Through life you have varied perspectives, middle age suddenly provides a balanced review, looking backwards as much as forwards, remembering events. The mind still clear and lucid but reflective. What a lot has happened across the years, how lucky I have been. That should be remembered and equate to happiness. A life well lived. Sit back and rejoice. No need to constantly chase forwards although that is your natural inclination. News of death always comes as a jolt to life, stopping you in your tracks and reminding of the annoying fact that this doesn’t go on forever. It stops. Seasons may change, you remember key events and reflect, you dream and love, but at some point everything comes to a juddering halt. Our own lifespan, predetermined or forced through actions. Probably best to make the most of it, every minute, stop worrying about the individual annoyances and reflect on the whole. I’m currently moved by the outpouring of love shown between contestants on Celebrity Masterchef, where food and pressure seems to have brought the absolute best nature out of people. They all seem so lovely and loved up. Enjoying the best experiences of their life. It is my new mantra, be the best you who would be on Masterchef, even though my cooking would fall apart, I want to wrap up the energy and be the best human I possibly can. Lets cook.
Sitting in a coffee shop underneath the arches waiting for my train to arrive. All manner of people, Bristol people, venturing in and out, collecting baked goods created in front of their eyes, too bleary to understand the lack of mystery. Various fashion, individualism, collective lives, coffee. Expectant and a little fraught, a workday in early September provides a unique buzz. The calm beauty of summer gradually seeping away towards getting your head down for the graft of winter. Jumpers and jackets back out of storage, straight away, no real meander but straight back into the thick of it. No time to sit and contemplate what has been, just marching on to the next stage, free flowing downhill into the abyss of winter.
The lcy coldness of early autumn mornings, where the memory of summer is still present but the heat is starting to dissipate. Skies radiate with an orange, purple blue cobalt metallic quality, much lighter than in previous months, a pastel thinness as the light is lower and less intense. The sun more gradually rising, a lower trajectory that adds greater interest like the lamps you have in your rooms rather than the over bright overhead light. Birds seem to talk and fly more delicately, less insistent, waning in energy as they start the process of either heading south or hunkering down. The squawking youthfulness of spring and summer replaced by a thoughtful resigning to the gradual onset of darker and colder times. Like the birds I sometimes get Seasonal Adjustment Disorder, sadden by the onset of darker, colder and often wetter times. The lack of light proving difficult to cope with. I love wrapping up and kicking through fallen leaves on country paths or city avenues, my camera coming to life as vistas take on greater interest, the flatness of summer replaced by interest and hue. I stare at the sky a lot more in autumn, slightly wistful but also thankful for the beauty. September, which veers uneasily between seasons, getting colder but often dry and mini heatwaves providing the last remembrance of fanciful summer times. The last chance to dive into the sea, it’s warmest time of the year, a fitting memory of immersing in nature. The classic colourful months of autumn. Woodland walks. The last chance of light. Bitter sweet. The end of something and the start of the new although it feels more like gradually disappearing, going into a cave, going underground, darkness enveloping. Memories of light transferred into darker days. Wet, cold, neon lights. Avenues of golden trees glinting in the lowering sunlight, rays softly etching patterns on the forest floor. Autumn seems to start earlier every year, snatching summer moments before they have even been fulfilled. Leaves browning and falling in July. I am sure that never happened in my youth where long hot summers seemed to stretch for eternity. Now though early autumn provides a somnambulant air, sleepwalking into colder, wetter and shorter days, life snatched from your very grasp. Before the beautiful colours emerge, it is a prewinter state, a warning sign of life passing. Time turning. Gradual ageing. The garden goes into hibernation, plants stop growing and start to wilt. Stasis is on the horizon.
