On Going Forth

New Blog!

2011-11-21T23:27:00.000Z

Hi there everyone! I have moved to a new blog! I felt On Going Forth had had its time after many wonderful years. If would like to keep following the adventures of moi - you can on the below link. ;-)

http://hemiaathome.blogspot.com/

Much Love

x

May, unemployed and feeling vacant

2011-05-07T17:41:00.002+01:00

I did not do too much today, just Women in Black and a poetry reading at the Central Library. Its been two months of unemployment and it is hard at the moment. Hard to keep the mind going and not give in to rumination. Unemployment has never quite been this tough - especially after so much activity.

The theme of the poetry today was on space, and I did a little reading. Here is one of the poems read:

TO THE EVENING STAR
by: William Blake (1757-1827)

HOU fair-hair'd angel of the evening,
Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light
Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves, and while thou drawest the
Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,
And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,
Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,
And then the lion glares through the dun forest:
The fleeces of our flocks are cover'd with
Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence!

There There Radiohead

2011-04-13T22:52:00.000+01:00

Just cos you feel it doesn't mean it's there
Just cos you feel it doesn't mean it's there
There's always a siren singing you to shipwreck (don't reach out, don't reach out [x2])
Stay away from these rocks we'd be a walking disaster (don't reach out, don't reach out [x2]

Karma Police Radiohead (Sorry about the Music posting)

2011-04-13T22:45:00.000+01:00

"Karma Police"

Karma police, arrest this man
He talks in myths
He buzzes like a fridge
He's like a detuned radio

Karma police, arrest this girl
Her Hitler hairdo is
Making me feel ill
And we have crashed her party

This is what you get
This is what you get
This is what you get when you mess with us

Karma police
I've given all I can
It's not enough
I've given all I can
But we're still on the payroll (the dole)

This is what you get
This is what you get
This is what you get when you mess with us

And for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself
Phew, for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself

For for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself
Phew, for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself

Six Job Applications

2011-04-13T22:08:00.000+01:00

Six job applications, a job advisor who is into astrology, and Shaolin Soccer. Who wouldn't be unemployed (apart from the lack of money).

2011-04-13T22:06:00.000+01:00

A heart that's full up like a landfill
A job that slowly kills you
Bruises that won't heal

You look so tired and unhappy
Bring down the government
They don't, they don't speak for us
I'll take a quiet life
A handshake of carbon monoxide

No alarms and no surprises
No alarms and no surprises
No alarms and no surprises
Silent, silent

This is my final fit, my final bellyache with

No alarms and no surprises
No alarms and no surprises
No alarms and no surprises please

Such a pretty house, such a pretty garden

No alarms and no surprises (let me out of here)
No alarms and no surprises (let me out of here)
No alarms and no surprises please (let me out of here)

Florence & The Machine You Got The Love

2011-04-12T11:01:00.002+01:00

The Little Red Book

2011-04-11T21:45:00.001+01:00

Swimming in doubt, plagued by unemployment lack of fitness, and the eternal worry of where the money is coming from.

This blog post is not saying I have found an answer to my troubles.

But I had lots of questions about how to free lance as a writer, and the found, beneath my feet. The Little Red Book. Yes there are books inhabiting every corner of my room.

Writer's and Artist's Year Book 2011. Really well written and respected. Thank goodness.

To researching the market.

My Beloved Child

2011-04-10T21:15:00.002+01:00

My Beloved Child
Break your heart no longer
Each time you judge yourself
You break your own heart.
You stop feeding on the love,
Which is the wellspring of your vitality
The time has come. Your time
To live
To celebrate
And to see the goodness that you are.
You my child are divine
You are pure
You are sublimely free
You are God in disguise
And you are always perfectly safe.
Do not fight the dark,
Just turn on the light.
Let go
And Breathe into the goodness that you are.

-Swami Kripalvanandji (Bapuji)

Sweet Harmony - The Beloved

2011-04-08T21:23:00.000+01:00

Friday II

2011-04-08T20:12:00.001+01:00

Feels fine.

Friday

2011-04-08T20:00:00.000+01:00

Researched, looked for work, swept garden, practised guitar, did more planning and scheduling.

Listening to Kashmir.

Parents have disappeared.

Odd.

Kashmir - Led Zeppelin

2011-04-08T19:54:00.000+01:00

"Kashmir"

Oh let the sun beat down upon my face, stars to fill my dream
I am a traveler of both time and space, to be where I have been
To sit with elders of the gentle race, this world has seldom seen
They talk of days for which they sit and wait and all will be revealed

Talk and song from tongues of lilting grace, whose sounds caress my ear
But not a word I heard could I relate, the story was quite clear
Oh, oh.

Oh, I been flying... mama, there ain't no denyin'
I've been flying, ain't no denyin', no denyin'

All I see turns to brown, as the sun burns the ground
And my eyes fill with sand, as I scan this wasted land
Trying to find, trying to find where I've been.

Oh, pilot of the storm who leaves no trace, like thoughts inside a dream
Heed the path that led me to that place, yellow desert stream
My Shangri-La beneath the summer moon, I will return again
Sure as the dust that floats high in June, when movin' through Kashmir.

Oh, father of the four winds, fill my sails, across the sea of years
With no provision but an open face, along the straits of fear
Ohh.

When I'm on, when I'm on my way, yeah
When I see, when I see the way, you stay-yeah

Ooh, yeah-yeah, ooh, yeah-yeah, when I'm down...
Ooh, yeah-yeah, ooh, yeah-yeah, well I'm down, so down
Ooh, my baby, oooh, my baby, let me take you there

Let me take you there. Let me take you there

Sorry

2011-04-07T22:14:00.002+01:00

Sorry if people have been getting loads of emails from Linkin - I joined to keep up with Kings colleagues and thought it might be helpful, but it seems to keep sending invitations out to people on my contacts. Sorry about that.

2011-04-07T22:02:00.003+01:00

Yesterday I found myself in a water fight and out numbered by the Portsmouth University Hindu Society. I was multicolour by the end of the day.
I mean. What will happen next?

2011-04-07T21:53:00.001+01:00

What do I know?

Keeping it Simple

2011-04-07T21:34:00.002+01:00

Trying to keep it simple with a complex mind. I should probably rename the blog along those lines. Its like a full time job.

Coming Down

2011-04-07T21:33:00.000+01:00

Last year in a fit of inspiration because I had just been given work and wanted to keep up with my writing and various spiritual and non spiritual activities, I made week by week rotas. After Thailand I totally forgot to keep this going in any shape or form. I don't know why I lost this rhyme, was I totally in a different world? Innately I can start to believe that things are getting on top of me, when breaking anything down into smaller tasks is the only way to keep my own sanity (and prevent manic episodes).

I forget my life gets stressful partly because my brain has a lot of free floating ideas it is not sure how to make actually happen, unless I force some kind of system upon it.

So out of free fall I find myself off loading a months worth of worried thoughts and things to do on to one piece of paper and converting it into a plan. This what I should be doing.

The experience of being me revolves around a battle to control the creative forces and the actually make myself be practical and organised as much as possible. I accept a level of disorganisation as a part of my being. I can fall into creative free fall and that is not so good.

Its easy for me to have the general idea of travelling, its hard for me to make that a reality. That is probably true for most people, but it is more so for certain types of people and I am one of those slightly crazy creatives. It has taken a long time to just accept that and not try and fit myself into this mysterious box that I feel obliged to fit into, and sometimes still do. Its this feel I should be doing something all the time, that I have no idea where it comes from. I don't know if its a disorganised hard worker's neurosis or something something. Its not even an ideal, its just this 'thing' that haunts me. I guess I have a life time to meditate on it - hopefully.

Father finds it easy to get into a routine, but I find it hard unless I consciously assign it to myself, and there is always a chance I will have forgotten. Mother just works hard. Very hard.

I did the house work I was asked to do today, another small advancement. Doing the housework my parents tell me to do is a lot easier than trying to follow twenty two points I made at New Years which of course would probably make my life better, but I might find hard to really complete. Getting a task a day from the parents helps keep me doing something each day.

Housework has become surprisingly easy. Tidying my room is still hard. I feel better, for the sudden reorganisation.

