THE IDLE PARADOX

my fellow blog fiends
over the last few weeks of bloglessness
i have reached a most sombre conclusion
it is this
that being idle is bloody hard work!
for the aspiring idler is forced into daily conflict
while he shirks the dull routines of modern existence
all around him swirls a maelstrom of bother
disturbing and distracting our heroic idler
into always being busy doing nothing
for therein lies the paradox
to be busy is to achieve very little
save for boring oneself to death
in the role of a tiny cog
maintaining, servicing and consuming
greasing the great wheel of the slave culture
on the other hand
to be idle is to be productive
to think, to enjoy, to create
to luxuriate
yet it is these three jewels
thought, joy, creativity
which are anathema to the botherers
the interferers
the bores
those whose purpose in life is to control and subordinate the idle
to the daily tedium of wage slavery and commodified leisure
sold to the unwitting in the form of jobs and careers
supermarkets and shopping
i-phone and internet
television and take-away
theme park and leisure centre
yes, it is a constant struggle
to keep one's head
while all around others are losing theirs
to espouse life-affirming anarchy
in a death culture of state-corporate collusion
and yet it is a battle worth fighting
a cause worth supporting
a war worth waging
so will you join me, my fiends?
will you take a stand?
will you plant an idle flag in the dirt?

LITTLE WING

Little Wing is perched on her boulder
Trying to catch the Big Fish
Little Wing, she thinks of her father
And his departing wish
Little Wing, she stares at the water
So clear and so deep
Little Wing with a weight on her shoulder
With a promise to keep

Little Wing
Hear her sing
Above the river’s roar

Little Wing, she sits in her classroom
Waiting for lessons to end
Little Wing is lost in a daydream
Pondering what Father said
Little Wing returns to her boulder
Waiting for Big Fish to bite
Oh it’s been a long day
It will be a long night

Little Wing
Sweetly sings
Above the river’s roar

Big Fish has lived a thousand years in this bourne
Each year it comes back home to where it will spawn
And Little Wing, she knows her tribe’s destiny
Is flowing with the river to the sea

Little Wing, she stands on her boulder
Raising her spear to the sky
Quick as silver, straight and true
Like an arrow it flies

Little Wing
Hear her sing
Above the river’s roar
Little Wing
Sweetly sings
Above the river’s roar

Little Wing, she clutches her prize to her chest
And home to Father she walks

THE GENTLE MUSIC OF A BYGONE DAY

resting against the spreading bows of a tree
a young woman plucks languidly at a six-string lute
a faraway look in her eyes as the notes chime
beside her a demure maiden with flowers in her hair
reclines on a fallen tree
her dispassionate gaze falling on her musical score
beyond the two figures
a gentle stream meanders through a rolling bucolic landscape
a path leads invitingly across a stone bridge
winding gently away
over the lush green hillside

QUOTATIONS

have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful
or believe to be beautiful
so said the great victorian polymath william morris
oh william
i heartily agree!
but such a thing is easily said
with a large inheritance to live off
a retinue of servants to keep your house in order
and an absence of internet shopping or car boot sales
how distant morris' aspiration seems
as distant as the victorian era itself
this morning
i awake early at six thirty
and pad down the stairs to fix a nice cafetiere of coffee
two hours later
the cafetiere remains empty
the culprit?
a marathon session of tidying and cleaning the kitchen and garage
it all starts innocently enough
a quick sorting out of the recycling before the binmen arrive
then things go progressively downhill
as i try to clear some space around the kitchen boiler
to allow the gas man to do his annual check unimpeded
and strip away layer after layer of unwanted stuff, dust and grime
in the process of this operation
i unearth literally mountains of supermarket carrier bags
just a few months ago i recall throwing out hundreds more of them in sheer desperation
to an uncomplicated idler like me
living like this is utter anathema
what's that other quote from fight club?
the things you own end up owning you

HONESTY

honest
scruffy
threadbare
wearing its heart on its sleeve
"a tribute to the travelling wilburys" for chrissake!
dubiously tuned
devil-may-care
ramshackle
chicken shack
content over presentation
plucky
cantankerous
mumbled
fumbled and scuffed
idiosyncratic
eccentric
indiscreet
unkempt
unpolished
unpoliced
how i love
the towering tower of song

