Nine Feet Underground

[This probably ought to be a review of Kathryn Joseph and SHHE at South Street Arts Centre last night. But it isn't.] Twilight twilight nihil nihil Who will deliver me from this body of death? Who will deliver me from this body of death? Who will deliver me from this body of death? Who will deliver me from this body of death? There is no refuge I have found the word does not save There is no refuge In the rock or stone There is no refuge In the wind or other forces of nature The fire especially especially does not save The fire only destroys And though it may purify it takes takes takes And gives nihil back nihil, nihil, nihil, nihil, nihil And the holybooks alas have not Will not alas can not save nihil nihil nihil This is the chorus of the wind The sun the moon the waters all blue all green or stagnant Nihil they sing nihil The inmost light nihil, nihil The inmost light nihil, nihil The inmost light nihil Finally the child aged dies and sings Nihil this swansong

Some days words don't come easy. Or rather some days the words have flowed elsewhere and are spent. None are left. There's nothing to write that I haven't already written. Writing it doesn't change anything, other than releases those words from their synaptic prison. As I write these words devoid of content I am listening to Laura Nyro singing 'Captain for Dark Mornings' from the album 'New York Tendaberry', which seems strangely appropriate, though coincidental. I probably ought to write something about Laura Nyro at some point, but she's not the musical subject of this post. The post could have been about International Teachers of Pop's eponymous album, but it's way too poppy and dance-y to fit with the general (lack of) thrust of the post. ITOP will get their day soon, for sure.  Instead the sepia tones of Rustin Man and the slow burning but ultimately all-consuming album 'Drift Code', released earlier this month.  I

You'd think that after two, maybe three, years of coming to terms with how life has changed and how it can never go back to the way it was, allied with the various health service interventions there have been along the way, I might have actually got things straight in my head. Except that that is not how it is.  Each day I feel like I am poised on a knife edge. Poised above an ever-present emptiness. I believe there is a cure for that hollowed-out feeling. Day to day there are distractions that keep me away from the ache at the centre. Some are longer-lived. Some fleeting. Always, when I least expect it, that feeling pulls at me, reminding me of what I've lost, what I might have had and what I can't seem to find. It is the wild fluctuations of mood that catch me by surprise. The prevailing mood seems to be low. It's always round the corner. I bump into it when I least expect it. Then it's here to stay. Until the next thing. Or until I sleep. [IWJCTD] In the

The usual mix of ups, downs, highs and lows.  The difficulties of understanding people and the difficulty of getting across an equivalent understanding of oneself. Only direct speaking, however shocking, seems to to work. Even then, it seems, some things are open to misinterpretation and misunderstanding. I strive to survive. For reasons I know not why. I love this song. Appropriately it haunts my days and my nights. It seems to encapsulate both beauty and danger; the most exquisite combination on the path to damnation. I like the broken words. The track is the just-released Afrodeutsche remix of 'Day Dreaming' from Marie Davidson's rather wonderful album 'Working Class Woman' from last year. [The title of this blog is stolen from Samuel Beckett, from the opening of the novel 'Murphy'  ]

What should have been seven posts has turned into one.  What's been going on? A mixture of life (me going out and doing things like meeting a friend for a walk, participating in book club, going for a curry with an old school friend, taking part in a Labour Party fund-raising quiz) and me wrestling with what to say, considering whether I want to say anything at all and generally feeling hemmed in and pointless.  Plus ça change! There has been lots of music passing through these ears this week: new stuff, old stuff, catching up on last year stuff, blah, blah, blah. Flipped from my music to BBC 6 Music whilst driving home from work and the song above was playing. One of those 'have to hear it to the end to find out who it's by and what the song is' moments.  Thought it would be nice to choose something upbeat for a change. On balance I figure this song is in tune with how I've felt for more than half this week's waking hours, so if anything can repre

I've spent so long writing  what ended up being two posts on the best albums of 2018 (in my opinion, natch) that I've neglected the quotidian reality of life nine feet underground. Four days have passed since I posted a 'normal' blog here, primarily 'cos it took that long to write the 'Best Ofs' - even then I held back, there was much more I could have written - but I just wanted to get them finished and out there. It's become clear to me (probably should have realised this decades ago) that I have a compulsion to write.  What you see here (if indeed anyone does) is the tip of the iceberg. There's a journal, there's my Bullet Journal (entirely separate from the journal), there are the letters I write weekly that are an exercise in Sisyphean futility (only time will tell) and more besides. I have long harboured a desire to write in a more substantial way but somehow I have struggled to find a voice that I feel is my own and not jus