2011-04-07T19:05:00.001+01:00

Let It Be Beatles

2011-04-07T18:23:00.000+01:00

We sang this at the QWSP Conference.
Off to find food between scheduling my time.

When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me,
speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me,
speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree,
there will be an answer, let it be.
For though they may be parted there is still a chance that they will see,
there will be an answer. let it be.

Let it be, let it be, .....

And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light, that shines on me,
shine until tomorrow, let it be.
I wake up to the sound of music, mother Mary comes to me,
speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Let it be, let it be, .....

If It Be Your Will- Antony Hegarty

2011-04-07T18:02:00.000+01:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wKhGKB6faW0&feature=player_embedded

Shattered from swimming, found this on the Awakened Women Institute

"If It Be Your Will"

If it be your will
That I speak no more
And my voice be still
As it was before
I will speak no more
I shall abide until
I am spoken for
If it be your will
If it be your will
That a voice be true
From this broken hill
I will sing to you
From this broken hill
All your praises they shall ring
If it be your will
To let me sing
From this broken hill
All your praises they shall ring
If it be your will
To let me sing

If it be your will
If there is a choice
Let the rivers fill
Let the hills rejoice
Let your mercy spill
On all these burning hearts in hell
If it be your will
To make us well

And draw us near
And bind us tight
All your children here
In their rags of light
In our rags of light
All dressed to kill
And end this night
If it be your will

If it be your will.

Adele Rolling in The Deep

2011-04-06T20:46:00.000+01:00

The next morning

2011-04-06T14:18:00.000+01:00

I went a bit manic last night. Why should I be demotivated? Or even feeling like I have to do more. Its good to be doing something, but I don't have to be. The fall out from some hectic months maybe, where I have not always managed

Its good I got on to the courses - I shouldn't feel like things are getting on top of me. Its a bit strange. To be hard on yourself when you are doing well. I suspect I am going through a weird phase at the moment

Perhaps its the expectation I should know what I want already, which is actually doing my head in.

Having calmed my mind down long enough - to tell myself - you are doing fine.

I am fine. Well I don't know. I am.

After Singing

2011-04-05T22:45:00.000+01:00

I went singing to clear my head for a while. It was good, a community choir with one of my favourite local musicians. It did not take away all the unemployed de motivation (how did I manage to get this demotivated? I was doing well to begin with). I had a burst of energy from the Mindfulness Day, which lasted a week, but I am back to cleaning the house. I did all the hoovering today, cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom, yesterday, and now I have to do the fore court tomorrow.

Father came into my room the other night, and picked up my baby picture, which was sweet. I was a cute baby, big though. The two photographs are so old now, dusty, and in frames that are very old fashion or just cardboard. And in the photo there's my father in his mid twenties and myself, baby, fast asleep. He had more hair and it was intensely blond, I had less but intensely brown. There's another one with my grandmother and myself, toddler. My grandmother is looking afraid of what I am doing with my pudding. I am tiny with big brown eyes. Grandmother was in her fifties and she had just grown out a dye. My skin is brown because my parents made me get sun, in the garden, and play in the dirt. In a sense I am probably covered in earth. I grew up and became unfortunately pale and civilised. I left the garden.

So everything I did and applied for in terms of journalism, worked out. At least I got on the courses, and that is a start. If I had not I am not sure what I would have done instead. I had not expected getting on any of the courses, let alone both of them. So my panic to find work experience in journalism seems to be redundant. The writing itself seems to have been the experience. What is a journalist? Anyone these days.

What else can I do? I am always asking that question. I don't want to find myself having done nothing for a year, a year wasted. I could do that when I graduated for not knowing any better, but I know better and that is the difference.

I re read the Thailand blog and thought it was not bad, actually fairly good. There were some things I would probably not write about, but on the whole it was a good effort. I give it a A for effort, and B or accuracy because it is obvious I can not spell Savliador's name, and still can not. I can see my own creation now that the emotions of that time have settled down - and the Kings Theatre is becoming a memory. Its only a blog, but its my blog.

Its strange how perception changes.

Thailand was an immensely positive experience, but how that interacted with my ordinary life, that was transitory to begin with, was difficult. Life certainly has been more interesting for it. I wouldn't change my choices, but I might change having to work Pantomime shifts to make up hours.

I remember Alison's look in Asia when I told her I had disappeared from work for three weeks. Three weeks is a long time. Well, its done. I won't do it again, in the same way. Either job, or travel, not both, it does not work. Conflicted desires with necessity. Unable to find work, can not give up the job, desperate to see the world, already booked the holiday. But I would not change my choices.

The only comfort I have is that I could not have known any better at twenty three and six months and on a high from the Nottingham Retreat, having never experienced anything like it before. All things seemed possible. I think you have that right whilst you are young - to believe that all things are possible.

A part of me wishes I had quit that job, but I guess I would not be here now with two offers, if I had. It was a means to an end.

What is I wish, when I do is much better.

I have a choice. Though often it does not feel like it, a choice is power. What is most sensible?

Time for bed, job centre in the morning.

2011-04-05T19:20:00.000+01:00

Nearly three years since I graduated, wow, how time flies.

Hand in my Pocket - Alanis Morissette - Kitchen Dancing.

2011-04-05T19:07:00.001+01:00

I'm broke but I'm happy
I'm poor but I'm kind
I'm short but I'm healthy, yeah
I'm high but I'm grounded
I'm sane but I'm overwhelmed
I'm lost but I'm hopeful baby

What it all comes down to
Is that everything's gonna be fine fine fine
I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is giving a high five

I feel drunk but I'm sober
I'm young and I'm underpaid
I'm tired but I'm working, yeah
I care but I'm restless
I'm here but I'm really gone
I'm wrong and I'm sorry baby

What it all comes down to
Is that everything's gonna be quite alright
I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is flicking a cigarette

What it all comes down to
Is that I haven't got it all figured out just yet
I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is giving the peace sign

I'm free but I'm focused
I'm green but I'm wise
I'm shy but I'm friendly baby
I'm sad but I'm laughing
I'm brave but I'm chicken ""£$$
I'm sick but I'm pretty baby

And what it all boils down to
Is that no one's really got it figured out just yet
I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is playing the piano

What it all comes down to my friends
Is that everything's just fine fine fine
I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is hailing a taxicab...

Kitchen Dancing

2011-04-05T18:44:00.000+01:00

Given up growing up, dancing in the kitchen.

Nocturne

2011-04-05T15:07:00.000+01:00

I am here waiting for the drums to sound...against the walls caving in - in early mornings gloom.

Choices

2011-04-05T15:03:00.000+01:00

So I have a place on a journalism masters course and a place on a journalism diploma.

Did I ever think when I was a child, I would try and be a journalist. Not sure. Well here it is. I am twenty four, old enough to make my own choices and decisions.

Nocturne

2011-04-05T14:54:00.000+01:00

I am here waiting for the night to spill...

http://jackpalmer.bandcamp.com/album/scenery-and-music-2

Its a lovely song.

TS Elliot- The Waste Land

2011-04-03T18:37:00.002+01:00

‎"APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain." TS Eliot - The Wasteland

Signs- Patchwork

2011-04-01T23:09:00.000+01:00

Where do I go from here, do I try?.....
to be with you or disappear?
The right answer is all I need
Can you find a sign that I can read

Waiting, waiting, waiting, for your call.

http://www.amazingtunes.com/users/patchworkdj/tunes/35824

. This song is about someone trying chat to someone else up - but I like the idea of looking for a sign when one is direction-less- that you can read that will point you in the right direction.

Today

2011-04-01T19:21:00.001+01:00

So yes I was reading some poetry, and wondering about how I understood meaning. So the below poem came to be. Oddly I am really tired for someone who has done relatively little all week. Must be the clocks changing or I need more exercise, or I need more things to do.

Reading Poetry

2011-04-01T17:36:00.001+01:00

Words on the page,
trying to find connection,
between
words and
meaning
not knowing if one is worthy
to contain
words of depth
words of wisdom.
Arms wide to the blue sky,
there float a iron bird
little dot,
and passes by,
Arms wide,
I smile.
There has been no other afternoon such as this.
None before, none after.
No poetry,
no words.

Lynda Berry

Gold

2011-04-01T12:42:00.001+01:00

There was money in my bank account yesterday. I nearly fainted.

