After our two day trip to’t Smoke, for Oliver and Alexandra’s wedding, I’m totally and utterly exhausted. I wanted to find a pic of some cartoon character flattened by a steamroller, as that best fits how I feel. But this image of Wile E. Coyote is near enough!
Me last night/today.
I slept like a log, thank heavens. And have continued to do so throughout most of the day. I don’t know what’s for the best right now – as covered in other recent posts, I am, at present, getting no professional crisis support whatsoever, which I sorely need – so I’m going with what feels right.
And little things, like Teresa making an instant noodle lunch, with scrambled egg and a banana, really mean a lot right now. I’m so glad she has some time off work. The company and support at this difficult time is greatly appreciated.
We owe Teresa’s ‘bruncle’, Daniel Samuels* a deep and heartfelt debt of gratitude (to be expressed as a consignment of real ale!), for lending us the wheels that enabled us to be part of Teresa’s cousin Oliver’s wedding.
* Bruncle: brother and uncle; uncle – Jean’s (Teresa’s mum!) youngest brother – but brought up, by Jean, as one of Teresa’s siblings!
At the wheel of a diesel in’t Smoke!
We drove down on Monday. And stayed in a B&B, over a pub, in Hounslow. Thanks Teresa, for booking that. It was weird being in London again. Most of London is sooo ugly and depressing! Thank goodness we got out when we did.
Confetti and kisses outside St. Barnabas.
That said, there are some really beautiful parts. And Oliver and Alexandra were getting married in one such area, Molesey, south west London, close to the Thames.
Teresa took this lovely pic, outside the church.
The wedding was held in St Barnabas Church, with a chap called Richard* presiding. Both Oliver and ‘Lexie’, as he calls her, are musicians and teachers. So, unsurprisingly, but nevertheless wonderfully, the music was great.
* Actually, no word of a lie, the Rev. Richard Biggerstaff… or, more familiarly, his eminence, the right Rev. Dick Biggerstaff!?
Lexie looking lovely.
As the bride walked in, a guy played Bach’s famously beautiful Suite #1 in G major, on solo cello. Gorgeous! And the final piece, before everyone left the church, was Eric Whitacre’s I Carry Your Heart, sung by a small choir in the upstairs gallery. Beautiful close harmonies, with densely voiced chords.
After the ceremony, which was lovely and quite moving, there were tea and biscuits next door. And then we all headed to High Billinghurst Farm, Godalming, for the reception.
Hops and chandeliers at the fab barn.
The reception was terrific. It was nice to get to know folk from both sides of the union, the Wellbournes, and the Sarkar-Samuels, and all their kith and kin! There was booze aplenty, including, rather unusually, a lovely single malt to toast with. And the dinner was a terrific Indian curry.
Oliver’s drums.
Oliver is, like me, a drummer. Sadly we had to leave about 7.30pm, in order to be home at a reasonable hour (got back at 10.30!). So I didn’t get to see or hear him play. But I did get to see his little jazzy ‘jelly bean’ kit. A Canopus snare, no less! Wish I’d have tried it out, to be honest.
Janet, Andrew, me ‘n’ Teresa, and Ida, St Barnabas.Teresa, Janet and Andrew.The reception.Linda, Alex and Teresa enjoying the pud’!
Knowing we had a long journey home, I had to be very careful about my booze intake. Especially as there was so much. And all free! Thankfully I managed to be very restrained.
The wedding day was a mixture of sunshine and rain. Fortunately for Oliver and Alexandra the rain only intruded a little bit into their celebrations. Or at least that part of them we were at. Later on it rained really pretty heavily; for over two hours – so over two-thirds – of the homeward drive!
But we got home safe and sound. It was lovely to be greeted by Chester on our arrival! What a cutie.
I’m following Kurt Vonnegut’s advice, as per my previous post, and writing a poem. Here it is:
Classroom Crush
She’s a beauty And no mistake Long brown hair A fine filly With a luxuriant mane Just enough jewellery To suggest sophisticated decadence Sat with her peach of a derrière On the edge of her desk.
A green velvet jacket A colourful batik silk scarf Enchanting hazel eyes A voice that’s refined Commanding obedience Oh so willingly given Long elegant fingers Rest on a copy Of Sirens of Titan.
Oh, Mrs Martin Your Mona Lisa smile Always baffled and beguiled I wonder how many Boys hearts you quickened Or maybe broke? Sat in the ranks Of hideous brown plastic chairs I secretly loved you.
I have to thank a secondary school English teacher (Mrs Martin?), for introducing me to Kurt Vonnegut. Truth be told it was her sex appeal – a bright and beautiful young woman, with a fascinating looking book – as much as the literary appeal that first took me. Ah, Mrs Martin, where are you now?
