midnight motorway noises
26 March 2006
the corner
The corner is grey and murky blue. It's broken into blocks by the orange of lamps, by talk and by the reds and whites of the head lights and brake lights of cars that pass us. I can smell cigarettes and lime.
He doesn't notice the traffic, or at least, doesn't seem to. He definitely doesn't seem to care. On the corner nothing happens, it's empty except for the passing cars.
The corner was new, introduced to the world, and to me, by chance... and tequila. And by the lights of people driving home.
Now we've forgotten all about it.
He doesn't notice the traffic, or at least, doesn't seem to. He definitely doesn't seem to care. On the corner nothing happens, it's empty except for the passing cars.
The corner was new, introduced to the world, and to me, by chance... and tequila. And by the lights of people driving home.
Now we've forgotten all about it.
22 March 2006
but not everyone's cup of tea
Last weekend we went down to Ulverston in Cumbria to see the Longline Carnival Opera, the last ever show by Welfare State International. I billed it to myself as dissertation research and to the others as a chance to get out of the city and see a piece of theatrical history, a big show, a spectacular. As it happens, it was.
It was a celebration of stories found and told around Morcambe Bay, a product of three years collecting characters, making fables out of tales told, creating shapes and filling them in with the colours of the community. In a big top, in a field on an industrial estate, with drummers outside and ladies with tea, coffee and hot choclate for the interval, Longline was an invitation to the story-steeped spirits of Morcambe Bay to come and sing along with the children, parents, shop keepers, teachers, builders and artists who live there now.
The big top was smaller than I thought it was going to be and it was less exciting - though I have to clarify that I use this word loosly, like a Hollywood action flick is "exciting" or the opening ceremony of the Winter Olympics - stylish, but showy - the kind of thing that leaves you thinking, "the money for that giant inflatable rabbit with pyrotechnics in its marshmallow shoes could have been spent in other ways, I'm sure..."
I'm glad they didn't (couldn't) throw money at it, it would have detracted from the sense that it was about sitting in the cold, listening avidly to experienced story tellers do what they do best. And while the big top was little and the spectacular was limited to the firework display at the end, the show was big, enormous. Grown by words, pictures, fish and chips and salty sea air.
The characters weren't complex at all. The voice of the rock kept singing "I am the voice of the rocccckk" and at times the stories were difficult to follow word for word. There wasn't an obvious beginning, middle and end in that order and there were a few times I wondered why the lady kept throwing sand everywhere or what the deal was with the big arrowhead hanging from the ceiling. But the story was supposed to fuel imaginations and, to me, it did that by creating simple but charming characters in a space full of patterns and sounds.
What I liked most about it, though, was that I didn't see them do anything that I couldn't do myself, eventually. Or perhaps, more appropriately, that we couldn't do ourselves... Sorry, if that sounds incredibly arrogant, I really was so impressed by it all; but it wasn't one of those big shows, the spectaculars that you wonder if you could ever have the time/talent/cash to do yourself.
I think that's the best thing about a good piece of community theatre. It should encourage you to find out more about your small place and to talk to at least five people along the way who you never would have otherwise. It should help you to stitch their stories together with yours and then to present that finished product to the same people who opened their doors to you in the first place.
With a bit of luck too, it'll stir up all the sleeping stories of the new people in the audience so they can go and do the same in their small place.
It was a celebration of stories found and told around Morcambe Bay, a product of three years collecting characters, making fables out of tales told, creating shapes and filling them in with the colours of the community. In a big top, in a field on an industrial estate, with drummers outside and ladies with tea, coffee and hot choclate for the interval, Longline was an invitation to the story-steeped spirits of Morcambe Bay to come and sing along with the children, parents, shop keepers, teachers, builders and artists who live there now.
The big top was smaller than I thought it was going to be and it was less exciting - though I have to clarify that I use this word loosly, like a Hollywood action flick is "exciting" or the opening ceremony of the Winter Olympics - stylish, but showy - the kind of thing that leaves you thinking, "the money for that giant inflatable rabbit with pyrotechnics in its marshmallow shoes could have been spent in other ways, I'm sure..."
I'm glad they didn't (couldn't) throw money at it, it would have detracted from the sense that it was about sitting in the cold, listening avidly to experienced story tellers do what they do best. And while the big top was little and the spectacular was limited to the firework display at the end, the show was big, enormous. Grown by words, pictures, fish and chips and salty sea air.
The characters weren't complex at all. The voice of the rock kept singing "I am the voice of the rocccckk" and at times the stories were difficult to follow word for word. There wasn't an obvious beginning, middle and end in that order and there were a few times I wondered why the lady kept throwing sand everywhere or what the deal was with the big arrowhead hanging from the ceiling. But the story was supposed to fuel imaginations and, to me, it did that by creating simple but charming characters in a space full of patterns and sounds.
What I liked most about it, though, was that I didn't see them do anything that I couldn't do myself, eventually. Or perhaps, more appropriately, that we couldn't do ourselves... Sorry, if that sounds incredibly arrogant, I really was so impressed by it all; but it wasn't one of those big shows, the spectaculars that you wonder if you could ever have the time/talent/cash to do yourself.
I think that's the best thing about a good piece of community theatre. It should encourage you to find out more about your small place and to talk to at least five people along the way who you never would have otherwise. It should help you to stitch their stories together with yours and then to present that finished product to the same people who opened their doors to you in the first place.
With a bit of luck too, it'll stir up all the sleeping stories of the new people in the audience so they can go and do the same in their small place.
09 March 2006
the road to guantanamo
If you didn't get a chance to see it tonight on Channel Four, click here to download The Road to Guantanamo. It is incredibly powerful and very moving. I thought I was too busy in my little world to feel outrage anymore. I was wrong.
04 March 2006
jackie!
Following on from the comment left by "anonymous" on the last post, I would like to offer you this picture which I made instead of graduating.
I would also like to invite anyone else who wants a famous face to send me a picture. I will try my best, it's much cheaper and involves far less mess than that disgusting MTV show.
Jackie Bird is my best pal, no one believed me, but here is photographic proof. So there.
I would also like to invite anyone else who wants a famous face to send me a picture. I will try my best, it's much cheaper and involves far less mess than that disgusting MTV show.
Jackie Bird is my best pal, no one believed me, but here is photographic proof. So there.
02 March 2006
we like the mooooon...
The moon followed me this evening. If anyone knows how the clever moon does this, please tell me.
I'm baffled.
When I left the flat it was over the river somewhere, when I turned the corner it was above the underground station. It followed me along Great Western Road grinning at me above chimeys and then sneaking into people's windows. Across Kelvinbridge it napped comfortably in a blanket blue sky. Walking down Bank Street it peered out through the trees... I found Suzie and I think it wanted to come for a glass of wine with us. I would have been happy if it had but it nipped off somewhere, maybe to see a film, maybe to dinner with Jupiter.
As this is a multimedia stlye post, I would advise clicking here to get musical accomaniment.
I'm baffled.
When I left the flat it was over the river somewhere, when I turned the corner it was above the underground station. It followed me along Great Western Road grinning at me above chimeys and then sneaking into people's windows. Across Kelvinbridge it napped comfortably in a blanket blue sky. Walking down Bank Street it peered out through the trees... I found Suzie and I think it wanted to come for a glass of wine with us. I would have been happy if it had but it nipped off somewhere, maybe to see a film, maybe to dinner with Jupiter.
As this is a multimedia stlye post, I would advise clicking here to get musical accomaniment.
