purplejaguar

Politics

Democracy is a two headed thing which never really seems to exist. In the UK we are told that we live in a democratic country, but your choices are so limited. For many, the choice is to tactically vote at an election, to try and not get the person you don’t want to win. The countryside is swathed in traditionally right-wing Tory voting areas, so if you want to get them out then you generally need to vote for the Liberal Democrats or the more extreme right of Brexit/ Reform. Labour generally exists in the metropolis, the city, working people seeking social support. A completely divided country, the cultural and the natural. The have and have nots. Many rich live in cities of course, driving the hands of production. The rednecks out in the countryside. Maybe the divide between urban and rural will be bridged in coming generations, as the grey haired, blue wearing right wingers gradually return to the sky. New blood, original ideas, an urban sensibility restored to countryside domains. Greater cultural diversity rather than the siloed world we live within. An election has been called, oh not another one says Brenda from Bristol. In all honesty, I have been waiting for this one for what seems like an eternity. The chance for the people to finally make a decision to get rid of the Conservative government. Almost a decade and a half in power and people worse off. Everything worse. Just look at homelessness, streets littered with bereft, roofless, unsupported human beings in one of the richest countries in the world. See that and let it sink in. That’s your guide. They really don’t care unless something directly affects them. Let’s see what it is like to have at least a few caring people in charge. It is possible. The world can be a better place where the rich actually support the concept of homelessness being eradicated. Sleeping in parks, loomed over by massive atriums, buildings which just have masses of wasted space just so that they look good, make an impression. If you really want to tackle lack of accommodation, cut down on atriums, reuse that money and space. Simple. Such a strange world we live in, where solutions stare us in the face, greed and malice have control with 1% of the population owning the majority share. The rich getter exponentially richer. How did this ever come to pass? Why do we allow such unfair behaviour to occur on our watch. Vote them out. I hope other planets have managed to develop a more equitable system. Tax the rich. Take unused space. Share to support human life. Aim for a non-hierarchical world, a utopia where everyone is equal. The universal basic wage will be in action at some point so let’s push for it now before the robots have properly taken over, whilst there is still a chance to take control of our future. Proportionally represented by artificial intelligence rather than just human reasoning, compassion and understanding.

Late on 4th July 2024 confirmation arrived that UK Tory chaos was finally pushed into the long grass, out of view, the start of a period of time to rethink. Labour bring hope, compassion, a social sensibility vividly at odds with the last 14 years. Listening to acceptance speeches from the reds, there is humility and respect for fellow humans, whether opponents or constituents. Hopefully a level of humanity has returned, kept in check by an astonishing number of left leaning MPs. That is what is so seismic. Not the scale of Labour’s victory or the unnerving presence of Reform, but the opportunity for the centre to eft in the UK to make change, to rescue politics from the gutter, to respond to human needs, to make a bold and compassionate statement. To bring love back into the equation. Hopefully there is this strength in Labour so it can seep into public consciousness. As a friend has suggested, the victorian undertaker and the lettuce have gone. Thank god.

SUMMER

The Longest Day

The long hot days of summer are something that many of us look forward to. A yearning for sunlight hours stretching beyond infinity. In the UK this can lead from 4am to 10.30 pm but the timing and amount of light varies depending on your longitude. As author Lavinia Greenlaw ponders in the Vast Extent there is an almost overbearing happiness to sunlight, commenting on the experience of Nordic countries leading into the artic circle, when sunlight can be almost constant by mid-summer. Without the madness of throwing yourself off cliffs. The light never disappearing. Just slightly dulling before rising again. Following the rhythm of light is a healthy way to exist, waking and sleeping with nature. In the winter you need to fight through this, to rise before the sun. Days stretch out in the summer, festivals arrive, people come outside, there is a buzz of happiness and life that emanates. In the summer you can go to the beach after work, meet up with friends for a drink, go for a walk, swim. Life is so much fuller. It’s way it is so tempting to follow the sun, move to Australia every winter. There is almost a forced element to being happy in the summer though, which can be overwhelming to some people. The need to stock up on vitamin D and happiness, ready for the long gradual march through autumn and winter. As a photographer the light is less interesting in summer months. It’s too flat, overbearing, constant, whereas the glimpses through winter cast long arrowing shards that pinpoint elements, highlighting and throwing vast shadows. The colours out to sea have a metallic vibrancy in winter that is rare in summer, where the haziness adds pastel shades. Paddle boarders silhouetted in waters which seem to lose their definition, floating in mid-air, Fata Morgana. I am always waiting for the summer. The gorgeous scents emanating from hedge rows. Freshly cut grass. No mow May, wildflowers dusting the air streams and delighting visual colours. June always seems to arrive too soon. A month of change and extremes. The longest day, leading onto the nights gradually starting to get darker. The hump month. Mid way through. Festival season, the end of school and university years, the start of summer for some, the gradual waning for others. In the UK it’s a beautiful month, beach swims, country walks in shorts and sandals, gardening, after work trips to the beer garden, a run along the coast. Always with the looming figure of Glastonbury at the far end, bookending the month and providing the turning point of summer. There is a sadness to summer I can never quite put my finger on. Maybe it’s the fact that it will end. Be existing, summer shows that it will finish. A bittersweet symphony. Or maybe it’s just the hay fever which is making my eyes itch and head swell. Hot, sweaty. Waking up in a tent slightly hung over, dry, parched. The expectation of summer. Looking forward to it through the long winter months only to be disappointed when it arrives. Although some days are magical, stretching out for ever, picnics under trees, by winding rivers. A lightness to the sounds. The longest day, eternal daylight stretching beyond your imagination, a dream state. Pastel coloured shades lighting the sky, drawing pictures of longevity and life.

