communist propaganda posters still hanging from the walls - Lenin, workers, anti-west diatribe. Cold war teachings. Something that seemed to only exist in history books I had seen in my own school - here they were for real.<br />
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It was in the school which I saw one of the most incredible sights I have ever witnessed - a sea of decaying gas masks. Gas masks themselves always look so alien and menacing. This surreal scene was an infinity ocean of cold war atomic nightmares. It churned your stomach, it made you gulp. The black holes for eyes, they resembled deformed leathery skulls. Gas masks, war. The threat. It was, of course, a reality for daily lives for the people of chernobyl.<br />
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One of the most impressive structures in Chernobyl that we visited was the 'woodpecker' - an incredible mammoth duga radar structure. It derived its nickname due to the sound it broadcasted - sharp, repetitive tapping noises, very much like a woodpecker.<br />
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There were many conspiracy theories over to what the radar tower's purpose was - with many insinuations and allegations of spying, and even mind control. Of course, none of these were ever proven. Now, the structure still stands proud....just eerily silent. Standing near it, you marvelled at its sheer size and formed beauty. Climbing the tower, scrambling up wobbling ladders you got the overwhelming sense of how minuscule you were. You were just an insignificant entity. The machine was the dominate power.<br />
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Inside the duga buildings, a control room contained warnings of attack, yet with oddly crude posters which almost resembled school drawings of nuclear rockets. It had a beautiful naivety, yet the science it was representing, was very much contradicting this. <br />
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One of the most famous areas of Pripyat was the fairground. It was meant to be opened on the May day celebrations - the disaster, of course, scupper these plans. The fairground that never was. The huge abandoned ferris wheel has become one of the icons of Chernobyl. Walking up to the area, the ferris wheel suddenly poked through the trees, its yellow carts so recognisable looming on the horizon. It made my skin prickle and the hairs on my arms stand up.<br />
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The fairground had languishing dogem cars, rusting away waiting to be driven; empty swing boats waiting to swing. Still. Expectant but dead. No sounds of children happily playing. Just static rusty structures waiting to die.<br />
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(For a peak at what the fairground looked like shortly before the evacuation - here is an interesting photograph of the <a href="https://i.kinja-img.com/gawker-media/image/upload/ten1gvnydkfwr4b7fq2x.jpg">ferris wheel</a>)<br />
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We climbed 14 floors of stairs to the roof of a defunct crumbling residential building, and saw the incredible view across Pripyat. You could see for miles into the horizon. One side there was nothing but trees, the other side, the nuclear reactor stuck out into the landscape like a curved silver beast, glinting in the glorious sun shine. The reactor looked so close. The reactor *was* so close. You could imagine how quickly the radiation would have spread to the city....<br />
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And yet at times, as I gazed into the horizon on the gloriously sunny day, it felt so peaceful. So quiet. It was almost tranquil. Such a contrast to the thought of what had happened there.<br />
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We were taken to a <a href="https://flic.kr/p/JU5S2N">shop</a>, <a href="https://flic.kr/p/LSfnHA">a factory</a>, <a href="https://flic.kr/p/LSeczw">cafeteria</a>, the <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/sets/72157672260558380/with/29482012215/">hospital</a> and the <a href="https://flic.kr/p/LtKJTq">cinema</a>. All places of such mundane daily routine, of pastimes, of work, or places of social interaction - now dying and deteriorating; signs hanging off, rubble strewn, windows broken, ovens caked with rust not baked goods. <a href="https://flic.kr/p/LKExPC">Vending machines</a>. Beds. Random items abandoned - a pepsi bottle, a hard hat, <a href="https://flic.kr/p/LKCuio">pill bottles</a>, an old vinyl record, a torn <a href="https://flic.kr/p/KYjDft">sofa</a>. Objects of life, signs of life, yet there is no life.<br />
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The beauty of these broken items sometimes took my breath away. The huge <a href="https://flic.kr/p/JctSgi">cooling tower</a>. The light against the beautiful broken glassed windows of the <a href="https://flic.kr/p/LVgN3g">cafeteria</a>, crystalloid patterns that could be in another life, hanging in an art gallery. The creepy <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/albums/72157672421283331">children's camp</a> - set in the forest and evocative of as many woods horror films you can imagine. The stunning and oddly satisfying athestic of peeling paint - the crusty curls clawing out of the walls as if their bony fingers were coming alive. The dark rusty signs or faded red propaganda posters; beautiful in their colour and form. The emptiness of an abandoned room, now useless in its initial purpose, dripping with this tragic well of loneliness.<br />
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It was all quite overwhelming. And sometimes <a href="https://flic.kr/p/LVnxFD">macabre</a>.<br />
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Nothing was more a deadly wake up call of the dangers in chernobyl, than the sight and sound of the Geiger counter alarm, approaching one of the most radioactive items still left in Pripyat - the claw. The Geiger counter was brought out at various times during our trip. Sometimes it was unnerving (but also sobering and important) to how suddenly you would be near an item that was setting the alarm off on the counter. Radiation - the silent and invisible assassin. There is something more frighting about a deadly threat that you cannot see, cannot smell, cannot hear.<br />
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'The claw', however, was off the scale. You are not allowed close to 'the claw' - a terrifyingly industrial metal claw that was used to clean up nuclear waste after the disaster. Our guide placed the Geiger counter near, and we watched in awe as the alarm spiralled into high pitched cacophony. This was real. This was dangerous.<br />
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We slowly crept away.<br />
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/29349727162/in/album-72157670529125992/" nbsp="" title="the claw - used to clear up after the disaster. One of the most radioactive machinery pieces left"><img alt="the claw - used to clear up after the disaster. One of the most radioactive machinery pieces left" height="400" src="https://c3.staticflickr.com/9/8506/29349727162_fc2327b336_m.jpg" width="250" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
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One morning of the tour, we visited the house of a chernobyl resident. An odd experience, one that I was not sure I was comfortable with. She welcomed visitors regularly, showing people around her home and land.<br />
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Money was no use to her, instead, we brought her items such as sugar and salt. She spoke to us via an interpreter, explaining that she had worked in the reactor, and had been evacuated the day after the disaster, but had returned to live a year later and had lived there ever since.<br />
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She grew many crops, and these were all tested safe for consumption. Her house was primitive, her life was basic. She lived alone with her dog and cats. Whilst she made us feel very welcome (she gave us her own homemade moonshine and bread), I felt intruding, I felt as if I was patronising her by just being there.<br />
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It was a reality check to how some people live in the world, something I am far too often blinkered to - her oven was a hole in the wall, the sanitary conditions extremely basic. My life back home seemed as far away as the moon. It was like going back in time. Yet she seemed at peace; content with her lot. In some ways I left her house with almost an odd pang of jealousy.<br />
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An unfortunate turn of phrase, but Chernobyl gets under your skin; the connotations of what happened there, the horrors, the tragedy. I have thought about what I saw, what I experienced, every day since. Did it happen? Did I really experience the sheer surreal of having lunch in the actual <a href="https://flic.kr/p/KYjMgi">reactor canteen</a>?<br />
It is all a lingering spectre. Now, whenever I am in woods or see moss, I am suddenly wondering if it is safe to step on. The empty sadness of chernobyl shrouds you at times. What is left is a snap shot of a different time. Like many tragic events, it is a reminder of the human condition, both the bad side but also the good - let us not forget the heroic efforts of the firemen who sacrificed their lives and went into the reactor at the time of the disaster. Their selfless actions saving the world of a larger catastrophe.<br />
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Sometimes I feel I am drawn to derelict buildings because I often feel a little empty inside, as if I am a derelict well, or as if large pieces inside are missing. But sometimes I think derelict buildings call to me so that the silent walls and objects can somehow tell their story, reveal their secrets and histories. One day we will be nothing ourselves, one day we will become these empty shell structures and nothing will be left of us but an old shoe, left languishing in the dust. And I would want someone to spot this remnant, and capture it, to speak for me when I cannot - 'look, I was here. I lived'.<br />
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You can see my full <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/collections/72157673377985996/">sets of photographs</a> documenting my time at Chernobyl in my flickr albums - <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/sets/72157669999150560/with/28292966942/">Chernobyl</a>, <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/albums/72157670529125992/with/29422627656/">Pripyat</a>, <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/albums/72157672217241820">Duga Radar</a>, <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/albums/72157672214948610/with/29350639402/">Exclusion Zone house visit</a>, the <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/albums/72157672421283331">Children's Camp</a>, and <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/albums/72157672260558380">Pripyat hospital</a>.<br />
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For a fascinating before the disaster comparison, images of life in Pripyat can be viewed on <a href="http://io9.gizmodo.com/photos-of-everyday-life-in-pripyat-before-the-chernobyl-1618107860">Photos of everyday life in Pripyat before the disaster.</a>Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-89409090624126352602016-04-10T14:06:00.001-07:002016-04-10T14:34:32.289-07:00Iceland Iceland. A mystical country that has intrigued me for years.<br />
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When I stepped off the plane at Reykjavik airport in August, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Beautiful clear blue skies, and blindingly strong sun. Not weather you always associate with the coldly named country. Admittedly, I wasn't expecting iceberg arctic conditions, and to be greeted by a north face clad penguin to collect my bags, but still.<br />
