Altered State Of Flow

When I chose the topic of Altered States I instantly thought of getting high. Then I realised I no longer carried the disposition or the connect saving me the trouble. Then I thought back to my days at university, Mary Jane was a frequent visitor then. During the winter she was a permanent resident, not once did I see my mates not enveloped in a haze of smoke. Admittedly I did partake a few times but I never stayed for long, I had stuff to do, an exam to revise for, friends to meet, souls to save etc.
 
Now why am I telling you this? Am I high now? Am I going through the stoner’s motion of rambling from one topic to another? Here’s the point, the green stuff makes you sluggish and dims the mind, so when I hear a writer announce he wrote this particular masterpiece under the influence, skeptical is me.
 
The Beats, those purveyors of cool, ‘the angel headed hipsters’, setting the world to right, not a single back upright, were the great exponents of the altered state if only to shake their own United States out of dull conformity. But knowing their work you started to see the dedicated writers they were, the Ginsbergs, the Burroughs, the Kerouacs were sober enough some of the time to craft some fine words (for the sake of brevity I’m going to open the discussion to include other intoxicants). Admittedly the Moloch section of Ginsberg’s Howl was written through a fog, and William S. Burroughs' Naked Lunch composed with a litany of illegal substances coursing through his veins, and Kerouac’s On the Road gusting forth proportionate to the amount of pills good old Jack just popped. But have you ever read extracts from the first draft of these fine works? A mess of mixed metaphors and circular reasoning. Yes, On the Road was written in three days, but  they fail to mention it took months of editing and re-writes before it became the novel we know it today. Naked Lunch is on par with Ulysses for it’s pain in the arse-ness to read.  And what about the 'Moloch' section of Howl, I’ll give you that but admittedly it’s the weakest part of that poem.
 
Alcohol is probably the worse offender of talent killing. A writer’s proficiency corresponds indirectly to the amount of alcohol consumed. I normally stop writing after the second pint and prefer to leer at the bar maid for the rest of my stay, notepad plain. So many great writers have been laid to waist by the demon sauce, Berryman, Lowell, Hemingway, Faulkner, Cheever, Chandler, Carver (all the C’s). Dylan Thomas the Welsh bard killed himself drinking eighteen straight whiskeys (although I think that’s a myth myself), and keep in mind all the poems we know him for were written stone sober in a shed, under the stern gaze of his long suffering wife Caitlin.
 
Psychedelics open our minds, on the marvels of LSD, Magic Mushrooms and their ilk I have spent many a Summer day in their company, and have filled notebook after notebook with insights into the universe. Unfortunately I cannot tell you any of those insights, or tell how long God’s beard is. My writing is intelligible at the best of time and after a trip my notepad looks like a Jackson Pollock painting. The bits I manage to decipher are so pedestrian and cliche I feel like I’m reading the scrip to Eastenders. However unlike alcohol which is friend of forgetting, the memory of your trip on psychedelics lasts potentially for a lifetime, so you can always tap that reservoir if needed. Although few and far between are those times.
 
Here’s the crux my fellow travellers. There’s nothing greater than the Altered State of Flow, that non- substance-induced state of writing when you feel in absolute control. Unaware of the passing of time, the words flow almost without thought, like they have been gifted from up on high, potentially woven into God’s beard. And up to the time when you are awakened from your trance by a car alarm or the kids running into the room, you are one with the verse/the universe. It is the greatest rush more than any stimulated high, better than weed, alcohol, or a twelve hour trip to nirvana, the feeling of completion. That final full stop and the feeling of a good job done, nothing beats the rush. This is why I write, give me that anytime.
 
Jamie 

 

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Toxic Times

It feels like it's a toxic time at the moment. Global warming, Trump, Brexit - need I go on?

I love animals and always have done. How they brighten the world and create a sense of awe and beauty. But tragically more and more are becoming endangered. I am mortified about the Amazon rainforest burning. Such a loss of life.

In times like these I think our authentic self is so important as we are in danger (see what I did there!) of losing ourselves in the black pit of stupidity. What I mean by that is: don't follow the crowd, vote and do what you think is right! Oh and please recycle!.

Now for a poem by moi.

Truth
Look at you.
If only you knew the truth,
that the world can be changed in a day.
If we all made one change,
imagine how life would be.
Free, free to explore.
No more dictators, waste.
The world would be a magnificent place.
I know this may sound like a dream,
trust me - this is the truth,
the world can be changed in a day.
And it starts....
Today.
Hopefully...
Maybe...
Probably not...

