Colour Fades

Even the sun was partially eclipsed today, draining colour from the morning sky. But that same sun has been steadfastly bleaching pictures on my walls and the spines of books on my bookshelves for years, turning bold colours to muted pastels. Strong light destroys pigments. There's probably a scientific explanation for the chemical fade, though I can't be bothered with that right now.

the chemical fade

I woke up this morning musing on colours - how lovely tangerine football jerseys are (do people still call them that?), why some place names reference colours like Blackpool (my adopted home town), Redcar or Whitehaven, and how silly any other variation on those names might sound: Yellowpool (slightly disgusting), Purplecar (just weird), Pinkhaven (too suggestive perhaps). It's strange the way my waking mind works. 

It's possibly no coincidence that the afore-mentioned are all low-lying coastal towns (in northern England as it happens) and that their colourful names derived originally from their natural features. Blackpool was named after the colour of water which drained into the Irish Sea after running through the area's peat bogs (blakke pule). Redcar got its name in Viking times from its reedy marshland (rede kjarr). And Whitehaven probably derives from Celtic times when osier beds grew along the shoreline of the bay and the willow fronds (wythies) were harvested to be used in basket and coracle making. As time passed, the natural features disappeared and the reasons for naming the places so colourfully faded in memory.

But enough of this. When it comes to colour fading, nothing makes the point quite so dramatically as how one's hair colour changes as one ages. Take my own, a glossy chestnut when in my prime (with hints of ginger and red), now a greyish blond shading to white in my mature years (lol). Quite some transformation to now from then.

now and then (portraits of the artist)

And damn it, in the end I just had to read up on what lies behind the colour fade. In human beings, it turns out to be a couple of factors related to the ageing process. It's a fabled double whammy. 

One is a decrease in the quantity of melanin our bodies produce as we grow older. Melanin is a complex chemical pigment. It not only partly determines skin colour, but also hair and eye colour. As melanin production slows, so skin, hair, eyes tend to get lighter as one ages, sunbathing becomes more dangerous, and "individuals can take on a pale, almost translucent appearance". 

The other is naturally produced hydrogen peroxide. And here is where it gets really fascinating. We all need oxygen to live (obviously) but it also hastens our demise by playing a role in the aging process. Electrons are the glue that hold atoms together in molecules, and all sorts of electron transfers occur between molecules when they engage in the numerous chemical reactions that go on in our body all the time. Sometimes during these reactions an electron is transferred to oxygen, converting it into a highly reactive 'superoxide' ion that attacks and rips other molecules apart. But we have evolved a defence system, in this case an enzyme called superoxide dismutase that gets rid of superoxide by converting it into hydrogen peroxide. And that hydrogen peroxide acts on the hair at its root, as it grows out of the follicle, to bleach it, turning the hair grey. 

So now you know. I have never been so vain as to try and dye my hair. I think it looks unnatural and rather sad in men, if I'm honest. Sorry if that offends.

And talking of vain, although it's hardly on topic, I decided I had to write a poem satirising that odious creature who has become President of the United States for an unbelievable second term. I refer of course to King Donald. The poem borrows its title in part from James Joyce's  A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and a little from Dylan Thomas's subsequent  A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog.  When I found the illustration of Trump below, a further satirical extension seemed appropriate. It's a sort of 'found' poem, reconstructed out of many of the orange man-child's own self-congratulatory phrases plus a deflationary coda. I give you...

A Portrait of the Narcissist as a Young Bitch

I'm a  perfect physical specimen
and I’m extremely young.
I don’t have any of the problems
that you read about.

My fingers are long and beautiful,
as, it has been well documented,
are various other parts of my body.
I’m immune. I feel so powerful.

Frankly, I wouldn’t mind
if there were an anti-Viagra,
something with the opposite effect.
I’m not bragging.

I’m just lucky. I don’t need it.
I’ve always said, if you need Viagra
you’re probably with the wrong girl.
I would give myself an A+.

First and foremost,
I'm a real estate person.
And that's what I love the most.
I own buildings. I'm a builder.

I know how to build.
Nobody can build like I can build. Nobody.
And the builders in New York will tell you
that I build the best product.

People love me. And you know what,
I have been very successful.
Everybody loves me.
I've got the hottest brand in the world.

I've always won,
and I'm going to continue to win.
And that's the way it is. I have
a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

You know, I was dealt a lot of bad hands
but I hold all the cards,
the Trump cards.
Everything in life is luck.