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As the bus from the airport took me to Reykjavik, I was struck by the volcanic landscape. Similar to the canaries, the land looked almost desolately lunar. It is an odd view, with its black, almost dead sensation, and yet not without it's own special kind of beauty. I was also struck by how sparse things felt - maybe too conditioned to the UK and in particular the city claustrophobic feel, where buildings are squidged next to other buildings to exploit as much millimetre of the space as possible.<br />
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Reaching Reykjavik itself in glorious sunshine, I could almost admit to feeling warm. I set out to roam. The city felt european, and yet also not quite. Buildings were colourful, something I often long for in the UK outside small seaside towns; how can you not find these inherently more cheerful than the drab grey slabs of concrete, or even worse, the red bricked modern housing estates sprawled across the UK that could be any mundane town in any ordinary place.<br />
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What I liked about Reykavik was how easy it was to walk to everything else - such a small city but packed with goodies around every corner. It's like sight-seeing christmas come early. I quickly established my mantra when alone in a foreign place - find a landmark. In Reykavik's case, you have easily, the Hallgrimskirkja.<br />
Just before I left for my trip and on our weekend away, my friends gave me a lovely birthday card in which they wrote 'Have a great time in Iceland, look out for the big churchy thing that looks like a REALLY big set of pan pipes' which had left me chuckling at the time, but this is actually a pretty good description of the Hallgrimskirkja. A strikingly large cathedral that dominates the skyline; its blocky, concrete appearance overlooks proceedings, indeed, like a omnipresent....set of giant lego pipes.<br />
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I went to the top of the Hallgrimskirkja tower and saw stunning 360 views of the city. I kept thinking of the difference between the last time I had been looking at similar 360 views - when I was on the top of the Tokyo governmental buildings - when the panorama before me was an endless mass Sim City sprawl of buildings until infinity. And yet here, in Iceland, was a little city of brightly coloured lego compactness.<br />
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Reykavik is a culture hot bed. We boast in Wales of our cultural prowess for such a small country; Reykavik has it alone and yet is roughly around the same population size of Cardiff. There are many art and photography galleries, museums and a film festival. It boasts an architectural feast in the Haimj concert hall - an outstandingly beautiful construction of optically illusional glass. It reminded me of a beautiful giant kaleidoscope.<br />
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It also did not get dark until very very late. Wandering around Reykavik at night in August, and I had to keep reminding myself that it wasn't still 3pm. The unbridled joy of going for a run around the city at 11.30pm in daylight will live with me forever (Iceland loves running. Another massive tick box of YES for me). Conversely, winter months must be bleak times (anyone who watches those endless scandinavian and nordic dramas on BBC4 will already tell you this). Icelanders must have a hard constitution, hardened by the incredibly high cost of alcohol (I think I felt drunk just reading the menu prices). It makes me feel a wuss for feeling miserable whilst running up Pen Y Fan in a January raining hale of gales.<br />
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Not far away from the concert hall that overlooks the docks of Reykavik and deep ocean, are the boats that can take you Whale and puffin watching. Having been lucky enough to visit Skomer island in pembrokeshire to see puffins, I was keen to look for Whales. I chose the smaller boat to go out to sea, for the main purpose of being closer to the Whales. What no one told me at the time, was that this of course, meant a bumpier ride as well as an increased chance of a Whale actually knocking the boat over. But luckily I am a fan of the sea and its roller coaster offerings.<br />
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It is luck and chance of the day to whether you see Whales or not of course, and I was blessed to see lots of Whales on my trip. Lead on the trip by a Scotsman (the accent threw me at the beginning), we were taken out to sea (and see) and learnt much about the sealife as a whole. And we saw many Whales. Lots of Minky Whales, gracefully gliding around the sea looking for food. We saw humpback Whales leap out of the water and land with a splash. Quite simply one of the most incredibly powerful and yet graceful scenes you could wish to witness.<br />
The trip was utterly respectful to the animals - never deliberately approaching or getting too close, not wishing to disturb these most magnificent creatures. The girl from Wales finally saw her Whales, and I had a new found respect for these majestic, intelligent and stunning animals. That Whales must remain free (certainly not in any form of captivity), not exploited, and also not hunted, is absolutely a must.<br />
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A short journey out of Reykjavik, and you hit the countryside. I was keen to see the beautiful landscape, the mountains and natural wonders. It is not long before you are out of the city and into the relative remote hills. The rolling hills were, to me, not dissimilar to the Brecon beacons in many ways - although that may have been because of the grey and drizzly weather. The difference being were more random houses potted around as we passed. At one point, we could even see the unpronounceable (and also troublesome to spell) Eyjafjallajökul; its looming peaks calling out to me tantalizingly in the distance between the clouds. Mountains call to me like sirens, their majesty and large forms bewitch me with their power and strength. There is something so reassuring about mountains and hills, they are stoic and reliable. Yet with a whisper of danger and intrigue. <br />
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Then I saw the geysers. I am not sure if anything could have prepared me for witnessing large jets of hot water burst out of the floor like a bubbling random piston; it was as if the floor beneath us was alive. A dragon lay under the surface, roaming and stalking the underworld, until it teased the upside by spitting out its foaming shoots of water whenever it felt like it as if in a firy protest or just to amuse. That this natural phenomenon occurs still baffles and delights me now. It reminds me yet again that nature is so unashamedly, what it is.<br />
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Even more incredible, was watching the people watching. Rings of people form around the geysers, phones and cameras held aloft, all waiting on baited breath for the geyser to perform. Sometimes it took ages. Sometimes the bubbling potion caused tourist oooos and ahhhhhs as the teasing water promised to deliver (and yet didn't). Even more curious were the people stood away from the geysers, hoping for a selfie. Watching the watchers became as fascinating to me as the geysers themselves.<br />
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As we drove through the hills and landscapes, I yearned to return in the winter; to see the snow and harshness - the equally beautiful but dramatic changes in season. No wonder Iceland has produced many great musical artists, with such landscapes to inspire ethereal electronic wonders. It feels an ethereal country, where volcanos rule above, and creatures tease below; where light lasts all day or darkness dictates instead. Where culture blossoms and history breathes. Beautiful, fascinating Iceland.<br />
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<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/albums/72157656456610529/with/20348414975/">See my set of photos from Iceland on Flickr.</a>Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-21723254282384518242016-02-11T13:28:00.004-08:002016-03-02T13:22:12.567-08:00Pen Y Fan<div class="p1">
Peaked arms of comfort, beckon yet mock,</div>
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The luscious siren of greens & rock;</div>
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Nature's vast canvas, over it shrouds,</div>
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Charcoal sunk bleak, nefarious clouds.</div>
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Majestic beauty so persuasive,</div>
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Yet icy insults so abrasive. </div>
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Drenched relentless, to the beat;</div>
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Yet un-abating, suffocating heat.</div>
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Through pain, </div>
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Through pleasure,</div>
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<br /></div>
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The mountains call.</div>
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Despite the weary battle fight,</div>
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Unseen demons of hidden fright;</div>
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Suddenly I thrive.</div>
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Suddenly:</div>
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I become alive.</div>
Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-49464076851900026182015-08-23T16:00:00.000-07:002015-08-25T11:18:25.717-07:00Japan Murakami. Hokusai. Sushi. Samurai. Ghibli. Kurosawa.<br />
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Japan had always been my dream destination. My fascination in the country and culture started in slightly an unusual way - sifting through my Van Gogh print book aged 11, I saw Vincent's Japanese art work, <i>The Bridge in the Rain (after Hiroshige) </i>and was rather taken by the image. On further inspection, I learnt of the original by Hiroshige and how Vincent had been influenced by the ukiyo-e prints.<br />
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I had no conscious awareness of the why, but I just knew the style ticked a certain box within my sense of order.<br />
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As I got older, the more I delved into Japanese culture, the more obsessed I became. I read the Pillow book of Sei Shonagon. I watched all the Kurosawa films I could get on VHS from the library (I've been concocting a whole blog post dedicated to my love affair with <i>Ikuru</i> for months), I bought all the Murakami I could afford (I remember trying to explain to a friend once why I loved his books "He writes what I'm thinking before I've even thought it"). It was a captivation gathering momentum like a bullet train. I apologise to my long suffering friends and family for not shutting up about all things Japan. Ever.<br />
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When I finally arrived in Tokyo in May, it was a surreal moment. I had waited for over twenty years to visit. I was expecting to step off the plane and implode in a pool of melted excitement and overly large robotic anime eyes. There I was, bleary eyed and sleep deprived, finally in my island of utopia. And yet all I could think about was my desperate need to redo my eyeliner and put a fresh cardigan on. I was wary of pandering to the cliches and stereotypes that could ruin an experience that I was so hoping would be holistic.<br />
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And yet within half an hour of landing, I was baffled and bemused by the technological and language cornucopia of confusion that was - the Japanese 'western' toilet. Behold, what was this monstrosity of undecipherable instructions and buttons that before me! I regretted my unashamed lack of linguistic ability. It was such a stereotype, but the toilet really was a thing of great wonder and yet baffling eccentricity. And I had been reduced to helpless tourist buffoon (who also then would take a photo of a toilet).<br />