Helena Ascough x

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Is This The End?

Here is a short story I first wrote for a competition in 2015. I've resurrected the main piece and altered it for the blog, along with an illustration to help set the scene. I hope you like it.

Confused and disorientated, Spencer surfaced, connecting once more with his conscious thoughts.

“How the hell did I get here?” And while he was on the subject, “Where exactly is here?”

Everything was dark, so much so the blackness appeared to be expanding in front of Spencer’s eyes, engulfing him and playfully teasing his claustrophobia until he realised he was not breathing. With difficulty he instructed himself to take some slow deep breath, clawing his way back from absolute panic to cloying anxiety which loitered with intent and remained static, looking unlikely to be going away anytime soon.

Digging his fingernails deep into his palms, as he had done so many times before, Spencer regained some feeling again, registering the pain signals traversing the nerve pathway up his arms from his hands. This also raised an awareness in him of a dull throbbing ache originating in the back of his head. He had a vague recollection of paying Gibson a visit, to try at least to identify some common ground for us to forge a truce.

I knew it was wrong to take a cut of the money, but you can't blame me for wanting more than what life had dealt me so far.

Orphaned at five, living rough between the three spires before winter got the better of me and I was forced to work in the mills to earn a meal.

Greed got the better of sensibility, and foolishly i thought Gibson would not find out, although if the rumours were true, he does have eyes and ears everywhere.

I vaguely recollect going to his workshop, and seeing the door ajar, with a candle flickering in the window I assumed he was in the back counting the spoils of the daily take. I went into the shack and headed for his lodgings before turning towards a noise from which emanated behind me...

That was the last I remember. “Where the hell am I?”

Back to his current predicament Spencer had started to notice more about his surroundings as his sensory perceptions began to kick in.

Illustration by SM-G

There was definitely an intense sweet smell of wood which reminded him of Christmas at the workhouse in Coventry, and just as cold. The scent was so intense, he could almost taste it. Unfortunately his Proprioception was still catching up, which prevented him from confirming if he was in a horizontal or vertical position.

Either way at least he noted to be resting on a soft cushioned surface which reminded him of resting in the haystacks of Cooper's farm on summer evenings, albeit the cover felt cool to the touch and as smooth as silk on his bare arms.

For a fleeting moment he considered that things couldn't be all bad, being somewhere that was so soft and gentle.

Spencer decided to try and move his head to see if this would clear the grogginess he felt, but to his dismay there was something solid directly in front of his face which restricted his movements and produced a dull thud that resonated within the enclosed space around him.

Fear gripped him firmly, like a child lost and alone. The breathlessness returned worse than before, as Spencer finally realised where he was. The ensuing panic drained what energy he had recovered over the last few minutes. With a final futile attempt to remain conscious Spencer’s thoughts spun like a top that was whipped.

He remained uncomfortably aware of a single phrase repeating itself over and over in his head, which began to slowly fade away into the distance.

“Is this the end?”

Steve McCarthy-Grunwald

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Box

Alongside great inventions in time, such as the wheel, the humble box has also stood the test of time, and is all too much taken for granted in today’s society. They come in all shapes, colours and sizes, they have a festive celebration dedicated to them (just after Christmas), and for many, it is something we use throughout our lives in various different situations, to the point that we may also end up put in one when we are dead.

To this end, writing a blog about all things ‘box’ appears rather a mammoth task, like summing up war and peace in a couple of sentences, so after careful consideration I have chosen to look at one particular box which is more famous with science fiction fans, rather than its real use. I have chosen therefore to look at a history of the little known but well-loved Police Box. Cue Music…

What a curious series of events unravels in front of my eyes when exploring the history of the police box. For instance, when comparing various websites dedicated to this topic from around the world, I immediately found that the facts were somewhat skewed, with three different sites claimed three different cities as the original birthplace of these TARDIS-style boxes. It almost confirms the possibility that time travel is possible with such sightings being identified, I will leave it to you to decide.

This was not the only anomaly. Waters were further muddied when looking for the name of the inventor who first designed the box.  Many different sites gave, different names and as such there still appears no unified theory of their development which we can reliably use for reference.

Having said that there are many facts which were agreed upon. For instance, the decision to use such boxes was to try and stay ahead of the criminal activities taking place around the early 1890s. The idea in Glasgow, was to exploit the emerging technologies of the telephone, creating a series of signal posts for Bobbies on the beat to keep in constant touch with each other.

