The poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge was onto something when he wrote:
"A grief without a pang, void, dark and drear"
for this is exactly how I felt on the 281 to Tolworth at 4 o' clock on the second to last day of 2008... Ok, so he was suffering from protracted Opium withdrawal but I drink too much coffee and, if I have a beer at lunchtime as I did today, go all moody!
We are (or should be) partners in torment!
Hazlitt also mentions that Coleridge used to waffle an awful lot- which I do, too, in spades and I'm going to stop now for the year... right here!
P.S. New Year's resolutions:
1) Start being an arsehole to my University friends as a fair few of them have accused me of being too nice on 30,000 separate occasions.
2) Start being less crotchety with other friends and family members.
3) Do more writing that isn't just blog writing i.e. the 2,500 word essay that is due in on the 8th of January
Right then, roll on 2009!!!
Tuesday, 30 December 2008
Sunday, 28 December 2008
My unedifying bildungsroman
... I was also given a copy of Graham Parker's 'Carp-fishing on Valium' for Christmas (hint: the title of the book is a hyperlink but I am having trouble making it look like one). A rock musician who toured with Dylan in the 80s, Parker grew up very close to where my parents now live and went to school with my Dad. Although he sent birthday wishes this year, he rarely answers my letters and the book is, primarily, of interest to me as a kind of bildungsroman, only one set not in a city or a northern mining town but the very military/commuter hinterlands of the habitable with which I am so familiar. At last a book that mentions such obscenities as Farnborough, Camberley, Aldershot and the Basingstoke Canal without so much as (the literary equivalent of) a blush.
Although, as I hasten to point out to that infinitesimally small community of the interested, I was not actually born in Aldershot, (the first few years of my life were set all of ten miles away in 'proper' Hampshire, with a garden that overlooked fields) I am probably as South-west Surrey as anyone else around here. Still, I seem to spend every spare moment subverting this stifling non-identity and will probably continue to do so onto death. Perhaps this is why I feel such a degree of common ground with the central character in Parker's book: Brian may be a coke-addled, rock 'n' rolling also-ran but, at heart, he is one of the disenfranchised children of the overspill, just like Parker and I. Brian attempts to find his salvation in music and drugs. Parker goes with a similar method, as well as adding further emancipation with his escape to the U.S.A where he is now resident...
I... well I haven't done such a good job of escaping... yet! My life in South London isn't particularly fulfilling; that it is an area of South London that encompasses Surrey's former County Town doesn't help matters much either. I have often tried to trace the origins of my dissatisfaction with every little thing within 50 miles but, so far, have very few answers. My Mum may have been born in North London and, briefly, lived in the Midlands but she settled in Guildford and my Dad, as I have hinted already, is from nearby Woking... it's in my blood.
Sometimes I pretend it is the small portion of Irish Catholic in me. I had a subtly different faith background from a fair few of my contemporaries- going the whole hog, too: first communion, guild of St. Stephen, confirmation- and, when I got to 18, was so enamoured of all things Irish that I pushed off and lived there for a few months. I can't help regarding all this last as a symptom of my discontent and not a cause, however.
In the end, I am forced to conclude it is not such an uncommon a malady, although it may manifest itself in others in different ways. The teenagers loitering around by the canal with cans are as maladjusted as I am, I just seek airy-fairier ways to express my feelings on the matter.
Some of us get out! Some of us don't! ... And it's not just round here, it's all over the country! Again, there are places where it is more acceptable, even romantic, to express dissatisfaction with one's formative circumstances and others, like Surrey, where it is difficult to seem more than the whiny little shit you are! In these places, like Graham, the best method is to go off and be judged by the merits of your own output (his critically acclaimed album 'Squeezing out Sparks' is a little-known gem from the 70s that eclipses all of Costello's stuff put together and could give the present mockney 'indie' brigade a run for their money. My favourite example of his work is off the following album: 'The Up Escalator' however, a song called 'Empty Lives'... hint, this title is also a hyperlink).
If I, like GP, had toured with Dylan, I guess I would stop getting so hung up about Surbiton, Aldershot and my supposed 'cultural Catholicism'. I'm off to see him (Dylan, that is) at the O2 in April so I guess that's a start...
Although, as I hasten to point out to that infinitesimally small community of the interested, I was not actually born in Aldershot, (the first few years of my life were set all of ten miles away in 'proper' Hampshire, with a garden that overlooked fields) I am probably as South-west Surrey as anyone else around here. Still, I seem to spend every spare moment subverting this stifling non-identity and will probably continue to do so onto death. Perhaps this is why I feel such a degree of common ground with the central character in Parker's book: Brian may be a coke-addled, rock 'n' rolling also-ran but, at heart, he is one of the disenfranchised children of the overspill, just like Parker and I. Brian attempts to find his salvation in music and drugs. Parker goes with a similar method, as well as adding further emancipation with his escape to the U.S.A where he is now resident...
I... well I haven't done such a good job of escaping... yet! My life in South London isn't particularly fulfilling; that it is an area of South London that encompasses Surrey's former County Town doesn't help matters much either. I have often tried to trace the origins of my dissatisfaction with every little thing within 50 miles but, so far, have very few answers. My Mum may have been born in North London and, briefly, lived in the Midlands but she settled in Guildford and my Dad, as I have hinted already, is from nearby Woking... it's in my blood.
Sometimes I pretend it is the small portion of Irish Catholic in me. I had a subtly different faith background from a fair few of my contemporaries- going the whole hog, too: first communion, guild of St. Stephen, confirmation- and, when I got to 18, was so enamoured of all things Irish that I pushed off and lived there for a few months. I can't help regarding all this last as a symptom of my discontent and not a cause, however.
In the end, I am forced to conclude it is not such an uncommon a malady, although it may manifest itself in others in different ways. The teenagers loitering around by the canal with cans are as maladjusted as I am, I just seek airy-fairier ways to express my feelings on the matter.
Some of us get out! Some of us don't! ... And it's not just round here, it's all over the country! Again, there are places where it is more acceptable, even romantic, to express dissatisfaction with one's formative circumstances and others, like Surrey, where it is difficult to seem more than the whiny little shit you are! In these places, like Graham, the best method is to go off and be judged by the merits of your own output (his critically acclaimed album 'Squeezing out Sparks' is a little-known gem from the 70s that eclipses all of Costello's stuff put together and could give the present mockney 'indie' brigade a run for their money. My favourite example of his work is off the following album: 'The Up Escalator' however, a song called 'Empty Lives'... hint, this title is also a hyperlink).
