Flat picking…

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Great programme the other day on Radio 4 about Richard Thompson.

If you like skilfully played guitar, it simply does not get much better than when played by Richard Thompson. Not so mention his song writing.

In the programme he talks about his guitar style- typically using ‘flat picking’- a combination of strumming and finger style. For the non guitar players, finger style guitar is usually the soft mellow arpeggio stuff, whereas strumming is much more rhythmic.  He will hold a plectrum between two fingers, and use his other fingers to play dazzling riffs at the same time. What Thompson achieves, on electric or acoustic guitar is to imbue everything he does with power and subtlety. It often sounds simple and understated- the signs of real virtuosity.

 

Poetry as narcissistic obsession…

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Michaela pointed this out to me the other day- Poetry tree.

Apparently someone has been carving meticulous incredibly complicated and laborious sculptures out of books, then leaving them anonymously in various locations in Edinburgh- the Scottish Poetry Library, the National Library of Scotland, the Filmhouse, the Scottish Storytelling Centre.

These creations are rather wonderful- the person (or people) who made them are creative, painstaking and have clearly moved people- check out this article in the Guardian.

I feel strangely unmoved however- and I am not sure why. These represent something that I would normally get excited over- creativity given generously- quirky and thought provoking.

I think it is because in these objects of art, I see something of my own creativity. They appear to be rather obsessive private works, packed full of detail and ambiguity, suddenly ‘out there’.

Poetry is a very selfish activity.

My own version of this selfishness starts with little fragments of ME- what is meaningful to me, what I have seen and felt and understood. The forms of words that emerge from this selfishness then allow me to ‘work it out’ somehow.

The thought process are a little like the operation of the scalpel on the paper sculptures above- a slice here, a word cut here. And it is me doing the slicing, of my words.

What happens next is interesting- because for (my) words to be fully alive, they need to be heard by others. My way of doing this is to wear them on my sleeve  which can be a rather vulnerable thing to do, but the rewards mostly outstrip the risk.

Is this a problem, this narcissistic core at the heart of artistic process? I suppose, to a certain extent, it is simply is what it is. Art has an origin, and the art is only possible because of who the originator is.

But I still find myself uncomfortable- perhaps this is because I still believe that the highest calling we have as human spirits is not to be noticed and lauded for our creativity. Rather the best of what we are is when we live for others.

I realise there is a terrible danger in art for purpose- it easily becomes propaganda. But the things that move me most have something to say. I read this recently and muttered a little ‘Amen.’

The poem that refuses to risk sentimentality, that refuses to risk making a statement, is probably a poem that is going to feel lukewarm. So I am in favour of work that if it fails, fails on the side of boldness, passion, intensity.

Mark Doty

Back to these paper sculptures. I do not mean to be ungracious- and Michaela for one finds them delightful. How about you?

 

Vending machine…

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The coin fell        and the

Machine burped into action,     its belly

Rumbling,                      promising the delivery of

Instant overly salted,         high

Cholesteroled       delicious            snacking

Something in its     shiny face

Uncurled, and the bag of crisps                leaned

Towards me               almost dropping.

Almost

but      not

quite

And I am left       hungry

But perhaps the                healthier for it

Perhaps the wiser

Without it

Serious shopping…

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Today Emily and I had to go into Glasgow to pick up her new glasses. She has been given these to help her with reading- remarkably, the particular colour of blue they are tinted with seem to increase her reading speed by around 50%. Previously she had somehow coped with words swimming around in her vision- particularly at the ends of lines, making it almost impossible to find her way through dense blocks of text without huge effort. How she managed so well up till now is a mystery to all of us.

Anyway, this also meant that my pointedly deferred shopping expedition sort of came back to haunt me. Emily needed a new dress for her birthday meal with friends at the weekend so we went out into the crowds of Buchannan street- in the middle of all the Christmas madness.

I survived.

But I am not less appalled by it all.

If anything could sum it all up for me it is this-

I read this poster in the toilets in St Enochs Square shopping centre. (OK- Emily noticed the same thing and this poster was in the ladies loo. She took this photograph. Obviously.)

Whilst I was reading the poster, two young lads came in. They hovered a little- it was crowded, and they were encumbered by sleeping bags and rucksacks. It was obvious by that they were rough sleepers, in for a clean up and a bit of warmth.

The contrast with this poster seemed great at first- then less so. The edges of this credit driven culture we have created can be seen in both the poster and these rough sleeping young men. It suddenly seemed to me all about disconnection.