The first boxes used were cast iron octagonal affairs, providing an intricate system of signalling lines, which when a trigger mechanism was activated, a red lamp lit up on the top to attract the attention of the local beat officers. Consequently the location of the box was crucial to ensure visibility. Officers therefore were encouraged to stay within line-of-sight of their Police Box for as much time as possible, although the top of the Police Box lamp in later versions contained a gong mechanism which also provided an audible means of attracting attention.

The more common square police boxes were introduced in the late 1920s firstly in the north east of the country. These were cumbersomely large, rather short and had a sloping roof. These shed-like structures proved very efficient in reducing crime in the area. This led to a decision to develop a standardised design, to which end Gilbert ‘MacKenzie’ Trench was recognised as producing the iconic box artwork (Mark 1) which would one day enter common parlance as a 'TARDIS', and first appearing on the streets of London in 1929.

author's own sketch

The original MacKenzie Trench blueprints indicated the material for the shell of the box as 'concrete'. Furthermore, the wood panelling required for door, was suggested to be made 'in teak'. In the absence of anything other than anecdotal evidence to the contrary, this casts doubt on the description of the TARDIS being a solely 'wooden box'. Although I’m not sure how aerodynamic cast concrete would be, so this may suggest why a change was required.

As progress always dictates, a change was required over time to modify the box design and use, therefore, in the mid-1930s, the Mark 2 design was released. (This version is more akin to the Tardis design we know from Dr Who). The main difference between Marks 1 and 2 was more focused around who could use the boxes. The Mark 2 boxes were made available to the general public, where no lock was fitted to enable access. The new loudspeaker-telephone system (what was referred to as a 'speakerphone'), required an explanatory notice due to its unfamiliarity with the general populous.  Despite this detailed guidance for use, the public remained cautious about using the police boxes (on average less than once per month was recorded).

To encourage a change, the metropolitan police held a series of special exhibits to educate the public and encourage them to use the boxes which had some effect in doubling the amount of callers using the boxes. By the 1940s, the Police Box held an important position in local communities, since most homes still had no telephone, so the boxes provided a means to report fires, or summon ambulances alongside their primary purpose of reducing crime. Some other differences between the Mark 1 and 2 involved aesthetic changes such as the explanatory plaque and the St John Ambulance logo being moved one panel higher, whilst the original roof sign which simply read 'POLICE', was changed to the more familiar 'POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX'.

There was also a suggestion that the Mark 2 had 'hammered' or 'frosted' glass in place of clear glass in the original design. Despite this guidance on design in reality this was not always observed. This is reflected in the design of the 1996 TARDIS prop by Richard Hudolin which had a mixture of all types of glass randomly placed. There was also a Mark 3 variation of the Met Police Box which was larger with no windows at the front and three at the side.

As time passed and technology developed these boxes fell out of fashion, and as such their primary use has fallen into the realms of history, but the design lived on thorough popular TV. The same will be said I’m sure of red telephone and pillar boxes in the future…

TARDIS Haiku

Silently watching
As time moves relentlessly
Onwards to the end

Box Limerick (Harry Potter Themed).

A wise old ‘house elf’ called fox.
Who lived most of his life in a box?
Was so surprised one day.
When he found as his pay.
A discarded pair of worn argyle socks.

SM-G 2019.

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Spring Fling

Spring has sprung (sort of). It’s still freezing here in St Anne’s! Hopefully warmer days are coming.

This poem was inspired by a young women who I watched on YouTube who described that falling in love felt like a flower was growing in her chest. I think this is an incredibly beautiful and poetic image as being in love makes you grow as a person.

I’m not a girly girl, but I do adore flowers as they colour the world and they remind me that life is wonderful. Even if you feel left in the dirt, you can grow and achieve anything.

Though I must admit that I definitely do not have green fingers!

Flowers
I feel like there's flowers growing in my chest,
There’s a spring in my step 
You push away the autumn leaves.
The dust.
The dirt. 
So I can finally
breathe.
Your warmth radiates 
And hydrates my dandelion lungs.
Spring has just begun
And soon our summer of heat 
Will commence.
Don’t build a fence 
Around my hyacinth heart .
Let my love grow
Freely and unruly, 
And we will see how it goes,
You never know how long it takes for a flower to grow.

Helena Ascough 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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Life Scares Me!

I love life but sometimes it creeps me out, the unknown lurking around the corner. I'm scared of many things but not the conventional sort of scary things that go boo in the night or the little creatures that dangle from webs...