I used to have a teacher at secondary school called Mrs De’ath. I never saw her as the harbinger of doom but just another adult with a slightly French sounding name. The innocence of youth gradually slipping to the realisation that death is all around us, shadowing our every move. On the news in our personal lives. Gunmen running amok in schools. The first part of life is generally great where you just have the odd moment of death in your life. Pet cat, extremely old grandparents, distant acquaintance at school. As you age then it gradually becomes increasingly central to your life. Mortality is up front and central. Cancer crawling around inside people, pulling rugs from lives. Kids left stranded, fending with the parent who is left. Grief rippled through their conscious and subconscious. Refugees fleeing death and risking almost certain catastrophe through cramming onto overly small boats, wobbling across the channel. Iconic and less known musicians die. They don’t go on for ever which seemed to be the case when you were growing up, Everyone was immortal. Friends phone with news of close family members. The cancer has come back, just a few weeks to live. It is something we all carry with us but reality bites hard, takes us away from moments of extreme joy dancing in fields or watching the sun gradually set over a blue, green, orange, yellow sky. Walking or cycling to work, any moment could be a slip where you fall off the pavement or the back wheel slips and death comes roaring into view. You could just stay at home, frozen in stasis, safe from harm although that meteorite heading for earth could come screaming down and finish it all for everyone. Climate change, the death of the planet is ingrown for children of today. Welcome to your world, which we have managed to f+ck. Streams of traffic stuck bumper to bumper in city after city. The world distracting itself by suggesting that they are tackling global warming. Mass queues in airports as passengers fight for connecting flights, oblivious to their part in the planet’s downfall. Pollution, poisoning millions of people daily. Invisible fumes that activate cancer cells. The old days of smoking in shops, bars, homes gone as the most direct health risk is tackled whilst leaving a whole host of others gapingly open. Food. What’s on your plate, a rainbow of colours mimicking the setting sun? Or is it just overcast and grey. Beige. The colour of death. Youth still have technicolour lives, tik tok inspired over bright gaudy flashy sickly multitude of colours whereas the ageing sit in light brown piss stinking armchairs waiting for the chance to exit. Losing their mind as friends and family gather around, a ritual as we see off one more member of our tribe.
The end of summer bank holiday bookends from late May, a time of freshness and hope to one of remembering, thoughts, placing in time. Arranging big groups of people to get together from all corners of the globe, friends of friends. Your tribe expanding. Connecting to your partners world. Expanding the love. The end of summer August bank holiday has a moving melancholic feel, the end of something. Long days, endless sunshine, warmth, freedom, outside. The first slight chill in the air which catches you, brings up thoughts of future days huddled beside a pitch in multiple layers, a woolly hat pulled over your ears. The smell of cheap burgers and chips as the new football season roars into view. I love those months of silence, away from the constant bombardment of people kicking something round, an old bladder. In the old days it was a solid mass, sturdy boots against immovable object now replaced by soft leather slippers and a beachball. Everything is lighter nowadays which is much better when you are trying to head the thing. Picking blackberries, the garden starting to wilt and weeds grow slightly slower, the lawn has one or two cuts left in it. I often go on holiday in September because it’s cheaper and foreign climbs still retain their warmth without the crowds. There is a melancholic glow to things though, a sadness which feels healthy to indulge. Campsites gradually battering down, a wet dew meeting you as feet exit the tent. A freshness. The sky takes on a pastel consistency, peach, soft yellows. Gentle light overtaking the harshness. This bank holiday, iconic Bristol band Massive Attack played what could possibly be their last ever gig, outside on the downs, rain squalling around the band like usual. The force of staccato synth lines, bass rumblings, ethereal vocals reaching up into the atmosphere, pulling clouds together, hugging the ground. A mass of people worshipping and thinking, political slogans and messaging, vital images. This is more than a concert but a moment in time, remembering the need for action, climate, war, famine raging across the world as we party. The sound of Massive will linger in that space for ever, the Bristol air always containing familiar refrains. The sound of the place amplified. Looking around, seeing old and new friends, familiar faces from the city village in all directions come to be part of the last rights, a collective moment no one will forget. History being made while the current world is centre stage. Groups of people clinging close to each other, providing solace for times ahead. The sounds of the band drift on as the world keeps turning.
