31.10.10
28.10.10
.
I think he’s got you on your knees
By his door, under his mantle
Piss poor thoughts
Fucked relief
Love is love’s reprieve
Winter is coming and you’re stuck
Stuck with the temporary blues
Struck high
Now they’re here to stay
Love is love’s loss
Taking places with you now
Hoping to learn and forget
You had nothing
Because nothing looks like him
Love is love’s mystery
He’s drinking now
Taking in everything you hate
Who will love that
What’s love when you’ve hurt
You’re wondering who will
Love is love’s defeat
Taking places with you now
Hoping to learn and forget
You had nothing
Because nothing looks like him.
Love is love’s critique
24.10.10
Absence
I haven't blogged in a while.
I think I've forgotten what's important recently. Not that blogging's truly important; but my thoughts are, and so is the time I take for myself.
I think I've forgotten what's important recently. Not that blogging's truly important; but my thoughts are, and so is the time I take for myself.
I feel an affinity with this picture that I've found recently. I'm this little girl at the moment.
I've found something truly amazing. It's alluding and mystical. It's beautiful and spiritual. It's wise. And is full of the promise of protection. But protection comes as part of a dichotony with danger... and that part scares me. It could hurt me at any point.
But I'm the girl in this picture.
I'm finally reaching out and embracing something that's scaring me. I recognize the promise and the warmth, and I just want to touch it: to embrace it's wisdom, older than mine; to understand its world, just as complex as mine; and to love it for who it is, because i know it loves me for who I am.
11.8.10
Lonelily.
I'm not sure why I've been so lonely this summer, or why the Damien Rice song 'Lonelily' pushes that even more.
A week and a half and then I'm back to St Andrews and will be by myself for a few weeks, and for some reason that's more appealing.
A week and a half and then I'm back to St Andrews and will be by myself for a few weeks, and for some reason that's more appealing.
21.7.10
Sowing Season
I love this song. And in some creepy/fucked up way it makes me feel good when I'm one of my stupid 'i-hate-the-whole-entire-fucking-universe-full-of-people-who-won't-do-anything-and-who-care-about-nothing'
Take all that you have
and turn it into something you would miss if
Somebody threw that brick
And shattered all your plans
13.7.10
12.7.10
5.7.10
Pretty horrendous but if you know us, it will make you smile!
28.6.10
Woke up
and I'm wishing I was in Kits. I think I might go back with Roth for a week or so. I'm happy when I'm there, and I never get bored walking the streets, forests and beaches.
Troubled Genius
Watching the BBC documentary on Mark Everett's father and their relationship. I watched it twice through last night. It just fascinated me. How can one man, Mark, be so full of sadness and still function?
His life has been so riddled with loss and surrounded by depression, not just from him, but from those around him. His father rarely conversed with the family; a troubled genius himself, whose attempts to make a difference in the world of quantum mechanics left him disappointed and disillusioned with the world. His sister, Elizabeth, committed suicide in 1996 after living a manic depressant for the majority of her life. Two years later, his mother died of cancer. His cousin was a flight attendant on a 9/11 flight.
His music is amazing and if something so accomplished can come out of such a troubled, sad life, then surely its truly possible to create something beautiful out of something truly dark. And that it's possible for anybody to tackle their deamons and rise above depression, doubt, loss and anything else the world can throw at them. If you lose something - create something new out of it.
Michael Rosen's Sad Book
This is me being sad.
Maybe you think I'm being happy in this picture.
Really I'm being sad but pretending I'm being happy.
I'm doing that because I think people won't like me if I look sad.
Somewhere sad is very big.
It's everywhere. All over me.
What makes me most sad is when I think about my son, Eddie.
He died.
I loved him but he died anyway.
Sometimes this makes me really angry.
I say to myself, "How dare you go and die like that? How dare he make me sad?"
He doesn't say anything,
Because he's not here anymore.
Sometimes I don't want to talk about it.
Not to anyone. No one. No one at all.
I just want to think about it on my own.
Because it's mine. And no one else's.
Sometimes I do crazy things - like crying in the shower, or shouting..
Or making noises like whooph, booph, whooph.
Sometimes I'm sad and I don't know why.
It's just a cloud that comes along and covers me up.
It's not because Eddie's gone.
It's just because.
Maybe it's because things aren't like they were a few years ago.
