Archive for March, 2017|Monthly archive page
I am at a meeting in BAFTA with an old colleague of mine. He mentions his films are distributed by a company called DRG. I said I think I met a bloke from there a couple of years ago at a documentary festival in La Rochelle. It was the company name with three letters which made me make the connection. (We had dinner together in a group one evening, nice fella, but I haven’t seen or thought about him since.)
About an hour later, thirty feet from that spot, I go to the loo and bump into that very man. It’s turns out his company is not DRG but TCB.
So two years on, based on an incorrect connection, the same man is in the same place. Now that’s what I call a Coincidence (No. 394)!
I live for coincidences. They briefly give to me the illusion or the hope that there’s a pattern to my life, and if there’s a pattern, then maybe I’m moving toward some kind of destiny where it’s all explained.
Jonathan Ames – US writer, columnist, novelist, scriptwriter
I was standing under this poster at the foot of Waterloo Bridge on a Skype call to Germany, homeland of Fassbinder. The poster was on the wall of the BFI/NFT advertising a new season of films. The bridge is the next road bridge down the Thames from Westminster Bridge. The call was to fellow participants of Berlin-based Documentary Campus and we were discussing the films we are all working on.
I was Skyping from my phone on the street because I had an adjacent meeting about the creation of an app to address the global problem of 10,000 children dying every day from preventable diseases. I had no time between the call and the meeting so had to dial in from the open air.
The other call participants commented on the noisiness of the London streets – sirens, helicopters, traffic. I said this was just normal for London (which it often pretty much is along the river there). Then one of the callers from Germany said no it’s not, there’s been a terrorist attack. For a moment I hesitated to see if it was some kind of joke, the same reaction as one or two of the other participants. But then it became clear he was not joking, that the site of the attack was around Westminster.
A strange way to learn of such a tragedy.
This was the blood red sky in the direction of Westminster as I left the meeting.
This was the blood red sky as I reached the river under Waterloo Bridge.
This was the view towards Westminster Bridge and the Houses of Parliament. The blue lights were still flashing.
A second big indiscriminate attack on the multicultural population of this greatest city in this grim period for the world. Innocent bystanders from Brittany and Romania, Lancashire and Lord knows where, no more than the perpetrator knew where. This beautiful view in stark contrast to the ugliness of the act and the ‘thinking’ behind it.
I got up and went to enjoy the early morning sunshine in the garden, reading Jay McInerney’s ‘Bright, Precious Days’. I noticed for the first time that the word ‘bright’ recurs in his novel titles: Bright Lights, Big City; Brightness Falls; Bright, Precious Days.
I went to a funeral at lunchtime. In the service human life was compared to a passing shadow and the religious leader drew attention to the brightness that created that shadow.
In the evening I saw ‘An American in Paris’ at the Dominion (where Chaplin’s ‘City Lights’ was premiered in 1931). In that show the composer character has a revelation that what his tunes are missing is brightness in the wake of World War Two and the occupation of Paris.
In a word
God’s finger touched him
Oh for the touch of a vanished hand
Into thine hand I commit my spirit
Underneath are the everlasting arms
Only to us a short time lent
Until the end of our days
Our lights have gone out everywhere
No morning dawns no night returns
A place is vacant
Our family chain is
A bitter grief, a shock severe
The shock was great, the blow severe
The cup was bitter, the shock severe
Tragically taken from us
Many a lonely heartache
When we are sad and lonely
This sad life of toil and care
Troubled in life
After great suffering patiently borne
Peace after pain
In the midst of life we are in death
Lay down thy head
I am not dead
but sleepeth here
I am not there
when sleeps in dust
A faithful friend lies sleeping here
who fell asleep
called to rest
entered into rest
for they rest from their labours
Good night, God bless
Beyond the sea of death
to shape the ships he loved
lost his life while saving a dog from drowning
He gave his life for one and all
Every restless tossing passed
Fell like warm rain on the arid patches of my imagination
So much of hopeful promise centred there
One of earth’s loveliest buds
A sweet flower plucked from earth
A loving sweetheart my only chum
I have loved thee
I love thee to the level of every day’s most quiet need
He loved in youth
to walk with me throughout my life
In death they were not divided
A short while apart,
together once more and never to part
together again forever
we’re together in dreams, in dreams
love never ends
She was an angel
A warm smile
In her tongue was the law of kindness
A devoted mother
Widow of the above
Breathe on her
May the angels take you
He did his best
By his good deeds you shall know him
Kind to all
Upright and just to the end of his days
A fond father and a kind husband
His merry spirit is with me yet
Your spirit lies within us
Lost to sight
Passed away but not lost
Gone but not forgotten
Forever in our thoughts
Silent thoughts and tears unseen
Sacred to the memory
Remembrance is the sweetest flower
Live on the memories of days that have been
I never wanted memories George
I only wanted you
The bosom of our lord
Where I have longed to be
But that we think of thee
I will fear no evil for thou art with me
I have fought a good fight
Life’s race well run
He was summoned
The lord gave and the lord hath taken away
Exchanged mortality for life
Wipe away all tears from their eyes
In my father’s house are many mansions
We would walk right up to heaven and bring you home again
I am the resurrection and the life
I am a thousand winds that blow
Until the day dawns
Joy cometh in the morning
Nothing could be more beautiful
Inwardly we are being renewed day by day
Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper
Peace be with you
Requiescant in pace
Love never ends
This poem was constructed from fragments from gravestones in St Pancras and Islington Cemetery in East Finchley, London N2.
I’m sitting in – what turned out to be the very appropriately named – Spiritland in King’s Cross chewing the fat with fellow WordPress blogger Thom Hickey of The Immortal Jukebox when a voice comes from my right saying my name in a slightly uncertain way. That’s because we haven’t seen each other in over 20 years. K is the former girlfriend of my old friend S. It would have been S’s birthday on Monday just gone. The day before I went for a kind of memorial walk in honour of S with the third friend in the photo above. We talked about K. I hadn’t talked or even thought about K in a long time. So Sunday I unusually find myself talking about her. On Friday I bump into her. (Someone up there is pulling strings.)
I’m brushing my teeth this morning and (happily) hear my nephew from Dublin, Sean, downstairs playing ‘Wonderwall’ by Oasis on the (blue) guitar. I’m on the tube back from dropping Sean at King’s Cross and meeting Thom [see No. 390 above] when I find myself in a carriage with a really good busker with a (red) guitar. He engages much of the carriage and gets people not only talking but singing along. He rounds off an enjoyable communal entertainment with Oasis’s ‘Wonderwall’. The Welsh woman in the headband has a brilliant voice and does all the response/echo lines (I know she’s Welsh because he’s got us all talking – he tells me I’m the only happy Londoner he’s met). So Oasis in the morning, Oasis in the afternoon – for a man who owns no Oasis records and never plays their music. To round it off, I came home to work on a documentary series entitled ‘What’s the Story?’ which involves Oasis.
I was reading an interview of Martin Scorsese by Paul Schrader (scriptwriter of ‘Taxi Driver’) yesterday morning at the front of the Faber book of the ‘Taxi Driver’ script which I picked up in the wake of the screening the other night. On the page I stopped at Schrader mentioned Kim Novak in ‘Vertigo’ when he’s listing his most memorable moments in cinema. I haven’t seen the film for years or thought about it for a good while.
I was reading ‘Mandy’ by Mandy Rice-Davies on the DLR on the way home from work yesterday afternoon. She mentioned meeting Kim Novak.
Not as Twilight Zone as No. 390 but still not a bad coincidence.