Prickle Eye Bush Bellow Head

2011-04-01T12:24:00.002+01:00

Oh the Prickle Eye Bush
That pricks my heart for sore
And if ever I get out of this Prickle Eye Bush
Then I never will get in it any more

Oh hangman, stay your hand
Stay it for a while
For I think I see my mother coming over yonder stile

Oh mother, have you brought me gold?
Or silver to set me free?
For to save my body from the cold, cold ground
And my neck from the gallows tree

Oh no, I have not brought you gold
Or silver to set you free
For to save your body from the cold, cold ground
And your neck from the gallows tree

Oh the Prickle Eye Bush
That pricks my heart for sore
Oh and if ever I get out of this Prickle Eye Bush
Then I never will get in it any more

Hangman, stay your hand
Stay it for a while
For I think I see my sister coming over yonder stile

Oh sister, have you brought me gold?
Or silver to set me free?
For to save my body from the cold, cold ground
And my neck from the gallows tree

Oh no, I have not brought you gold
Or silver to set you free
For to save your body from the cold, cold ground
And your neck from the gallows tree

Oh the Prickle Eye Bush
That pricks my heart for sore
Oh and if ever I get out of this Prickle Eye Bush
Then I never will get in it any more

Hangman, stay your hand
Stay it for a while
For I think I see my own true love coming over yonder stile

Oh true love, have you brought me gold?
Or silver to set me free?
For to save my body from the cold, cold ground
And my neck from the gallows tree

Oh yes, I have brought you gold
Oh, and silver to set you free
For to save your body from the cold, cold ground
And your neck from the gallows tree

Oh the Prickle Eye Bush
That pricks my heart for sore
Oh and now that I'm out of this Prickle Eye Bush
Then I never will get in it any more
Oh and now that I'm out of this Prickle Eye Bush
Then I never will get in it any more

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3oSRMfe7XQQ

Sharkstooktherest

2011-03-31T23:26:00.000+01:00

http://www.amazingtunes.com/users/sharkstooktherest

Patchwork - Signs (ft. Sarah Valentine)

2011-03-31T20:30:00.000+01:00

http://www.amazingtunes.com/users/patchworkdj/tunes/35824

Sleepless Blues (On the Fifth Day She Rocked Out)

2011-03-30T21:50:00.000+01:00

Tiredness, its the theme of the day, oh yes. I went swimming just to make sure that I could no longer function so I would have some hope of sleeping tonight.

I should do some WORK tomorrow, the weekend kind of wore me out totally.

But still I rock on...(slightly sleep deprived and crazy).

Writing

2011-03-29T01:25:00.000+01:00

I have a lot of the raw talent and passion and what not. Which is good. So next I have to find the craft and the right channel - and the what not. The important part is the what not.

A Vietnamese woman remarked that my jokes are not really funny, its how I am saying them (or writing them).

And people say I am clever.

Lazy Day

2011-03-29T00:25:00.001+01:00

I was at a QPSW Conference yesterday, I haven't slept that well all weekend. It was a heady weekend. My first real experience of Quakers outside of my meeting. I'd never seen so many Quakers in the same place. I felt lost to begin with, though I met people and made new friends. It is interesting how these things work.

I felt more out of my depth going to the conference than I did arriving in Thailand and having to make the guess that the elderly gentleman was John Chapman and if I had any hope of finding my way to the Plum Village meeting point I had better follow him.

By Saturday evening, I remember listening to music played by a charmingly enthusiastic young Quaker woman, in the bar. It felt normal. I could have been anywhere.

QPSW, Quaker Peace and Social Witness is a department of the central committee, and I had a lot to learn, having done no homework. It did re engage me with topics such as Libya from a new angle, and the potential for non violent resistance and alternatives to war, a means well entrenched into civilisation. It was connected to a feminist critique, that war is male and the ultimate expression of maleness. I think it has probably more to do with our lower natures than our higher natures, though certainly military service used to be a male preserve.

I need to do more thinking, I had that feeling after QPSW. I was not entirely convinced of all the arguments, but I was convinced that I was in the presence of some amazing people doing some good in the world. A little light in a naughty world.

I was reading a young radical Quaker blog today, a blog that makes mine look like rubbish. Ian is twenty six and a much better writer, or perhaps more practised. He has been on marches in central London and the Unison members where making noise and saying to the Quakers 'the trouble with you, is that you give religion a good name'. There is truth in that.

I blog more from the heart than the intellect. Maybe one day I will write more things that other people would like to read. We shall see. I need to write more articles.

In the workshops, I learnt about the work of Quakers in Palestine and Israeli and the effect of housing in the UK on social inclusion. In the latter workshop we learnt the details of the 'Big Society' plan to 'empower' local communities. In that particular workshop I discovered I had little to say about anything. My knowledge base was small, but I feel fine with that now.

I have so much to learn.

The Prophet - Love

2011-03-28T22:45:00.001+01:00

Then said Almitra, "Speak to us of Love."

And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them.

And with a great voice he said:

When love beckons to you follow him,

Though his ways are hard and steep.

And when his wings enfold you yield to him,

Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.

And when he speaks to you believe in him,

Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.

Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,

So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.

He threshes you to make you naked.

He sifts you to free you from your husks.

He grinds you to whiteness.

He kneads you until you are pliant;

And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,

Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,

Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.

Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;

For love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, I am in the heart of God."

And think not you can direct the course of love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.

But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:

To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.

To know the pain of too much tenderness.

To be wounded by your own understanding of love;

And to bleed willingly and joyfully.

To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;

To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;

To return home at eventide with gratitude;

And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

Beverley Knight & Courtney Pine - Hard Times

2011-03-23T22:30:00.000Z

Courtney Pine Europa Tour 2011 New Theatre Royal

2011-03-23T22:10:00.000Z

According to Courtney Pine, it is hard to promote Jazz music in the UK. I think he did a pretty good job tonight. The Theatre Royal provided a good 'space' for the musicians, and things came together well with some daring moves on respective instruments and enthusiastic participation from the audience (including the girl at the back of the upper circle dancing at the back towards the end).

I don't know much else about Courtney Pine, but he plays a good bass clarinet. Even one handed.

The Sleeper Waits

2011-03-23T18:53:00.000Z

I stole the new title off an alternative album, it does not really have a meaning. I do need to practice my title giving abilities. The old title was very out of date, and did not really mean what it seemed to. It first became my title, when I took the five precepts by accident in Pail and had a go at keeping them. that was the last time I was unemployed and was exploring Buddhism again and spending a lot of time in the sun. This blog goes through fundamental shifts every time I finish or lose a job - it would seem. Each time its a lot to get used to and effects me differently. Maybe learning from experience, not sure.

I have hit the boredom zone when it comes to unemployment. I have hit it much quicker than I had anticipated. I've been really organised, got a couple of rejections from average kind of jobs, and had one pretty out there and exciting experience in London. If only all job interviews were like that and involved being fed vegan food at the end! Basingstoke did not work out either, but that is probably just as well.

Yesterday I spent at Highbury College, concerning the journalism course, and its not a bad college. The facilities were clean which is more than you could say for the college I went to, and that was the best in the area, when I were a lass. Those were probably the best years of my life so far. Those were good times. Eighteen was a good age.

I am sitting here between having eaten dinner and about to go out for some progressive jazz with Courtney Pine on his Europa Tour 2011. Its different, not sure what to expect.

The Writer's Hub

2011-03-21T21:43:00.000Z

Shattered. I have not had a late night for quite sometime with my new unemployed life style. I have just arrived back from the Writer's Hub at the New Theatre Royal and listened to Simon Brett crack some jokes, and tell us the secrets of play writing and crime fiction. I am feeling refreshed, with his humour and intelligence. In Simon Brett's words (more or less) a writer, like an actor, has to be a good psychologist. You have to be able to get inside a character to work out their motivation and why they behave as they do.

I will have to give more details soon.

Title

2011-03-21T11:26:00.003Z

I've gone minimalistic - or I can not think of a decent title.

Change of Title

2011-03-21T01:16:00.000Z

I could not stand the last title much longer.

A Passion

2011-03-17T19:28:00.000Z

So I am broke. I got over it today. I had an interview with CIBAS, a creative business advisory service, and it was helpful. Now I have much to much to think about.