People scare me. They can do so much damage and people can vanish like a puff of smoke leaving you heartbroken.

Sometimes I scare myself, imagining awkward and dangerous scenarios I could find myself in if this or that happened. But life is about facing your fears and reaching for the stars (as cringeworthy as that may sound).

Fear is healthy if it is controlled. It reminds us that we are alive. So at this time of year when we dress as the deceased, feel alive, love and live every moment. F**k fear and do it anyway!

Two Faces

Two faces

Which one will bite?

Which one will kiss?

Which one will spit venom?

Which one will whisper words of bliss?

Which face do I love?

I don't know anymore...


Helena Ascough

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Connoisseur Of Loneliness

In 1984 there was a young girl, just after her tenth birthday in a boarding school in Bengaluru in the state of Karnataka. Her family over three thousand kilometres way, she was sharing a dormitory with seventy girls. The high beams created a never-ending ceiling and the stain windows brought the moon in a kaleidoscope of colours that made her weep for familiarity.

Just then, to her left through her mosquito net, a hand tapped her on the shoulder and reached for her left hand to hold and to her right another hand reached out to hold her right hand. A voice followed which everyone could hear “We create a circle of love when one of us gets home sick, look we are all holding hands, in here we are your family, good night Hodan.”

Yes, that young girl was me!

1986 - winning and thriving at boarding school

Fast forward into my late twenties, here I was busy making reservations five nights a week, staying at home or being still was not an option, fear of missing out is what drove me. To carry the right-hand bag, be propped up by a well sought out pair of heels, see and be seen was the order of my life. Amongst this crowd, cocktails and music I was always lonely.

 

The need to dump the day: I have had a horrid day I wish I could talk it through with someone.

The need to share problems: I am holding onto so many problems I cannot carry them any longer, I am scared.

The need to interact: I need to just speak to a person, I feel I have no friends.

I created a persona most people would comment on. I didn’t have any problems. I was a recluse and liked my own company.  In my efforts to rid myself of the loneliness in my twenties, I only added to them. Shedding the old without replenishing this void with quality interactions was my mistake, coupled with my lack of trust that people will accept me for just being me.

 

Poem about suicide written in my 20’s

Stand in the south pier he whispered in my ear,

last night in my dreams.

As dawn breaks light he promised to hold me tight,

he is coming for me.

 

For he is my man, he is my perfect man.

He is coming with gifts, a life and happiness,

he is my perfect man.

 

I wear my best clothes and stand as he told,

with fear in my eyes.

I cannot wait I wish this wave can take me there.

 

As down breaks light, I jump for my life

he promised if I, he will be there.

I cannot even see or hear; the water takes me down.

 

At the bottom of the sea, there he is waiting for me. 

He holds my hand, I am higher than the sea and the land

with my perfect man.

 

I am in my forties now, I have learnt to not fill every second of the day, take time to breathe and use my free time to do things I enjoy on my own. I know I could free fall without a parachute and my friends would catch me. The bond and depth of our relationships makes me feel lucky, I love them all dearly.

I have learnt the absence of interaction is as equal to the lack of quality in my interactions because both have made me feel lonely.  My friend base is about values, experiences, thoughts, love, empathy and less about aesthetics.

Loneliness

Society has excavated you and me

To feed the systems and make it money

Heed from sharing in case we are deemed puny

Give up our voice in return for four walls

Our very own prison with hedges and lawns

The vacant space that yet aches needs to be heard

A social construct that only you and I can mend

Make that call not a storyline in our own head

Loneliness is the plague of our times,

not addressing it will be our true crime.

 

Hodan Noor, October 2018

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Shells

I recently went to the beach with my kids and while they played, I decided to put together a collection of the tiniest sea shells I could find. The first few were larger, and the more I looked for them the ones I found became progressively smaller. As I challenged myself to find the smallest one I could see, I remembered a photograph of sand viewed under a microscope. The picture clearly showed tiny specks of sand which were not parts of shells, but complete, and it occurred to me that these tiny shells all once housed a miniscule creature. I was holding a tiny creature cover.

Protection
You cast yourself a fragile shell

To house your soft self

Keeping out perceived agonies


To seem strong and dignified

To keep out the hungry


But when waves cast you abeach

They see through your defence


To your softness.

They smash through anyway.


Lindsay

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Masks

If you've ever worked in retail or any environment with an emphasis on customer service, you can probably tell where I'm going with this post. Masks are what we wear when we serve the public, a face we put on to look professional.