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Terrified that I might press an ejector seat button that would shoot me out of the airport terminal and into a prison cell, I luckily heard a yorkshire woman explaining to her daughter in the cubical next to me how to survive the experience. "What ever you do duck, don't press any buttons - thank geoff for auto-flush!" This northern lady was my saviour. I have no idea who Geoff was either but I thanked him too. I gave her a knowing glance at the wash-basin.<br />
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Later I would experience the 'non-western 'Japanese toilet. Which would be the complete opposite of these wizardry U-bend contraptions, and pretty much be a hole in the floor.<br />
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Exploring Tokyo alone was one of the most beautifully simple and yet touching moments I have ever had. I felt alive. Every cell in my body was in awe. It struck me that in such a vast, mammoth city; one with such a reputation for the eccentric, with such a deliciously bonkers and manic reputation, and as a westerner in a place I did not know, I felt remarkably at home. Much of it actually felt natural - yes it was very different, yes it was often aberrant, but I never felt uncomfortable. From witnessing a real life Mario kart race shooting down the road within minutes, fantastic anime posters, neon signs and lights screaming from the rafters; there were no Godzillas roaming the streets (<b>yet</b>) or robots offering me karaoke on hover-boards in cafes run by badgers.<br />
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Delving deeper into the different neighbourhoods of Tokyo, my senses were on overload. There was so much going on around me. Tokyo is a schmorgasboard of curiosities, a 360 twitter feed of random. It's pulsating and crowded, but I never felt overwhelmed like I have in London or even Cardiff on rugby days. Not even on the packed rush hour trains and stations, where you get to know stranger's armpits a little more than you would probably choose. Or the Takeshita shopping street, with it's endless shops and bizarrely dressed characters (cats, school girls, the infamous Maid cafes); the sound of J-pop blaring out from every speaker-ed orifice. Even at the infamous Shibuya Zebra crossing, made famous by Bill Murray in Lost in Translation (yes another one of my obsessions), just a selfie stick away from the biggest profit making Starbucks in the world; where there must have been near thousands of people crossing hourly did it feel that <i>overly </i>crowded. It felt exciting. It felt bustling. From the dancing Elvis in the park to the wedding at a shrine. It just felt right.<br />
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The Japanese are wonderfully polite and respectful. I was astonished to see so many people give up seats for older people on buses and trains. They queue better than the British. And there is a strong respect for cleanliness. The streets are spotless - no chewing gum, no cigarette butts, no sweet wrappers. I have never seen such a clean major city - no rubbish, no trash, little graffiti. And there aren't even bins. It's like trash is the family shame and locked away in the attic like Bertha.<br />
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The Japanese also love their shops. I didn't like shopping before I went to Japan. When I came back from Japan, I did not like shopping. I loved shopping in Japan.<br />
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From outlets that seemed to sell every single permutation of matcha-flavoured edible ANYTHING, to 12 storied high shops of endless anime related goods from books to figurines. Need a deodorant specifically for every third Tuesday of the month that smells like Elvis on the moon in the theme of your favourite anime cartoon? You can bet they had it.<br />
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The famous Akihabara district is also known as 'electric city'. Here you can walk down a street of electronic shops and pretty much buy all the parts you need to, for example, build an entire computer. Or electronic typewriter, or probably your own helicopter with go faster stripes called Gerald. You name the diode, its there.<br />
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And the food. I have long loved sushi - another reason why I was so keen to travel to Japan. But the food was something else. Japanese sushi, from the Tokyo Tsukiji fish market was out of this world - melt in your mouth raw salmon, the freshest fish I have ever eaten. But it was the noodle dishes that wowed me over - the ramen, which I had no idea was so fantastic. The comparison with British food was noticeable. Yes, there are fast food outlets like McDonalds etc. but the lack of cakes, processed breads, (processed foods in general really) cheese and milk and instead: lots of fish, rice, noodle dishes - you can understand why the Japanese are a very healthy country.<br />
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You could also buy meals that were made to look like bears. If you so wished. Anything is possible in Japan.<br />
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I also visited the Studio Ghibli museum - an absolute must for any fan of the Ghibli films. It was delightfully strange but beautiful. I adore Ghibli films, and the museum was as charmingly bizarre as the films - that very odd but still very adorable way that only Ghibli seem to master so perfectly.<br />
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<a href="https://flic.kr/s/aHskaEycz6">Tokyo image album</a><br />
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Travelling onto Kyoto, via the beautiful bullet train, it was interesting to see a different major Japanese city. The bullet train, or rather, Shinkansen - was so wonderful it has subsequently ruined all other methods of travel. The trains leave on time to the second. You travel at seemingly 398473947 mph. The *seats turn around*. It must be on par with travelling on the space shuttle.<br />
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Kyoto had a alternative feel, the buildings were older, and of a different style. Another vast city, but it wasn't quite so neon and highrise. It was in Kyoto I visited some of the most beautiful shrines and stunning areas of beauty, but it was also here that felt the most touristy and hectic - crowds of tourists swamping the shrines left you feeling (like in many similar areas across the world) that the sacrality of the experience is completely evaporated in a superabundance of selfies. But I very much loved the city.<br />
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What was also interesting in Kyoto was learning about the Geisha (or rather, <i style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">geiko)</i>; a fascinating aspect of Japanese culture. The Geiko historical walk was very insightful - not only to learn the history, but to learn about how our perceived knowledge on the Geiko lifestyle is actually inaccurate, how these histories and 'facts' become warped through time and urban myth. I was also lucky enough to see a couple of Geikos in their daily life.<br />
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I also visited the Kyoto film studios; a huge japanese film fan I was very glad I did too. Whilst a theme park (and I am not normally a fan of theme parks that do not involve Lego - why pay a huge amount of money to stand in queues) this was hugely enjoyable, mostly for the Japanese movie history part, as well as some great samurai history and the chance to walk through film sets that are still used today. And the chance to do some play fighting on the mock rooftop. *kapow*<br />
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<a href="https://flic.kr/s/aHskdzSXUy">Kyoto photos</a><br />
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Travelling onto Hakone was an altogether different experience. Hakone is a town within the area of the volcanically active Mount Fuji, centering around Lake Ashi. The national park area, this was a complete contrast to the city life of Tokyo and Kyoto. Staying in an traditional Japanese Inn, with very basic shared rooms (although probably the most comfortable of any place I have stayed in a long time) I got to experience the onsen bath (hot spring bath). This was a slightly daunting prospect. There are many rules to the Onsen; you must wash carefully before you use it, you must be naked etc. I haven't been so nervous about doing something wrong since learning to drive, only this was worse - this was doing your driving test naked. The sleep and bath left me feeling centred and peaceful, something that I have trouble doing at home. Or perhaps it was the sake tasting night we enjoyed that evening.<br />
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Unfortunately the weather was bad during my short time in Hakone, not only did this mean I did not get to see much of the mountains and country, but I was not able to do much walking/hiking either. This made me very sad and was probably the biggest disappointment of my time in Japan. But I vowed to return.<br />
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<a href="https://flic.kr/s/aHskaDMiyG">Hakone photos</a><br />
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In Osaka, I got to try some very 'Japan' experiences - a capsule hotel, a karaoke booth and samurai sword fighting/role play (and the next morning, possibly the worst hangover of my life thanks to said karaoke experience). Whilst I did not see much of Osaka, it seemed if anything, more party crazy than Tokyo. It was even more neon neon neon and party party party. The city equivalent of the duracel bunny.<br />
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The capsule hotel is probably not somewhere I would choose to stay again, but I am glad to have tried it. This hotel had more room than you would imagine for your space, obviously all shared wash facilities which were fine; however there were no locks on doors (well, shutters), you could hear the ant 100 yards away bottom burping, and it did all feel....well...a little odd. Like sleeping in a dormitory of small sheds mocked up like the inside of a very budget airline. However, I have stayed in worse hotels (mostly in London).<br />
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The karaoke was drunken and potty - it was like any other karaoke night I have had in the UK, the main difference being was the fact it lasted about a gazillion hours and there was all you can drink alcohol. The Japanese really love their karaoke.<br />
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I was keen to learn Samurai sword fighting. The Seven Samurai was another one of my Japanese and film obsessions since a teenager. And who hasn't fancied themselves as a bit of a samurai legend with a walking stick in front of the mirror when no one is looking. It was great fun, but I did realise I needed to learn more Japanese; taking instructions became arbitrary. However I learnt some of the basic moves - like many of these things, it looks a lot easier than it actually is. Also I found wearing a traditional kimono was akin to having a python of thick curtains suffocating your body. I have a new found respect for Japanese ladies. There is video footage of the role play I took part in, watching back made me realise why the peak of my acting career ended with me pretending to be Mrs Overall reading alan bennett at Aberystwyth University theatre school.<br />
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<a href="https://flic.kr/s/aHske79i43">Osaka photos</a><br />