If I, like GP, had toured with Dylan, I guess I would stop getting so hung up about Surbiton, Aldershot and my supposed 'cultural Catholicism'. I'm off to see him (Dylan, that is) at the O2 in April so I guess that's a start...
Saturday, 27 December 2008
My brand new Suburb-Busting-Anti-Fox-Ultrasonic-Ray-Gun™
Well, I'm sure that you are all dying to know what I was given for Christmas...
The uninspiring answer is: lots of jaw-aching, almost absurdly boring books (one on Victorian PMs and another on correct grammar usage... I kid you not, unfortunately!) Importantly though, I negotiated a truce with a good friend which guaranteed neither party would present the other with a gift on the day, thereby staving off the demons of both enmity and poverty and sparing a big scene at his flat when I turned up empty-handed.
The trouble is- and I'm beginning to empathise with the leaders of tin-pot regimes round the world- he did not respect the terms of the treaty. Luckily, I received word of the planned breach the day before (a direct call from the man himself stating, in no uncertain terms, that he had bought me a present and I was to get him one, too) total disaster was therefore avoided, although, unfortunately, not poverty. 'Tis the season to be out of pocket.
Boy, what a present though!
It is not something I have described on the blog for fear of reprisals but for the last few months I have been frequently chased and generally intimidated by a horrible gang. The severe dropping off of posts in recent weeks may be attributed to my despair at my inability even to walk home at night without molestation by these awful, awful fiends! That they are of the species Vulpes vulpes (or fox) should be of no concern to the general reader.
My friend, aware of my midnight tribulations- usually suffered when struggling back from his flat in town, after all- generously provided me with a big, fat WMD that is, ostensibly, to be used to dissuade unwelcome animals from attempting to use two of their five senses ever again! I am staying with my parents at the moment and, unfortunately, didn't bring the thing with me so you'll have to rely on my slightly hazy post-Christmas recollection of the device for the moment... Trust me that I am not exaggerating when I say that it is a chunky pistol which both fires a laser and emits the kind of supersonic screech that forces good guys to the floor in superhero movies. One of the unintended bonuses of this gadget is that you get to pretend you are Lex Luthor on your walk home!
After just one such late-night sojourn (and on that same Christmas night, no less) my politics have shifted completely. Holding the thing, I began to agree with Tony Martin and the general philosophy of the NRA. Man has a right to self-defence... at least against these bastard foxes! The town variety aren't even scared of human beings anymore- until they realise you are packing heat, that is!
It is my theory, furthermore, that they are on the move! For the moment, they are massing in the council estates and cul-de-sacs of the suburbs but this will not content them! First they attack our bins but it will not be long before they EAT an entire human being! We must ready ourselves!
So take a leaf out of my friend's book and get your loved ones some sort of anti-fox blasting protection today and set about reclaiming suburbia from this vicious pestilence!!!
Merry Christmas!
The uninspiring answer is: lots of jaw-aching, almost absurdly boring books (one on Victorian PMs and another on correct grammar usage... I kid you not, unfortunately!) Importantly though, I negotiated a truce with a good friend which guaranteed neither party would present the other with a gift on the day, thereby staving off the demons of both enmity and poverty and sparing a big scene at his flat when I turned up empty-handed.
The trouble is- and I'm beginning to empathise with the leaders of tin-pot regimes round the world- he did not respect the terms of the treaty. Luckily, I received word of the planned breach the day before (a direct call from the man himself stating, in no uncertain terms, that he had bought me a present and I was to get him one, too) total disaster was therefore avoided, although, unfortunately, not poverty. 'Tis the season to be out of pocket.
Boy, what a present though!
It is not something I have described on the blog for fear of reprisals but for the last few months I have been frequently chased and generally intimidated by a horrible gang. The severe dropping off of posts in recent weeks may be attributed to my despair at my inability even to walk home at night without molestation by these awful, awful fiends! That they are of the species Vulpes vulpes (or fox) should be of no concern to the general reader.
My friend, aware of my midnight tribulations- usually suffered when struggling back from his flat in town, after all- generously provided me with a big, fat WMD that is, ostensibly, to be used to dissuade unwelcome animals from attempting to use two of their five senses ever again! I am staying with my parents at the moment and, unfortunately, didn't bring the thing with me so you'll have to rely on my slightly hazy post-Christmas recollection of the device for the moment... Trust me that I am not exaggerating when I say that it is a chunky pistol which both fires a laser and emits the kind of supersonic screech that forces good guys to the floor in superhero movies. One of the unintended bonuses of this gadget is that you get to pretend you are Lex Luthor on your walk home!
After just one such late-night sojourn (and on that same Christmas night, no less) my politics have shifted completely. Holding the thing, I began to agree with Tony Martin and the general philosophy of the NRA. Man has a right to self-defence... at least against these bastard foxes! The town variety aren't even scared of human beings anymore- until they realise you are packing heat, that is!
It is my theory, furthermore, that they are on the move! For the moment, they are massing in the council estates and cul-de-sacs of the suburbs but this will not content them! First they attack our bins but it will not be long before they EAT an entire human being! We must ready ourselves!
So take a leaf out of my friend's book and get your loved ones some sort of anti-fox blasting protection today and set about reclaiming suburbia from this vicious pestilence!!!
Merry Christmas!
Tuesday, 16 December 2008
Tuesday, Ring Road, Supermarket...
Ok, I have been holding out but here, at last, is my update:
I am conducting a clandestine love affair with a little place called Roehampton Vale. If you've ever had the misfortune to pass through the- er- location, you will understand how absurd that sounds. It is little more than a widening in the road with Putney Vale cemetery on the one side and a 24-Hour ASDA and one of the campuses of my esteemed University on the other. I have an appointment there every Tuesday morning at 11.30 AM which, due to a deficiency on the part of my alarm (not loud enough!) I invariably miss. I think Iris Murdoch said something along the lines of: some places in London are necessary and some contingent; well, the latter part of that is certainly true of Greater London from Tolworth on in. To paraphrase Radiohead, it is all ring roads and supermarkets...