What I find fascinating is that the masks tend to usually be the same. Friendly demeanour, just wants to get the job done. It’s almost as if it comes as part of the uniform.

I feel the presence of this metaphorical mask at work myself. When I see people I know come through, slipping into friendly dialogue doesn’t come instantly — it feels like I have to put a conscious effort to snap out of the persona I’ve placed on myself to be sociable. It’s strange.

So anyway, enough rambling — here’s a poem reflecting on the idea of masks.

Masks

Into shops we shuffle,

our wallets on a binge

for comfort foods stocked by

skin stuffed with porcelain

Found amidst the checkouts,

where time loses its pace

a figure stands, eyelashes

all ribboned up with lace

Words are always spoken

but the mask is hot with day

or night, it matters not

the sentence stays the same

 

Thanks for reading, Dean.

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Bucket Lists

Bucket lists are funny ones. No one wants to die unaccomplished and bored but the problem is sometimes bucket lists are so expensive, unrealistic or bizarre that you might not ever complete them. I'm not a pessimist, I swear!

I think we should create an environment in our own lives that is so warm and full of hope that we don't need to wish our lives away. We should just live in the moment.

That might sound like a fairy-tale, living the perfect life, being perfectly happy and content. But I honestly think the best things that come to us....come as surprises!

I'm not saying we shouldn't have a bucket list - hell, I have one. I just think we shouldn't get upset if we don't tick everything off.

Vanished
Vanished
Like a puff of smoke,
He escapes back to Mars.
So far...
The depth of his brain
Swallows his dreams.
I scream,
Come back down to reality!
Come back!
Please!

Helena Ascough

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Old Pile Of Books

"It’s just an old pile of books". I was once greeted with that phrase when I went to buy some books from a lady who was selling her husband’s library. Her husband had died recently and she was wanting to rid herself of his things. It was clear as conversation developed with her, that not only did she not like his books, but she hadn’t been very keen on him either.

The ‘old pile of books’, was a lifetime’s collection of interesting and valuable editions, numbering thousands. I offered her a fair sum for the books and gladly took them away to sell in my antiquarian bookshop I ran in Ambleside in Cumbria.

Books can divide opinion like that. Some people love them, can’t ever have enough of them, to read or collect or ‘furnish‘ a room. Others dislike them as clutter and dust collectors and are happy to be rid of them. Which of these are you?

I wrote this poem, in response to my experience with that lady and I think you will know which side I am on in the book debate:

Just an old pile of books

Books are from a bygone age

it’s an apt description;

yet turn another page

of a leather – bound edition

 

and you turn the tale of life

in another bygone age-

a time when words were rife

and teachers turned the page

 

to reveal what you know

and the unnoticed craft.

Books are a striking tableau,

showing draft after draft

 

of a person’s life

etched into the covers:

their joy, woe, success, strife,

family, friends, significant others –

 

and if you’re in the know,

that book description

can hide the real tableau

and bask in such deception.

I have many thousands of books in our Blackpool house, both for sale and in my personal collection.

 

In particular, I collect miniature books, books which have to be under 3 inches in height. These are delightful works of art, beautifully printed on a small scale and bound in leather or contemporary bindings. They have the added advantage of being housed in several small bookcases and hundreds of them can be displayed in a very small space.

 

Because I have been a book lover from childhood and that passion has grown even stronger over the years, I will leave you with another poem about collecting small things.

 

 

The art of small things

It can be hard to turn a page,
no offence to the book, or its age,
but it could be opened faster
if it were bigger, vaster

than the whole library I’m sitting with.
This is all part of the myth,
that bigger is better – or another,
that life is ruled by Big Brother

watching you. Mass Media’s laced
with this poison and can be traced
back to ‘size matters’ – it’s implicit,
all you have to do is listen for it –

no need to magnify; a magnifying glass
will show the miniature’s first class.
If you fix it in your view,
this truth that hides, becomes visible to you.

Thanks for reading, David Wilkinson

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I Woke Up This Morning...

I’ve always loved the Blues.  The music, that is, not the mood, which I’ve experienced enough to know it’s not a love of mine.

I’m not sure where my love of blues music stems from but I think it might have started at school.  The sixth form at my rather formal Grammar School was a bit of a revelation to me.  Suddenly, everything became much more relaxed and casual.  We were allowed to wear our own clothes, lads could grow their hair long, (this was the late sixties, after all), boys and girls could sit together and, best of all, we had a common room with coffee and a record player.   It was the height of sixties teen sophistication.