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For all the incredible fun I was having in Japan, and I really was loving every single second of it - it was more than living up to my high expectations, my eyes were bulging with all the sights, my ears were tingling with all the sounds, my mouth was delirious with so much great food and I was meeting so many great people. There was however (unconscious to me but at the same time it was nagging) a need for something a little bit more consequential to my experience of Japan.<br />
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Then there was Hiroshima.<br />
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I had wanted to visit Hiroshima a great deal, and I had read a lot about the city, about what had happened there since history class in school. But even still, I don't think anything could have prepared me for the impact visiting the city would have on me.<br />
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Hiroshima is a lovely city and I liked it instantly. Different again to Tokyo, Kyoto and Osaka, it had its own personality and character. There were trams. It felt a little more slower paced for such a big city.<br />
I spent my first day in Hiroshima visiting the world renown Itsukushima Shrine (it is known as the floating gate) and the rest of the island Itsukushima which is a stunning area of natural beauty. The weather was stifling hot. It was busy with tourists, although unlike Kyoto it did not feel oppressive. The tori gate was beautiful and I got to see not only beautiful beaches and landscapes but also a Japanese Noh theatre stage and take the fabulous cable car to see incredible views of Hiroshima, the ocean and the blue skies around. It was idyllic. You never think of Japan as being a place to have such beautiful sandy beaches.<br />
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What a wonderful day it had been. Back in Hiroshima after dinner and wandering back to the hotel at night, I found myself suddenly upon a rather innocuous little monument on a dark alleyway near where I was staying. It was then that the history of Hiroshima smacked me in the face - for this monument that I was standing next to was marking the very epi-centre of the world's first atomic bomb.<br />
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I could see what was known as the A-dome from my hotel room. The A-dome is the famously burnt out building that somehow 'survived' the devastation. Images of immediately after the bomb show carnage, yet there is the carcass of a building, standing there like a gaunt spectre.<br />
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The A-dome looked eerily beautiful at night - lit up and derelict, like a beautiful skeleton of a building overlooking the river amongst the trees and modern buildings. And here I was. Stood at the point of the atomic bomb. If I had been there in August 1945, I would be dead. The heat being hotter than the sun. It is not even something my small brain could comprehend.<br />
Wandering back over to the peace park and A-dome, I felt a strange cloud creep over my skin. It was a sensation I could not quite comprehend and even now struggle to decipher. How could this place, this city, this street, this area, have seen such devastation? How could this be the same place as those horrific images of carnage, of unrecognisable twisted wreckage of destruction? The images of the bomb aftermath looked like images of hell; other worldly. How could anything recover from that? And yet this was this place I was in now. Buildings were standing. Cars were driving past. Trams were pootling along. I thought a lot suddenly about my family and friends back home and how lucky I was to have so many people in my life whom made just...<i>being</i> a lot more enjoyably fulfilling.<br />
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The next day I visited the peace park properly and saw the A-dome in the daylight. The peace park is beautifully put together - a quiet and (although feels a little naff to say so, but it really is) humbling place to walk around. A strong emphasis on remembrance of course, but also a strong sense of looking forward - promoting peace. The eternal flame burns until there are no more nuclear weaponry - a cleverly ironic and yet tragic symbol. There is something rather heartening in the fact the city is now again, a city. That the strength and the character of the place and its people saw such resolve to recover. The capacity for humankind to move on and rebuild should never be underestimated.<br />
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The A-dome itself yearned at me like there was something aching in within. I am fascinated with, and have been for a long time, the very existence of derelict buildings anyway, and I could not take my eyes off it. I felt drawn to it like a magnet. How could this building have survived the blast when all else had failed? I adore architecture and buildings, but for me I think the interest is in the history they hold - their story, their tale to tell. Few buildings in the world have a story quite like the A-dome.<br />
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I did not want to leave the A-dome, and I felt sad leaving Hiroshima. I still feel that indescribable random ache when I think about it, as if my own mind is still digesting the whole experience. Maybe the fact this was an act by the allies in WWII was causing conflict in my moral compass. Maybe I never will make sense of it, as if the horror of this history is too great for one average brain to fathom.<br />
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<a href="https://flic.kr/s/aHskedyuKV">Hiroshima photos</a><br />
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I returned to the wonderful Tokyo for the remainder of my trip. More exploring of what was becoming my favourite city in the world. Aside from the earthquake that occurred, it was all wonderful and full on. This time staying in a different area of the city, in Shinjuku. I even saw Godzilla in the street - albeit not walking around but he was still there. The last day saw a visit to the robot restaurant which was a stereotypically insane Japanese affair that is like having your eyes and ears rinsed through a washing machine full of bling robots. It is an outrageous robot show with sharks and lasers and dancing ladies...I can honestly say I have never seen or heard anything as random, and I once saw the Krankies walking down the street in Australia.<br />
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Japan had spoilt me rotten. Like a overwhelmingly kind rich old relative, it had stuffed me full of treats and delights, and yet had taught me some important life lessons and teachings. It had exceeded my expectations. It had tickled my humour and yet showed me a different culture. I did not want to leave the country. I felt as if I had just glimpsed the tip of the iceberg and that Japan had much more to share - and I was greedy for it.<br />
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It is a cliche, but I felt Japan had changed me, it had given me more pieces to the jigsaw, it made me think and see things at home a little altered. Far from feeling lost in translation, I had felt oddly at home. It made me realise that I sometimes felt more alone in my home city of Cardiff amongst friends or family than I did completely alone amongst strangers in a foreign country. It had been my dream trip, and every second was a dream.<br />
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Japan is a country that gives so much. Beyond the stereotypes it is fascinating. It is beautiful. It is where I will return.Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-13796748244452121312015-01-19T14:59:00.000-08:002015-01-19T15:15:19.325-08:00When in (Camera) phone....When I first started studying photography, mobile phone technology was still relatively primitive. Digital photography was still in its infancy (I learnt on a second hand 35mm film Nikon and dark room processing). Digital cameras were the golden grail of its time, the extra legroom supplement of technology - expensive but you didn't really get that much more for your money.<br />
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To think of our lives without digital photography, or indeed, smart phones, is akin to imagining us existing without air. Digital imaging and mobile technology has become an integral part of how we live - a repercussion of the internet emerging as the centre of modern life.</div>
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Smart phones, or rather, camera phones have changed photography as a medium. It has changed the way we take photographs, obviously, but it has changed the way we share our images, the way the media use and publish images, and perhaps most interestingly, the way we even experience our lives.</div>
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The first camera phone I ever owned was so poor in quality, it hardly seemed worth taking a picture. The camera phone seemed like a gimmick - a very grainy and small sized pixelated white elephant. The speed in which the technology advanced and progressed was rapid, and moved from flimsy rather anaemic imaging, to serious megapixel business. </div>
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The evolution of the iphone and subsequent smart phones revolutionised mobile technology, and the camera phone was part of this. Suddenly pictures were better quality. Suddenly these better quality images could be shared via messaging, emails, and uploaded onto the internet quickly and with ease. Suddenly people were carrying cameras on them - at all times. </div>
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I was used to lugging my camera around with me at all times. When I could finally afford my first DSLR, I used to drag the heavy lump around with me all and every day - too scared that I would miss a photo opportunity on my walks to and form work, or out shopping or rambling around. The pain in which I would feel if I saw an abandoned sock, a funny graffitied sign, or any other such random urban decayed bit of delicious weird beauty, and I did NOT have my camera was akin to a form of guilt ridden grief. </div>
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These snippets of random life I stumbled upon were snapshots of seconds that might never be repeated - it was my duty to capture them. If I didn't have my camera, these could be lost forever. But it wasn't doing my shoulders much good, and even I couldn't carry it <i>everywhere</i>.</div>
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Suddenly I had a camera on my phone; but a camera that could actually take proper photos. Now I literally had an nonintrusive camera on me always that wouldn't break my back. I now had one lying on the sofa or sat in a doctors waiting room, or stood in the queue at Sainsburys (not that I would use it but still). If I had taken a lot of photographs before, I now developed what I like to call photography tourette's. My image output exploded. It meant I was able to take more random images, in more parts of my life - and this was being repeated for all of us, not just the photography obsessed like myself. </div>
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Camera phones have enabled us to share images instantly, across the internet, across the world in increased levels never seen before. Media publications and broadcasting even display or use images captured on phones in reports on world events. Everyone becomes a reporter, everyone becomes a photographer. </div>
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This all has, in my opinion, helped to change the photographic medium and altered its role in our own existence. Photography is as big as part of our lives than ever before - the ease and accessibility of the camera to us all has resulted in us living our lives more through the lens than actually in it. Such is our obsession with capturing these moments, we become too preoccupied with the process rather than thing itself. It is like being so intent and absorbed with photographing a sunset, we have no recollection of the colours on the real life canvas in front of us itself. Or spending so much time and effort trying to photograph your baby niece's 2nd birthday party, you suddenly realise you were so cut off from the event you may as well have not been there. </div>
