(who, by the way, is a Womble.)

Korean baby singing Hey Jude

-ade.

On Tuesday I had a wonderful evening at a little bar place called Zest where Adam Foulds read some of his work. I had never been to a reading before and I found it odd that I would drift in and out of listening to what he was saying. When a story is read aloud it is often difficult to get thoroughly involved but there were some bits that impressed me greatly, even if there are others that I have forgotten completely. I also met some brilliant minds that evening. Like Amber. Fate would have it that she is going back home to America in a month and I have only just had the privilege to meet her. Hopefully next week she will have lunch with me and Hep. There was also Mike, from Hull, who chatted with me at length about accents and other various things. And two Chris’s. One Chris looks like Dave. The other Chris made an impressive analogy likening writing poetry with wrestling. A fakery. A good one, I presume.

And the murmurs never cease,
And no, they never stop.
Like the tides are never still, beaten by
A Lunar light: roaming recklessly, perpetually
And the leaves entertain our mud-shy paths
As the rain induces hankered laughs
Yes, plants forever trying, and the farmers dully sighing
And fires slowly burning, licking skin that’s softly yearning, for
Wine forever flowing, its lust-filled grapes are knowing, of
The groans, they never halt as they dampen crumpled sheets

And though I’m never
living,
And though we’re always
dying
My body walks, gladly breathing sin
My mind is wrought, encased within
Four white washed walls,
Water slowly falls,
weeping gently down
the tiles.

So, sometimes I wonder why I grew up to be as un-funny as the un-funniest thing one could possibly ever conceive. I tell a joke, but half way through give the ending away, because I stumble over my words and spend too much time explaining WHY the joke is supposed to be funny, rather than letting the joke make people laugh by itself. Most of the time, I can’t even tell jokes as I literally have the memory of a Goldfish; or a brownfish, or a catfish or whatever no-memory brain fish there are or may be.

How funny are you?

I am around some extremely funny people everyday. Wit is something that I did not inherit from the rest of my family. As I sit there scratching my head in confusion at peoples super fast quips, ricocheting back and forth between one another. I don’t mind being the laugher rather than the laugh. But I do sometimes wonder what my life would be like if I could make people laugh without having to be laughed AT. You know, the whole laugh WITH me and not AT me.

Okay, I am rambling too much here.

My body is refusing to warm up after being sat in the cold library all day. Today there was an interesting seminar/lecture on the Queerness of the Rocky Horror Picture Show (how could that ever be disreputable? I mean, Tim Curry wears lipstick and suspenders for godsake. Of course it is gay, do we really need to discuss how and why it is bloody gay??!!) and the Lesbian dilemma of Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz (we shall ignore the gayness of the Lion, because that is almost as obvious as Tim Curry’s rather shapely legs). I now have to ponder the topic of my next Hollywood Musical essay. Race or Sexuality? You choose.

I would love to watch and rewatch Moulin Rouge under the pretense that I am educating myself, but Moulin Rouge doesn’t really fit into the sub categories of the essay question. So, I shall have to be content with secretly listening to the soundtrack on my Itunes, and sneakily watching Ewan McGregor: in tickled delight, on my days off while Scott is at work, blissfully unaware of the heinous crime against any ounce of respectability he thinks I have left, in my living room.

After my lecture I snacked on Sushi (the vegetarian kind, I am not yet brave enough for uncooked poisson) and visited the library to expand the mind and soul with a little research into Frenzy, the 1972 Hitchcock film. It was his second to last film and follows (typically) the story of a man on the run after being falsely accused of the rape and murders of various women around London. “The Neck-Tie Murderer”…but, he  definitely didn’t do it, yet somehow, his ex-wife and his current girlfriend manage to fall prey to the REAL “neck-tie murderer” and he, of course, is left to try and defend his innocence.

My essay for this has me asserting whether this was a late flourish in his extensive career, or a final falling-off. I haven’t quite figured out whether the dank, garish attitude taken in this film sits well with me. Its attempt at black humour verges on the grotesque yet it does provide a startling insight into the human condition and how much we are capable of coping with. It began to remind me a little of the case of John Reginald Christie, an infamous homicidal serial killer who was convicted in 1953. Some of you may know of him through Richard Attenborough’s harrowing performance in 10 Rillington Place, alongside William Hurt (who plays the wrongly accused blue collar male, Evans, who is hanged for the murder of his daughter and Wife, whose ends were actually brought about by Christie.)

Unsurprisingly, this case gets a mention within Frenzy, as two pub-goers comment on the neck-tie murderer. It makes sense that Hitchcock will have recognised the similarities between the two stories; though one was disturbingly real and the other, merely a gratuitous fabrication.

I forget where my initial direction with this blog post was heading and it is at this point that I should perhaps close-up and give only my recommendation to whomever may be reading this - watch both Frenzy and 10 Rillington Place. They are both quite frightful. And you will never watch the Miracle on 34th Street (1992) in quite the same light again.

Oh, another night rolling slowly by
as those lilting notes, cascading and
riotous, comfort the limbs pacing hard
inside those clouds resembling my dreams
far above the blackened sky.

I cannot hope to dry your tears as they drop
against my chest and wet my welcome skin and
stare at us both with their eyes: glistening and knowing
as I smell your day-stained hair and hold your heavy head
with mine, “we’re fine” we say.

And as the hours pass, unfairly by
we wallow in drink-fueled misery
bound by blinding ecstasy: we dance together
building an ice-bricked castle,
we write, and laugh and die together.

A million miles drawn with our eyes,
tied by letters, our words to navigate
us through our soul-binding exhaustion
brought on by those minutes that escape control:
we clutch to a truth that can never be found

and,
as I smell your day-stained hair and hold your heavy head
with mine, “we’re fine” we say.

From the left - Brad, Renu, Hannah, Yvonne, Thomas, Erica, Peter, Grandma

Brad and Hannah arrived in New Zealand the other day and are now on the South Island. For the next month they will be traveling around soaking up the sunny rays of the last of the New Zealand summer/beginning of Autumn. I hope they pick up a Hobbit for me.

How much do we conceal? If our minds were laid bare, like the wares the old lady lays on the makeshift table at a jumble sale, how many people would stand over them? How many would price them up and haggle for a piece? How many would pick up your mind and gaze at it in the glare of the cold sunshine, up in the air, held above their head, a puzzled look upon their face as they struggle to understand what it is exactly that they are holding. A cup? A statue? A radio? Is it a vase? Ornate and quaint and chipped. There is a crack in the rim. What is the colour? Topaz. No, aquamarine. Well actually, I would have called it azure-blue but each to their own. Who wants an azure mind that is looked at before an azure sky? 

Let me into your wares. Lay them neatly on a table for me. Let me haggle for the price of a thought and I will go away happy with my purchase. A content little piggy with an even more content little blue vase in my bag. 

Look how dirty that centre-piece is. Look how damaged we all are. Covered in dust and cobwebs. We are turning yellow with age like a cigarette stained wall. There is grease dripping down your neck - we are revolting. I could never buy that. Clean it up first. Make it new and white and dazzling. But you cannot freshen used goods. Standing in a line, arranged in an orderly fashion - it makes it easier for others to peer at us from underneath their bushy heye-brows.

We are all as naked as the one-armed, one-legged doll Amy threw away that day.

One day, as I walked to Uni along the main (and busy) road, I noticed something rather peculiar. Bearing in mind there are no Ponds or Rivers or Canals near or around my University, the following image was a very odd sight and was the cause of much laughter and bemusement.

This may be the best way for businesses to sell their goods - I certainly thought I might want a car after seeing these little dudes waddling around in front of the Kia advertisement!