A propos of my pathetic life, I have been trying to come up with an apologetic explaining my passion for the place and, so far, I have found very few answers. The university sports field is certainly expansive and picturesque and, I think, borders Wimbledon Common but this, in itself, is not enough. The university building beside the field is very ugly, the worst example of 70s Polytechnic architecture; meanwhile, the busy sliproad and the noise of traffic blots out any possibility of enjoying all that open space...
In all honesty, I think it is the Supermarket. Ever since Ireland, when I used to go to one on a Sunday morning and read all the music magazines in the cafeteria, I have harboured a perverse affection for them. When I came to know of Ginsberg's poem, 'A Supermarket in California' this strange passion only intensified.
Besides the Supermarket, I guess I just enjoy my Tuesday morning outing. Even a few buildings beside a by-pass is a change of scene for me and it also presents a chance to catch up on my reading: The Benn Diaries or Alan Clark's Diaries or any of the other boring tomes I have been lugging around for roughly a decade.
If I ever become a famous writer, I hope they blue plaque that ASDA; something along the lines of:
"Here Hampton sat on a plastic chair and enjoyed many a Cup of Tea, pondering the futility of his existence".
I will take great posthumous joy watching my disciples struggle out to that place, only to become completely disillusioned in my work when they see the sort of situations that inspired me!
Ha Ha Ha.
I am conducting a clandestine love affair with a little place called Roehampton Vale. If you've ever had the misfortune to pass through the- er- location, you will understand how absurd that sounds. It is little more than a widening in the road with Putney Vale cemetery on the one side and a 24-Hour ASDA and one of the campuses of my esteemed University on the other. I have an appointment there every Tuesday morning at 11.30 AM which, due to a deficiency on the part of my alarm (not loud enough!) I invariably miss. I think Iris Murdoch said something along the lines of: some places in London are necessary and some contingent; well, the latter part of that is certainly true of Greater London from Tolworth on in. To paraphrase Radiohead, it is all ring roads and supermarkets...
A propos of my pathetic life, I have been trying to come up with an apologetic explaining my passion for the place and, so far, I have found very few answers. The university sports field is certainly expansive and picturesque and, I think, borders Wimbledon Common but this, in itself, is not enough. The university building beside the field is very ugly, the worst example of 70s Polytechnic architecture; meanwhile, the busy sliproad and the noise of traffic blots out any possibility of enjoying all that open space...
In all honesty, I think it is the Supermarket. Ever since Ireland, when I used to go to one on a Sunday morning and read all the music magazines in the cafeteria, I have harboured a perverse affection for them. When I came to know of Ginsberg's poem, 'A Supermarket in California' this strange passion only intensified.
Besides the Supermarket, I guess I just enjoy my Tuesday morning outing. Even a few buildings beside a by-pass is a change of scene for me and it also presents a chance to catch up on my reading: The Benn Diaries or Alan Clark's Diaries or any of the other boring tomes I have been lugging around for roughly a decade.
If I ever become a famous writer, I hope they blue plaque that ASDA; something along the lines of:
"Here Hampton sat on a plastic chair and enjoyed many a Cup of Tea, pondering the futility of his existence".
I will take great posthumous joy watching my disciples struggle out to that place, only to become completely disillusioned in my work when they see the sort of situations that inspired me!
Ha Ha Ha.
Sunday, 7 December 2008
Ghost of a performance
One of those weird, wintry interludes occurred yesterday when my family and I took a trip to Arundel for, what turned out to be, a private performance of a one-man adaptation of 'A Christmas Carol', in a crypt of room- the only audience members. I felt like I was an aristocrat being given an intimate viewing of the show before the thronging masses descended upon the place; only, in the back of my mind, I realised there were no such throngs and it was all a little pathetic, really. Things took on an ever more ridiculous aspect as we sat eating our complimentary mince pies in the empty theatre during the interval and then were awarded first, second and third prize in the raffle respectively...
For me, the worst part of all this was- owing perhaps to an excess of paper- the lavatory failed to fulfil its function and flush for me; not what you really want in the absence of others to blame. Usually, as Heidegger advises, I rely on the anonymity of the crowd in such situations (and there have been many). God, I wouldn't wish my bowels on my worst enemy!
For me, the worst part of all this was- owing perhaps to an excess of paper- the lavatory failed to fulfil its function and flush for me; not what you really want in the absence of others to blame. Usually, as Heidegger advises, I rely on the anonymity of the crowd in such situations (and there have been many). God, I wouldn't wish my bowels on my worst enemy!
Thursday, 4 December 2008
Pining for the dim expanses (I cannot dance, drink or pull anymore)
I am tired today and I ache; almost, although not quite, too tired to add these few lines and update the blog. Do I hear a sound as of a clapping of many hands in a spontaneous round of applause somewhere far away? No, I thought not. I remain a martyr for my public to the last though, like a well-loved Hollywood veteran with a terminal disease who stops to sign an autograph for a small child... Well, almost...
As I no longer drink to any level worth recording, it seems somehow absurd to report that I have spent most of the day recovering from a hangover. Well, they are the symptoms of a hangover at any rate: head-ache, fatigue and general disillusionment. On the evidence, I am inclined to believe that, after however many years of hard hedonism, my body shuts down on instinct after a night out; consumption of intoxicating liquor no longer an essential ingredient in the process.
My suitably melodramtic conclusion: the best years of my life are already over!
When I was eighteen: young, free and living in Killarney, I had some truly epic nights, a golden haze of beer, foreign tourists and soft-rock covers. Although they still play some of those songs here in Kingston, it is not the same...
In England, it seems, everybody has got something to prove: from the muscle-men with their tight T-Shirts, to the girls who make every conceivable effort to trip over your feet while you wait in line just so they can accost you, to the dancers, the drinkers, even the dj. Over in Ireland it was not like that and I miss it.
More importantly, I miss myself back then: fewer inhibitions, considerations, more spontaneity. On the other hand, I did suffer some of the most immense, immobilising and all-encompassing hangovers I have ever known and, casting my mind back, they make this headache shrink to the level of a tender head massage... Out there, I would literally roll into work half-drunk and then sleep it off by the lake, later in the afternoon!
