Friday, April 30, 2004
"I've got a heart,
and it sometimes fails to start,
when it's cold in the morning.
I've got a mind,
it's hard to find
that it sometimes lets me down without warning.
I've got a cause,
it isn't yours,
and it's far too hard to talk about it without yawning."
[Blyth Power, many many moons ago]
Unable to go to the Cornish Earth Mysteries Group meeting on the Obby Oss due to lack of money, I stayed in last night and watched some Abba on Channel 5. The top ten Abba hits would have been wonderful, had the videos just been shown, but various dull/stupid celebrities were wheeled in to make comments. Most of those yapping away weren't even born when Abba were first around and had no idea what they were on about, the others just said how naff the bands' clothes were. No one seemed to acknowledge what a bloody good pop band they were, possibly the best ever. After this, there was a programme revealing singer Frida's 'dark secret' - that her father was a German army officer, one of many posted to Norway to impregnate as many women as possible to help provide 'good Aryan stock'. The shocking truth of how the women and their offspring were treated by the Norwegians after the war - public humilation for the mothers (i.e. young naive girls who were duped) and incarceration in institutions for the children - had me close to tears. The Lebensborn children, as they became known, were publicly dismissed as genetically deficient by eminent psychiatrists, because they had 'Nazi blood'. Thus the Norwegians became what they claimed to hate.
Grimly interesting, then, to see the news later last night and photographs of Iraqi prisoners allegedly tortured by American soldiers, in similar methods used by Saddam Hussein. Apart from the sickening irony, I'm trying to find out just who America is accountable to - and kicking a couple of individual officers' arses is not going to convince me that this kind of thing isn't widespread.
and it sometimes fails to start,
when it's cold in the morning.
I've got a mind,
it's hard to find
that it sometimes lets me down without warning.
I've got a cause,
it isn't yours,
and it's far too hard to talk about it without yawning."
[Blyth Power, many many moons ago]
Unable to go to the Cornish Earth Mysteries Group meeting on the Obby Oss due to lack of money, I stayed in last night and watched some Abba on Channel 5. The top ten Abba hits would have been wonderful, had the videos just been shown, but various dull/stupid celebrities were wheeled in to make comments. Most of those yapping away weren't even born when Abba were first around and had no idea what they were on about, the others just said how naff the bands' clothes were. No one seemed to acknowledge what a bloody good pop band they were, possibly the best ever. After this, there was a programme revealing singer Frida's 'dark secret' - that her father was a German army officer, one of many posted to Norway to impregnate as many women as possible to help provide 'good Aryan stock'. The shocking truth of how the women and their offspring were treated by the Norwegians after the war - public humilation for the mothers (i.e. young naive girls who were duped) and incarceration in institutions for the children - had me close to tears. The Lebensborn children, as they became known, were publicly dismissed as genetically deficient by eminent psychiatrists, because they had 'Nazi blood'. Thus the Norwegians became what they claimed to hate.
Grimly interesting, then, to see the news later last night and photographs of Iraqi prisoners allegedly tortured by American soldiers, in similar methods used by Saddam Hussein. Apart from the sickening irony, I'm trying to find out just who America is accountable to - and kicking a couple of individual officers' arses is not going to convince me that this kind of thing isn't widespread.
Thursday, April 29, 2004
Oh, and despite snorts of derision in certain quarters, I am a big, butch dyke that you just wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of.
Having never had children and never intending to, the whole natural childbirth vs c-section debate has had me a bit puzzled, but this article in today's Guardian addresses it with a bit more composure than most. I was born by c-section myself, being a twin and there being an emergency as my mother went into labour, but my personal thought is that hours - and possibly days - of horrendous labour, is not something I'd ever want to face. As the article says, dismissing the (very small) amount of women who opt for c-sections for non-medical reasons as fitting childbirth in with their busy worklives is just another way of demeaning women who work and bring up children. Choice for everyone except mothers?
Monday, April 26, 2004
I can't find a link to it, but I read a short report this morning of a student in Oslo who was killed whilst being filmed lying in a road dressed as Moomintroll. Incredibly tragic to those concerned, but it will no doubt appear in books of the bizarre for many years to come.
And talking of the bizarre: the dream I had last night was quite horrible in places, but the main part of it is perfect for the novel. The chapter title even came up in the dream. I've been letting it brew, as it were, and will find the right place to put it in. In the real world (I think), it's been another beautiful day. I drove gf to work all down the country lanes, slowing down for a wide eyed ginger cat and a small rabbit, before driving along the hilltops above Penzance. The whole bay was shrouded in a blue haze. Awesome, just awesome.