I have given up giving up writing. Its not really a curse its a passion.

That's a start.

Matt Henshaw ft. Joey G-Zus - 'The World's Gone Mad'

2011-03-17T19:21:00.000Z

Check this out if you are into hip hop with a message. http://www.amazingtunes.com/users/theopr/tunes/48749

Size twelve for a woman is not fat.

Rumi

2011-03-16T21:49:00.000Z

Dance, when you're broken open

Dance, if you've torn the bandage off

Dance in the middle of the fighting

Dance in your blood

Dance when you're perfectly free.

So its Drum and Bass...(I think this song is about aliens)

2011-03-16T21:44:00.001Z

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mgoy4S7fFmc&feature=related

The Other Side :

Come on down to the other side,
Come with us through the gates of hell,
Where we'll drag you from where you are
to where you belong.

Come on down to the other side,
Come with us through the gates of hell,
Where we'll drag you from where you are
to where you belong.

There's nothing to fear,
Your saviors are here,
The ship is coming down,
The ship is coming down,
The ship is coming down,
Coming down,
Coming down,

You, You look so precious,
A diamond in rough,
And you tried to escape,
But we're holding on,

But i can't sleep until this is done,
They're in my head
They're in my soul

Come on down to the other side,
Come with us through the gates of hell,
Where we'll drag you from where you are
to where you belong.

Come on down to the other side,
Come with us through the gates of hell,
Where we'll drag you from where you are
to where you belong.

We are in your spirit,
We're everywhere you turn,
From the cover undercover,
The cover undercover,
In your lover,
In your brother,
In your mother,
The other's,

You, You look so precious,
But now we're on are way,
And I am falling apart,
I'll get the waves,

But i can't sleep until this is done,
They're in my head
They're in my soul

Through the gates of hell,
We know you,

The ship is coming down,
The ship is coming down,
The ship is coming down,
The ship is coming down,
Coming down,
Coming down,
Coming down,
Coming down,
Coming down,
Coming down,
Coming down,
Coming down,

Down to the other side,
Come with us through the gates of hell,
Where we'll drag you from where you are
to where you belong.

Come on down to the other side,
Come with us through the gates of hell,
Where we'll drag you from where you are
to where you belong.

Amazing Radio

2011-03-16T21:12:00.001Z

My kitchen dancing has lead me to a new radio station which plays purely independent and alternative music. That might not interest all my readers, but it makes a change from the norm. Kind of inspiring to hear some fresh and original music.

http://amazingradio.co.uk/

The Travelling Band - Sundial

2011-03-16T21:08:00.000Z

Any Human Heart

2011-03-16T14:34:00.002Z

Never say the last word, on any human heart. Logan Mountstuart

A Short Woman's Dilemma Solved

2011-03-16T14:05:00.002Z

I had one creative idea today. I used the floor cleaner to do the cupboards I can not reach. Like window cleaning but in the kitchen. Fun.

Free Prize

2011-03-16T14:00:00.002Z

If anyone picks up the typo in the last blog entry, they get a prize. Email Lynda to find out more.

Cleaning Duties and Mash Potato.

2011-03-16T13:33:00.003Z

The sudden desire to be useful has converted itself into cleaning the kitchen and making mash potato. I really made this mash potato so well, I wanted to eat it straight away, but no, I have saved it for dinner. That Shepherdess Pie really did not work out last night. I have to kind of fix it today.

I overhauled my cupboard and found a long lost stash of vegetarian staples. It would be a shame to have to give in and start eating meat so I can share meals with the parents.

It is partly what is making this period so difficult, but if I can break my cooking down into large meals spread out over periods of time that keep feeding me, things will be fine. I started doing that anyway at the end of the work placement, so its just working on making healthy cheep meals.

I've found a cheep food supermarket, and hope to start buying in bulk. It seems like a very sensible idea. I also bought loads of fruit to eat when ever I feel hungry.

The next plan is the sell the books at the second hand book store. I have been putting this off for years, but now is a good time.

I am sorry if this blog post is really dull, dear readers, dear friends, but I have this one clear obsession at the moment.

2011-03-16T11:11:00.000Z

Times are tough.

Marketa Irgolova & Glen Hansard- If You Want Me

2011-03-16T10:28:00.001Z

Are you really here or am I dreaming
I can't tell dreams from truth
For it's been so long since I have seen you
I can hardly remember your face anymore
When I get really lonely and the distance causes only silence
I think of you smiling with pride in your eyes a lover that sighs

If you want me satisfy me
If you want me satisfy me

Are you really sure that you believe me
When others say I lie
I wonder if you could ever despise me
When you know I really tried
To be a better one to satisfy you for you're everything to me
And I'll do what you ask me
If you let me be free

If you want me satisfy me
If you want me satisfy me

If you want me satisfy me
If you want me satisfy me

Oxford and Unemployment Antics

2011-03-15T23:58:00.001Z

Oxford. The city of dreaming spires, something like this. I went on my wondering way up to that beautiful city for a Day of Mindfulness with the infamous Thich Nhat Hanh monastics. They were invited to Mansfield College, which was impressive. Both the college, and the fact they were invited there.

I could not really concentrate during the deep relaxation, but instead I smiled at the words of the song written by one of the monks. It was referencing the nature of the universe, how these conditions were transmitted to me by my parents, and so forth. And for some reason I felt happy with that.

So I lay there smiling up at nothing in the golden light of Mansfield College Chapel.

I met the Valley Girl Nun, from Thailand, on home territory. That was surreal. Not surrounded by Thai or America voices, so she sounded strange to me like I had heard her voice in a dream.Thailand is like a dream to me now. I would love to join the monastics on the retreat at the weekend, but I am flat broke. I've been broke before, but this is a new experience. Everything I spend makes a difference. Reality hits home, and I am cooking like a real student again. Making everything last, and eating only at home. The benefit will be losing weight. Not that I really need to.

Tomorrow brings another day of unemployment, though I have been applying for jobs. There is so much to consider and try and plan, I have been breaking things down into SWOT charts, which is cute, useful, and funny to read back to myself at later dates. Watching my thoughts go spin around and develop.

Then there are my career spreadsheets and other little things that help me keep track of the passing time and what I am doing with myself.

I have not had any creative ideas, which is interesting. It is funny how those ideas come up readily to distract me from working at boring administration, but run and hide as soon as I have far too much free time than I can handle. I now want to be useful. At least I think I do.

Do I?

I sat in the park today, and felt down. I really wanted to be working. I feel like I have done so much in the last six months that to not really be doing anything other than the occasional yoga class and swimming, feels less than natural. Then again I did go through a phase of chronic boredom about December time (Panto). In response to being made to tolerate a great deal of plays I would not pay to see (lets hope those that write my reference are not reading), for longer than I might wish, I have picked up the rival theatres programme. I intend to use it.

Pet Shop Boys - Always On my Mind

2011-03-15T18:56:00.002Z

You went away, it should make me feel better, but I don't know how I will get through.

Making Shepherdess Pie, no dancing, just listening.

Pet Shop Boys

Maybe I didn't treat you, quite as good as I should
Maybe I didn't love you, quite as often as I could
Little things I should've said and done, I never took the time

You were always on my mind
You were always on my mind

Maybe I didn't hold you all those lonely, lonely times
And I guess I never told you, I'm so happy that you're mine
If I made you feel second best, I'm so sorry, I was blind

You were always on my mind
You were always on my mind

Tell me, tell me that your sweet love hasn't died
Give me, one more chance to keep you satisfied, satisfied
Little things I should've said and done, I never took the time

You were always on my mind
You were always on my mind

Tell me, tell me that your sweet love hasn't died
Give me, one more chance to keep you satisfied

You were always on my mind
You were always on my mind

You were always on my mind
You were always on my mind

You were always on my mind
You were always on my mind

Maybe I didn't treat you quite as good as I should
Maybe I didn't love you quite as often as I could
Maybe I didn't hold you all those lonely, lonely times
And I guess I never told you, I'm so happy that you're mine

Louis Armstrong, We Have All The Time In The World

2011-03-13T21:09:00.000Z

We have all, the time in the world
Time ENOUGH for life
To UNFOLD
All the prescious things
Love has in store

We have all the love in the world
If that's all we have
You will find
We need nothing more

Every step of the way
Will find us
With the cares of the world
Far behind us

We have all the time in the world
Just for love
Nothing more
Nothing less
Only love

Every step of the way
Will find us
With the cares of the world
Far behind us
Yes

We have all the time in the world
Just for love
Nothing more
Nothing less
Only love

Only love

Sunday Blues

2011-03-13T20:59:00.000Z

London did not work out too well, which is sad, but, but, it obviously was not meat to be. Maybe the Universe has an order and I am meant to be here in Portsmouth scheming and dreaming, a little longer. So that leaves Basingstoke and report assembly. At least by the end of it I could be able to afford more travelling and to actually take on a structured intern ship in London, though it might be soul destroying work. And there is always delivering catalogues.