One of my favourite poems of all time gets to the heart of such sentiments much sooner than I do and with a total absence of the self-indulgent moaning that is prevalent here. It is taken from the chorus of a longer piece, The Bacchae by Euripides and I first saw it cited in a book by Bertrand Russell (a book I have been reading since I first came to Kingston in 2005 and still am nowhere near finishing, to the point where I have been forced to adopt a radical new skimming technique known by the technical term of Missing-every-chapter-that-you-can't-understand-immediately ...)
Anyway, to paraphrase Larkin, here be the verse:
Will they ever come to me, ever again,
The long long dances,
On through the dark till the dim stars wane?
Shall I feel the dew on my throat, and the stream
Of wind in my hair? Shall our white feet gleam
In the dim expanses?
Well, possibly! Not in the dim expanses of Kingston-upon-Thames, at any rate...
As I no longer drink to any level worth recording, it seems somehow absurd to report that I have spent most of the day recovering from a hangover. Well, they are the symptoms of a hangover at any rate: head-ache, fatigue and general disillusionment. On the evidence, I am inclined to believe that, after however many years of hard hedonism, my body shuts down on instinct after a night out; consumption of intoxicating liquor no longer an essential ingredient in the process.
My suitably melodramtic conclusion: the best years of my life are already over!
When I was eighteen: young, free and living in Killarney, I had some truly epic nights, a golden haze of beer, foreign tourists and soft-rock covers. Although they still play some of those songs here in Kingston, it is not the same...
In England, it seems, everybody has got something to prove: from the muscle-men with their tight T-Shirts, to the girls who make every conceivable effort to trip over your feet while you wait in line just so they can accost you, to the dancers, the drinkers, even the dj. Over in Ireland it was not like that and I miss it.
More importantly, I miss myself back then: fewer inhibitions, considerations, more spontaneity. On the other hand, I did suffer some of the most immense, immobilising and all-encompassing hangovers I have ever known and, casting my mind back, they make this headache shrink to the level of a tender head massage... Out there, I would literally roll into work half-drunk and then sleep it off by the lake, later in the afternoon!
One of my favourite poems of all time gets to the heart of such sentiments much sooner than I do and with a total absence of the self-indulgent moaning that is prevalent here. It is taken from the chorus of a longer piece, The Bacchae by Euripides and I first saw it cited in a book by Bertrand Russell (a book I have been reading since I first came to Kingston in 2005 and still am nowhere near finishing, to the point where I have been forced to adopt a radical new skimming technique known by the technical term of Missing-every-chapter-that-you-can't-understand-immediately ...)
Anyway, to paraphrase Larkin, here be the verse:
Will they ever come to me, ever again,
The long long dances,
On through the dark till the dim stars wane?
Shall I feel the dew on my throat, and the stream
Of wind in my hair? Shall our white feet gleam
In the dim expanses?
Well, possibly! Not in the dim expanses of Kingston-upon-Thames, at any rate...
Sunday, 30 November 2008
The case against Martin Buber...
There doesn't seem to be anybody around anywhere who can be bothered to stick their neck out and say that they love me. It has been a long while since someone without a shared drop of blood between us has said words to that effect at any rate, so long that I am starting to wonder if they ever will again.
I am not complaining really. I am, as they say, good on my own. Furthermore, I am on friendly terms with a lot of women; too many in fact, to a level which is almost symptomatic of the dysfunction... An acquaintance told me the other day that my whole trouble was that women don't perceive me as a threat, to which my wilful misinterpretation of an inward response was, is that really what they're after? Golly, I have been going about this the wrong way!
Don't worry about me though: humble, meek, self-effacing exterior aside, I am actually an incredibly humble, meek and self-effacing person who has big dreams about being a right bastard!!!
I am not complaining really. I am, as they say, good on my own. Furthermore, I am on friendly terms with a lot of women; too many in fact, to a level which is almost symptomatic of the dysfunction... An acquaintance told me the other day that my whole trouble was that women don't perceive me as a threat, to which my wilful misinterpretation of an inward response was, is that really what they're after? Golly, I have been going about this the wrong way!
Don't worry about me though: humble, meek, self-effacing exterior aside, I am actually an incredibly humble, meek and self-effacing person who has big dreams about being a right bastard!!!
Wednesday, 26 November 2008
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air
Nothing much happens in Surbiton: the odd fire-drill at the station, fight outside a nightclub... Most of the buildings here have stood for over a century. It feels like London only as much as your second-cousin feels like family- you can see a vague resemblance, common traits but that is all.
As often as I can, I venture into the 'real' city (and it isn't all that often, my budget has been reduced to a mere £30 a week; not so much existing as subsisting- I am just waiting for Geldoff to get on the case, send me some Peaches). In the gaps between these little jaunts, I often forget how liberating London life is; the 'mighty heart' which Wordsworth describes is still beating and, no doubt, a lot more rapidly than when he was composing his poem on the bridge. I won't bore you all by reeling off the old Dr. Johnson quotation but, suffice to say, I am far from tired of London; I only desire to move inward, as far in and away from the M25 as is possible...
In the past few months, I have probably been into the centre more times than ever before, to the point where I am no longer even overwhelmed by it. I am not sure I like it all that much, actually. The point is, I suppose, that it is a major international city and it is there. In a lot of ways I wish I had grown up further away from it and then like Edinburgh, Dublin or even my beloved Killarney, it would be stuck on my desire with the alluring glue of the unknown. Again, once I get in to the city itself, as opposed to its Surrey-esque suburbs, I am certain that this little hang-up will vanish...
It is my suspicion, in fact, that the city is expanding and will thusly become more exciting yet. My friend came to stay over the weekend and when I dropped him off at Stratford Tube*, I couldn't help noticing that there were an awful lot of wrecking balls and rubble, as well as a number of cranes poised like mechanical vultures (please don't think about this simile too much, it is incredibly weak)! My Stratford experience, combined with a recent visit to North Grenwich (Philip K Dick couldn't have better realised a place so half-finished, eerie and dystopic in atmosphere: potted sapling, potted sapling, stretch of concrete, potted sapling, supermarket, nothingness, potted sapling etc ) makes me wonder if they are not just building a new and better London out there... The irony that the east of London may one day be its Wall Street.