And talking of the bizarre: the dream I had last night was quite horrible in places, but the main part of it is perfect for the novel. The chapter title even came up in the dream. I've been letting it brew, as it were, and will find the right place to put it in. In the real world (I think), it's been another beautiful day. I drove gf to work all down the country lanes, slowing down for a wide eyed ginger cat and a small rabbit, before driving along the hilltops above Penzance. The whole bay was shrouded in a blue haze. Awesome, just awesome.
Sunday, April 25, 2004
'Twas a fine and sunny day yesterday, just right for a street festival, and I had a short but sweet visit to Camborne for Trevithick Day. I bought myself a horribly trendy 'Billabong' wallet not because I have any pretention of being trendy but because it was cheap and everyone tells me what I keep my money in at the moment is a purse and a horrible one at that. The only sour note was having a woman approaching me, who I assume was claiming to be a Gypsy, offering me a dead daffodil for money. When I turned her down she thrust it at me and claimed it had the power to make me lose weight. This fantastic sales pitch had me snorting with laughter, and I nearly came out with my usual line if someone starts either whinging about being a size 12+ (I've actually heard an air stewardess worrying aloud about no longer being a size SIX) or saying that bigger folk don't deserve to walk the planet:
It's not stopped me getting laid. Ok?
It's not stopped me getting laid. Ok?
Thursday, April 22, 2004
Well I know I've become a beach bum/hippie since I moved to the seaside, but this is as bewildering as it is nasty:
[Daily] Express owner Richard Desmond today launched an extraordinary tirade against Telegraph bosses at a meeting of their joint venture print works, hurling a string of abuse and goosestepping around a boardroom in mockery of a German newspaper group's bid for the paper. In scenes that will shock the Conservative party he has just pledged to support, Mr Desmond branded the Telegraph chief executive, Jeremy Deedes, a "miserable little piece of shit" and said Germans were "all Nazis". The Telegraph executives were so outraged by Mr Desmond's four-letter outburst that they walked out of the meeting in disgust. As they left the meeting of the jointly owned West Ferry printing company, Mr Desmond told other Express executives to sing "Deutschland uber Alles" and made Nazi-style "Sieg Heil" salutes, according to witnesses. People present at the meeting said Mr Desmond - who dropped out of the race to buy the Telegraph after balking at the asking price - had at one point strutted up and down the room holding his fingers to his lips and giving stiff-armed salutes, in emulation of the famous goosestepping scene in TV sitcom Fawlty Towers.
Not so bewildering, in fact bloody predictable, (football's only changed on the surface, if you didn't know) was the news that Ron Atkinson will no longer be commentating for ITV sport, after calling Chelsea defender Marcel Desailly a "fucking lazy thick nigger" on air. ITV claimed it was 'a lapse by an experienced commentator' but the only lapse I can see is Atkinson not noticing that he was still being broadcast. I doubt if it was a one-off, so presumably his colleagues and bosses have been quite happy for him to spout this shit for years.
[Daily] Express owner Richard Desmond today launched an extraordinary tirade against Telegraph bosses at a meeting of their joint venture print works, hurling a string of abuse and goosestepping around a boardroom in mockery of a German newspaper group's bid for the paper. In scenes that will shock the Conservative party he has just pledged to support, Mr Desmond branded the Telegraph chief executive, Jeremy Deedes, a "miserable little piece of shit" and said Germans were "all Nazis". The Telegraph executives were so outraged by Mr Desmond's four-letter outburst that they walked out of the meeting in disgust. As they left the meeting of the jointly owned West Ferry printing company, Mr Desmond told other Express executives to sing "Deutschland uber Alles" and made Nazi-style "Sieg Heil" salutes, according to witnesses. People present at the meeting said Mr Desmond - who dropped out of the race to buy the Telegraph after balking at the asking price - had at one point strutted up and down the room holding his fingers to his lips and giving stiff-armed salutes, in emulation of the famous goosestepping scene in TV sitcom Fawlty Towers.
Not so bewildering, in fact bloody predictable, (football's only changed on the surface, if you didn't know) was the news that Ron Atkinson will no longer be commentating for ITV sport, after calling Chelsea defender Marcel Desailly a "fucking lazy thick nigger" on air. ITV claimed it was 'a lapse by an experienced commentator' but the only lapse I can see is Atkinson not noticing that he was still being broadcast. I doubt if it was a one-off, so presumably his colleagues and bosses have been quite happy for him to spout this shit for years.