I don’t want the presidency.
Good people don't go into government.
But the working guy would elect me. He likes me.
When I walk down the street, those cabbies start

yelling out their windows. And beautiful women
they let you do it. You can do anything.
Grab ’em by the pussy. I’m not bragging.
I’ll kiss the guys and the beautiful women

and everybody. I’ll just give you a big, fat kiss.
I’m the most successful person ever
to run for the presidency, by far.
Nobody’s ever been more successful than me,

tremendous intelligence, smarts, cunning,

the man in the golden tower.
No, but there is something —
I won’t have to be locked up in my basement.

Coda:

91 Criminal Charges

34 Felony Convictions
26 Sexual Assault Allegations
6 Bankruptcies
5 Draft Deferments
4 Indictments
2 Convicted Companies
2 Impeachments to date as President of the USA

1 Total Asshole

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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The Night Sky - Stars

There are many things I enjoy about staying in Dumfries& Galloway. One thing, free to all in abundance is the total darkness around the vast area of Galloway Forest Park. On a clear night, the sky sparkles with millions of stars, their brilliance natural and clear, unspoilt by the pollution of town lighting. We can step out of our lodge and just look up into the night sky. This is when I wish I had better vision; so much is lost on me. For the sharper eyed or keen astronomers, the Scottish Dark Sky Observatory is situated at Dalmellington in Ayrshire at the far north east of the forest.

It is comforting to feel at-one with nature beneath this celestial blanket, listening to the owls, catching a glimpse of a deer, fox or rabbit and the smaller creatures that come out at night. This is my heavenly, happy place.

Last week was Bonfire Night. It’s not my favourite time of the year and this is the first time that my priority hasn’t been to keep our spaniel calm. I found myself agreeing to stroll down to the park with my eldest grandson, aged four, and his parents, to watch the annual firework display at the cricket ground. We live in a family-popular area so there were lots of fireworks around us. No sooner had we left the house, all of us wrapped up for the cold, than we were subjected to a barrage of bangers going off from all directions around us. My gloved hand tightened the grip on my grandson’s as I reassured  him that the bangs were only noisy fireworks, nothing scary, and if we keep looking up to the sky, we’ll see the lovely patterns and bright colours. And we did. We stood on the perimeter of the park and watched the fireworks from the surrounding neighbourhood before the cricket club started theirs.  Nearby, some people were behaving recklessly with fireworks. We kept moving out of their way until we gave up and made for home. My grandson enjoyed it, which was the main thing.

Soon I’ll be back in Dumfries & Galloway. The night sky might be cloudy, heavy with rain or possibly snow hiding the stars and moon from view. I won’t mind.

Stars by Emily Bronte

 

Ah! why, because the dazzling sun
    Restored my earth to joy

Have you departed, every one,
And left a desert sky?

 All through the night, your glorious eyes

Were gazing down in mine,
And with a full heart's thankful sighs
I blessed that watch divine!

I was at peace, and drank your beams

As they were life to me
And revelled in my changeful dreams
Like petrel on the sea.

 Thought followed thought—star followed star

Through boundless regions on,
While one sweet influence, near and far,
Thrilled through and proved us one.

 Why did the morning rise to break

So great, so pure a spell,
And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek
Where your cool radiance fell?

 Blood-red he rose, and arrow-straight,

His fierce beams struck my brow;
The soul of Nature sprang elate,
But mine sank sad and low!

 My lids closed down—yet through their veil

I saw him blazing still;
And bathe in gold the misty dale,
And flash upon the hill.

 I turned me to the pillow then

To call back Night, and see
Your worlds of solemn light, again
Throb with my heart and me!

 It would not do—the pillow glowed

And glowed both roof and floor,
And birds sang loudly in the wood,
And fresh winds shook the door.

 The curtains waved, the wakened flies

Were murmuring round my room,
Imprisoned there, till I should rise
And give them leave to roam.

 O Stars and Dreams and Gentle Night;

O Night and Stars return!
And hide me from the hostile light
That does not warm, but burn—

 That drains the blood of suffering men;

Drinks tears, instead of dew:
Let me sleep through his blinding reign,
And only wake with you!


Emily Bronte  1818 - 1848

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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All Colours, Especially Purple

My View as I Write this Post 

When I volunteered to do some more guest writing for the Dead Good Blog and received the list of topics, the first title that came up was ‘colour.’ I ticked it, confident that I could write about a subject that dominates my world. It was only when Steve responded that I realised it had to be done by the following day - and I had a pretty busy 24 hours ahead of me.  Luckily, my guest spot was quickly moved to Sunday, so here I am, back again.