Like my family. It's not the same as it was a few years ago.
So there's a sad place inside me.
I've been trying to figure out ways of being sad that don't hurt so much. Here are some of them:
I tell myself that everybody has sad stuff.
I'm not the only one. Maybe you have some too.
Every day I try and do one thing I can be proud of.
Then I go to bed and think very very hard about this one thing.
I tell myself that being sad isn't the same as being horrible.
I'm sad, not bad.
Sometimes I write about sad:
Sad is a place
That is deep and dark
like the space
under the bed
Sad is a place
that is high and light
like the sky
above my head
When it's deep and dark
I don't dare go there
When it's high and light
I want to be thin air
(The last bit means that I don't want to be here.
I just want to disappear).
Sometimes I find myself looking at things:
people in a window...
a crane and a train of people going past ...
I remember things like Eddie walking along the street
laughing, laughing and laughing.
Us playing football saves on the sofa.
And birthdays ... I love birthdays.
And candles...
There must be candles...
23.6.10
〪〫Music ☊ Is ♬ Love♫♭〭〫〬
Been trying to work on designs for some music is love art work today. I really want to include something like this bird wearing headphones, curving into the lettering. We shall see how tomorrow's brainstorm goes.
Please excuse the quality - webcam photo.
But mostly I'd like to make one of these for us to cart around shows and have on our desk at ye olde Freshers Fayre, but i'd make the origami birds out of sheets of old music score which i'll age so tactfully with TEA LEAVES. This is my project for tomorrow. Ooh Rah.
Please excuse the quality - webcam photo.
But mostly I'd like to make one of these for us to cart around shows and have on our desk at ye olde Freshers Fayre, but i'd make the origami birds out of sheets of old music score which i'll age so tactfully with TEA LEAVES. This is my project for tomorrow. Ooh Rah.
Ohhh Crayola
Maybe we should develop a Crayola bomb as our next secret weapon. A happiness weapon. A beauty bomb. And every time a crisis developed, we would launch one. It would explode high in the air - explode softly - and send thousands, millions, of little parachutes into the air. Floating down to earth - boxes of Crayolas. And we wouldn't go cheap, either - not little boxes of eight. Boxes of sixty-four, with the sharpener built right in. With silver and gold and copper, magenta and peach and lime, amber and umber and all the rest. And people would smile and get a little funny look on their faces and cover the world with imagination.
Goodbye David
A waistcoat pocketed, walking mackerel friend of mine.
David was a lovely, lovely man. He was his own person. The dad to my lovely big brother, Roth, and the first love of my mum. He was incredibly special to me, too, and I am so glad that he was a part of my life. We have his painting hanging in our kitchen and I am so glad I have it to look upon each day as a reminder of another true, artistic soul who gave sunshine to people on this earth.
Gingers/read-haired people are lovely. Fact.
21.6.10
...
In this evil year, autumn comes early...
I walk by night in the field, alone, the rain clatters,
The wind on my hat...And you? And you, my friend?
You are standing--maybe--and seeing the sickle moon
Move in a small arc over the forests
And bivouac fire, red in the black valley.
You are lying--maybe--in a straw field and sleeping
And dew falls cold on your forehead and battle jacket.
It's possible tonight you're on horseback,
The farthest outpost, peering along, with a gun in your fist,
Smiling, whispering, to your exhausted horse.
Maybe--I keep imagining--you are spending the night
As a guest in a strange castle with a park
And writing a letter by candlelight, and tapping
On the piano keys by the window,
Groping for a sound...
--And maybe
You are already silent, already dead, and the day
Will shine no longer into your beloved
Serious eyes, and your beloved brown hand hangs wilted,
And your white forehead split open--Oh, if only,
If only, just once, that last day, I had shown you, told you
Something of my love, that was too timid to speak!
But you know me, you know...and, smiling, you nod
Tonight in front of your strange castle,
And you nod to your horse in the drenched forest,
And you nod to your sleep to your harsh clutter of straw,
And think about me, and smile.
And maybe,
Maybe some day you will come back from the war,
and take a walk with me some evening,
And somebody will talk about Longwy, Luttich, Dammerkirch,
And smile gravely, and everything will be as before,
And no one will speak a word of his worry,
Of his worry and tenderness by night in the field,
Of his love. And with a single joke
You will frighten away the worry, the war, the uneasy nights,
The summer lightning of shy human friendship,
Into the cool past that will never come back.