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You are behind the lens. You are behind the camera. You are not 'in' the moment. Nothing is more evident with this than the phenomenon of the 'selfie'. I am guilty of this just as much as anyone. Many times I have scolded myself at taking a selfie when I should be watching the sporting match, or concert, or listening to mother (I jest, but the point is there). </div>
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The selfie seems an odd contradiction of purpose. It essentially is inherently a disconnection to the world, and yet you are carrying out something which is attempting to do the very opposite - connect and share an image that shows you being part of something. Look at me! I'm doing this! Although actually you're also not really.</div>
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There is no doubt, in my mind, that camera phones are exciting and wonderful things. But we do, and I do especially, need to remember they can also hinder how we engage with things, with moments, with people. Enjoy taking your photos, enjoy sharing them with your family and friends - because this is precisely what it is for. But do not forget to saviour those special moments with your own eyes - let those landscapes seep into your pores and give you a good cleanse; rather than juggling with filters or retaking the shot because your face looks fat. Like the old adage says - everything in moderation. </div>
Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-51433879996732771162015-01-05T13:07:00.000-08:002015-01-06T05:40:23.379-08:00Happy newNew year. New outlook.<br />
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Usually new(ish) reflections; reviewing the past 12 months can be cathartic, it can also be for some of us painful.<br />
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At new year, I always feel reflective, its the very nature of the time - the dark evenings and harsh weather turn me into something of a clam shell. I want to hibernate and ponder; I feel myself morph into something I don't always recognise.<br />
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It's also a time when I see so many people pour scorn on the year that has just passed. A quick glance across social media sites result in a textual cornucopia of similar statements: 'good riddance to this year!', and 'this has been a terrible year, can't wait for the new one' etc. etc.<br />
My immediate response always seems in agreement: "How true! X year has been appalling, let it die a nasty horrible death and bring on the great hope of placebo new year!"<br />
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I suddenly stopped myself. Why did I think 2014 had been particularly bad? What evidence was there to support this? I decided to investigate the previous 12 months with my analytical Columbo hat on before I got carried away in cries of doom, and list everything that had happened to me; where I had been, where I had gone, how much I had grown, how much I had regressed. If 2014 had been so terrible, I would easily be able to deduce this from the list of memory suspects.<br />
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2014 saw me visit many new places, new countries even, I had never been to before. Edinburgh, Oxford, Fuerteventura, Budapest - the latter surviving Ryan Air (it really wasn't that bad and because of this I was almost disappointed - I had braced myself for an onslaught of apocalyptic awfulness and subsequently was dismayed...that essentially I had nothing to tweet about). I enjoyed all these trips immensely.<br />
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<i>The wonderful Spas of Budapest
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The year saw me returning to France; this time for a week skiing in Val D'isere - it was simply stunning; I met new friends, breathed in crystal blue skies of wonder and sampled the beautiful snowy mountains that made me feel alive.<br />
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<i>Beautiful Val D'isere</i></div>
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I climbed Snowdon for the first time, picking the worst weekend weather in March to do it; terrible snow, ice and general weather conditions made the climb hugely challenging. On the way up, many experienced climbers were returning having failed to make the summit.<br />
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It was simply one of the best days of my life. We sampled snow, rain, hail, wind, sun, thunder and lightning; scrambling up rocks in the freezing temperatures. I had to crawl to the summit on hands and knees because the wind was so strong - I could barely physically stand. It was both awful and utterly wonderful in a way only climbing can be. We saw nothing at the top, nothing but mist and snow. It was treacherous but I was bewitched. I fell in love with Snowdon that day and I vowed to return.<br />
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<i>Snowdonia</i></div>
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In 2014, I became an aunt again. A whole new life, a blank new canvas that was introduced into mine.<br />
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As the year progressed I climbed more mountains; Pen Y Fan, Abergavenny three peaks (the latter for the first times); I grew hungry for more hikes and insatiable for mountains. I loved being outside, I loved the views, I loved the changeable weather and moods and landscapes. I swam in the sea. I took photos of Puffins on Skomer Island. I climbed Pen Y Fan at sunset - again something I had never done before.<br />
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<i>The fabulous Black Mountains of Brecon</i></div>
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As the summer approached, I went on a yoga retreat weekend - again, learning all new things and meeting new people. I learnt the importance of space - distance away from (ironically) technology in particular.<br />
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2014 seemed awash with exploits, as if someone was continuously dipping me into an ocean of adventures:<br />
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I went on a zipwire down a disused quarry in North wales.<br />
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<i>The North Wales zipwire</i></div>
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I ran a 13 mile PB in one hour 30.<br />
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I flew a plane - achieving finally a lifelong dream.<br />
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<i>Flying the plane over Cardiff - full album <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/sets/72157644657641469/">here</a></i></div>
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I saw Kate Bush play live - something I never once EVER believed would ever happen. And it was one of the best nights of my life.<br />
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I made many new wonderful friends, and enjoyed special times with my old ones - day trips to Bath; a weekend in London, national trust visits, and numerous tea sampling. We took photos at the disused underground station at Aldwych; explored a derelict building on an urban explore in South wales, and the abandoned ghost village of Imber. I had a wonderful day as I took part in a charity 10 mile walk across Barry with<a href="http://www.barryanddistrictnews.co.uk/news/11539935.Enlist_for_walking_weatherman__39_s_charity_feat/?ref=mr"> Derek the Weather raising money for Velindre</a>. I saw my own photographs published in my Dad's wonderful book (ok, I am biased, but we were all incredibly proud) - <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Call-them-remembrance-Welsh-internationals/dp/1902719379">Call Them To Remembrance</a>, on the 13 Welsh internationals that died during the First World War. I took part in the Software Testing World Cup. My photos were part of a worldwide Flickr film.<br />
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<i>The disused Aldwych Underground</i></div>
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<i>The abandoned ghost village of Imber
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How could this possibly be a bad year?<br />
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Disaster. I got injured. A running injury - a stress fracture.<br />
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To all those who do not understand - running is everything to me. Running is my rock. Running can be, and has been, often the only reason I have gotten out of bed.<br />
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The injury began to destroy me. It was by far, the darkest weeks of the year. It shrouded my existence, and plunged me into deep melancholy. Physically it was difficult - suddenly I felt marooned, unable to drive, on crutches, unable to run, unable to explore, unable to even make my own cups of tea. Mentally it was a catastrophe, and I imploded. To others, this may seem ridiculous, and as melodramatic as it sounds I genuinely felt as if I would never run properly again. Everything hurt, everything felt so very wrong. Painkillers didn't work. I didn't sleep for weeks. I could never feel comfortable. I was always in pain. All I could think about was injuries. I lost enthusiasm to be alive.<br />
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In my eagerness to return, I started running too soon - determined to run the Cardiff 10k I finished the race in agony...and in the St John's Ambulance first aid section. A further 4 weeks out, returns to hospital hell and despair. But I managed to get through it, and in November, I ran my 13 mile PB and on Christmas day ran 15 miles. If that was not the main positive of the 12 months after such injury setback, I don't know what is - proof that we get hit, but we can come back stronger.<br />
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2014 has been quite a year for me in many ways. It is a curious way that our minds will focus on the negative and let this shadow an overwhelming majority of positives. When a government wins a landslide general election, they don't concede defeat just because they lose one seat.<br />
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<i>The puffins on Skomer island</i></div>
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My evidence proved I had had a really fun year, full of many new achievements. So why did I feel so strange, so existential?<br />
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As the autumn crept along and winter arrived, and despite my various injuries recovering I felt increasingly dispondent. Perhaps the short days and cold weather engulfed my mood, draping it in a cling film of depression. And because of this I have felt 2014 ended with much of a damp squib.<br />
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What this exercise proved, was that like most years of previous, 2014 had been a mixture of good and bad; and mostly good. What it also proved was that I knew what areas I was happy with and what areas I was not. By identifying these, I know where and what I need to develop, to modify, to morph. I yearn more creative outlets, a ravenous hunger to write more (something I promised to nourish myself with in 2014, and ultimately failed). I have grown wary of the familiar, and pig-headedly blind to it's merits -and now need to remedy this.<br />
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<i>Edinburgh</i></div>
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2015 will see change. I can predict that the next 12 months will be a mixture of good and bad, just like all the others - the key is to focus on the good. I will go to new places and enjoy new adventures. I will travel to Japan and achieve my dream. I will run more miles. I will climb more mountains. Maybe I won't. Maybe I will find new obsessions. I will meet new people. I will say goodbye to others.<br />