My love of colour goes back a long way. I don’t know what sparked it, as our house, when I was little, was mainly magnolia with a splash of white, a neutral background to all the colourful goings on, perhaps.  I do remember one episode of redecorating that, with hindsight, was certainly rather odd. With three young children tearing about the house the magnolia in the front room began to get extremely grubby around the light switch and below, where sticky fingers would rest whilst the door was opened.  Dad (or was it mum? I think they were both involved in the end) decided to brush over the marks with some leftover paint, which unfortunately didn’t bear much resemblance to the original colour.  It started with a small area around the light switch.  Whoever was painting stood back and looked at the completed work.  And decided it wasn’t completed after all. It needed to cover the grubby fingerprints below.  Painting was continued, with frequent pauses to survey the handiwork.  After an hour or so it was decided that the job was done.
 

There was a large ovalish area, measuring approximately a metre from top to bottom. It became known as The Egg, and it soon fitted in beautifully with all the other slightly bizarre repairs in the house.  None of us really noticed it after a couple of days, and we were only reminded of it when visitors did a double take and silently mouthed, ‘What - ?’ as they entered the room. 

When Dave and I got our own first house in the 1970s we decided magnolia was the devil, and instantly set about decorating each room in the darkest colours we could find: deep brown, rich red, green, orange and purple. In our defence they were the ‘in’ colours at the time, but I don’t think the in-laws saw it that way.  My mother in law had already practically had a nervous breakdown when I’d requested bright red and royal blue bedding as wedding presents.  She might have been more impressed if she’d known then that we’d still be sleeping in them forty four years later. 

I’d like to say I’ve grown up a bit since then, and now enjoy a restful, magnolia house.  Somehow this hasn’t happened and we’re still wallowing in purple, yellow and bright red rooms.  In fact, when our children were little we always referred to the ‘Red Room’ and the ‘Blue Room,’ not ‘The Lounge,’ and the ‘Dining Room,’ like normal people. My clothes are arranged in the wardrobe in colour order, my shoes go from black to purple to blue to red, and my socks genuinely bring me joy when I open the drawer. Pretty sad when I think about it.

I can’t leave this post without mentioning  the colourful, ever changing palette upon my head - an ongoing experiment with style and colour for the past 53 years.  I was lucky to have a mum who was pretty liberal about these things, well ahead of her time, and didn’t think it odd when I appeared one morning, at the age of thirteen with a full head of grey hair. To be honest it was an experiment that had gone slightly wrong, but, undaunted, off I went to my rather staid Grammar School, only to be singled out in assembly and sent home to ‘sort it out.’ 

By the time I’d had a few more colours (always a reckless experiment) I think the school had given up on me, and apart from the odd, sarcastic comment most of the teachers inwardly sighed and turned a blind eye. Since then I’ve probably sported every colour of the rainbow. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Like the time I didn’t leave the bleach on long enough and ended up with bright orange hair (well before it was in fashion). I looked like Dick Emery in drag. My daughter (aged seven) sobbed and begged me to wear a hat when I picked her up from school the next day.  If I remember rightly, I found a hairdresser who had the skills to at least dumb down the brightness, although I still wore the hat as requested. 

Purple by Jill Reidy

It was the purple ink 

Siphoned carefully 

Into a new, expensive pen

I watched as it filled

The light cutting through the colour 

Wiped the nib on a rag 

Replaced the casing

Screwed back on the lid 

Felt it heavy in my hand 

It signified something

I wasn’t sure what

The end

Or the Beginning 

Whatever

Purple was the colour

My colour 

From now on

Thanks for reading,   Jill 

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Colours - The Future's Bright

The future is looking bright, tangerine and white.

I’m looking forward to Saturday’s football match. I’m looking forward to a fantastic cheerful atmosphere from a capacity crowd. The chanting, the singing, the drum roll, all will be there, at last.

Bloomfield Road football ground is clean and tidy with colourful, tangerine seating. It’s a far cry from 1970 when my friends and I stood on the terrace to watch Blackpool, trying to avoid whatever skirmishes were happening around us. It was a male-dominated place in those days. I don’t think there were any facilities for ladies, but a few of us die-hards were not put off.  Blackpool F.C. were in the First Division at the time and I couldn’t wait to see George Best play when Manchester United came. Sadly, it was not meant to be. I was many miles away on a fortnight’s holiday in Majorca with my family when that match was taking place.