I walk by night in the field, alone, the rain clatters,
The wind on my hat...And you? And you, my friend?
You are standing--maybe--and seeing the sickle moon
Move in a small arc over the forests
And bivouac fire, red in the black valley.
You are lying--maybe--in a straw field and sleeping
And dew falls cold on your forehead and battle jacket.
It's possible tonight you're on horseback,
The farthest outpost, peering along, with a gun in your fist,
Smiling, whispering, to your exhausted horse.
Maybe--I keep imagining--you are spending the night
As a guest in a strange castle with a park
And writing a letter by candlelight, and tapping
On the piano keys by the window,
Groping for a sound...
--And maybe
You are already silent, already dead, and the day
Will shine no longer into your beloved
Serious eyes, and your beloved brown hand hangs wilted,
And your white forehead split open--Oh, if only,
If only, just once, that last day, I had shown you, told you
Something of my love, that was too timid to speak!
But you know me, you know...and, smiling, you nod
Tonight in front of your strange castle,
And you nod to your horse in the drenched forest,
And you nod to your sleep to your harsh clutter of straw,
And think about me, and smile.
And maybe,
Maybe some day you will come back from the war,
and take a walk with me some evening,
And somebody will talk about Longwy, Luttich, Dammerkirch,
And smile gravely, and everything will be as before,
And no one will speak a word of his worry,
Of his worry and tenderness by night in the field,
Of his love. And with a single joke
You will frighten away the worry, the war, the uneasy nights,
The summer lightning of shy human friendship,
Into the cool past that will never come back.
Oh, Ringo.
I'd like to be under the sea
In an octopus' garden in the shade
He'd let us in, knows where we've been
In his octopus' garden in the shade
I'd ask my friends to come and see
An octopus' garden with me
I'd like to be under the sea
In an octopus' garden in the shade.
We would be warm below the storm
In our little hideaway beneath the waves
Resting our head on the sea bed
In an octopus' garden near a cave
We would sing and dance around
because we know we can't be found
I'd like to be under the sea
In an octopus' garden in the shade
We would shout and swim about
The coral that lies beneath the waves
(Lies beneath the ocean waves)
Oh what joy for every girl and boy
Knowing they're happy and they're safe
(Happy and they're safe)
We would be so happy you and me
No one there to tell us what to do
I'd like to be under the sea
In an octopus' garden with you.
In an octopus' garden in the shade
He'd let us in, knows where we've been
In his octopus' garden in the shade
I'd ask my friends to come and see
An octopus' garden with me
I'd like to be under the sea
In an octopus' garden in the shade.
We would be warm below the storm
In our little hideaway beneath the waves
Resting our head on the sea bed
In an octopus' garden near a cave
We would sing and dance around
because we know we can't be found
I'd like to be under the sea
In an octopus' garden in the shade
We would shout and swim about
The coral that lies beneath the waves
(Lies beneath the ocean waves)
Oh what joy for every girl and boy
Knowing they're happy and they're safe
(Happy and they're safe)
We would be so happy you and me
No one there to tell us what to do
I'd like to be under the sea
In an octopus' garden with you.
☮ People need connectors, Writers, heroes, stars, leaders... To give life form.
Heroes of mine
- Jim Morrison
- John Lennon
- Tenzin Gyasto 'The time has come to think more wisely, hasn't it?'
- Alex James
- Gandhi
- Philip Pullman
- Grace Slick 'Through literacy you can begin to see the universe. Through music you can reach anybody. Between the two there is you, unstoppable.'
- Pablo Picasso (currently the most interesting person in my life...) 'They ought to put out the eyes of painters as they do goldfinches in order that they can sing better'
- Thomas More
- Lord Byron
- Hermann Hesse 'Only the ideas that we really live have any value.'
- Siddhartha Gatama (Buddha)
Ordinary people can be exceptional and change the world, so why do so few try? Call me crazy but I don't think it is necessary for so little to be done in the world. Call me naive and blame my 'teen angst' but I'd rather be annoyed and wanting to do something than apathetic and without passion/compassion or drive.