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But there will be change, of which, some may be quite mammoth. Even if this means a reinvention, a reincarnation of that old familiar, or system upgrade of the very self. For change is what keeps us alive, keeps us on our toes, and what encourages the very blood to travel through our veins.<br />
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<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/sets">See all the photos of my good bad year</a>.Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-12699138409250415182014-09-06T11:39:00.002-07:002014-09-07T13:38:17.881-07:00Before the Dawn (things were different)<br />
When Kate Bush announced she would be performing live again after over 30 years of absence from audience shows, I had to pinch myself it was real.<br />
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It was surely yet another myth. It was surely yet another silly rumour, created to tease and taunt. I had heard and suffered this disappointment so many times over the years.<br />
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It was part of being a Kate fan. It was part of the deal. She was elusive. She rarely, if ever, appeared in public anymore, neither did she do interviews. As I was growing up in the late 90s and as the internet fuelled mass media driven celebrity obsessed culture expanded faster than you could say 'world wide web' - this elusive behaviour seemed even more intriguing, and yet even more frustrating. By the 00s, I was resigned to watching old Aspel clips on youtubes or getting very excited when Top of the Pops 2 showed old Kate videos.<br />
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But it was part of the pact. Part of accepting her work into your domain. Accept her work into your life, but this is the price you pay. And why not; it was her choice, her life. I admired, among other things, her determination to not conform.<br />
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Kate's music was so much part of my life. I first became intrigued during the 1980s. Her Christmas song 'December Will Be Magic Again' was integral to our annual December family rituals - already a very musical household, December brought an avalanche of carols and christmas songs and my bad cello playing. But it is often this song I think back to - and I remember listening to it over and over; loving the opening beats, loving Kate's (to me) unusual tones, loving that it was so different to other christmas songs - no jingle bells or cliches - just references to huskies and parachutes. With bongos. Melodramatic, spirited vocals; before I was even aware of the concepts, there was something far layered and textured in this music. Far better than Bing Crosby droning on about some bit of snow.<br />
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I remember my sister talking about Kate, telling me (as usual complete exaggerations in the way only elder sisters can) about how Kate was a witch and mystical; this naturally both terrified and intrigued me; and we used to shamefully dance about the living room in leotards acting out our own Wuthering Heights type scenes whilst my sister clonked away on the piano.<br />
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It seemed to me from a very early age that a Kate Bush song wasn't just music. It was opening a big book; a pop-up story book of theatre and poems and wonder. A one woman entertainment centre.<br />
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I (eventually) grew out of the play acting (maybe) but Kate remained. Cassettes may have gotten worn out; CDs scratched or lost. But Kate was always there.<br />
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I remember the first time hearing Running Up that Hill - on a 1986 BBC gritty children's drama 'Running Scared' - and feeling like someone had opened a door to a secret wonderful world; an entire universe of thrill and wonder. 'Running Scared' was a bit too old for me at the time, and it all seemed so daring and *so* grown up.<br />
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When I was debilitatingly ill with glandular fever, Aerial was part of my remedy - it kept me company during dark lonely nights; it accompanied me and held my hand whilst I tried to stumble through; it laid foundations as I climbed steps back up the ladder.<br />
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Songs on the Sensual World made me cry with resonance of fragile hearts, unrequited annoyances, and yet conversely soothed; Deeper Understanding made me feel less weird for loving computers even though (yes, I was a girl honest); The Red Shoes' Rubberband Girl invigorated me to remember life was pretty shitty for all of us, but we all have to bounce back.<br />
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Wherever I was, whatever place, whatever age; there was a Kate song. Giving me buoyancy when I was beginning to sink, or emphasising the good and the happy.<br />
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So yes. Kate playing live again was kind of a big deal. Maybe not a deal with God, but it felt pretty epic.<br />
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I was lucky enough to see Kate's Hammersmith show this September. Aside from the multitudinous stress over actually acquiring the tickets (the fear of missing out may actually have strangled my heart) suddenly came the unthinkable unreal notion that - this was actually happening.<br />
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Early reviews had been utterly golden. But this made me more nervous and wary. I of course, wanted it to be something beautifully sensational - I wanted it to live up to this huge hype, not just in the media but that had built up in my own mind over the years. In true contradictory tones, I, who often deplores the media and society hype created on celebrities, had built Kate up onto this pedestal of untouchable genius that pretty much put her on par with something higher than God.<br />
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Surely nothing could really live up to this?<br />
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Before the Dawn lived up to the hype. And if anything, more.<br />
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It is not just 'a live gig'. I have been lucky enough to go to many performances over the years, by some of the world's greatest musical talents. I have seen and listened to some fabulous shows. But nothing quite matched this.<br />
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It is theatre, it is performance; you don't just hear music and watch the artist sing - you hear, but also you watch stories and emotions play out; you are watching almost metaphysical concepts. It is difficult to even put into words what the performance is - even more so without making it sound pretentiously daft (I promise, it is not). You feel part of another sphere - you've been fastened into a space ship and blasted off to another planet. You are part of Kate's world - for three whole hours. She whisks you into her sphere, her universe of how things are. She lets you grow new ears, but also opens new eyes - you feel new things. You can almost taste the salty sea; feel the warm glow of sunlight; touch the feathered birds.<br />
There were moments during the show that moved me to tears; that made me laugh; that made me scared; that gave me a mediative peace. I was exhausted and yet also invigorated. I discovered new aspects to what I thought were already well-listened songs, like suddenly finding narnia in an old wardrobe you had had in your house for 20 years.<br />
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Technically the show was superb. The theatrical element was fine tuned in true auteur fashion - for Kate really is a true auteur, the Stanley Kubrick of the musical world, if old Stanley had donned leotards and tinkled the old ivories. The use of lighting and props; a beautiful set and some lovely choreography was melodramatic in the Kate way, but never felt over exuberant or self indulgently farcical. It took live musical experiences to a new level.<br />
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And despite seeing her in the flesh, hearing her talk to us, she still revealed little (bar of course, her songs) - she seemed so gracious and almost surprised at the adoration, and almost rather modest and shy on stage between songs. Despite letting us in, she still remained quite elusive.<br />
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By allowing us into her head for an evening, I felt utterly drained but also as if my axis has been shifted. Pre Before the Dawn, I, and my world was different. Kate's music did this to me from the beginning of my journey, but this felt on a new scale or on a different path. Facetiously as it sounds, it feels as if my entire life up to that night will now be defined as B.K.L (Before Kate Live).<br />
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Maybe it struck me more than ever before that if you are that way inclined, having a creative output is as important as feeding your lungs with air. Accepting who you are is the crux of all.<br />
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Maybe it just made me truly appreciate that trying too hard to make sense of this sometimes utterly unfathomable world can break us when sometimes, we just need to accept the wonder in the simple. And for all Kate's elaborate design, her world beneath the surface really is simple - the clouds floating by, the washing machine washing, a painter painting a picture, the birds singing and the sun...then moon, filling the sky.<br />
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<br />Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-47766944295187991882014-07-16T13:31:00.002-07:002014-07-16T13:40:09.168-07:00Boyhood It takes a special kind of film to bewitch you. It takes a particularly rare specie of film to intwine itself into your core, so that you become so affected and absorbed, it lingers in your mind like a stubborn infection, digging its heels into the very walls of your brain.<br />
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Dramatic of course, but Boyhood, director Richard Linklater's latest movie release, had and continues to have precisely that affect on me. The culture equivalent of having my soul taken out, shaken, strewn through the washing machine and hung out to dry like wary bed clothes.<br />
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On the face of it, Boyhood tackles themes and issues that have been dealt with copious amounts of times, not only in films but most culture forms - 'boy grows up', 'coming-of-age', 'families' 'struggling relationships'. It is understatedly filmed and shot. It has a couple of known actors in Patricia Arquette and Ethan Hawke, but no one overly 'blockbuster'. Its not set in glossy bustling New York with grand sweeping titles and self knowing soundtracks inter-spliced with fancy camera angles.<br />
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Yet what does give Boyhood a pinch of spice, is that it was filmed over 12 years. Using the same actors over the 12 years, we see people noticeably age as the film develops - no make up, special affects or different actors here. It delivers a striking reality to the story. It also hits you quite profoundly how fast time alludes our grasps.<br />
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At the heart of the film is Mason. We first meet Mason as a 6 year old boy who lives with his sister and single mum in suburbia. There's nothing special, nothing particularly different about Mason or his family that does not also occur in millions of other single parent families, not only in America but across the world. He fights with his sister. He plays with his friends. His loving mum struggles with a bad relationship and making ends meet.<br />