Living up to my butch image over the last couple of days - doing some building work in the garden this morning, and yesterday, well yesterday there was a bit of an incident. Gf and I had gone to Tesco's in Penzance, for a cheap coffee before she began work, and before we left we both needed the bathroom. So I'm at the sink, washing my hands and gf is drying hers when two old women come in, mother and daughter I'd guess. The mother peered at me (short hair!! tattooed thumb! trousers!!!), gazed across at gf (short hair!! trousers!!) and began shouting, "This is the gents'!". I could only vaguely hear this above the sound of the hand drier, but the daughter was desperately embarrassed (and possibly quite frightened). "Don't be ridiculous - women wear trousers these days!" she yelled back, but the mother was having none of it. She peered down at me again (me, with my DD bust), waved her arms around frantically and then took a couple of steps back in horror. "It IS the gents'!". At this point, me and gf bundled ourselves out so as not to collapse laughing in front of them.
In London, this was beginning to happen a lot. Down here, very rarely. Which is odd, to me - Hackney being jammed packed with lesbians. Cornwall has plenty, too, but they're a bit more camoflaged around here. I expect it'll be in the local papers next week.
Which is more than can be said for this Saturday's Trevithick Day. The local rag is acting as if everyone knows exactly what will happen, where and when, instead of printing details. The website claims that 3 Daft Monkeys and Dalla, among others, will be playing again this year on the Cornish Music stage. It should be fun, despite the local police banning the steam parade 'due to safety concerns'. Well, that makes sense. The police bend over backwards escorting psycho football 'fans' to matches every week but steam engines driven at around 1 mph is risky. A week after that and it's May Day, time for the 'Obby 'Oss to make it's appearance in Padstow. I'm determined to go this year.
In London, this was beginning to happen a lot. Down here, very rarely. Which is odd, to me - Hackney being jammed packed with lesbians. Cornwall has plenty, too, but they're a bit more camoflaged around here. I expect it'll be in the local papers next week.
Which is more than can be said for this Saturday's Trevithick Day. The local rag is acting as if everyone knows exactly what will happen, where and when, instead of printing details. The website claims that 3 Daft Monkeys and Dalla, among others, will be playing again this year on the Cornish Music stage. It should be fun, despite the local police banning the steam parade 'due to safety concerns'. Well, that makes sense. The police bend over backwards escorting psycho football 'fans' to matches every week but steam engines driven at around 1 mph is risky. A week after that and it's May Day, time for the 'Obby 'Oss to make it's appearance in Padstow. I'm determined to go this year.
Friday, April 16, 2004
What a day! Jane, the tea room owner/artist was really into the stuff I took along and is happy to try and sell it for me. Her own stuff - watercolours of local sacred sites mainly - was actually rather good, streets ahead of much of the art around here. So I swaggered back to my car, pleased as hell. The weather was good, so I spent a little time sitting on top of Sancreed Beacon, a Bronze Age settlement a few miles away, and then went into Penzance and had a coffee in my favourite cafe. Meditate, my arse!
Anyway, the tea room is on the Madron-Morvah road, between Lanyon Quoit and Men-an-Tol. Plenty of positive vibes around, maan. Seriously, I feel very good about this.
Anyway, the tea room is on the Madron-Morvah road, between Lanyon Quoit and Men-an-Tol. Plenty of positive vibes around, maan. Seriously, I feel very good about this.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
I was supposed to go to Lanyon Farm this afternoon. There's a little tea room/gallery there, mainly for hikers and the woman who runs it wants to see some of my stuff. I had three pieces packed ready to go but a fierce rainstorm has made me put the trip off until tomorrow, when I hope it will be drier. Afterwards, I'll probably pop into the Men-an-Tol Studio again to have another look at Ian McNeil Cooke's beautiful prints, and to see how it should be done, and then go on to a sacred site (Lanyon Quoit is nearby) to read or meditate.
Chapter 5 is now nearly redrafted. I'm trying to push it over 9,000 words, and there's only 500 to go, but there doesn't seem to be a lot to add and I really don't want to start padding things out, so I'll try and hang back. I should ring the agent to see if he at least got the chapter I sent last week, but it's a bit scary - as it is, I can imagine him skipping around his office in joy at my every word. To hear the truth of it - especially as I tend to stutter a bit when I'm nervous - could be pretty demoralising. Anyway, there's the chance of reorganising my trip to the owl sanctuary this Sunday. The opportunity of having one sit on my hand is too good to miss, even if it means watching it tear a dead chick to pieces.