The edition Mrs Martin had.
Well, today, on FB, he was quoted by one of those weirdly intrusive ‘you might like this’ meme-things. I reproduce the quote below, keeping the bit about homosexuality that they omitted:
‘If you want to really hurt you parents, and you don’t have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I’m not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.’
According to online sources this quote comes from Man Without A Country. I must get/read that!
I recently read something on radio DJ Ken Bruce going from the BBC to Hits Radio. The ‘key note’, or take-away (eugh!) point was money. Bruce is just the biggest shiniest cog in the wheel of what is essentially a money-making machine, built on advertising and listener spending.
At one point the article says words to the effect of ‘the main purpose of such radio stations is to generate money through advertising’, or something similar. Well, yes. That’s so transparently obvious. It’s part of what makes so much ‘mainstream culture’ so utterly shite, and lacking in, um, well… culture.
As a model for how to live ‘the good life‘, such a state of affairs sums up, for me, the malaise of ‘advanced capitalism’. It has no soul. Indeed, if it has any spirit it’s the avaricious spirit of piracy. In such a society, or rather ‘marketplace’, culture is just an arbitrary interchangeable ‘token’, to be used to extract more cash.
Not sure who the artist is here…… but I do love the shirt.
With such cheery thoughts in mind, the constant assault of advertising via social media (and elsewhere) takes on a darker more forbidding aspect. And yet, despite my loathing and aversion, I’m often suckered. For example, the artsy shirts pictured in this post, which appeared in my FB feed, are very tempting.
There are many more designs than the two I’ve shown here. Some modern (Kandinsky), some older (Caravaggio). Some I like, some I don’t. But just take a look at some of the other stuff that comes up via Facebook:
The ‘ISAKOK Penis Prank’!
Want a bigger willy? Very few men don’t wish they had a bigger cock. Howzabout 2’6”? Maybe the ISAKOK Penis Prank is for you? Or perhaps you don’t have enough hands/digits to tell everyone to fuck right off simultaneously? No problem. There’s the Fucktopussy!
The ‘Fucktopussy… I kid you not! Fo’ real!
Walk through a busy British town centre nowadays, and you’ll be hard pressed to find any free amenities. But you’ll be relentlessly assaulted by messages urging you to purchase tat you really don’t need. That’s the sort of ‘choice’ delivered by Thatcherite Toryism.
Probably like most of those of us whom Western Civilisation has turned into social media approval junkies, I’d prefer to be using my blog (and other ‘social media’) to showcase what an interesting and successful person I am.
Sadly, at present, it’s operating more as a journal/confessional, in which I can let off some of the pressure that comes with the introvert’s tendency to internalise suffering.
As things currently stand, I’m unable to communicate directly with my mother. We had a bit of an emotional scene last week. It could’ve been a breakthrough, or it might’ve just been a breakdown? And since that time I simply can’t take any more of what’s gone before.
So, not knowing who to turn to in such a situation (I have shared this with my dear sister, Hannah*), I’m posting this:
Mum seems of incapable of offering help without at the same time attacking/slighting or otherwise belittling me. I’m not sure she’s even aware she’s constantly doing it.
I can’t take it any more.
I’ve got enough on my plate without having someone who I feel ought to be supportive whispering in my ear constantly ‘it’s all your own fault’.
It’s sapping me of the tiny reserves of energy I have left. Someone needs to have words with her, as it’s having a very powerfully negative effect on me.
* Which, of course, I feel bad about, as she has enough on her plate without me adding to it!
I’m not actually listening to this Lennon-penned Beatles number, except for strains of it that are playing in my mind. But the lyrics are particularly resonant for me right now.
When I wake up early in the morning Lift my head, I'm still yawning When I'm in the middle of a dream Stay in bed, float up stream (float up stream)
Please, don't wake me No, don't shake me Leave me where I am I'm only sleeping
Everybody seems to think I'm lazy I don't mind, I think they're crazy Runnin' everywhere at such a speed 'Til they find there's no need (there's no need)
Please, don't spoil my day I'm miles away And after all I'm only sleeping
Keepin' an eye on the world going by my window Takin' my time
Lyin' there and staring at the ceiling Waiting for a sleepy feeling
Please, don't spoil my day I'm miles away And after all I'm only sleeping
Keepin' an eye on the world going by my window Takin' my time
When I wake up early in the morning Lift my head, I'm still yawning
When I'm in the middle of a dream Stay in bed, float up stream (float up stream)
Please, don't wake me No, don't shake me Leave me where I am I'm only sleeping
Over the years I’ve thought a fair bit about why I often prefer sleep to wakefulness. On some levels it’s a rather worrying phenomenon. Basically I’d rather be unconscious than conscious.