Enough of this paranoid musing, anyhow, all I basically wanted to express in this article was my evolving relationship with the historic capital within whose borders I fall, at least ostensibly (and to the protestations of a number of my ill-informed, unsavvy friends). Also, I did plan to slip in somewhere that I had lunch with a mate of mine in the House of Commons yesterday but that would be bragging now, wouldn't it? I don't really go in for all that...
*Riding Shanks's pony
As often as I can, I venture into the 'real' city (and it isn't all that often, my budget has been reduced to a mere £30 a week; not so much existing as subsisting- I am just waiting for Geldoff to get on the case, send me some Peaches). In the gaps between these little jaunts, I often forget how liberating London life is; the 'mighty heart' which Wordsworth describes is still beating and, no doubt, a lot more rapidly than when he was composing his poem on the bridge. I won't bore you all by reeling off the old Dr. Johnson quotation but, suffice to say, I am far from tired of London; I only desire to move inward, as far in and away from the M25 as is possible...
In the past few months, I have probably been into the centre more times than ever before, to the point where I am no longer even overwhelmed by it. I am not sure I like it all that much, actually. The point is, I suppose, that it is a major international city and it is there. In a lot of ways I wish I had grown up further away from it and then like Edinburgh, Dublin or even my beloved Killarney, it would be stuck on my desire with the alluring glue of the unknown. Again, once I get in to the city itself, as opposed to its Surrey-esque suburbs, I am certain that this little hang-up will vanish...
It is my suspicion, in fact, that the city is expanding and will thusly become more exciting yet. My friend came to stay over the weekend and when I dropped him off at Stratford Tube*, I couldn't help noticing that there were an awful lot of wrecking balls and rubble, as well as a number of cranes poised like mechanical vultures (please don't think about this simile too much, it is incredibly weak)! My Stratford experience, combined with a recent visit to North Grenwich (Philip K Dick couldn't have better realised a place so half-finished, eerie and dystopic in atmosphere: potted sapling, potted sapling, stretch of concrete, potted sapling, supermarket, nothingness, potted sapling etc ) makes me wonder if they are not just building a new and better London out there... The irony that the east of London may one day be its Wall Street.
Enough of this paranoid musing, anyhow, all I basically wanted to express in this article was my evolving relationship with the historic capital within whose borders I fall, at least ostensibly (and to the protestations of a number of my ill-informed, unsavvy friends). Also, I did plan to slip in somewhere that I had lunch with a mate of mine in the House of Commons yesterday but that would be bragging now, wouldn't it? I don't really go in for all that...
*Riding Shanks's pony
Thursday, 20 November 2008
November in the Railroad Earth
Follow the link for an extract from October in the Railroad Earth by Jack Kerouac, read by the author...
I am a little melancholy today. The washing machine is taking on water, my room is a mess, I have a blemish on my nose that makes me look like Rudolf the red-nosed reindeer so can't even go down to the shop...
I have posted the above link because I need reminding that I am more than these trivialities. Kerouac's voice evokes memories of my 3,000 mile trip from New York to Los Angeles!
The nearest I get to the Railroad Earth now is when I walk across the bridge overlooking the cutting at Surbiton and the Waterloo line. It is not very exciting.
I did wonderful things, once. These days, I just sit in my pyjamas, eating biscuits until the sun goes down.
I am a little melancholy today. The washing machine is taking on water, my room is a mess, I have a blemish on my nose that makes me look like Rudolf the red-nosed reindeer so can't even go down to the shop...
I have posted the above link because I need reminding that I am more than these trivialities. Kerouac's voice evokes memories of my 3,000 mile trip from New York to Los Angeles!
The nearest I get to the Railroad Earth now is when I walk across the bridge overlooking the cutting at Surbiton and the Waterloo line. It is not very exciting.
I did wonderful things, once. These days, I just sit in my pyjamas, eating biscuits until the sun goes down.
Wednesday, 19 November 2008
Western Pope Culture (sic)
I googled my name today, don't ask me why, and, guess what? Not only am I to be found here at the blog (eventually: entry 30, 000 or something) but I am also on the website of a nationally known chain of book-shops. I used to work at one of their branches and it was a great job. At some time in the distant past, they must have put up a number of my staff reviews on their website. Yipee! I am a reviewer of a kind at least; better than those Amazon saddoes, at any rate!!!
My only gripes are that the one at the top ("American Fascists") seems to have been copied up without my usual careful regard for grammatical convention (it wasn't me, I swear!), the reviews of 'Yes Man' and 'Let the Northern Lights erase your name' were not written by me but my good friend, Sarah and the word 'novel' is repeated in 'A Confederacy of Dunces' (although this was probably a heinous error commited by yours' truly).
One further point, Murakami does not make "buzzy references to western pope culture", as that would be very weird; although it would make a bloody good name for a band:
"Idolatry" the critically acclaimed new album from Western Pope Culture
Now read on: A review by N. F. Hampton
My only gripes are that the one at the top ("American Fascists") seems to have been copied up without my usual careful regard for grammatical convention (it wasn't me, I swear!), the reviews of 'Yes Man' and 'Let the Northern Lights erase your name' were not written by me but my good friend, Sarah and the word 'novel' is repeated in 'A Confederacy of Dunces' (although this was probably a heinous error commited by yours' truly).
One further point, Murakami does not make "buzzy references to western pope culture", as that would be very weird; although it would make a bloody good name for a band:
"Idolatry" the critically acclaimed new album from Western Pope Culture
Now read on: A review by N. F. Hampton
Friday, 14 November 2008
Palaces, mobs and world domination
For anyone out there expecting the profound, I have little to offer at the moment: I am caught up in a flow of essays and applications, the like of which the world has never seen. Well, one application and a piece of five hundred words but I am continuing my project, drastically redefining the word 'lazy'.
What has happened of note, recently?
I took an extended stroll up to Hampton Court Palace the other day, in beautiful, wintry semi-sunshine. I had a sausage roll at the Hampton end and then rode the train back to stolid, futile, old Surbiton.
Another thing, I went to watch "the famous CFC" and sat among the hooligan element. It all ended as quite a damp squib of a loss to a Championship side but my sense of enjoyment, as usual, was disproportionate to the event. It was good as both an insight into the more animal elements of the lower classes (the drunkards and the racists, especially), as a exploration into revolutionary potential (all that chanting, what would Marx make of it? Shame about the St. George's flags and their implied NFy False Consciousness) and, furthermore, it was a bit of bonding with my Dad.