I can not believe I suggested the latter.

Blooming Heather - Kate Rusby

2011-03-10T09:16:00.000Z

Blooming Heather

Oh the summertime is coming
And the trees are sweetly blooming
And the wild mountain thyme
Grows around the blooming heather
Will ye go, Lassie go?

Chorus
And we'll all go together
To pluck wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather
Will ye go, Lassie go?

I will build my love a tower
Near yon' pure crystal fountain
And on it I will build
All the flowers of the mountain
Will ye go, Lassie go?

Chorus
And we'll all go together
To pluck wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather
Will ye go, Lassie go?

If my true love she were gone
I would surely find another
To pluck wild mountain thyme
Grows around the blooming heather
Will ye go, Lassie go?

Chorus
And we'll all go together
To pluck wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather
Will ye go, Lassie go?

Let us go, lassie, go

A Madman's Situation

2011-03-09T19:58:00.000Z

What a week? I mean I am in the throws of an agonising decision over jobs already, and I only finished the Kings on Friday. Monday Sonia gave me her 'tips' (???), Tuesday I was in London being interviewed for an unpaid internship, and today, I visited the charms of Basingstoke for another interview. The internship was quite an experience, I am still reeling from the effects. It can all be a bit much for a shy one.

The only question is whether it is all realistic with the London internship for a creative writer. The Basingstoke job, is in Basingstoke, they seemed nice enough (if less exciting). I have another day to sort my head out and the figures, so that is at least one pressure off. I am not sure how I feel about all of this. Hiding behind my tea, I am on over load.

Kate Rusby- Maid of Llanwellyn

2011-03-06T20:06:00.000Z

Kate Rusby-Who Will Sing Me Lullabies

2011-03-06T18:41:00.000Z

Lay me down gently, lay me down low,

I fear I am broken and won't mend, I know.

One thing I ask when the stars light the skies,

Who now will sing me lullabies,

Oh who now will sing me lullabies.

In this big world I'm lonely, for I am but small,

Oh angels in heaven, don't you care for me at all?

You heard my heart breaking for it rang through the skies,

So why don't you sing me lullabies,

Oh why don't you sing me lullabies.

I lay here; I'm weeping for the stars they have come,

I lay here not sleeping; now the long night has begun.

The man in the moon, oh he can't help but cry,

For there's no one to sing me lullabies,

Oh there's no one to sing me lullabies.

So lay me down gently, oh lay me down low,

I fear I am broken and won't mend, I know .

One thing I ask when the stars light the skies,

Who now will sing me lullabies,

Oh who now will sing me lullabies.

Who will sing me to sleep

1-2 and 2-2 Janine Jansen The Lark Ascending

2011-03-06T17:00:00.000Z

Vaughan Williams - English Folk Song Suite PART 3 of 3

2011-03-06T15:08:00.000Z

Vaughan Williams - English Folk Song Suite PART 2 of 3

2011-03-06T15:04:00.002Z

Vaughan Williams - English Folk Song Suite PART 1 of 3

2011-03-06T15:01:00.002Z

Agaetis Byrjun (New Born)

2011-03-06T14:33:00.000Z

The little girl was saying boo to me at meeting, she made me knock over the orange squash when I tried to play.

The Sixth Morning of Spring (The Sun)

2011-03-06T14:29:00.000Z

The Sun! At risk of being overly romantic. I feel like throwing off my mother's old black coat that guarded me well in the winter. Throw off the rumination of the winter months, bring in the light, bring in the sun. The day is like the springs of my younger self, with the air so cold and fresh, but the sun blistering strong and fine.

Today my eyes could take the blossoming morning, it can bring a smile to my mouth. Sitting in silence, smiling, joyfully. Do I need to minster to tell you what the spirit told me this morning?

Soon we will lay in the grass for hours, until the end of the long hot day. Exhausted with skin as red and raw, pale skin punished until a slightly brown hue. I was a deep brown once, a few years ago. I was working on an archaeological dig, and the country was experiencing a heat wave. My skin was baked to my body, and I was one of the few people who did not suffer heat stroke or sun burn, which was strange but true.

The sun has returned - long live the sun!

Quaker faith & practice.A&Q 1

2011-03-04T21:03:00.000Z

...and brings us to new life (apart from the knees).

Ouch!

2011-03-04T20:23:00.002Z

Ouch knees hurt from Scots Dancing!

Quaker faith & practice.A&Q 1

2011-03-04T20:20:00.003Z

Quaker faith & practice

A&Q 1. Take heed, dear Friends, to the promptings of love and truth in your hearts. Trust them as the leadings of God whose Light shows us our darkness and brings us to new life.

Proclaimers II

2011-03-04T20:16:00.001Z

Tea, good music, and philosophy... and there is always blogging, always writing. I like the part of the video when the customs office opens the gentleman's case. There is nothing like a Friday night with the Proclaimers, all alone on Portsmouth, house to myself and all.

Ah Portsmouth....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tM0sTNtWDiI&feature=related

When I wake up yeah I know I'm gonna be

I'm gonna be the man who wakes up next to you

When I go out yeah I know I'm gonna be

I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you

If I get drunk yes I know I'm gonna be

I'm gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you

And if I haver yeah I know I'm gonna be

I'm gonna be the man who's havering to you

But I would walk 500 miles

And I would walk 500 more

Just to be the man who walked 1000 miles

To fall down at your door

When I'm working yes I know I'm gonna be

I'm gonna be the man who's working hard for you

And when the money comes in for the work I'll do

I'll pass almost every penny on to you

When I come home yeah I know I'm gonna be

I'm gonna be the man who comes back home to you

And if I grow old well I know I'm gonna be

I'm gonna be the man who's growing old with you

But I would walk 500 miles

And I would walk 500 more

Just to be the man who walked 1000 miles

To fall down at your door

When I'm lonely yes I know I'm gonna be

I'm gonna be the man whose lonely without you

When I'm dreaming yes I know I'm gonna dream

Dream about the time when I'm with you.

But I would walk 500 miles

And I would walk 500 more

Just to be the man who walked 1000 miles

To fall down at your door

The Proclaimers

2011-03-04T20:08:00.000Z

Letter From America lyrics
Songwriters: Reid, Charles; Reid, Craig;

When you go will you send back a letter from America?
Take a look up the rail track from Miami to Canada

Well broke off from my work the other day
Spent the evening thinking about all the blood that flowed away
Across the ocean to the second chance
I wonder how it go on when it reached the promised land

When you go will send back a letter from America?
Take a look up the rail track from Miami to Canada

I've looked at the ocean tried hard to imagine
The way you felt the day you sailed from Wester Ross to Nova Scotia
We should have held you, we should have told you
But you know our sense of timing we always wait too long

When you go will you send back a letter from America?
Take a look up the rail track from Miami to Canada

Lochaber no more, Sutherland no more
Lewis no more, Skye no more
Lochaber no more, Sutherland no more
Lewis no more, Skye no more
Lochaber no more, Sutherland no more
Lewis no more, Skye no more

I wonder my blood will you ever return
To help us kick the life back to a dying mutual friend?
Do we not love her I think we all tell you about
Do we have to roam the world to prove how much it hurts?