We follow Mason as he grows - the film suddenly switching to time having moved forward; we are struck by the subtle and yet also oddly noticeable changes in his face as he is growing. The same for his family. The moving in time may seem sudden, however it is like dropping in on a friend you haven't seen for a period of time. And it is this kind of recognisable familiarity to our own lives and relationships, that makes this film so affecting. There are also subtle nods to the period of the year - the music or the ipods; the emergence of technology and social media.<br />
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Nothing much seems to happen in this film as the time passes and the characters grow. But everything happens. There are no dramatic plots and twists other than relationships stretching to breaking point. Or the seemingly endless bad choices that Mason's mother makes, and of course, Mason and his sister having to experience new stages of life, change and the beginning of adulthood. We meet his estranged father, who dips into the family's lives almost as we do - we never discover the background to Mason's parents, but we do discover that although he may at first seem a drifting waster, for all his faults he really does loves his kids. Like Mason's mum, he tries to do his best.<br />
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These are all things that have happened to us, or we have experienced in some shape or form - and this is what makes Boyhood so absorbing. There is the mundane reality of every day life, of the chores, of the strange boredom of growing up when you want to do everything but can't, to the suddenly realisation that when you can start to do 'what you want', it's a terrifyingly black hole of unknown.<br />
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These are our feelings and our experiences.<br />
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There is one beautiful part of the film where a young Mason says to his father that 'there is no magic in the world is there' - and this for me, was the crux. In a world where we are fed stories of incredible individuals- super heroes, magically talented or powered; this small scene seemed an acknowledgement that as lovely and good as Mason is, he is just a normal kid - with his own talents and weaknesses, but nothing that remarkable. He's not a Harry Potter-esque chosen one, something we all grow up secretly hoping will happen to us, great mystical adventures of fantasy. Because that doesn't happen.<br />
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The film claws itself into your consciousness because of this recognition. We're all muddling through doing what we think we want or/and what is best, but essentially we're not really very more clued up on what we are doing than when we were 6 years old and lying in the garden watching the clouds.<br />
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And that is what we are. We are all a Mason. We will have our own little triumphs, our own little disasters; we will get a job, we will try to do something, we will meet people, we will lose people, we will have relationships, we will live a life. But nothing is new. No one escapes mundane. We are mundane. We all end up doing the same as millions before us, as millions will continue to do after we have gone. And I think this is what struck me about Boyhood - it is somehow an endless loop of events that will happen to all of us and repeat and repeat and repeat. Fast. When before we know it, our credits will roll and a new reel is put on and it all plays out again with a new cast - the technology and clothes and weight may change but its all still the same. And by now we are nothing more than the shadow of the clouds floating through the sky being gazed at by a 6 year old boy.<br />
<br />Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-50106999076109902452014-07-06T10:26:00.001-07:002014-07-06T10:26:20.524-07:00The Lark AscendingWhy can I not be the lark ascending?<br />
Wings that glide on strings a-singing.<br />
Swoop and soar devoid of care;<br />
Nimble dart, slice through air.<br />
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Lose me as a feather in space;<br />
Gone forever - to that other place.<br />
Becomes a shadow painted in kind,<br />
Remnants only in passing mind.<br />
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Why can I not be the lark ascending?<br />
Wings glide free leaving strings a-singing.Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-40997677891428862402012-12-17T09:46:00.001-08:002012-12-17T10:00:11.681-08:00Nature's Elderly<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3o3CwBoigR7_FtKn2DwSpgsMFq8_e2Sr829o8sFgiq6A6gNKT90qsYZNhcQoh8uNji7JK2HjbwRD4ZvlLukYvuawyyVYd2a1eq7ojSTYDvfHCBBYgjdQOztu9pOXZi60n3hAUPhDseRoT/s1600/548629_10151352771020664_919563675_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3o3CwBoigR7_FtKn2DwSpgsMFq8_e2Sr829o8sFgiq6A6gNKT90qsYZNhcQoh8uNji7JK2HjbwRD4ZvlLukYvuawyyVYd2a1eq7ojSTYDvfHCBBYgjdQOztu9pOXZi60n3hAUPhDseRoT/s200/548629_10151352771020664_919563675_n.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
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Sodden track, without care,<br />
Earthy soil, damp air;<br />
The woods surround,<br />
More lost than found.<br />
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Arthritic branches, cold & bare,<br />
Naked tall, stand & stare.<br />
The trunk firm dark;<br />
Lesions skin bark.<br />
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Nature's elderly, furrow old,<br />
Seen and heard, it all does hold-<br />
Terror or be,<br />
Mute, noble tree.Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-11841687492615923442012-06-25T13:36:00.002-07:002012-06-25T13:41:41.628-07:00Lego Love<br />
On Friday I attended a Lego event for part of the We Love Architecture festival from the British institute of Architecture. Senior design manager at Lego Simon Kent gave a talk on how lego sets end up on the shelf - giving some insight to the concept, design, architecture and testing that products go through before the consumer gets their eager hands on the bricks.<br />
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As much as I love how much architectural design goes into the set concept build, I found the process of testing and idea creating even more interesting. A set has a long cycle from birth to shelf; much care and attention goes through each stage. It feels loved, it feels agile, it feels a rather beautiful process.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/4411372143/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="lego by sian_quincy, on Flickr"><img alt="lego" height="294" src="http://farm5.staticflickr.com/4010/4411372143_44a921df44.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
Lego is a long time love of mine, having spent most of my childhood immersed in the wonderful creative bubble of building and constructing your own world from miniature plastic bricks. Encouraging the creative, encouraging the logic, encouraging inquisitive minds as they grow, Lego has to be one of the most innovative learning toys ever invented. A concept so simple and yet so effective in so many ways.<br />
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Lego teaches us to be creative. Sure, build the set you bought from instructions, but the real fun is in creating your own. Workers for Lego will do exactly this on prototypes. Here's the bricks - limit yourself, and see what you can come up with. A jeep can become an aeroplane. An aeroplane can become a boat.<br />
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As a creative person, you can sometimes be overwhelmed with what you can create - give yourself limitations and you are exercising creative juices that perhaps have been left to grow a little fat. It's this thinking outside the box that can ignite great things.<br />
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One of the great aspects of Lego I have always loved, was the minute detail sets would contain, giving an extra dimension of quirkiness. Perhaps it was the firing canons on the pirate lego ship, the lego sharks in the sea; perhaps it was the garage doors on the fire station I remember enjoying moving up and down; maybe it was the medieval swords and jousting sticks, shields and helmets; or even the little arial on the policeman motorbike...But you could always guarantee these little details made the sets/figures so beautiful captivating.<br />
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Simon Kent explained that sets or rather, prototype sets go through rigorous testing phases before designs are finalised - feedback is taken on these kinds of intricate and specific details. Children are asked what they particular like and enjoy. And it is this emotional connection the testing brings, that finalises what is kept in the sets. It is through this, the lego sets have particular emotional attachment - the garage doors I loved on the fire station, resembled the garage doors of our own house I grew up in. It also perhaps explains the at times almost random feel of the sets' details and features. And yet nothing at all is random or not thought through.<br />
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Sets will also go through extensive play-testing. Possibly the greatest job in the world for any lego loving child. Here's a set - break it. Lego invite parties of children to enter their office to attempt to play the constructions to destruction. Bricks must withstand excessive play, and even, excessive heat. Once built, test sets are placed in ovens to see if they can withstand the scenario of being left on a window sill for vast periods in the sun. No one wants a melted police station or star wars ship on their living room floor of an evening.<br />
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Mention Lego to most people, and they will confess a love. And Lego seem to feed into this in striving to produce a fantastic product for us to love - and a great role model for product creating process. Long may it continue.<br />
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Here is an interesting video from Simon Kent discussing the beautiful Space Shuttle Lego set on <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=APydvVsM-FM">you tube</a>.Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-18634806201369843632012-06-05T04:54:00.001-07:002012-06-05T05:02:52.105-07:00Brecon Becons - The Wellington Bomber crash site<br />
Last weekend I went to the Brecon Beacons, and payed a visit to one of the most unique sites I have ever been to.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/7279987508/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Untitled by sian_quincy, on Flickr"><img alt="Untitled" height="132" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8010/7279987508_fa7d1eab6f.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
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Over the past 12 years or so, since I started photographing and becoming interested in exploring and visiting new places to, essentially, see what they looked like photographed, I have been to quite a few unusual places, buildings and spooky surroundings. My interest in the decay of life once lived, my love of the mechanical intertwining with the natural has grown and grown, and of course I have become fascinating in Urban Exploration, and the synonymous melancholy of photography and the past. I've walked along derelict corridors of closed asylums; discovered cages and huts from a former wildlife park amidst thick woods; explored derelict residential areas full of decay and ghostly artifacts of normal every day life.<br />
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But this site on the barren mountains of Brecon was even more different again. In 1944, on a dark November night, a Wellington Bomber carrying six Royal Canadian Air Force crew, took off over the Brecon Beacons on a training flight. What should have been a routine training exercise turned into something more sinister. The plane began to have engine problems, and dangerously lost height. Unable to recover, the plane crashed into the south west slope of Garreg Goch, killing all six crew.<br />