Finally, I went on a kamakazee rampage in a game of Risk yesterday, before staging a come-back and consolidating three continents, proving, once and for all, that anarchists and freedom fighters can enter the democratic process.
It seems that I am turning a little to the left in my old age, perhaps owing to the fact I am rereading the Benn Diaries.
***
By the way, to those naysayers who maintain that this blog is a pile of shit, I've decided to forget about you completely and follow my own personal obsessions at the expense of any literary pretensions whatsoever. I need the writing practice, as you will no doubt delight in telling me at some point in the future...
Later chaps!
What has happened of note, recently?
I took an extended stroll up to Hampton Court Palace the other day, in beautiful, wintry semi-sunshine. I had a sausage roll at the Hampton end and then rode the train back to stolid, futile, old Surbiton.
Another thing, I went to watch "the famous CFC" and sat among the hooligan element. It all ended as quite a damp squib of a loss to a Championship side but my sense of enjoyment, as usual, was disproportionate to the event. It was good as both an insight into the more animal elements of the lower classes (the drunkards and the racists, especially), as a exploration into revolutionary potential (all that chanting, what would Marx make of it? Shame about the St. George's flags and their implied NFy False Consciousness) and, furthermore, it was a bit of bonding with my Dad.
Finally, I went on a kamakazee rampage in a game of Risk yesterday, before staging a come-back and consolidating three continents, proving, once and for all, that anarchists and freedom fighters can enter the democratic process.
It seems that I am turning a little to the left in my old age, perhaps owing to the fact I am rereading the Benn Diaries.
***
By the way, to those naysayers who maintain that this blog is a pile of shit, I've decided to forget about you completely and follow my own personal obsessions at the expense of any literary pretensions whatsoever. I need the writing practice, as you will no doubt delight in telling me at some point in the future...
Later chaps!
Saturday, 8 November 2008
Minor victory / Dreams
Ha! I finally managed to remove the 'comments' facility. I can now pretend that you all exist with delightfully inverted solipsism.
I continue to dream of published poesy, a second undergraduate degree, this time from the London School of Economics and a world where my work (and my person) is both loved and respected, instead of mercilessly lampooned and insulted...
Last night, in my old bed in my parents' little bungalow, I actually dreamt of a large, old building (divided into flats), I wanted to be rid of a bag of rubbish and also smoke a cigar so I went out onto the balcony. It turned out I couldn't escape this place; perhaps I did, across the mountains then to beaches, seafronts, inexplicable woods and forests, long roads surrounded by formidable hills; the landscape of my dreams...
Were there many dreams in a single night or was my memory of one a trigger for an interconnected cycle of others? Some repeated, perhaps? I'm sure the slightly menacing, hilly coastal town and the corner shop have appeared before, for example, as have the estates (or are they the estates of this town?). The mountains seem further away, perhaps these were my Irish dreams; still somewhere near the surface of my mind, as the heart longs to return there.
For my part, this free association of images has been both eerie and enlightening but, upon proofing, to the general reader, I imagine, rather mundane. Apart from the aforementioned mountains, I seem to picture things no more exotic than fifty miles away. Sometimes I dream rather more darkly but that is all rather terrfying and can be omitted for the moment. The above outlined English-'Under Milk Wood' style nights are eminently more preferable...
I continue to dream of published poesy, a second undergraduate degree, this time from the London School of Economics and a world where my work (and my person) is both loved and respected, instead of mercilessly lampooned and insulted...
Last night, in my old bed in my parents' little bungalow, I actually dreamt of a large, old building (divided into flats), I wanted to be rid of a bag of rubbish and also smoke a cigar so I went out onto the balcony. It turned out I couldn't escape this place; perhaps I did, across the mountains then to beaches, seafronts, inexplicable woods and forests, long roads surrounded by formidable hills; the landscape of my dreams...
Were there many dreams in a single night or was my memory of one a trigger for an interconnected cycle of others? Some repeated, perhaps? I'm sure the slightly menacing, hilly coastal town and the corner shop have appeared before, for example, as have the estates (or are they the estates of this town?). The mountains seem further away, perhaps these were my Irish dreams; still somewhere near the surface of my mind, as the heart longs to return there.
For my part, this free association of images has been both eerie and enlightening but, upon proofing, to the general reader, I imagine, rather mundane. Apart from the aforementioned mountains, I seem to picture things no more exotic than fifty miles away. Sometimes I dream rather more darkly but that is all rather terrfying and can be omitted for the moment. The above outlined English-'Under Milk Wood' style nights are eminently more preferable...
Friday, 7 November 2008
The immortal wisdom of Glenn Frey, Don Henley and Johnny Cash
I have just been struck by the lyrics of Desperado, as sung byJohnny Cash. The plans which I am currently hatching; the radical break with the life of the past that I now seek; fears, desires, anticipations; I found all of it in these lines:
Now it seems to me some fine things
Have been laid upon your table
But you only want the ones
That you can't get...
The song goes on and, like so many, in incredibly uncanny fashion, continues to describe every detail of my life, past and present. It is the message in the above lines that I will hold in my mind in the coming weeks, however...
P.s. For long term readers, my plans no longer involve Ireland but something far more radical and earth-shattering, as well as being doomed to the most comprehensive failure.
Now it seems to me some fine things
Have been laid upon your table
But you only want the ones
That you can't get...
The song goes on and, like so many, in incredibly uncanny fashion, continues to describe every detail of my life, past and present. It is the message in the above lines that I will hold in my mind in the coming weeks, however...
P.s. For long term readers, my plans no longer involve Ireland but something far more radical and earth-shattering, as well as being doomed to the most comprehensive failure.
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
Out of the depths
I have just been to watch a production of Martin McDonagh's The Pillowman and it exceeded all my expectations. There is something particularly inspiring about watching talented people... I think I've touched on this theme before; it helps you to bridge the gap between the impossible and the impossibly mundane. It makes you a little giddy and you start to consider all sorts of things...
... From the depths of the suburbs, the maniacal laughter of a man who, even now, realises that it might not be too late...
... From the depths of the suburbs, the maniacal laughter of a man who, even now, realises that it might not be too late...