Multiple Books

I read a series of books at the same time, flicking from one to the other, diving into the underground life of music, philosophy, fantasy, reality, fact or fiction. I have books for various times of days. Mornings are for writing, afternoons evenings for reading. I flitter, float about. The later the day becomes the more that fiction seems to resonate. Gently moving from theory to fantasy. I have books dotted around my house. A stolen moment here to pick up writing on Western Philosophy. A yoga manual perched by the sink in my bathroom, stood on one leg brushing my teeth. The shelf in my study contains all that music and culture information, books I have read and can constantly go back to, dive in again to remember sections or reacquaint with nuggets of information. Just by looking at the sleeve of a book and taking time to think, I can transport myself back in time, a tardis of information that is lodged somewhere in my brain waiting to be unleashed again. My living room contains a mixture, from magazines, journal, novels and more playful academic studies. Also books for guests. Ones other we have loved or those that haven’t quite resonated that passing people might grab hold of and take on their travels. A couple of books sit on my bedside table, again sliding from fact to fiction, generally combining both. Ways of supporting transference from daily life into dream states. There are patterns through everything. I find it difficult to watch TV without also reading at the same time, my brain not satisfied with just one form of stimulation but wanting to switch between states, multiple stories occurring at the same time. Most people also flick through their phones while watching TV, not content just to sink into one medium. I always feel better turning the blue screens off and sinking into a book, airplane mode, sat on the sofa, concentration honing in on just the one story, my mind switching off from reality. I find libraries both beautiful and scary. Overwhelmed by the enormous amount of information, again peering at sleeves to imagine what is inside each book. Trying to suck the information from the pages into my brain. Auto transference. Like the other Dr Strange I can raise my arms at the entrance to a library and suck the information of multiverses straight into me.

Rants

As humans we love a rant, inside our heads churning things over before generally unleashing at some point onto unsuspecting victims, impassioned by the unfairness of lots of things within life. As we get older you would think that calmer heads develop, compartmentalising concerns, ideas, thoughts. Taking time to think over, ponder, before spouting them out. Or do you actually need to verbalise thoughts in this way. Rants continue on certain paths, honing in on set ideas or concerns. The everyday unfairness of the world. The traffic, new lights system, being on hold, social media, politics, war, climate change, pollution, music, art, LA, saxophone players, jazz, auto tuned chipmunk vocals, radio, sound quality, public toilets, sewage in the water. Knowledge is power, something that has probably occurred since eternity, new measuring systems and media openness have brought debates to the fore. Is it better to keep the rats inside. Bottle them up but also take the time to think, put everything into perspective. Talking worries through with close friends seems to be a therapeutic way to unload data from within you but does it actually help in reality. Those issues probably still exist. We still live in a political system, first past the post, where inequalities rule. Hierarchies of power. Unequal wages. Premier League football players. The overly white male crowds at football matches baying for each other’s blood. Ranting in a neanderthal manner. Fighter gatherer without the gathering. Sometimes we are at peace. Lying on a subbed sipping a colourful martini, umbrellas and fruit bursting out, the sun gently dipping down, beautiful smells, fresh food being lovingly cooked ready to gorge. But, oh the chicken is slightly undercooked, the rice mushy, chips soggy. You are alone. There is no-one to hear your rant. You think about it inside and politely tip the restaurant before firing off a volley of texts to nearest and dearest. Whatever situation we are in, our plight is generally OK, small issues that blow up in our minds, take a step or two back, breathe in through your nose and out of your mouth. Chill.