〪〭〫〬Birds are cool, yo. 〪〭〫〬
Birds really are wonderful. They're very silly and seem to take themselves so seriously but I just love them. I love the way they chatter and natter as soon as the sun shines on them. I love the way that you can stop at ANY time of day and you should be able to hear them. I love the way that they understand the trees and the skies; places we cannot truly comprehend a hold over.
I also enjoy the fact that the bird will be used for Music is Love. Just wonderful.
Little bird, little bird
Brush your gray wings on my head
Say what you said, say it againThey tell me I'm crazyBut you told me I'm golden
Don't tell me not to fly
☼☀☼☀☼☀
On a happier note
This is my happy hat. Recently I have been sleeping wearing this bad boy. Sadness averted.
Depressing Song
This is a little song I wrote when i was incredibly low about two months ago. I don't feel like this anymore but it was interesting to come across.
Cut out
She could cut you right out,
But if she can’t
She’s left feeling
A foreigner to this waking world
Her fists, her legs, her skull
And soul
Are left empty
For you,
A stencil to shade.
And dreaming like a girl
In the dark, with her world blown out.
Waking and with nothing
But her love to hide.
And when sunlight finds her wrists red
Painted with the pain she felt
The stars pray for their return,
The shadow of her heart to light
And twilight’s half way there.
You have a stencil life
And in your eyes it will grow.
Tommy Reilly
Even though Tommy Reilly is an act who was manufactured for and by Orange's unsigned act, there is still so much truth and naivety in his performance. His songs hold a childish charm to them which is offset by his 'soulful' writing. He's like Paolo Nutini in the sense that he appears so much older when he sings... but he can sing just juvenile things as 'I thought she was my friend but now I love her'. I just love him. I adore him.
His new album may make me want to cry for the entirety of every song but I embrace that and it takes a lot these days for that to happen.
This is his winning cover of Mr Brightside. And yes, it may just be a cover but I thin it adds an entirely different element to the song and turns it away from its club reputation and changes it into a heartfelt, believable anthem.
hats off to you, sir.
Oh, and if you can make Mr Alex James, king of Blur and owner of a cheese farm, you have my vote!
Will be seeing Tommy again this Summer.
His new album may make me want to cry for the entirety of every song but I embrace that and it takes a lot these days for that to happen.
This is his winning cover of Mr Brightside. And yes, it may just be a cover but I thin it adds an entirely different element to the song and turns it away from its club reputation and changes it into a heartfelt, believable anthem.
hats off to you, sir.
Oh, and if you can make Mr Alex James, king of Blur and owner of a cheese farm, you have my vote!
Will be seeing Tommy again this Summer.
20.6.10
Wouldn't it be nice if..
Instead of the internet, how about tiny paper swans?!
I seem to spend hours and hours searching the internet for something interesting to look at. I think i look for inspiration and for 'really cool, artsty shit', but why do I expect anything out of a combination of every body's any thing in an imaginary space. Walking cliche though I am (saying this on a stupid blog), I just got upset about it today. It would be so much nicer if there was some way in which the internet could be replaced. BUT it's not possible.
SO, in a world where I can dream in this imginary space we call the internet. This imaginary space that has turned into my diary... i propose a massive windy, glorious river in which we float tiny paper swans. Yes, paper swans. Websites will be replaced with paper swans which hold all the glorious shite you read on your computer screens.
ps. Rollo made me think of shitty internet stuff. And i must remember to phone him soon.
14.6.10
http://blog.absolutearts.com/blogs/archives/00000537.html
04/05/2010: "The Revolutionary Spirit"
I remember the sixties as if they were yesterday. We voiced our theories about conspiracy, and they were accepted by a unified mass of believers. We believed that together we could change the world, and although all our goals might not have been clear, at least one of them, ending the war in Viet Nam, seemed to have been achieved. We were awed by our own power when we marched on Washington, and everybody could see how many we were right there, on the television.
What about today? If we marched on Washington today, would anyone even come? The phrase, '...what if they gave a war and no one came?...' drifts back to me from the past. I look around me and see that all my fellow revolutionaries have become old and fat, bald and grey. Today, most of them are worse than those we rebelled against once were. Worse because they're so Pavlovian about what they care about, and so indifferent to anything else.