And it ties in with the suicidal and/or self-destructive aspects of my nature, I guess. Death being ‘the big sleep’, n’ all that. Preferring oblivion to existence does seem rather bleak!
Mention of Caravaggio in a recent post set me to poring over a couple of art books we have on this incredible artist. I recently mentioned in another post having sketched a pencil version of The Conversion of St Paul years ago. But I’d like to try and paint it, as well.
But whilst perusing Gilles Lambert’s Taschen 25th title on Caravaggio just now, it was Saint Matthew and The Angel that really clocked me one upside the head. What an incredible composition! Flat and empty to the point of being almost frieze like. Yet rich with light, shade, colour and volume.
The rendering has the strength of sculpture. And yet is richly vibrantly colourfully alive. Caravaggio’s eye and aesthetic sensibility imbue his art with an intensity that I can only reach for poetically: chestnuts, leather, velvet, red wine, red meat, incense, lace or muslin, the scent of candle wax and smoke.
Incredibly dramatic!
In both St Matt and The Conversion the pictorial space, whilst rendered with surreal photo-realist clarity, remains so shallow as to be effectively flat. I love that! It’s simultaneously modern, and timeless. It lives in the present.
As many have said, including my hero, Picasso, the best art of any era is most potently alive in whatever ‘present’ the viewer sees it. Great art loosens the shackles of short-lived fads, or era-specific parochialism/opacity, and rises above time!
Details of Victorious Cupid, 1602.
Some of Caravaggio’s stuff looks, to my eyes, very blatantly homo-erotic. Check St Paul’s torso in the painter’s two versions of The Conversion. When the subjects are young male nudes of a childlike appearance, that can sit rather awkwardly with current social mores, and indeed laws.
Victorious Cupid is a bit icky, to me. I call it Cupid Scratching His Arse! But it’s still an amazing artwork. And just look at the detail in the lower part of the painting. The musical instruments, armour, and textiles, are like a somber symphony in paint!
Anyway, it’s great to be nourished by fabulous art. I am very grateful for the luxury of being able to indulge in such a hedonistic yet refined pursuit!
Oh, but when it rains, it doth pour, eh? Today our gas hob suddenly decided to start clicking constantly, which I suppose is a continual triggering of the ignition(s)?
Sometimes all four hobs were sparking continually, sometimes one or another. But the clicking was, more or less, constant, from around midday or lunchtime, till now (9pm)
Of course I first tried solving it myself. This has happened once before. On that occasion I switched off everything (electric and gas*), and cleaned all the hobs. Cleaning can involve liquids, and liquids can short the spark circuitry! But I got everything as dry as I could. And, lo! Everything worked just fine.
* Or so I thought! Turns out I only knew how to switch the gas off for the hobs. The fuse on the main fuse board only switches off the oven and grill, not the hobs! More on this shortly.
Did the same this time, albeit ultimately spending much, much, much more time cleaning, but no dice. No change whatsoever! Clicking and firing continued unabated. Every now and again it’d lessen or stop. Only to start all over again.
World’s most thrilling video… awesome!
Anyway, having gone back and forth, Googling the issue, and trying very hard to really clean out all the parts – the hobs comprise three components, plus the little (ceramic?) ignition ‘nipples’ – hoping it all might eventually dry out or summat, and stop firing, it was all to no avail.
I called a Gas Safe engineer at about 8.30pm. He arrived around 9.20pm. He determined we had no gas leaks. He also helped me identify the correct power socket for the hobs. I thought I’d done so. But apparently not. Whatever it was I’d found, it was the wrong power outlet!
Once the right power source had been identified, it became apparent that it did (the other lead/wall socket didn’t) have a switch. Mercifully, when this was flipped, the eternal and infernal clicking finally stopped.
I have strong memories of recently packing away another four-hob cooker top. I think with a view to eventually installing it in our mooted Hobbit Hole guest accommodation? I tried to locate that today. But failed! We have way too much stuff, and way too little storage, so most of our stuff is in a cluttered state of disarray.
Robert Adams and Richard Locke in Forbidden Letters.
This interview is great. Richard Locke talking to a lady interviewer about love. Locke really was, at least to my way of seeing things, a pretty major dude.
I first came across him (sorry!) in a period of interest in retro gay porn, as the star of Kansas City Trucking. And I then tried to learn more about him.
He seemed quite interesting; living in the desert in a geodesic dome, a la Buck Fuller.