Numbers or letters connected to your name are meant to define who you are by society. Are you bright, intelligent, diligent, conscientious etc… Years of being at school, slaving over a hot desk scratched with the names of former victims, that familiar sweet and woody smell as you lift the lid. Reaching underneath to feel gum squelching into each of the four leg joints. A place which is your present but will decide your future. That moment when you look at the wall, should you start high or low to see where you come in the roll call of grades or opening a brown envelope, peering in to view the figures that might decide your future. Formerly there were letters A,B,C but now numbers, searching for the 9’s but generally hovering around the 6 region. On the edge. A point where you are unsure what to do next, a grade just below what was required by the sparkling university you visited a few months ago in great expectation and belief. Did I pick up the right envelope, maybe these are someone else’s marks. The buzz of friends and enemies around you collecting their fate. All is evened out. The brainy swats finally having their moment of fame. Oxford or Cambridge for you is it dears. Bristol poly for me then. Possibly. If I can persuade someone in their applications department that I might be worth a shot. Numbers or letters deciding your fate. Life turning in one moment, from the path of riches, fun, laughter ahead to one of struggle stretching forward. This obviously isn’t true though. What do grades really mean? That you knew how to remember some things, that you have a settled home life, interested and engaged parents, parents, lack of other interests such as music, football, cricket, culture, fashion, sex, drink, drugs, books, humour, travel. The past controls your future, how lucky did you get in the roll call of life, providing a backbone to drive forwards from. It carries on to university too if you decide to go there. More exams, testing, grades. 3rd, Desmond, 2:1, first. You can only go to the next level if you get over a certain grade. Computer says no otherwise. You are thrown out with the trash, left with massive debts, hangovers, some new friends and no idea what to do next. Already a perceived multiple failure by the age of 22. You know your place. Grades don’t take account of humans, the fact that we all develop at various speeds, start to get into our skins, realise who we are, be the real me. We should all be tested for happiness really. Where are we on the scale? Are we doing the things that we love and are suited for, making the most of our talents and personalities, being the best person, we can be. All perfect 10’s if we need to give it a number. A**.
Coming to a conclusion, gathering all of those thoughts together can be such a difficult process to go through, something which affects your life and those around you. Some people get comatose by the perceived enormity whilst others make it without a second thought. Going on gut instinct, coordinating all those different elements into one coherent whole within seconds. They know that is the right decision. Others struggle to leave the house. Deciding what the take with them, to wear, which bag, shoes, hat or not, a couple of coats. Really they are well prepared, ready for any situation except perhaps nuclear war. Others just leave like that, a thin raincoat slung over their shoulder and off they go. Every moment of every day is about decisions. Our lives are defined by them. Planning who to go and see, what events, how to balance your weeks Go to the gym or a run down the beach. Entering into the duty free area of an airport and faced with that unique scent of a million different perfumes, sparkling dayglo bottles ready for a little body taste. Rub some on your neck and no idea if it suits you or smells nice, matching with your pheromones or smelling like petrol. It is a good decision not to rub hands around the neck region after putting petrol in your car. Venturing further in the concourse a selection of familiar shops await. Maybe some new sunglasses for the trip. Gucci, Ray-Ban or Polaroid. Millions of lenses gleaming back at you, frames with subtle differences. How do you choose? Go for the cheapest option perhaps that looks remotely suitable. Can you decide what looks good on your face or do you need an accomplice to help. Choosing a certain pair will alter your overall look, almost personality. Big and brash or cool and sophisticated. Bookish or biker. You are at the airport with decisions already made. A holiday planned. Weeks of pouring through travel guides and Facebook posts to come to the ultimate Greek Island. How do you choose? Undiscovered Greece, near islands you can hop to, beautiful but unspoilt. Searching for your own bespoke piece of paradise. It’s your honeymoon so this needs to be right. Not a half-built apartment with builders staring through your window, providing the chainsaw morning chorus like a Greek Einsterzunde Neubauten. You could just rock up at the air take off place and see what’s available. Go for the moment. Close eyes and point at a map of the world. How exciting. Too exciting or unpredictable perhaps. Part of the joy of holidays is planning, building up a perceived idea of what it’s like. Inter railing. City to city. Walks in the mountains. Going to visit friends. An academic conference with a holiday tacked on. That seems to be quite an effective way of deciding where to go, following the call for papers which can be connected to your own research but which land in interesting places. Canada, Jamaica, Finland, Porto, Korea, Paris. Random American cities which might be worth an extended look. But all this travel. Is it really worthwhile and hey, have you heard about climate change. Altering the world in front of us. Surely we should just stop flying. Stay local. Cycle. Walk. Do nothing, be inert. Agh, such a difficult choice. A lack of real knowledge or collective behaviour. Why should I sacrifice these extra elements of my life when I see friends and foe jetting off around the world. If they stop, I do. Leave the decision to someone else. If the price was too high then I would find alternative things to do. If I knew by not flying the world would be saved, then absolutely, I’ll never set foot in a WH Smith’s again, trying to decide what novel or non-fiction book to get, something that will impact my holiday so directly. A book connected to the place I’m going or something which completely transports me to a different world. Should I stay or should I go?
Take time to think about your research, new ideas, develop networks. Deep thinking rather than surface running around inside the wheel. Slow down life. Get off your normal merry-go-round for a while
Interesting article on Bandcamp. One of the main inspirations growing up for my love of electronic filmic music, 80s electronica and the synthwave revival.