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Incredibly, much still remains of this tragic crash. Wreckage adorns the side of the mountain, pieces of metal lie innocuously scattered amongst the rocks and grass and occasional sheep. You would imagine items would get taken; snaffled by souvenir hunters, or people hoping to sell metal on. But thankfully not, perhaps the fact the site is not easily accessible wards off any vandals, thieves and disrespectful intentions some may have.<br />
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In fact, the site is not easily spotted, even up close. Incredibly, the colour of the metal camouflages itself next to the hue of the rocks on the hill; I stood but 50 yards or so away from the wreckage, and at first did not see it - like a chameleon, it has become part of the landscape. Yet again, nature always holds the power, always seems to triumph, no matter what man builds or creates or sweats to achieve. The war plane - so mechanical, such a symbol of man's technology and self-destructing nature - now a relic belonging to the hills.<br />
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But the site is also a grave. And after taking my photos, we were left to pay our respects to the brave crew of the plane, who lost their lives on that dark night, many miles from their homes. On the beautiful, yet ominous mountain peaks of the Brecon Beacons. What is left of them is skeletal plane remains. Look, but do not touch; photograph, capture what is there so that before the elements slowly erode their memory, we can have a record of their last physical existence.<br />
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See the complete set of photos of the Wellington bomber crash site <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/sets/72157629919360624/">here</a>.Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-80585764566564815762012-03-14T15:50:00.001-07:002012-03-14T15:50:41.146-07:00Away<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/6807482776/" title="Untitled"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7184/6807482776_18165b12e9.jpg" alt="Untitled by sian_quincy" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/6807482776/">Untitled</a>, a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/">sian_quincy</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p>Climbed an aircraft, skin shade pale,<br />Amongst elderly fields of Daily Mail;<br />Time is dead, time to kill,<br />Travelling, yet feel so still.<br />Leaving grey, mist relief,<br />Into colour; flame Tenerife.<br /><br />Gigantic mountainous, against so weak,<br />They speak, they tower, the mighty peak.<br />Amidst snaking roads fear do give,<br />Astonishment! In this they live.<br />Such beauty makes a Spine-a-curled,<br />I'm here. Not there. In my other world.</p>Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-34696589527189991492012-01-22T14:08:00.000-08:002012-01-22T14:31:47.516-08:00Celebrating Captain ScottHundred 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.rmg.co.uk/upload/img_200/PX6631.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.rmg.co.uk/upload/img_200/PX6631.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Growing up I had long been interested in the tale of the Terra Nova expedition to the South Pole. <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/3991300958/">Cardiff's Roath Park</a> 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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, <i>Captain Scott</i>. 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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And that is their legacy.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">"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."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><i>Captain Scott's last diary entry, March 1912</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><a href="http://www.museumwales.ac.uk/en/whatson/?event_id=5432">The Captain Scott expedition</a> is on at the <a href="http://www.scott100.org/events/3723/">National Museum of Wales</a>, Cardiff until May 2012.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; line-height: 19px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sianprescott/4014573013/" title="DSC_1465 by sian_quincy, on Flickr"><img alt="DSC_1465" height="332" src="http://farm4.staticflickr.com/3532/4014573013_cd1b10d419.jpg" width="500" /></a></span></span>Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-62868222017407905192012-01-10T13:10:00.000-08:002012-01-10T13:12:09.889-08:00Best albums of 2011<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">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).</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span><br />
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</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Real Estate: Days</span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Real Estate have been a favourite band of mine for a while. They produce simple pop of understated goodness.</span><br />
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</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">White Denim: D</span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Lushness. A touch of the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 24px;">psychedelic groove. </span></span><br />
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</span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Cerys Matthews - Explorer</span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Cerys' finest work, fusing world influences with a newer, mature textured layer. Really great stuff.</span><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Lykke Li - Wounded Rhymes</span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">An intense record of dark beauty. It's quite devastating.</span><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">tUnE- yArDs: Who Kill</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal; line-height: 24px;">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.</span></b><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; line-height: 24px;">PJ Harvey - Let England Shake</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal; line-height: 24px;">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. </span></b><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; line-height: 24px;">M83: Hurry Up, We're Dreaming</span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 24px;">O the joys! A stunning album of the supreme 'shoegazer' genre. Eclectic, soundtracky and just a supreme record.</span></span><br />
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</span></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 24px;"><b>Kurt Vile: Smoke Ring For My Halo</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 24px;">It's 'just' a rock record, but my, what a good one. Unique vocals; twinged with a bit o' the sad.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 24px;"><b>St Vincent: Strange Mercy</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 24px;">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.</span><br />
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</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 24px;"><b>Kate Bush: 50 Words for Snow</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 24px;">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.</span><br />
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</b></span></div><div></div>Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-60531734925014291862011-10-22T14:29:00.000-07:002011-10-22T14:41:00.297-07:00My six favourite photographsPhotography 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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 <a href="http://musingsofaloon.blogspot.com/2010/01/reaching-for-those-stars.html">Challenger disasters</a> - 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 <a href="http://musingsofaloon.blogspot.com/2010/02/power-of-photography.html">previous blog post</a>, 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.<br />
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.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/olmedia/625000/images/_626089_ei150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://news.bbc.co.uk/olmedia/625000/images/_626089_ei150.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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.<br />
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Just six of my favourite photographs:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://starchild.gsfc.nasa.gov/Images/StarChild/space_level2/aldrin_big.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://starchild.gsfc.nasa.gov/Images/StarChild/space_level2/aldrin_big.gif" width="182" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">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.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.all-art.org/yapan/History%20of%20Photography/11_files/winogrand/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="http://www.all-art.org/yapan/History%20of%20Photography/11_files/winogrand/2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">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.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.tate.org.uk/modern/exhibitions/frank/images/wales.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="http://www.tate.org.uk/modern/exhibitions/frank/images/wales.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">There wouldn't have been a Winogrand without a Robert Frank. The iconic street photographer's work was once described as a: "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">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.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://static.neatorama.com/images/2006-12/the-tetons-snake-river-ansel-adams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="http://static.neatorama.com/images/2006-12/the-tetons-snake-river-ansel-adams.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Ansel Adams. Quite simply a beautiful, utterly incredible, image.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://hitchcock.tv/mov/psycho/images/psycho8.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://hitchcock.tv/mov/psycho/images/psycho8.gif" width="127" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I have no idea who took this photograph, but it is so quintessentially and deliciously Hitchcock - my favourite director of all time.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/128/46623/andreasgursky070521_560.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/128/46623/andreasgursky070521_560.jpg" width="129" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">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.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160652433447471721.post-48865710581598635012011-09-25T11:35:00.000-07:002011-09-25T11:41:16.812-07:00What I Talk About When I Talk About Love....RunningI love running. No, I LOVE running.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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</div>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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<i>Pain happens to us all</i>, she said suddenly randomly, giving me a hug. <i>None of us can escape pain</i>. <i>You just got to keep moving and not let it ruin things.</i> <br />
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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.<br />
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.<br />
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Since I took up <i>serious </i>running (several 10Ks a week) I never looked back. Running has become part of what I am.<br />
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.Sianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01824769328842130073noreply@blogger.com1