Mostly, it's money, and the symbols of wealth that they need to convince their peers that they are in fact successful. Notice I no longer say 'we'. Not that I don't need money. I do as much as anyone else does, to survive, and to feel I haven't been done in by 'the system'. But somehow I have managed not to get suckered into running 'til I drop on a mouse wheel not of my own making, like pretty much everyone I know has, except the trust fund kids.
They, mostly not due to any effort they themselves have made, are the only true revolutionaries left. They haven't given in, like all my peers burdened by credit card debt have. They haven't become cogs in a machine, and remain pretty much free to do whatever they want. I know a lot of them, because a lot of them are artists.
Jeff Koons, Fernando Botero, Julian Schnabel, are all products of extreme wealth, as well as thousands of others like them. Talent is not an issue for such people, it is an unnecessary and unimportant accessory. However, rare as it may be, when talent is required, it can be simply and efficiently bought from someone else.
If a mechanism of social control exists, and its hard to imagine that it doesn't, what is the oil flowing around its gears that keeps the whole thing running smoothly? What is the biggest risk to its functioning that the most attention is paid to? I would say, that a revolution topples it. The product it is producing cannot be anything else but wealth and power.
If I've got your attention and interest up to this point, then I imagine you'll accept that if revolutionaries have simply disappeared from the stage, when only thirty years ago there were so many of them, then there must have been a strategy executed by someone to make this happen. It is just too convenient for both government and multinational business for it to have been a coincidence.
This is not a conspiracy theory, because there is no one is indicated as a target, and I haven't said that the intent is evil. It is a general observation about what is most likely given our current state of affairs. Certainly we haven't had any big wars lately, and that is a good thing.
There is a conspiracy theory going around that Aspartame is an intentional attempt to diminish the world's population. Monsanto, one of the largest multinationals in existence, has introduced Aspartame into nearly every diet product in existence, throughout the world. If a person decided never to take Aspartame, it is virtually impossible that they could avoid it altogether. Pharmaceutical companies use it to produce a sweet coating for a lot of pills, it is in soft drinks, sugarless gum and candies, and found even in many kinds of bread and cakes. Some believe Monsanto bought the German company responsible for the production of the Zyklon B used by the Nazis for human extermination. Those who believe in a conspiracy involving Aspartame have invaded the internet en masse, you can just google it and you will see what they have to say. These people would say the oil making the gears run smoothly is Aspartame. Others would insist its the fluoride in the water.
Our role as artists is to see the world for what it is and comment on it in our art. We cannot continue to work as individuals, gazing at our own navels and pretending that whatever we choose to do is valid. The role of artists is to understand the present, foresee the future, and to arouse people to action through their work. Perhaps the current situation in which artists have virtually nothing in common with one another, is the reason why we haven't had any Man Rays, Picassos or Van Goghs for more than a half a century. The responsibility of an artist is great; they must understand the big picture about the world in which we all live, and comment on it in a way that even the simplest human beings can understand, or at the very least, feel. We should seek the spirit that unified us in the sixties, find a little common ground, think a little less about our individual struggles, and act towards a shared goal. Whatever that may be. Any ideas?
What about today? If we marched on Washington today, would anyone even come? The phrase, '...what if they gave a war and no one came?...' drifts back to me from the past. I look around me and see that all my fellow revolutionaries have become old and fat, bald and grey. Today, most of them are worse than those we rebelled against once were. Worse because they're so Pavlovian about what they care about, and so indifferent to anything else.
Mostly, it's money, and the symbols of wealth that they need to convince their peers that they are in fact successful. Notice I no longer say 'we'. Not that I don't need money. I do as much as anyone else does, to survive, and to feel I haven't been done in by 'the system'. But somehow I have managed not to get suckered into running 'til I drop on a mouse wheel not of my own making, like pretty much everyone I know has, except the trust fund kids.
They, mostly not due to any effort they themselves have made, are the only true revolutionaries left. They haven't given in, like all my peers burdened by credit card debt have. They haven't become cogs in a machine, and remain pretty much free to do whatever they want. I know a lot of them, because a lot of them are artists.
Jeff Koons, Fernando Botero, Julian Schnabel, are all products of extreme wealth, as well as thousands of others like them. Talent is not an issue for such people, it is an unnecessary and unimportant accessory. However, rare as it may be, when talent is required, it can be simply and efficiently bought from someone else.