Chapter 5 is now nearly redrafted. I'm trying to push it over 9,000 words, and there's only 500 to go, but there doesn't seem to be a lot to add and I really don't want to start padding things out, so I'll try and hang back. I should ring the agent to see if he at least got the chapter I sent last week, but it's a bit scary - as it is, I can imagine him skipping around his office in joy at my every word. To hear the truth of it - especially as I tend to stutter a bit when I'm nervous - could be pretty demoralising. Anyway, there's the chance of reorganising my trip to the owl sanctuary this Sunday. The opportunity of having one sit on my hand is too good to miss, even if it means watching it tear a dead chick to pieces.
Saturday, April 10, 2004
Heard a track from the new Patti Smith album last night. I had to wave the radio around in the air to try and keep the thing tuned in, but even with that palava it still sounded beautiful. The last time I'd really heard her was on Dream of Life, which I really liked although it was quite rocky. But that was quite a long time ago now. Charles Shaar Murray reviewed Tramplin' (for what mag I don't know - I was given a cutting) and I was champing at the bit to get the album even before I'd heard any of it.
Today, amongst other things, I drove past a club called Flamingos, so old fashioned it still calls itself a discoteque. Outside it a car had been set alight. I stopped and rang the fire brigade like a good citizen. It freaked me out for quite a while afterwards. I felt this wierd kind of empathy with the car. Which is ridiculous, isn't it?
Today, amongst other things, I drove past a club called Flamingos, so old fashioned it still calls itself a discoteque. Outside it a car had been set alight. I stopped and rang the fire brigade like a good citizen. It freaked me out for quite a while afterwards. I felt this wierd kind of empathy with the car. Which is ridiculous, isn't it?
Friday, April 09, 2004
So I am now 37. I had a wonderful birthday, thank you for asking. I got two beautiful OS maps (one of Penwith the other of Bodmin Moor), a book on all the sacred sites in Cornwall and enough money to buy a couple of new shirts with, as well as doing some black and white photo enlargements to hopefully sell. I can take the poverty stricken artiste thing a bit far sometimes - I'm just not interested in buying clothes. I suppose if I was skinny I'd be more into at least satisfying my fetish for camping gear, so maybe it's just as well that I'm poor and can't afford to worry about it one way or another. The only down moment was having one of the car tyres do something wierd, so I couldn't get along to the owl sanctuary, but it was quite easily fixed and me and gf ended up wandering along the mine tunnels at Geevor mine.
Last Monday I posted some redrafted chapters of the book to the agent. I haven't heard from him about the first draft, so I'm really going to push this. I totally believe in the novel now, and I know how dreadful the market is for first novels - especially written by a woman, with strong female characters. It's a dark fantasy with a lot of eco awareness and I'm not some vacuous celeb, so who would possibly want to buy it? - but fuck it, it's good. I did a flyer this week as well, to distribute at various hippie stores around here and hopefully at the Glastonbury festival. I based the design on some of the amazing milestones you get around here. It worked pretty well, I think.
Last Monday I posted some redrafted chapters of the book to the agent. I haven't heard from him about the first draft, so I'm really going to push this. I totally believe in the novel now, and I know how dreadful the market is for first novels - especially written by a woman, with strong female characters. It's a dark fantasy with a lot of eco awareness and I'm not some vacuous celeb, so who would possibly want to buy it? - but fuck it, it's good. I did a flyer this week as well, to distribute at various hippie stores around here and hopefully at the Glastonbury festival. I based the design on some of the amazing milestones you get around here. It worked pretty well, I think.
Thursday, April 01, 2004
I love this man:
Listen to Blyth Power's wonderful lyrics and you'll understand why.
I am 37 tomorrow. I will be having lunch in a cafe somewhere in St Ives and going for a few beers in the evening, followed by eggy bread for breakfast on Saturday morning and a visit to the local owl sanctuary. No big dramas about my age. When I was 34 I made a resolution to be living in Cornwall by my 37th or 38th birthday, but I chucked everything in and came here much earlier. The moral being, of course - fuck it. Do it NOW.
Listen to Blyth Power's wonderful lyrics and you'll understand why.
I am 37 tomorrow. I will be having lunch in a cafe somewhere in St Ives and going for a few beers in the evening, followed by eggy bread for breakfast on Saturday morning and a visit to the local owl sanctuary. No big dramas about my age. When I was 34 I made a resolution to be living in Cornwall by my 37th or 38th birthday, but I chucked everything in and came here much earlier. The moral being, of course - fuck it. Do it NOW.