When you go will you send back a letter from America?
Take a look up the rail track from Miami to Canada

Bathgate no more, Linwood no more
Methil no more, Irvine no more
Bathgate no more, Linwood no more
Methil no more, Irvine no more

Bathgate no more, Linwood no more
Methil no more, Irvine no more
Bathgate no more, Linwood no more
Methil no more, Lochaber no more

The Fourth Day of Spring

2011-03-04T19:51:00.001Z

I just turned the radio off. I am dancing too much around the kitchen in an unwell state. Yes it was my last day, and the Winter clung to my hands like a small child, dragging me, while the sunlight of Spring beckoned me forward. I took the camera with me, but it failed to work when I attempted to capture the beautiful morning. If my friends in America thought I was pale in Asia, they should see me now after the English Winter. I am like a ghost. The first sun is almost painful to my eyes.

On my back was the camera, with my bag, dangling at the side, and in my arms, cradled like an infant, was my copy of the Mindfulness Bell, my appointments diary and Love in the Time of Cholera. Yes it came this morning, my Mindfulness Bell. Karen and mine's article was in it, accompanied by Paul's photos. It felt fitting to see the fruits of our creativity all brought together, though Thailand is some time ago now.

I wish that I was going to Thailand again, or heading out to America, but there are other things to attend to. I will leave it open, maybe one day it will happen, or maybe it will not. It will be fine either way. Thailand was some time ago, but I am glad I went and did it when I had the perfect opportunity to do so. Life came together so well, and with little effort on my part (apart from all the frantic organisation and stress before I left). I should write a list of my dreams, like a friend suggested and see how far I get.

There are other things to attend to, like the master's application I am just finishing up.

In the office, Darren and I had our last 'interesting conversation'. He told me, 'I am more philosophical than the Kings is used to', gives you an indication of why I am not too sad to be leaving. He had guessed before I had, that I would not cling on to my position at the Kings.

I popped in to see Jo the Bookings Assistant, 'How was it for you?' Jo asked, 'it was interesting', I said. 'That's the diplomatic answer' Jo replied.

It was up and it was down. I am sure I will miss them, irrespective of diplomatic answers.

I finished up my work, and tackled some tough little cookies of situations that had arisen over the work experience placements. In the last hour I went out and brought some chocolate for everyone. I said goodbye to the marketing team, still in their perfect balance of employer and employee, they told me to take care, which was kind. I see Sonia on Monday for her 'tips' on how to find another job.

I came home and the sun was going down, and I felt some disturbance at the change in the light. I do not want the light to return, for things to change, I do not feel ready inside. The world is tilting, but I feel like I am leaning in the other direction. To come to an ending in Spring is unusual. If I were studying this would be the mid way point. Yet time moves quickly which ever direction you feel like you are heading in.

The house was empty, I turned on the radio. I made dinner, and I danced around the kitchen.

The Third Day of Spring

2011-03-03T19:03:00.002Z

The novel is shaping up well. I am not so well. When will it ever end, the constant contraction of virus? I am one sick Brit Chick. Sick in the ill sense of the word. My arm is like a vice around Mr P. Teddy's neck. Suffering is a part of life, I might as well get used to it.

On the plus side I have been very proactive on the jobs front, especially as tomorrow is my last day at the Kings. I am looking out for little ways of staying off social security and earning money. I do not know if it is possible but it is worth a try. All I need right now is enough income to keep me fed until I find bigger income.

I potentially have two interviews next week which is good because it gets the ball rolling and out of the door into the next court and where ever life will chose to take me next.

On the topic of leaving home, when my father was fourteen (ish) he decided to run away and join the French Foreign Legion. He told his mother and she even packed his bags for him. He left home, wondered about, then returned.

I suspect my grandmother had the greater foresight.

The Second Morning of Spring

2011-03-02T19:44:00.000Z

I opened up my eyes, after barely sleeping and barely eating. Sonia called me to the office to say goodbye. I walked in the early Spring sunlight - it was like my perception was being changed by the slow aching return of the northern hemisphere sun- a repentant lover after months of cold separation.

I walked through Front of House and the young Swedish man passed me by handing me a book, exclaiming how good he heard it was. Slightly amazed and I retreated behind the stage, to where the offices hide.

On Sonia's desk was a pile of books, she saw the one that Mose left to me, and said 'so he did not want his book after all.' 'All well, I am happy to have,' I reply. I have saved many a book that was not wanted. Sonia and I had our last conversation about work. She was amazed at how ill I looked. I have tomorrow off as I have worked over ten hours more than I need to. That was a surprise.

For all our ups and downs, I can not dislike Sonia. I hand a her a basket of chocolate eggs. 'For you and for Victor (the little one).'

The rest of the afternoon I chased work experience candidates and found myself contemplating I might miss the Kings. I tried making fun of Phil, the marketing assistant, to shake myself out of such sentimentality. He looks sadder than I do that we are leaving.

I said goodbye to Tony, my archiving buddy. It was sad.

The book Mose handed me for World Book Night 2011 was 'Love in the Time of Cholera' by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Looks like a challenge to fill many an unemployed hour.

Limping on - with a cold

2011-03-01T23:00:00.000Z

I agree with Orwell I think writing is vanity. I limp on - with a cold. One more week to go. Then....

Why I Write? George Orwell

2011-03-01T22:53:00.000Z

From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that when I grew up I should be a writer. Between the ages of about seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea, but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and that sooner or later I should have to settle down and write books.

I was the middle child of three, but there was a gap of five years on either side, and I barely saw my father before I was eight. For this and other reasons I was somewhat lonely, and I soon developed disagreeable mannerisms which made me unpopular throughout my schooldays. I had the lonely child's habit of making up stories and holding conversations with imaginary persons, and I think from the very start my literary ambitions were mixed up with the feeling of being isolated and undervalued. I knew that I had a facility with words and a power of facing unpleasant facts, and I felt that this created a sort of private world in which I could get my own back for my failure in everyday life. Nevertheless the volume of serious — i.e. seriously intended — writing which I produced all through my childhood and boyhood would not amount to half a dozen pages. I wrote my first poem at the age of four or five, my mother taking it down to dictation. I cannot remember anything about it except that it was about a tiger and the tiger had ‘chair-like teeth’ — a good enough phrase, but I fancy the poem was a plagiarism of Blake's ‘Tiger, Tiger’. At eleven, when the war or 1914-18 broke out, I wrote a patriotic poem which was printed in the local newspaper, as was another, two years later, on the death of Kitchener. From time to time, when I was a bit older, I wrote bad and usually unfinished ‘nature poems’ in the Georgian style. I also attempted a short story which was a ghastly failure. That was the total of the would-be serious work that I actually set down on paper during all those years.

However, throughout this time I did in a sense engage in literary activities. To begin with there was the made-to-order stuff which I produced quickly, easily and without much pleasure to myself. Apart from school work, I wrote vers d'occasion, semi-comic poems which I could turn out at what now seems to me astonishing speed — at fourteen I wrote a whole rhyming play, in imitation of Aristophanes, in about a week — and helped to edit a school magazines, both printed and in manuscript. These magazines were the most pitiful burlesque stuff that you could imagine, and I took far less trouble with them than I now would with the cheapest journalism. But side by side with all this, for fifteen years or more, I was carrying out a literary exercise of a quite different kind: this was the making up of a continuous ‘story’ about myself, a sort of diary existing only in the mind. I believe this is a common habit of children and adolescents. As a very small child I used to imagine that I was, say, Robin Hood, and picture myself as the hero of thrilling adventures, but quite soon my ‘story’ ceased to be narcissistic in a crude way and became more and more a mere description of what I was doing and the things I saw. For minutes at a time this kind of thing would be running through my head: ‘He pushed the door open and entered the room. A yellow beam of sunlight, filtering through the muslin curtains, slanted on to the table, where a match-box, half-open, lay beside the inkpot. With his right hand in his pocket he moved across to the window. Down in the street a tortoiseshell cat was chasing a dead leaf’, etc. etc. This habit continued until I was about twenty-five, right through my non-literary years. Although I had to search, and did search, for the right words, I seemed to be making this descriptive effort almost against my will, under a kind of compulsion from outside. The ‘story’ must, I suppose, have reflected the styles of the various writers I admired at different ages, but so far as I remember it always had the same meticulous descriptive quality.