Disconnection from one another- from community and place. Disconnection from the means of production, and from the land that sustains us. Disconnection from the spirit of man, and from the Spirit of the Living God.

What madness is it that makes us still think that we can keep making money from plastic cards and using it to buy ever more stuff? What crazyness drives us to feed our addiction for more credit even by desperate measures like this-  trying to screw more money out of banks who have already brought us all to the edge of the abyss by lending too much of the stuff?

As if the best we can now hope for was this last loophole through which we might get a little more free money.

Last week in Dunoon, one of the ‘hole in the wall’ cash machines went wrong, and started paying out double the money that people requested. Pretty soon, the word got out and a queue formed down the street. The bank, in panic, asked the police to come, just to turn people away.

Not a good advert for the people of our town, even if we might regard the banks as fair game given their impact on the economy. But perhaps none of us are that different- who could ever turn down some free money?

Striking…

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Today millions of my fellow public sector workers went on strike to protest about plans to make them work longer, and pay more towards their pensions. Sing along (to the tune of ‘White Christmas’)-

I’m dreaming of a fair pension

Just like the ones I used to know

Where the coffers glistened

and Mps might have listened

Before the bankers stole our dough…

I have been a member of a Union most of my working life- but at present, I am not. I joined the British Association of Social Workers a couple of years ago in disgust at my local Union’s refusal to support some of the lowest paid members of my staff. I wrote in protest to the branch secretary and did not even receive a reply, so I felt I had no option.

Which left me in something of a quandary today- a manager of services to vulnerable people, outside a Union. In the end, I decided to work.

I decided that I would not cross a picket line- but there were none, so this was an easy thing to get around. My conscience is still twitching uncomfortably. That word- solidarity…

In the end however, I think I decided that I just did not feel strongly enough about this issue to want to man the barricades. Whilst I would strongly defend the rights of workers to protest inequity and harsh treatment by their employers, I personally don’t feel the sting of anger about my own pension situation.

Many other things about our present government do make me angry. For instance, the Conservative/Liberal Democrat government recently announced a typical mindless sweetener used by all governments forcing through austerity cuts- they are going to spend money on job creation schemes, £1 billion in fact.

Sounds great- although experience might tell us that these schemes simply do not work- at best they mask the rising unemployment figures.

Worse than this, the government are going to pay for this by taking money from Working Families Tax Credit- which is a benefit paid through the tax system to low income families.

You could say that they are going to rob the poor in order to spend money to pretend that there is work for young people.

This at a time when the richest parts of society are doing nicely thank you.

The gods of capitalism must be appeased. Lets make a few more human sacrifices.

Now this is something that makes me angry. This is something I would strike about.

First Sunday of Advent…

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Advent

 

There is no patience in this waiting

No watching from windows

Or straining for the whispered step in the distance

 

There is no surprise in this coming

It has been shouted by stars

And sung from supermarket speakers

 

There is no mystery in this telling

It is a story told and sold a million times

Asset stripped and bankrupt

 

There is no meaning in this madness

All this plastic decoration

All this hollow celebration

 

Yet still

He comes

The graffiti ghosts of Polphail village…

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I came across a lovely blog the other day- Westcoastings. Well worth checking out not just because the author is but a skip across the peninsular from here, but also because it is beautifully written.

It also mentioned Polphail village– a collection of empty buildings out along the coast built in the early 1970’s to house the workers of a proposed oil platform construction yard. The yard never happened, and the houses were never occupied. Instead they have lain empty for all these years, slowly soaking up the west coast weather and mouldering into the hillside. It stands as one of those failed 1970’s macro economic experiments gone wrong- and despite many false dawns no alternative use for the site was ever found.

It is already an atmospheric place- a strange piece of urban decay in the middle of wilderness- as if a slice of the inner city had been teleported in some kind of science fiction experiment gone wrong.

What I was not aware of however was that a Graffiti outfit called Agents of Change used Polphail as a blank canvas (hmm- perhaps that is not the best metaphor come to think of it) for all sorts of wonderful art.

So this afternoon we took a trip out there, cameras in hand.

It was a rather wonderful experience. It feels like some kind of furtive secret discovery, and the contrasts and contradictions land on you like lead weights as you wander round.

Soon it will all be gone, either because the site will be demolished, or simply because it will fall down. Either way, if you visit- be careful!

Here are some more pics- click to open…