BARMY

out of habit

i turn on the radio

and then wish i hadn't

president o'barmy is wittering on about 'the need for growth'

let's stop a moment and think about what this actually means

while life on this planet hits the buffers

o'barmy wants to prop up the broken financial system

by accelerating planetary destruction even further

in other words

to enrich the few

at the expense of the many

including all other life forms

truly this is a game of consolidating

in the words of john kenneth galbraith

private wealth and public squalor

LENNON & MCCARTNEY

there is steve kilbey and the church

there is jim aka roger mcguinn and the byrds

there is ray davies and the kinks

there is bob dylan

and there is the late great jake thackray

but the greatest influence on my music and songwriting

remains that pair of giants

lennon and mccartney

it would obviously be churlish to diminish mccartney

supreme melodist

virtuoso multi-instrumentalist

outstanding vocalist

frequently inspired lyricist and songwriter

just look at songs like yesterday, penny lane and hey jude

but when i look for key songs in the beatles catalogue

it is not generally mccartney or harrisongs that stand out

it is lennon's

the exceptions that prove the rule

are their first double whammy from 1963

she loves you and i wanna hold your hand

both co-written eyeball to eyeball in hotel rooms while on tour

but from that point on lennon establishes himself as the key writer

that opening chord of a hard day's night

cuts a swathe through popular music

ticket to ride is rock's first proto-heavy metal track

help! combines its writer's vulnerability

with similar climactic energy and drive to a hard day's night

norwegian wood moves into edgier lyrical territory

meshing english folk with indian raga

tomorrow never knows ushers in the strangeness of psychedelia

this incredible recording has never dated

despite - or perhaps because of -

the head-swimming onward march of technology

rain updates ticket to ride's heavy metal style

harnessing the byrds' gleaming treble guitar tone

then smudging it with a druggy smear of backwards vocals

strawberry fields picks up where help! left off

adding depth, subtlety and texture to the angst

and instrumentation almost orchestral in its sweep

a day in the life represents perhaps lennon's (and the group's) peak

a devastatingly sad and moving mood piece

with lennon's voice at its most vulnerable

another contender for greatest ever beatles recording

could be i am the walrus

an astonishing rant against england and petty authority

sneered against an incredible backing track

brilliantly orchestrated by george martin

that scales and descends a relentless escher staircase

the distortion of revolution captures the zeitgeist of the year of my birth

in the same way as the stones' street fighting man

happiness is a warm gun offers three or four songs in one

a kind of history of folk and rock music sewn together

finally there is the political boldness of come together

mccartney weighing in with a superb swampy bassline

as if to prove his worth

as lennon's indispensable partner in crime

where would we be without them?

END OF THE ROAD

i wake from dreams of rust

i have booked volky into the garage

for he has been acting strangely of late

protesting a little too much

woodle climbs into the back

for her lift to kiddie prison

i put volky in reverse

depress his accelerator

and...

nothing happens!

i try inching forwards to test if normal drive works

and the gears engage

if i can push volky up the driveway

we should be able to make it to the garage

enlisting the help of mrs fireseed

plus mum, dad and the postman

we heave volky out onto the road

but shifting our trusty volkswagen proves difficult

my revs are not reaching his wheels

the power is draining away somewhere in the distribution chain

we amble along at a pedestrian speed

crawl painfully up a steep hill

and are faced with the terrifying prospect

of crossing the bristol road

in the face of a stream of rush-hour traffic

a38 navigated

an emergency traffic light forces us to lose momentum again

as i plan my attack on the next hill

the revs get louder and noisier

until the needle on the dashboard leaps to 60000 rpm

and i see smoke emerging from the bonnet

just like in a breakdown scene from a film

as we come to a halt

there is a sickening finality to it all

i feel like icarus flying too close to the sun

it suddenly occurs to me

that just like every human being

every car is destined to wind up in the same place

an automobile graveyard

volky is towed to the garage

pronounced terminally ill with a ruptured gearbox

and escorted back home

to be carted away imminently to the knacker's yard

chance has it that some korean friends of ours

are selling their own car at a rock bottom price

and hours later i am driving the as yet nameless vehicle home

i park it guiltily on the drive

in full view of volky

whose pride of place has now been usurped

by an oddly similar dark green saloon rival

younger and fresher

and a hundred thousand miles less travelled

glancing from one car to another from an upstairs window

i am struck by the unflattering contrast

the graceful sweep of volky's heavy but well proportioned curves

next to the clumsy profile of his superficially similar successor

like a well bred shire horse

standing beside a common cart pony

to bed i go with a heavy heart