Having been brought up on Jim Reeves, Diana Ross and Shirley Bassey, with a side order of Paul Robson and Billy Cotton on a Sunday, I was unprepared for the haunting sounds that issued from that common room record player.  Nick and Bob, two of my long-haired fellow pupils (and quite sought after by the girls), were the fonts of all musical knowledge in 1968, and if they spun those old Blues discs then there had to be something in it.  Even the artists’ names held a kind of magic – Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Lead Belly, Memphis Slim, Billie Holiday……

Now, I roll them around my tongue, say them slowly out loud and my grandson laughs.  He doesn’t know – and why should he? –that these were people whose songs were born out of poverty and prejudice, a protest against bullying and slavery.  This music really did come from the heart – hearts broken and beaten but not yet defeated.

Nick and Bob didn’t just pay lip service to the Blues, they played them live.  Pretty well, I thought.  Lesson breaks, lunchtime, the odd evening event after school, Nick and Bob picked up their guitars and harmonicas, thought themselves into sombre moods and imitated that Ol’ Blues style that had obviously played a large part in shaping their musical experiences.

Fast forward a few years…..

I was at Art College when I met the young man who would eventually become my old man.  Here was someone with an extensive knowledge of – and enthusiasm for - music, and a formidable collection of LPs, EPs and singles.  Dave sealed the deal the first time he took me to a Blues concert.

Fast forward once again, another thirty years, to Blackpool and the Kite Club.  Every Friday evening Blues enthusiasts would gather in this hot, stuffy room above the Raikes Hotel, and wait for the bands to come shuffling onto the scuffed makeshift stage and transport us back to a land where times were more than hard and blessings were rare.  This was years before the smoking ban and the smell of cigarettes and weed will be forever linked in my senses with that ubiquitous opening line, “Well, I woke up this morning….. “  Haunting, low and slow….

One week we arrived a bit late (babysitter problems if I remember rightly). The band was in full Blues mode, and the audience suitably chilled.   We edged our way in and perched on a table at the back of the room.  This was my kind of music.  The Blues at its melancholy best.  I closed my eyes and let the music wash away the last thirty years, back to that sixth form common room, with its orange chairs and migraine inducing psychedelic cushions; Nick and Bob, expressions pained, giving it their seventeen year old all; the smell of cheap instant coffee; the sound of inane chatter; I was there, whispering and giggling with my best friend (who would go on to marry, then divorce Nick).  I never told her that I’d got a bit of a crush on Bob.

The music ended. I lazily opened my eyes, took a sip of cold beer and focused on the middle aged, bald and slightly tubby lead singer sitting on a chair at the front of the stage.  He smiled at the audience and introduced the next song as he tuned his guitar. I suddenly had a very strange feeling.  I turned to my husband,  “When that singer stands up,” I whispered, “if his legs are too short for his body, I know him.”

My husband gave me a look that was both puzzled and worried.

The singer stood up.  His legs were too short for his body.

It’s a very odd experience to unexpectedly meet someone after thirty odd years, two hundred miles away from where you last knew them, at a venue you frequent every week.  It’s even more odd when that someone has become relatively well known in the music world, formed a band, put on weight and lost all that lovely long hair.

We hugged, we laughed, we promised to keep in touch, but of course we didn’t.  That’s quite sad.

I'd like to think he wrote a song about it…..

Photo - Jill Reidy: Red Snapper Photography

Singing The Blues - Guy Mitchell 1956
Well, I never felt more like singin' the blues

'cause I never thought that I'd ever lose

Your love dear, why'd you do me this way?

Well, I never felt more like cryin' all night

'cause everythin's wrong, and nothin' ain't right

Without you, you got me singin' the blues.

The moon and stars no longer shine

The dream is gone I thought was mine

There's nothin' left for me to do

But cry-y-y-y over you (cry over you)

Well, I never felt more like runnin' away

But why should I go 'cause I couldn't stay

Without you, you got me singin' the blues.

Well, I never felt more like singin' the blues

'cause I never thought that I'd ever lose

Your love dear, why'd you do me this way?

Well, I never felt more like cryin' all night

'cause everythin's wrong, and nothin' ain't right

Without you, you got me singin' the blues.

The moon and stars no longer shine

The dream is gone I thought was mine

There's nothin' left for me to do

But cry-y-y-y over you (cry over you)

Well, I never felt more like runnin' away

But why should I go 'cause I couldn't stay

Without you, you got me singin' the blues.

 

Jill Reidy 

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