My new compound fantasy, layered upon the memory of others
Give me a half a chance and I am using my money to buy a car, take a batch of an intensive driving lessons, insure myself and then away... Not just down to the supermarket to pick up the paper and a pecan danish, either; I mean, for good!
I know the way: out of London, beyond Reading and then on to Bristol and the Severn, through Wales, Fishguard at two in the morning and the ferry, off the ferry, Rosslaire, Cork and then Killarney; back where I belong, in the mountains. Gone the essays and estates and with all this unbearable, grey mundanity, a mere memory.
I swear to God I'll do it or, at least, something like it...
I'm not staying!
I know the way: out of London, beyond Reading and then on to Bristol and the Severn, through Wales, Fishguard at two in the morning and the ferry, off the ferry, Rosslaire, Cork and then Killarney; back where I belong, in the mountains. Gone the essays and estates and with all this unbearable, grey mundanity, a mere memory.
I swear to God I'll do it or, at least, something like it...
I'm not staying!
Misplaced optimism
I am forever waiting for the day I can write the words: I am a published poet. I write them now as a dress rehearsal, just to be sure that my fingers could find the keys should that glorious day ever come.
Monday, 3 November 2008
Political fireworks and fireworks generally
I found this quote from the late, great Hunter S. today, referring to the 2004 American election but it could equally apply to this one and extend to my interest in politics generally:
"Election Day -- especially a presidential election -- is always a wild and terrifying time for politics junkies, and I am one of those, too. We look forward to major election days like sex addicts look forward to orgies. We are slaves to it."
God, I love politics! I was doing a degree in the subject once, why did I quit? Every word from Andrew Neil's mouth on a Wednesday morning is, to me, a drop of heavenly ambrosia... Well, almost!
Like the majority of this continent's soppy liberals, I am going to get behind Obama tomorrow; if for nothing else than I have the sneaking suspicion McCainwould 'surge' in Afghanistan which would probably mean a lot more British lives. I may make my first bona-fide trip to a betting shop however and there place a sneaky tenner on McCain, just to make it interesting.
***
Now to a completely unrelated topic: fireworks. From my point of view, at least, they seem to demonstrate everything that's wrong with human nature. What people are basically saying is: I don't have a gun or any dynamite but I could have these things if wanted to; not only that, I would set them off indiscriminately and create a bloody great racket.
Humbug! Fie on their repressed pyromania! These so called 'normals' aren't fooling anyone.
***
Further advice, go and see the new Westfield centre in White City before the rest of the world begins to feel the effects of America's anticipated lurch toward protectionism. I went today and, let me tell you, it's the sort of shopping you could only previously have expected to find on a large space station.
"Election Day -- especially a presidential election -- is always a wild and terrifying time for politics junkies, and I am one of those, too. We look forward to major election days like sex addicts look forward to orgies. We are slaves to it."
God, I love politics! I was doing a degree in the subject once, why did I quit? Every word from Andrew Neil's mouth on a Wednesday morning is, to me, a drop of heavenly ambrosia... Well, almost!
Like the majority of this continent's soppy liberals, I am going to get behind Obama tomorrow; if for nothing else than I have the sneaking suspicion McCainwould 'surge' in Afghanistan which would probably mean a lot more British lives. I may make my first bona-fide trip to a betting shop however and there place a sneaky tenner on McCain, just to make it interesting.
***
Now to a completely unrelated topic: fireworks. From my point of view, at least, they seem to demonstrate everything that's wrong with human nature. What people are basically saying is: I don't have a gun or any dynamite but I could have these things if wanted to; not only that, I would set them off indiscriminately and create a bloody great racket.
Humbug! Fie on their repressed pyromania! These so called 'normals' aren't fooling anyone.
***
Further advice, go and see the new Westfield centre in White City before the rest of the world begins to feel the effects of America's anticipated lurch toward protectionism. I went today and, let me tell you, it's the sort of shopping you could only previously have expected to find on a large space station.
Saturday, 1 November 2008
A letter to the editor
As I am ill, neurotic and insecure, I have taken the executive decision to spare my readers a post today (Readers? ...A cricket is heard chirping in the distance). Instead, oh delight of delights, I thought I would upload a letter of mine to the magazine Poetry which didn't quite make the cut this time round.
To provide a little context, there was a feature in the magazine's October issue and also, at an earlier point, in the New York Times, laying into one of my all time favourite poets so, myself, in my new role as self-appointed defender of the deceased, decided to wade into the debate...
***
Dear Editor,
Although William Logan is entitled to his opinion of Hart Crane and has every right to defend these views ["The Hart Crane Controversy," October 2008], I take issue with the bitter and parochial tone of his attacks upon the poet. Furthermore, “A critic’s take on his critics” seems more concerned with addressing superficial objections to the original article, rather than tackling the manifest prejudice of that first piece.
Logan’s Times’ review was a lazy piece of character assassination, rather than an honest engagement with the poet’s work, taking issue with everything from Crane’s lack of formal education, to his debauched lifestyle and homosexuality; even his spelling. Need we forget that some of these criticisms can be levelled against several of the most prominent names in the canon, including Betjeman, Byron, and, in the case of the last, the patriarchal Chaucer? Personally, I would much prefer it if Crane’s ideas were lifted from ‘the daily paper’ or a ‘high-school textbook’ but if they are, then I have yet to locate them there. I also disagree that the well-travelled, cosmopolitan Crane is ‘closer to a peasant poet like John Clare’, taking this is an example of the most ardent snobbery.
The article’s formal criticisms included a vague complaint that the poems’ “showed more style than talent”, as well as the unsupported assertion that imagery such as “the pirouettes of any pliant cane” constitute deliberate “obscurity” and conspire to create a “dreadful mess”. In fact, the poem in question, “Chaplinesque” employs very specific imagery in relation to its subject matter and is among one of the most linear and concrete examples of the poet’s work. In my opinion, such an evocative line eclipses some of the much more blasé examples of imagery in modern American poetry, such as the line, “The morning was a painting” in Logan’s own poem, “The Ship”. In other places, Logan has wilfully misrepresented or else misunderstood Crane’s “Logic of Metaphor”, which focused on the sound and connotations of certain words, rather than their precise definitions; any unfavourable comparison with Elliot is thus, necessarily, void.