One of my close school friends was one of Bill Perry’s daughters. I knew he was a former player for Blackpool but I didn’t appreciate the significance at the time. He scored the winning goal for Blackpool in the 1953 FA Cup Final, but to me he was my friend’s dad and the man who fixed our vacuum cleaner in his electrical shop.

 In the early ‘70s I stopped going to matches. Time had moved on and my weekends were taken up with other things. I followed the fortunes of the team from a distance and that’s how it stayed for a long time.

A new era is about to commence. Colour the town tangerine and white.

 

My poem from 2010,

 

 

Sea Sea Seasiders  2010

 

Everything tangerine and white,

Fans all meet in great assembly.

Blackpool FC in the top flight,

They’ve beaten Cardiff at Wembley.

 

Open top bus in ’53,

Everything tangerine and white,

The FA cup for all to see,

Bill Perry’s goal, the town's delight.

 

It really was an awesome sight                                                            

With deafening applause and cheer;

Everything tangerine and white

With plenty of champagne and beer.

 

Open top bus like ’53,

Everything tangerine and white.

The play-off cup for all to see,

Ormerod’s goal, the town's delight.

 

Ollie’s team have got the power,

Premier League, a dizzy height.

Blackpool flag atop the tower,

Everything tangerine and white!

 

 

PMW

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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Photo Writing Exercise

Writing poetry is a real pleasure in my life, something that I enjoy as more of a hobby than in the hope of ever completing a book. Although if that should happen in the future then it's a real bonus.  Since being a part of the Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society, I have had the honour of 4 of my poems being included in their publications: "A Poets' Guide To Blackpool", "Haunted Blackpool" and 2 poems in "Pelts to Petticoats" which was written to celebrate "Vintage Poulton" for their upcoming Gala.

I left School at the age of 16 with a double "C" Grade for English (Language and Literature) and didn't further my education beyond studying for an NVQ.  My only experience with any kind of Writing Exercise came when the latter book was being compiled.  I had already written an entry for the book but wanted some feedback on it, so I attended the Poetry Workshop hosted by Vicky Ellis dedicated to this book.  It was an excellent experience to receive said feedback, but Vicky also asked us to complete the exercise attached to the workshop too.

From memory, it consisted of:

• Selecting a photo associated with Poulton-Le-Fylde from one of the books about the Town and taking in all the elements that could be seen. I chose an old black and white photo of the Thatched Tavern Pub. Write down those elements.
• Place yourself outside the viewpoint of the photo and make an imaginary situation of what you were doing on that day when the photo was taken and write it down.
• Imagine the colours that could be seen.  I had to use my imagination here. Write those down alongside what they pertain to. 
• Write down what other things those colours could also be associated with such as:  Brown Soil could also be a Brown Horse, Brown Suit etc.
• Imagine another Character that cannot be seen on the photo.  Write down who they are, what they look like, how they are dressed and what they are doing.
• What happens next after the photo has been taken?

Following these guidelines this is what I ended up with:

Thatched Tavern Photo

  

As I walk to the Churchyard to tend loved one graves

With the Sky so overcast, grey and dull

Colour is injected by a green and gold sign

Brown suits stand by the Tavern, the call of Ale such a pull.

A Photographer stands with equipment poised 

To capture this picturesque sight

Chins up, chests out, hands rested on pocket watches

Masculine dignity and pride show their might.

A girl watches on out of sight and mind

Observing her playmate standing so still

Her flaxen hair shines like the Sun's rays on the Thatch

Keen to re-join prior pastimes, such a thrill.

The Photo now taken, the people adjourn

To tend to livestock or natter over a Beer

Business back to usual behind those whitewash walls

Of The Thatched Tavern bringing merriment and cheer.

It was a very unusual approach for me to take and I must admit I struggled at first, but it opened my eyes what could be done should I ever suffer with writers block.  It would come in very handy indeed.  It not only offers an opportunity to challenge yourself by doing something you may never have tried before, but also the chance to try writing in different styles.  Give it a go.  You may just surprise yourself!

Why not have a look at the Shop tab at the top of this page?  ;-)

Thanks for reading.

P.S. Apologies to Vicky if I have inadvertently missed out any of the steps of this exercise.

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