When I was about sixteen I suddenly discovered the joy of mere words, i.e. the sounds and associations of words. The lines from Paradise Lost —

So hee with difficulty and labour hard
Moved on: with difficulty and labour hee.

which do not now seem to me so very wonderful, sent shivers down my backbone; and the spelling ‘hee’ for ‘he’ was an added pleasure. As for the need to describe things, I knew all about it already. So it is clear what kind of books I wanted to write, in so far as I could be said to want to write books at that time. I wanted to write enormous naturalistic novels with unhappy endings, full of detailed descriptions and arresting similes, and also full of purple passages in which words were used partly for the sake of their own sound. And in fact my first completed novel, Burmese Days, which I wrote when I was thirty but projected much earlier, is rather that kind of book.

I give all this background information because I do not think one can assess a writer's motives without knowing something of his early development. His subject matter will be determined by the age he lives in — at least this is true in tumultuous, revolutionary ages like our own — but before he ever begins to write he will have acquired an emotional attitude from which he will never completely escape. It is his job, no doubt, to discipline his temperament and avoid getting stuck at some immature stage, in some perverse mood; but if he escapes from his early influences altogether, he will have killed his impulse to write. Putting aside the need to earn a living, I think there are four great motives for writing, at any rate for writing prose. They exist in different degrees in every writer, and in any one writer the proportions will vary from time to time, according to the atmosphere in which he is living. They are:

(i) Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on the grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood, etc., etc. It is humbug to pretend this is not a motive, and a strong one. Writers share this characteristic with scientists, artists, politicians, lawyers, soldiers, successful businessmen — in short, with the whole top crust of humanity. The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they almost abandon the sense of being individuals at all — and live chiefly for others, or are simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of gifted, willful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong in this class. Serious writers, I should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centered than journalists, though less interested in money.

(ii) Aesthetic enthusiasm. Perception of beauty in the external world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement. Pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story. Desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed. The aesthetic motive is very feeble in a lot of writers, but even a pamphleteer or writer of textbooks will have pet words and phrases which appeal to him for non-utilitarian reasons; or he may feel strongly about typography, width of margins, etc. Above the level of a railway guide, no book is quite free from aesthetic considerations.

(iii) Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.

(iv) Political purpose. — Using the word ‘political’ in the widest possible sense. Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other peoples’ idea of the kind of society that they should strive after. Once again, no book is genuinely free from political bias. The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude.

It can be seen how these various impulses must war against one another, and how they must fluctuate from person to person and from time to time. By nature — taking your ‘nature’ to be the state you have attained when you are first adult — I am a person in whom the first three motives would outweigh the fourth. In a peaceful age I might have written ornate or merely descriptive books, and might have remained almost unaware of my political loyalties. As it is I have been forced into becoming a sort of pamphleteer. First I spent five years in an unsuitable profession (the Indian Imperial Police, in Burma), and then I underwent poverty and the sense of failure. This increased my natural hatred of authority and made me for the first time fully aware of the existence of the working classes, and the job in Burma had given me some understanding of the nature of imperialism: but these experiences were not enough to give me an accurate political orientation. Then came Hitler, the Spanish Civil War, etc. By the end of 1935 I had still failed to reach a firm decision. I remember a little poem that I wrote at that date, expressing my dilemma:

A happy vicar I might have been
Two hundred years ago
To preach upon eternal doom
And watch my walnuts grow;
But born, alas, in an evil time,
I missed that pleasant haven,
For the hair has grown on my upper lip
And the clergy are all clean-shaven.
And later still the times were good,
We were so easy to please,
We rocked our troubled thoughts to sleep
On the bosoms of the trees.
All ignorant we dared to own
The joys we now dissemble;
The greenfinch on the apple bough
Could make my enemies tremble.
But girl's bellies and apricots,
Roach in a shaded stream,
Horses, ducks in flight at dawn,
All these are a dream.
It is forbidden to dream again;
We maim our joys or hide them:
Horses are made of chromium steel
And little fat men shall ride them.
I am the worm who never turned,
The eunuch without a harem;
Between the priest and the commissar
I walk like Eugene Aram;
And the commissar is telling my fortune
While the radio plays,
But the priest has promised an Austin Seven,
For Duggie always pays.
I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
And woke to find it true;
I wasn't born for an age like this;
Was Smith? Was Jones? Were you?

The Spanish war and other events in 1936-37 turned the scale and thereafter I knew where I stood. Every line of serious work that I have written since 1936 has been written, directly or indirectly, against totalitarianism and for democratic socialism, as I understand it. It seems to me nonsense, in a period like our own, to think that one can avoid writing of such subjects. Everyone writes of them in one guise or another. It is simply a question of which side one takes and what approach one follows. And the more one is conscious of one's political bias, the more chance one has of acting politically without sacrificing one's aesthetic and intellectual integrity.

What I have most wanted to do throughout the past ten years is to make political writing into an art. My starting point is always a feeling of partisanship, a sense of injustice. When I sit down to write a book, I do not say to myself, ‘I am going to produce a work of art’. I write it because there is some lie that I want to expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention, and my initial concern is to get a hearing. But I could not do the work of writing a book, or even a long magazine article, if it were not also an aesthetic experience. Anyone who cares to examine my work will see that even when it is downright propaganda it contains much that a full-time politician would consider irrelevant. I am not able, and do not want, completely to abandon the world view that I acquired in childhood. So long as I remain alive and well I shall continue to feel strongly about prose style, to love the surface of the earth, and to take a pleasure in solid objects and scraps of useless information. It is no use trying to suppress that side of myself. The job is to reconcile my ingrained likes and dislikes with the essentially public, non-individual activities that this age forces on all of us.

It is not easy. It raises problems of construction and of language, and it raises in a new way the problem of truthfulness. Let me give just one example of the cruder kind of difficulty that arises. My book about the Spanish civil war, Homage to Catalonia, is of course a frankly political book, but in the main it is written with a certain detachment and regard for form. I did try very hard in it to tell the whole truth without violating my literary instincts. But among other things it contains a long chapter, full of newspaper quotations and the like, defending the Trotskyists who were accused of plotting with Franco. Clearly such a chapter, which after a year or two would lose its interest for any ordinary reader, must ruin the book. A critic whom I respect read me a lecture about it. ‘Why did you put in all that stuff?’ he said. ‘You've turned what might have been a good book into journalism.’ What he said was true, but I could not have done otherwise. I happened to know, what very few people in England had been allowed to know, that innocent men were being falsely accused. If I had not been angry about that I should never have written the book.

In one form or another this problem comes up again. The problem of language is subtler and would take too long to discuss. I will only say that of late years I have tried to write less picturesquely and more exactly. In any case I find that by the time you have perfected any style of writing, you have always outgrown it. Animal Farm was the first book in which I tried, with full consciousness of what I was doing, to fuse political purpose and artistic purpose into one whole. I have not written a novel for seven years, but I hope to write another fairly soon. It is bound to be a failure, every book is a failure, but I do know with some clarity what kind of book I want to write.

Looking back through the last page or two, I see that I have made it appear as though my motives in writing were wholly public-spirited. I don't want to leave that as the final impression. All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one's own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane. I cannot say with certainty which of my motives are the strongest, but I know which of them deserve to be followed. And looking back through my work, I see that it is invariably where I lacked a political purpose that I wrote lifeless books and was betrayed into purple passages, sentences without meaning, decorative adjectives and humbug generally.

George Orwell: ‘Why I Write’

First published: Gangrel. — GB, London. — summer 1946.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree- Yeats

2011-03-01T18:40:00.004Z

The Lake Isle Of Innisfree

I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the mourning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Caro Ann Duffy - Mean Time

2011-02-28T19:00:00.001Z

The clocks slid back an hour
and stole light from my life
as I walked through the wrong part of town,
mourning our love.And, of course, unmendable rain
fell to the bleak streets
where I felt my heart gnaw
at all our mistakes.
If the darkening sky could lift
more than one hour from this day
there are words I would never have said
nor heard you say.
But we will be dead, as we know,
beyond all light.
These are the shortened days

and the endless nights.

Another Great Evening for Live Local Music and Poetry

2011-02-28T18:31:00.001Z

Portsmouth, not traditionally thought of as a cultural city, can boast a new poet laureate and many up and coming artistic events on the horizon. Against this backdrop of the city’s cultural development, Tongues and Grooves provided another night of diverting entertainment.

