Tag Archives: life

Grades

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**.

Making decisions

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?

Colour

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

What is the point

What is the point of life. Arriving with a fanfare then relegated to a footnote. A few people make a mark on the world but the rest of us exist on the planet, stationary, moving, quiet, talking, blah blah blah. What is point? If everyone existed to make the world a better place, a purely philanthropic existence then I can see why we exist, to demonstrate the pure spirit of humanity. Buying stuff to fulfil empty voids shows the futility of life. It is only the internal that is going to be satisfied. When you achieve something like the creation of a new song, finish a book, create an amazing meal, put on an event, get married, see your kids pass exams, see your kids, swim in ice cold water, complete the Grizzly (marathon), move house, plant some veg, get rid of the rats, or have a good day at work. That means something, but it is sometimes difficult to put your finger on exactly that is. If you stop to think then danger.

What are the most pleasurable experiences of life? Making love to your wife? Getting an email from a publisher saying they love your book, are going to publish it and give you a juicy advance? Connectivity with friends? Those moments where you feel there is real purpose because you are in a group who connect. Prince (symbol) shone so brightly but then he was gone, suddenly out of view, a retrospective guitar wielding funky moment in time. A back catalogue to be cherished, but by who? Not Prince himself. He is gone. How will history look back on him? As a genius but with dodgy lyrics. Slightly reincarnated in the form of Thundercat, Janelle Monae, Orgone, Electro Deluxe, or Dirty Loops. From Dirty Mind to Dirty Loops. Prince defined a generation, the end of the 20th century, partying like its 1999 before the millennium crash.

What does life mean to me? Love and friendships, being creatively successful and having a nice place by the sea. Not worrying about money so that it isn’t a central block on the mind and imagination. It is amazing that our world is full of people who want to kill life, cut off the very supply we exist within. Life at the moment would be a couple of days where there is no rain, the possibility for the garden to dry out rather than living in a swamp. Currently hailstones are raining down outside my window. Will this climatic changing weather ever stop. What is wrong with the world. It feels like we are slightly off axis, out of sync, there is something deeply wrong with the patterns. The wettest year on record causing pollution to stream through our waterways. Wild swimming, which became such in vogue through the covid pandemic, is fraught with coli danger. I have never seen anything like this in my lifetime. During the first few months of Covid-19 the world seemed almost at peace, beautiful clear and calm days, birds awakening through our cities, animals taking control as goats roamed through the streets of Llandudno. We need some way of regaining our equilibrium, restoring the faith, shoving us back in the path. Maybe if a meteorite crashed at exactly the right velocity and point then it would jolt planet earth back into its happy place.

I love waking up and seeing the view from my kitchen. The endless variety that the same picture conveys, changed by seasons and the vagaries of the English weather. Coastal winds transforming the seascape unfolding in front of me. The variances as the sun rises from a slightly different position each day, although often there is just a greyness the flattens everything. Mood and perspective. Whilst studying for a PhD I used to cycle between Bristol and Bath most days, stopping at the same point and snapping a shot. Again I was entranced by the differences in similarity, the chance to look more deeply when you start to know every element in your picture. Not a set of holiday snaps which blindly take you around the pool, beach, lunch, church, beach, afternoon drinks, sunset, dinner, party. A beautiful view is to be savoured, unfurled through the ages, the chance to measure your life alongside the beauty of humans and nature.

A view from my kitchen window looking South East towards sunrise, the sea and some dramatic clouds after another crazy storm.