Conspiracies

Today I heard the latest conspiracy theory. That planes were being flown in the sky to break up the atmosphere through spraying chemicals which then caused rain to occur. Crazy stuff. It has rained a lot this year. The Covid 19 pandemic started off in a wave of beautiful weather in the UK creating a bucolic gorgeous spring where the blossom was richer, the smells more fragrant and the light sharper. Exactly three years it is yet another dank dull day. Dreary me. If planes could cause the weather to change, then surely this is what could happen over drought ridden expanses. It could be the work for Kim Stanley Robinson’s Ministry of the Future. Conspiracy theories provide realism, a connection to world, an ideal that we can change things. Perversely they provide reasoning. Everyone talks about the weather, especially in the UK, where patterns are difficult to follow due to the almost constant variance. In the 1990s I buried myself amongst conspiracy, David Icke the TV presenting goalkeeper who took me into debates about Lady Diana and Dodie, the Twin Towers, and finally that the UK royal family were lizards. Now this just took me too far. The others have intrigue and possibility but amphibian transformation amongst the blue blooded was a step too far. Mayan conspiracies, Graham Hancock’s Fingerprints of the gods, redefining history, challenging norms, great stories. Truth. It has been battered. Donald Trump, that mainstream conspiracy dude, stolen election, Four Seasons Total Landscaping. Covid again. Hopefully, the UK election culminating on July 4th 2024 will provide a break from populism, solutions to real world problems, a sense of care and compassion. Real people creating real world solutions, not just propaganda. No pie in the sky. We can but hope that the stars are aligned this time.

Communal drugs

Newton’s cradle, one ball hitting another and gradually coming in sync. People come together and get more aligned often through taking the same drugs. The neural membranes aligned due to biological transfer. It is one of those things which is still slightly taboo, to talk about drugs, even though almost everyone has broken the law at some point by taking them. It could be the relatively light, sometimes called Gateway drug, of marijuana. A spliff. A relaxant in the right amount that can support mental health, whereas the wrong kind and too much is the complete opposite. Psychotic. Paranoia. Like many things in life it is the balance which is key. I go to the gym and that place is full of obsessives. People that need the hit which exercise can give. Some of my most transcendent moments have been there. Sweating and peddling in unison at a spin class, the instructor driving everyone forward, faster, more speed, as the techno track crashes through us. Group elation, laughter. Heart rates pounding through the BPM. A giddy excitement. The after glow which is followed by a gradual come down if there is no exercise, no gym the next day. It’s a good value healthy drug. Spliffs can support your creative mind, supposedly, but also dulls it, slows the memory cortex down so that you can’t actually remember anything seconds after you thought it. Obviously, there used to be the classic munchies. Young students rushing to the nearest Spar to stock up on Cadbury’s latest unhealthy balance. There is always that balance with drugs. The doing and the after. This is what causes so much pain and disaster. Lives tipped over by excess. Ecstasy brought a generation joy through the 1990s, supported by beautiful eclectic beats, Balearic, minimal, jungle, drum and bass, youth bouncing as one, underground overground dancing free. Grinning. Gurning. The up and the space to chill, doves and water. White floaty moments in love. Tuesdays were often difficult. Tetchy, doom ridden. Fetch that spliff for balance. Go to the gym. A walk in nature. Always a good cure. Other drugs such as heroin or ketamine were brutal reminders of the disasters awaiting, people let lose from their actors, floating off to other worlds, almost beyond saving. Psilocybin’s, mushrooms, magic, psychedelic experiences provided life altering moments, changing perceptions, webbing underground, connections understood, the matrix broken through. Neural change breakthroughs could provide exciting opportunities for communal health, utilised as an anti depressant, altering pathways so that the happy genes are restored, serotonin rushing through your body, generating the impetus to head back to the gym and spin.

