Archive for the ‘musings’ Category
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.
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.
An email comes in from Goodreads website based in San Francisco at 10:01 today:
I go to a website I set up a few years ago to add it, Quotables. When I add it the site detects that it has been added before – by me! 3 years ago. I start scrolling down recently added quotations and 5 down I see this, added 19 hours ago by a teacher:
This weekend’s wander had the theme of Profumo, a pole to pole stroll from Stephen Ward’s house at which the Profumo Affair kicked off to Peter Rachman’s love nest for Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies where all the pieces of the puzzle assembled.
The signs weren’t good. I lost my favourite pale blue & grey scarf, given to me years ago by Una, on the tube from Hampstead (where Rachman lived) to Oxford Circus. I got shat on by a pigeon (supposedly lucky but I’ve never bought that). And then I got to Stephen Ward’s house at 17 Wimpole Mews, Marylebone and it had been killed by developers. Has no-one got any respect for history any more?
Above you can see the place on Friday 14th December 1962 after Johnny Edgecombe lost his shit with Christine Keeler and fired at the door in a vain attempt to get in to where Christine and Mandy were cowering. The bottom picture was taken on Friday 14th December 2012, exactly 50 years on, by Euronomad. Whilst it had been modernised by 2012, it’s now been ripped to pieces by barbarian property developers.
Lost scarf, bird shit, desecrated history – the walk wasn’t going so well.
I headed westwards through Marylebone, across Baker Street, towards Montagu Square and Bryanston Square. In the corner of a mews by the latter is the small house where Peter Rachman installed first Christine and later Mandy.
Rachman of course was dead before Edgecombe fired those fatal shots but that didn’t stop the press and establishment making him the second scapegoat of the Profumo Affair, alongside Ward who they would hound to his death soon enough.
Here’s where Rachman lived when life was a little rosier for him. He’d pop down the hill to Bryanston Mews for a shag or a chat.
To raise the tone of the walk I made a small diversion a couple of streets away from Mandy’s shag-pad to one of the London homes of T. S. Eliot. TSE died in January 1965, just after the Scandal. According to Frederick Tomlin (in T. S. Eliot: A Friendship) Eliot was disturbed by the serious corruption in public life indicated by the Profumo Affair. He strongly disapproved of the letter Kenneth Tynan and Angus Wilson had written defending Ward (although that might have been on account of the review Tynan had written of The Elder Statesman).
Eliot must have enjoyed living on Homer Row (not his official postal address but as much his street as Crawford Street, the entrance to his block being on that side). Eliot read Homer at Harvard and borrowed some of his characters throughout his career. Tireseus from The Odyssey, for example, makes an appearance in The Waste Land.
And there on poets’ corner my own mini-odyssey came to a more salubrious but less colourful conclusion. Personally I would have liked to see an intact 17 Wimpole Mews with its very own plaque, indicating respect for modern epics.
Camille Lopez (rugby player) as Philip Mortimer (comic book character)
This morning I was talking to Enfant Terrible No. 1 (who is currently doing a Philosophy course) about Camus and Existentialism. I mentioned Sisyphus, an important figure for Camus, and the image that first comes to mind when I think back to my undergraduate studies of Camus, alongside the killing of the Arab on the beach.
This evening I was working on my family tree and added Karl Radek, a cousin of my grandmother Dora, and an international Communist leader to boot (in the Soviet Union after the Russian Revolution). His real name was Karol Sobelsohn and he took the name Radek from a favourite character, Andrzej Radek, in ‘Syzyfowe prace‘ (‘The Labour of Sisyphus’), written in 1897 by Stefan Żeromski.
Sisyphus coming up twice in 12 hours – a bit Twilight Zone but I imagine he’ll be happy to be remembered.
I’ve always winced at the phrase ‘Bucket List’ – it smacks of inauthenticity. There was an awful looking movie about a decade ago which I avoided, much though I like Jack Nicholson and Rob Reiner. I think that may have done much to mainstream the concept but I’ve no idea where it originates from or how far back it goes.
Last night I went to the Late Shift Extra at the National Portrait Gallery to hang out at Everything You Can Imagine Is Real. The NPG was a favourite in teenage years as it gave a face to much of the literature and history I was learning about. In recent years I’ve done some pro bono consultancy on the Gallery’s digital strategy. And me and the Mrs go every year to the BP Portrait Award exhibition. Even if I wasn’t such a long-term fan, I love galleries and museums after dark – there’s something slightly naughty about it.
As I came in to the Gallery yesterday evening I bumped into Martyn Ware of Illustrious, Heaven 17, Human League and BEF. We had a chat about the future of energy and Port Merrion and stuff. I know Martyn a bit from the early days of BAFTA Interactive. He curated the Everything You Can Imagine Is Real evening to complement the Picasso portraits exhibition currently showing at the NPG.
“Everything you can imagine is real.”
- Pablo Picasso
I like the quote for giving equal value to the outer and inner world; for putting conscious thought, the dreamed, the imagined and the unconscious on a level playing field.
Some of the playing I most enjoyed last night was a short performance by dancer Vanessa Fenton to Martyn’s reworking of Parade by Eric Satie. I listen to Satie often when I’m writing as his work features on my Music To Write To playlist.
Parade was a ballet by Satie for Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes in 1917 on which he collaborated with Cocteau (scenario), Massine (choreography) and Picasso (sets). Vanessa’s costume by Bruce French in midnight blue and deep-sea green was redolent of the era.
I also enjoyed a performance by the Radiophonic Workshop, famous scion of the BBC, forever associated with the Dr Who theme tune, and no doubt a significant influence on Martyn and his electro-pop pioneers in Sheffield. They premiered a new composition with visuals derived by Obsrvtry from Picasso. In the middle of it the theremin, that quintessential early electronic instrument, which had been sitting tantalisingly towards the front of the stage, went into action. The previous act, White Noise, had deployed some electronic glove instrument through which hand gestures shaped the sounds but the Theremin is the real shit. It was created by Russian Leon Theremin in 1920 and graced movie soundtracks from Hitchcock’s Spellbound (with its Surreal visuals by another Spanish painter, Salvador Dali) to The Day The Earth Stood Still (a precursor of this year’s Arrival).
Anyway, it prompted me to start my Phuket List here, to be completed over time:
1 Play a Theremin
2 Spend a month painting abroad
3 Go fishing in a Spanish river like in The Sun Also Rises
4 Walk around the Antrim coast
Any suggestions for 5 – 12 gratefully received…
Tom Hardy as Oliver Reed