If a mechanism of social control exists, and its hard to imagine that it doesn't, what is the oil flowing around its gears that keeps the whole thing running smoothly? What is the biggest risk to its functioning that the most attention is paid to? I would say, that a revolution topples it. The product it is producing cannot be anything else but wealth and power.
If I've got your attention and interest up to this point, then I imagine you'll accept that if revolutionaries have simply disappeared from the stage, when only thirty years ago there were so many of them, then there must have been a strategy executed by someone to make this happen. It is just too convenient for both government and multinational business for it to have been a coincidence.
This is not a conspiracy theory, because there is no one is indicated as a target, and I haven't said that the intent is evil. It is a general observation about what is most likely given our current state of affairs. Certainly we haven't had any big wars lately, and that is a good thing.
There is a conspiracy theory going around that Aspartame is an intentional attempt to diminish the world's population. Monsanto, one of the largest multinationals in existence, has introduced Aspartame into nearly every diet product in existence, throughout the world. If a person decided never to take Aspartame, it is virtually impossible that they could avoid it altogether. Pharmaceutical companies use it to produce a sweet coating for a lot of pills, it is in soft drinks, sugarless gum and candies, and found even in many kinds of bread and cakes. Some believe Monsanto bought the German company responsible for the production of the Zyklon B used by the Nazis for human extermination. Those who believe in a conspiracy involving Aspartame have invaded the internet en masse, you can just google it and you will see what they have to say. These people would say the oil making the gears run smoothly is Aspartame. Others would insist its the fluoride in the water.
Our role as artists is to see the world for what it is and comment on it in our art. We cannot continue to work as individuals, gazing at our own navels and pretending that whatever we choose to do is valid. The role of artists is to understand the present, foresee the future, and to arouse people to action through their work. Perhaps the current situation in which artists have virtually nothing in common with one another, is the reason why we haven't had any Man Rays, Picassos or Van Goghs for more than a half a century. The responsibility of an artist is great; they must understand the big picture about the world in which we all live, and comment on it in a way that even the simplest human beings can understand, or at the very least, feel. We should seek the spirit that unified us in the sixties, find a little common ground, think a little less about our individual struggles, and act towards a shared goal. Whatever that may be. Any ideas?
.☁
I understand that death a part of being alive, and that bereavement serves a way to push one's understanding of people and emotions. But this is taking the piss.
It's horrible, to have come home only for a childhood friend to be killed the same night. The day after - being told that David, my brother's dad, has weeks to live. Both of these people were massive parts of my childhood and it honestly feels like I've completely lost what I had until i finished primary school. My brother, my friends, Heather (my mother figure) and now David - the only person who believed in my art and understood the things I wanted to communicate or do for the world. When I was younger I truly believed that art was the only way in which people can confirm their true existence (art being a blanket term for any form of expression), and the creativity is such a raw, honest conveying of being. David thought this, too, and together we used to talk about Jim Morrison who, to this day, I still believe is the most beautiful example of artistic autonomy. That part of my life will from now on be repressed memories or exist only in the mourning of people I have lost.
It's horrible, to have come home only for a childhood friend to be killed the same night. The day after - being told that David, my brother's dad, has weeks to live. Both of these people were massive parts of my childhood and it honestly feels like I've completely lost what I had until i finished primary school. My brother, my friends, Heather (my mother figure) and now David - the only person who believed in my art and understood the things I wanted to communicate or do for the world. When I was younger I truly believed that art was the only way in which people can confirm their true existence (art being a blanket term for any form of expression), and the creativity is such a raw, honest conveying of being. David thought this, too, and together we used to talk about Jim Morrison who, to this day, I still believe is the most beautiful example of artistic autonomy. That part of my life will from now on be repressed memories or exist only in the mourning of people I have lost.
10.6.10
This Blog
This blog is entitled 'Fight or Flight' to stand as either my escape or as my fight against my own daemons, of which there are many.
I feel like battling against any form of prejudice that existed against me (past friends, guidance teachers) and getting into St Andrews has put me in good stead, but at the same time... I don't know what is wrong with my life. I am constantly fiighting some battle.Whether it's to do with how I'm living or whether its pushed upon me by extraneous circumstances does not matter; I just hope that this blog manages to communicate how I feel at this time and how my thoughts progress towards what I hope is a clearer, happier me.
There will be art. There will be music. There will be words.
And here we go...
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