Festival time is coming

I am sure that most of the my female friends have a greater number of friends than my male mates. I love friends, the close bond, silly and deep chats, similarities, differences but I don’t seem to spend much time nurturing them. I have a lovely small group alongside my close family, where I nurture relationships but generally I am quite self centred. Weaving my own path through the sticks of life, slaloming around poles which appear out of nowhere or gradually emerge from the distance. Today I woke up thinking about what I was going to do in two years time, when my research contract expires. It’s miles away but felt so close this morning. Being with friends at Glastonbury is an essential experience. I love my own space but this is one location and occasion where shared experiences are vital. OK you can meet people randomly, sometimes those that you know, but having a close group around you, the right number, 1-2, is ideal. Not too many to cramp your style and flow but enough to feel the love, comforted and sharing. In a couple of weeks a festival that I help to run, The Sidmouth Jazz and Blues Festival, will start, kicking off with king go gold Tony Hadley. Spandau Ballet cut a long story short, were cool for a few months but then became one of my less liked groups of the era. Being part of a festival is a great buzz, the year of planning coming to fruition, watching the vagaries of the English weather tease you. Seeing the same faces come back to work and help. A familiarity each year but also something different. There is always a vibe, a tangible feel to certain years. The wet Glastonbury’s trudging through mud, the hot Glastonbury’s yearning for shade. It’s not the specific bands but more the feel. What are the punters up to. Fashion, actions. Being part of organising a festival you feel that deep responsibility for everyone to have a great time, and when or if they do then your heart sings. It’s all worthwhile. The nerves start to kick in with a week to go. It all becomes real. A marker for the summer. A barometer of life. I am always gutted if I don’t go to Glastonbury Festival, which I haven’t for the last 10 years. I was tired of it by 2014. Corporate nonsense taking over the freedom which used to abound in the 1980s and 90s. BBC trucks pulling up and filming everything. A great wall holding everyone in. Search lights, watch towers. It used to be so liberating, now it feels like an image of liberation, a 2D rather than 3D experience. Still good though. I’m in that brief period of excitement and slight trepidation, a couple of days before going, trying to organise a good camping spot and not accepting every single gig coming my way, although I think I’ll be too busy to see Coldplay or Shania Twain. Which is a relief. The heart of Glastonbury is still run by crews who have been there for years, Shangri la, Theatre and Circus, Bandstand, Croissant Neuf. All the fun of the fair. Packing: small tent, nuts, protein bars, coffee, Trangia, duvet, trombone, accordion, water, vitamins, suncream, shorts, sandals, trainers, hats, brightly coloured shirts, festival blanket, sunglasses, camera. Check, 1, 2.

Money, Money, Money

Money, what is it good for. Absolutely buying anything you want, not worrying about your future. Safety. We live on that edge of calmness and concern. Working daily to make ends meet, not struggling but veering towards the precipice which could cause it all to fall down. Living a comfortable life but knowing that one misstep could mean it all comes tumbling down. But we are middle class, have the security of family and friends, our health and many back up plans. We are a long way from the streets but like most people, closer than everyone thinks. It only takes one Michael Douglas day, to wake up on the wrong side, to self destruct through sheer and sudden panic. I have a contract for a couple of years, the job is engaging and interesting but already I am slightly distracted, wondering what I can do in 2026. Where will my career go, how do I ensure the future. Generally though I believe in fate, and waiting for the right opportunities to arrive. I balance my money between credit cards, juggling everyday, checking apps and fine tuning, watching the numbers gradually get lower and lower. As a student it took me a while to get used to money. I was amazed that each time I went to a cashpoint the number seemed to increase, before realising that there was a minus sign before it. Some people have money tied up in properties. Those ‘lucky’ people who inherited something or came to the housing market at an opportune point. This has long gone for the youth of today. The ladder is gradually rising off the ground, way out of reach. Asset rich, cash poor the nouveau upper middle class sometimes struggle to work, used to having money fly to them, swirling around in the sky and gently dropping into their waiting arms. For most of us money has to be learnt. The hard slog of life to get some cash, to pay for a holiday as a break from the drudgery of life. To buy something that takes us away from normality, is special. Provides a focus. I would love to buy a new synthesis for my studio but everyday money passing means that it keeps getting pushed back, waiting for that magical moment when you gain something. A minor lottery win (although I only played it for the first few weeks). Tax rebate. Work bonus. Maybe one of my tracks or books or photographs will finally make me some dosh after all this time. Waiting. Working. Longing. I don’t want much, just that little extra. But money means nothing. It is worthless. Previously gold, silver, paper and now just numbers rolling around in the ether. Money makes the world go round but will also lead to its fatality. Money will be squirrelled away by the chosen few as the earth burns, floods, dies. They will be standing there with notes stuffed in their pockets as the world gradually tips off its axis and falls away into the ether, another lonely star wondering around in outer space without a cashpoint in sight.