We love an underdog. Not the winner who is expected to win, does so without apparently breaking sweat. Sampras or Djokavic in tennis. It was always Nastase or Connors for me. Andy Murray had to work at full pelt to succeed, taking things to the edge so you were never sure if he was going to survive. The result in the balance. At the Paris 2024 Olympics two sets of UK athletes went for the dramatic rather than common place. Alex Yeo in the triathlon battled through the polluted waste of the Seine, swimming against sewage and the tide, survived the bike leg And then embarked on his favourite running section. Surprisingly one of his competitors started to go increasingly ahead. All seemed lost for Yeo and Team GB. He gained a second wind though, and bit by bit started to close the gap. The commentator got increasingly excited and then about 100 metres from the end Yeo takes the lead, wins by a few yards and then collapses on the ground, a few feet from the finish line. Completely spent. Exhausted. At his limit and beyond. The next competitor wobbles and falls gently on top of him, adrenalin immediately leaving the body as the finishing line is past. Back to the Seine, the women’s quads rowing were taking place, The Netherlands forging a large lead but the plucky Brits were hanging in there, just in sight, Gradually they started to reel their opponents in. It looked too late for gold but a few metres from the line an extraordinary effort propelled them to a photo finish which they won by a neck, or a head. Half an oar. The crew didn’t know they had won until the result flashed up on the screen. An incredible feat made dramatic by the manner of victory. It is not just about winning but the story that unfolds within it. The French BMX biker who crashed and lost his shoe before coming back to win a medal. Much more exciting than the Francophile swimmer who won loads of medals, seemingly without being out of breath. It’s not what you do but the way that you do it when going for gold.
Seeing different colours to everyone through my eyes. Being colour deficient grade 1 or formerly known as colour blind. How do we know that the colours we see are different? A green for you, compared to a green for me. Like snowflakes, maybe all colours look subtly different for everyone, all colours individual, personal, unique. For colour deficient people it is the combination of colours which is vital, the reds and greens together that can’t be deciphered. It is difficult to define how the colours look, can descriptions really define how we visualise colour? The power of words mixed with that of sight. As a teenager I always wanted to work for the BBC, be a production manager, camera person, presenter. Anything. My colour blindness put a stop to that. Scoring well in the personality tests, but being a danger on live TV, pressing the wrong button. The same for being a bomb disposal expert. My dreams dashed. I love taking colour photographs, the subtle shades of a sky gently caressing into the sea, the range of blues mesmeric, fading between each other. The pastel pinks, yellows, oranges of the summer sky early evening, when the intense sunshine of the day gradually dissipates, painting ever softer pictures. Artificial, neon, gaudy, bright, defined images have a greater direct impact. Manmade, starkly contrasting, great definition between strips of bright colour, lacking the subtlety which nature provides. Countries have different colour palettes, a general hue which pervades everything. Thailand is green, a vibrant aqua marine. India, dusty, orange, happy, artificial. Portugal yellow, houses painted in a range of colours but the overriding feel is ochre, egg, sun dazzlingly reflecting from windows and bunting, a simple, cheap way of bringing places to life. Bunting means festivity, party, celebration and colour. Simple pieces of vari-coloured cloth strung together across streets, hanging from buildings and lamps. In Porto the pavements are glassy, reflecting sunny, slippery when wet, forming black and white patterns that lead the eye to statues, monuments, buildings. Artwork formed on the floor, arranged by local councils with aesthetics in mind. In the UK you get some bitumen, potholes randomly temporarily filled with what seems like dark grey custard. A temporary ugly fix. No grand plan other than to try and solve some immediate issue. Doorways in Spain and Portugal beautifully painted or coloured, blank canvases ready to expand the beauty of their worlds. In England, some plastic, practical light grey job. Non transformable, impossible to paint. Presentation of sweet delicacies in numerous bakeries, a few slices of old Victoria sponge or rows of varied, perfectly formed pastries engaging visual and taste sensations, equally liable to lead to heart problems. Porto is completely friendly, containing an anarchistic edge but engagement, showing off their city, extreme pride in their produce and lived worlds. Happy to discuss the infinite details of the making of a rabbit stew or the depth and taste variances of 5, 10, 20 year old port wine. Porto is punk which has evolved, a socialist enclave with usual capitalist realities, a city with a village vibe. Obrigado.