LiTTLe MACHiNe an alternative and lyrical band from London, were a new discovery for the gathering. Well known and famous poetry was rearranged into laconic but emotive modern songs. Their clear voices rang out the verses of great poems by Yeats, Carol Ann Duffy, and Byron.

A great variety of voices had the courage to take part on the open mic. Joanne Blandfold, a twenty-eight year old with intellectual disabilities, read from her collection, ’The Best You Can Be’, for the first time in public. Her brave and heartfelt performance enriched the evening. She really was the best she could be and the audience were grateful.

Another up and coming new voice on the open mic was Paul Macklin, a twenty-four year old studying creative writing at Portsmouth University. Reading a poem he had recently written called So what can I do? His was a stirring voice in the gloom of economic recession. His second poem was entitled 'Just for this moment' from his new collection Letters of Neon. He read expressively and well with much encouragement from the audience.

Audi Maserati, legendary performance poet, made a lively contribution to the open mic. Once again he drew laughter from the audience and even singing.

At the end of the night, LiTTle MACHiNe were encored by souls moved to the new beat of poetry and rhyme. Their encore, a punk version of ‘This Be The Verse’, resonated with many members of the audience. Tongues and Grooves returns soon with Mike Barlow, National Poetry Competition Winner, and four piece folk/roots group The Sweet Believers.

Mediocrity in Love Reject Thomas Carew (his answer to Aristotle)

2011-02-28T18:13:00.001Z

GIVE me more Love, or more Disdain;
The Torrid, or the Frozen Zone
Bring equall ease unto my paine;
The Temperate affords me none:
Either extreme, of Love, or Hate,	5
Is sweeter than a calme estate.

Give me a storme; if it be Love,
Like Danae in that golden showre
I swim in pleasure; if it prove
Disdain, that Torrent will devour	10
My Vulture-hopes; and he's possest
Of Heaven, that's but from Hell releast:
Then crown my joyes, or cure my pain;
Give me more Love, or more Disdain.

Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse

2011-02-28T12:55:00.000Z

Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
  They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
  And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
  By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
  And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
  It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
  And don't have any kids yourself.

Saturday Evening After the Final Front of House Shift

2011-02-26T18:43:00.001Z

Baby you can start again - laughing in the open air - have yourself another dream - tonight
-maybe we can start again.

I come crawling back to my blog (!). Will I ever be free of this curse of writing? I am sleepy, as I march towards another ending. I finish up at the Kings next week. I am not too sad though the prospect of unemployment is not appealing to me. I will have to keep busy, writing or volunteering, though not in an archive and not just my blog. I've been looking for work and applying, but not hearing anything. I have applied for the local journalism diploma, and asked to move in with a fellow Quaker. I may be flying the parental nest - it will be good for me. Dad wants my room, oh course, there had to be an ulterior motive for telling me to move out before next year!

Today I did my last Front of House shift. The show was Zippo's Circus, and I enjoyed it from my vantage point in the upper circle. I was trying to analysis how the magic tricks worked whilst sort of keeping an eye on the fourteen people I had been sent to take care of. The upper is where they are hiding me, I think to myself, considering how little responsibility I have up there.

I wanted to dance about and be part of the circus - does everyone wish this - or am I totally nuts?

After work I caught up with a young woman with a wonderful personality named Bex who is on the course of journalism I have applied for. She was incredibly enthused by her experiences and I felt a lot more encouraged that I was making the right choice and had the right experiences to get on to the course.

It is easy to forget the year you spent mostly writing arts reviews, at twenty three, meeting weird and wonderful poets and trying not to be too corrupted by them or the 'older generation' (of either gender). Then I disappeared to Thailand and got the job at the Kings, and everything changed and in lots of ways got a lot better (apart from the developmental crisis and running off to Iceland, even though Iceland was fairly amazing). I do seem to go through my fair share of twenty something crisis's. Bex described how the journalism course was so intense it brought about a crisis in most the people who took it at some point. Sounds like an experience I know well.

I will know for certain when I have the interview, so until then I guess I will have to keep wondering and looking for alternatives. Fingers crossed.

Yes I am having a Brandon Flowers moment. I think it is time to think about making pasta.

Friday Night Dancing in the Kitchen, Making An Omelet.

2011-02-25T20:05:00.002Z

Brandon Flowers – Only the Young Lyrics

Look back in silence; the cradle of your whole life.
There in the distance, loosing its greatest pride.
Nothing is easy, nothing is sacred. Why?
Where did the bow break?
It happened before your time.

There were people there, lovely as you’ve ever been.
Tonight.
Baby you can start again.
Laughing in the open air; have yourself another dream.
Tonight.
Baby we can start again.

Only the young can break away, break away.
Lost when the wind blow; on your own, ohh..
Only the young can break away, break away.
Lost when the wind blow; on your own, ohh…

Mother its cold here. Father thy will be done.
Thunder and lightening crashing down.
They got me on the run, direct me to the sun.
Redemption keeps my covers clean tonight.
Baby we can start again.

Only the young can break away, break away.
Lost when the wind blow; on your own, ohh…
Only the young can break away, break away.
Lost when the wind blow; on your own, ohh…

And the sun will shine again.
And the sun will shine again.
Are you looking for a sign?
Or are you caught up in the light?

Hahahahaha.
Hahahahaha.

Only the young can break away, break away.
Lost when the wind blow; on your own, ohh…
Only the young can break away, break away.
Lost when the wind blow; on your own, ohh…

Only the young can…
Lost when the wind blow…
Only the young can…
Lost when the wind blow…

Hahahahaha.
Are you caught up in the light?
Hahahahaha.

Chess pieces: Meeting for Worship V

2011-02-20T15:02:00.000Z

Rooks are our Meeting Houses

A straight line of rock and fortress

In a time of need.

Young Friends are our Knights

Zigzagging across the country

Bright-eyed with new-forged spirit.

Elders are our Bishops,

Pacing the line of gospel order

With Overseers beside them.

The Clerk is the Kings

A servant bound to one step only

Standing to read today's discernment.

The Queen I do not know

A spirit reaching everywhere

A weighty Friend indeed.

And what of the pawns?

A line of empty chairs

Moved forward...

Waiting to be filled by servants of the Lord.

A life given for others,

In Helmand as in Hoxton.

Iorwerth Lewis

Armchairs; Meeting for Worship IV

2011-02-20T14:56:00.000Z

Blessed are the burdened,

For they shall never rest.

Carrying an armchair

Downstairs

feet

reach

into

space

and

hope.

Rest on my burden a while.

Blessed are the burdened

For they shall carry unto the end.

All of us carrying a

Resting place

for others.

Burdens Beyond belief.

Iorwerth Lewis

Notices: Meeting for Worship III

2011-02-20T14:51:00.000Z

Notices: Meeting for Worship III

Notices lie heavy on my heart.
They hang off the aorta
Stifling the spirit supply.

Iorwerth Lewis 17.01.2011

Meeting for Worship

2011-02-20T14:45:00.001Z

Meeting was quiet, but for a few words spoken in the silence. The silence that exists bar the breathing of those around me. I am a bit stumped for words at the moment. My natural drive has died a death. I am at a tricky phase in life - this is tricky - deciding what is to come next and having the enthusiasm and drive to see it through.

I will write more - I will - I promise. The inescapable need to communicate.

I am listening to opera. I should eat some more food shortly.

Meeting for Worship

2011-02-20T14:44:00.000Z

I will write more - I will - I promise. The inescapable need to communicate.

I am listening to opera. I should eat some more food shortly.

Iceland, Eyjafjallajokull (stolen off Dharma Sister Polly)

2011-02-19T10:48:00.000Z

Iceland, Eyjafjallajökull - May 1st and 2nd, 2010 from Sean Stiegemeier on Vimeo.

On the Way to the Airport

2011-02-14T19:52:00.000Z

On the way back to the airport we passed lava flows which are now solid. I left Iceland wishing I could see much more. A wonderful short trip.

On the Way to the Airport

2011-02-14T19:44:00.001Z

Reykjavik Part Four

2011-02-14T19:33:00.001Z

On the last morning it snowed. We tackled the weather to see another art museum but it was shut. Again I was drawn to the statues of a man and a grieving figure rather than the more feminine figures and the lovers in arms.