Weekends

I always get excited from a Thursday late afternoon onwards. The rhythm of the week drawing towards the excitement of the weekend. The end of the week. The finale. Why are we so drawn towards endings, not present in the moment but reaching out for the future. I am like that through the seasons. Desperately holding on through the everlasting dark of winter, looking for the first signs of spring, a new beginning, waiting for the end and a new start. Fridays are exciting, because it is soon going to be time for leisure. To relax. Unwind. But are weekends in reality like that? When you have children this is the time to fight your way to clubs, watch boring cartoons, worry about how to keep them occupied, stop them being bored. As an ageing adult I still love the approach of the weekend, but maybe it is this moment which is the most exciting part. The anticipation rather than the reality. We are constantly waiting. For that lottery win. For one of my tracks to be played on the radio. For that perfect job to arrive. For the post. For an email. For guests. For partners. For your football team to win. If they lose then this can ruin some weekends. How crazy is that. You wait in excitement and then are just bitterly disappointed yet again. Today, though, it is 6.30am on a beautiful late April Saturday morning in Devon. The golden sun is rising, starting to spread through our bungalow, glowing, rich, golden. All is quiet except for the occasional sound of rising birds. The beautiful dawn chorus interrupted by horrific seagull squalls. Two beautiful days spread out in front of us. The chance to chill. Mm possibly. Well actually my mother is arriving in a couple of hours and this place is a bit of a mess, so cleaning, scrubbing, tidying, shopping, cooking needs to happen. Daily chores that wait until the weekend. Surely the week is better then, when all you have to worry about is the day job. And that’s quite fun. Meeting friends, hanging out at the beach, sharing dinner, walking along the coastal path, swimming, exercising, browsing shops. All this is good. Saturday is activity day. Get all those chores and things out the way. Sunday. The only day of the week where I allow myself a lie in. Papers, books, articles, music. Through the week I mainly listen to talking on the radio but Sunday changes things. Sunday is music day. Exit from the real world and dream. Read articles on holidays. Plan your life. Allow a hangover to gently flow through your body, taking away an over active mind so that you exist in a semi dream state. Awake but chilled. Sundays can allow you to go with the natural flow, let the weather take you. Drift around. A holiday. A chance to potter in the garden. Hang out with friends. Take them back to the station after Sunday lunch. That great ritual. Lamb, chicken, pork, nut roast, gravy, too many potatoes. Sticky toffee pudding. Custard. Local beers. Snooze. Walk it off. Snack. Spend ages trying to find a film that might be good on the overly numerous streaming channels. One that you will both like. Possibly. The film comes to an unsatisfactory conclusion leading some debate on its merits. Then it is time. Time to think of the week ahead. At this moment the weekend ends. Abruptly. Getting ready for the week ahead. Meetings, emails to send, places to be, projects to rescue, people to support, money to be made. The dynamism of the week ahead racing through your mind, looking ahead to the next weekend.

A bunch of cuts

Nottingham is an interesting place. Sat halfway up the country, home to Byron, Boots, Raleigh and lace. It is not somewhere I previously considered but starting to work with the university there and my youngest daughter going to university in the city, has brought it into focus. I met an orchestral leader and educator in the city, someone who transferred their life from LA to the East Midlands. For work, such is the joy of academia, throwing you around the world in search of nirvana. Looking for the excitement and safety in equal measures. Academic working puts your whole sense of place in another context because it provides opportunity and threat. The chance to travel around the world, put small roots down wherever the best role seems to fit. It also keeps you there though because when you start to specialise in an area the options become less apparent. You raise a family and don’t want then have to decamp somewhere else. It provides a level of paranoia, especially within the creative arts that are under attack yet again in Higher Education. Leave those teams alone. Fight alternative beings rather than going for the easy targets situated within the arts. The creative arts bring a whole range of excitement, interest and sets of skills that really traverse boundaries. Reflexivity, stamina, concentration, innovation, dedication, collaboration, humour, physicality, neuroscientific skills which are transferable or just lay in place to entertain. Local Councils like that in Birmingham or Nottingham are in financial peril, so the first they consider is to cut the arts. But these are the elements which make them, drive local industries, provide employment, set the tone of a place. Why not think about doing the reverse. Embrace the arts, place trust in their ability to lead your city to prosperity.

I am exploring the concept of scenius, the collective genius existing within scenes. Exploring the intricate parts which make up successful scenes, lifting them beyond the norm. I see the main elements as centred around hierarchies, process, experimentation, relationships and flow. The Bristol music scene as defined by bands such as Massive Attack and Portishead brought disparate parts of the city together. St Pauls and Clifton, placed in the Dug Out club and revolver records equidistant between both areas. The music resonated with the sound of the city, the Bristol hum, water sloshing underneath the pathways, providing a resonant frequency which connected with the bass music, a slow tempo with depth. An ethos based on attitude. Political protest. Standing up for the common good. Preparing to fail or anger the regular creative arts industry. Banksy. Placing faith in art. No compromise. No sellout. Each place has its own resonance, connects through natural and social factors. It’s time again to fight for the arts, to provide the new upcoming government with so much evidence that they finally support the arts once and for all, enshrines British culture with the security it needs and deserves.