On the subject of “Chaplinesque”, I am also at a loss to understand why Logan chose Angelina Jolie as a suitable comparison for Charlie Chaplin in his discussion of the latter’s visit to the poet. One is a genius, an artist and a genuinely talented dramatist, the other is Angelina Jolie. Such an obvious incongruity strikes me as wholly unnecessary, except as a vulgar exercise in levity!
Whether or not Logan picked the right ocean, seems to me, the least of his problems...
NEIL HAMPTON
London, England
***
Well, there we are! I'll write more in a few days...
To provide a little context, there was a feature in the magazine's October issue and also, at an earlier point, in the New York Times, laying into one of my all time favourite poets so, myself, in my new role as self-appointed defender of the deceased, decided to wade into the debate...
***
Dear Editor,
Although William Logan is entitled to his opinion of Hart Crane and has every right to defend these views ["The Hart Crane Controversy," October 2008], I take issue with the bitter and parochial tone of his attacks upon the poet. Furthermore, “A critic’s take on his critics” seems more concerned with addressing superficial objections to the original article, rather than tackling the manifest prejudice of that first piece.
Logan’s Times’ review was a lazy piece of character assassination, rather than an honest engagement with the poet’s work, taking issue with everything from Crane’s lack of formal education, to his debauched lifestyle and homosexuality; even his spelling. Need we forget that some of these criticisms can be levelled against several of the most prominent names in the canon, including Betjeman, Byron, and, in the case of the last, the patriarchal Chaucer? Personally, I would much prefer it if Crane’s ideas were lifted from ‘the daily paper’ or a ‘high-school textbook’ but if they are, then I have yet to locate them there. I also disagree that the well-travelled, cosmopolitan Crane is ‘closer to a peasant poet like John Clare’, taking this is an example of the most ardent snobbery.
The article’s formal criticisms included a vague complaint that the poems’ “showed more style than talent”, as well as the unsupported assertion that imagery such as “the pirouettes of any pliant cane” constitute deliberate “obscurity” and conspire to create a “dreadful mess”. In fact, the poem in question, “Chaplinesque” employs very specific imagery in relation to its subject matter and is among one of the most linear and concrete examples of the poet’s work. In my opinion, such an evocative line eclipses some of the much more blasé examples of imagery in modern American poetry, such as the line, “The morning was a painting” in Logan’s own poem, “The Ship”. In other places, Logan has wilfully misrepresented or else misunderstood Crane’s “Logic of Metaphor”, which focused on the sound and connotations of certain words, rather than their precise definitions; any unfavourable comparison with Elliot is thus, necessarily, void.
On the subject of “Chaplinesque”, I am also at a loss to understand why Logan chose Angelina Jolie as a suitable comparison for Charlie Chaplin in his discussion of the latter’s visit to the poet. One is a genius, an artist and a genuinely talented dramatist, the other is Angelina Jolie. Such an obvious incongruity strikes me as wholly unnecessary, except as a vulgar exercise in levity!
Whether or not Logan picked the right ocean, seems to me, the least of his problems...
NEIL HAMPTON
London, England
***
Well, there we are! I'll write more in a few days...
Tuesday, 28 October 2008
Money
I have no money. Apropos of my situation in general, I am not at all happy. In complete contradiction to my former statement, which was hyperbole, I do have some cash but only £23 pounds for the rest of the week; then £50, then £50... I neither know where the stuff goes nor derive any positive benefit from whatever journey it undertakes. Further, the fact that it undertakes said journey in Kingston (of all the towns in all the world) contrives to leave me even more embittered.
I really don't know what I'm doing anymore but I am tied to this wheel I am on by invisible threads of general ex-polytechnia. My mood will no doubt swing faster than a bye-election after a protest vote but I feel I must repeat, I don't know what I'm doing, what I've done, where I'm going or what I want... I don't want anybody's reassurances, I don't want anything; although a small part-time job could offset my immediate troubles, if not the general malaise... On top of all this, I feel like the biggest brat in all the world for complaining about my mediocre life while there are so many people in a much worse situation than I am; then again, if you can't moan on your blog, where can you moan?
A little moisture appeared around the visual organs today in the Abbey (a bank, not a place of worship), reading this from Edward Lear:
"They rode through the street, and they rode by the station,
They galloped away to the beautiful shore;
In silence they rode, and 'made no observation',
Save this: 'We will never go back any more!'
And still you might hear, till they rode out of hearing,
The Sugar-tongs snap, and the Crackers say 'crack!'
Till far in the distance their forms disappearing,
They faded away. - And they never came back!"
If only...
I really don't know what I'm doing anymore but I am tied to this wheel I am on by invisible threads of general ex-polytechnia. My mood will no doubt swing faster than a bye-election after a protest vote but I feel I must repeat, I don't know what I'm doing, what I've done, where I'm going or what I want... I don't want anybody's reassurances, I don't want anything; although a small part-time job could offset my immediate troubles, if not the general malaise... On top of all this, I feel like the biggest brat in all the world for complaining about my mediocre life while there are so many people in a much worse situation than I am; then again, if you can't moan on your blog, where can you moan?
A little moisture appeared around the visual organs today in the Abbey (a bank, not a place of worship), reading this from Edward Lear:
"They rode through the street, and they rode by the station,
They galloped away to the beautiful shore;
In silence they rode, and 'made no observation',
Save this: 'We will never go back any more!'
And still you might hear, till they rode out of hearing,
The Sugar-tongs snap, and the Crackers say 'crack!'
Till far in the distance their forms disappearing,
They faded away. - And they never came back!"
If only...
Saturday, 25 October 2008
The Islanders
I went to an exhibition this week, Charles Avery's The Islanders at the Parasol Unit, near Old Street, London. I must confess, I am not usually the type who frequents galleries but I knew I had to make an exception for this exhibition.
To begin with, my friend and I were almost thwarted by the labyrinthine arrangement of roads outside the tube station. We headed one way, then another, then we went back down into the tube and up through a different exit, all to no avail. After we had repeated this procedure two or three times in the rain, I decided to make a couple of calls and thanks to the twin miracles of mobile telephonia and the internet we were guided up City Road, past McDonalds, to a little, inconspicuous-looking warehouse with a sign reading:
"Buzz for entry"
Trepidation and feelings of acute embarrassment usually prevent me from pressing other people's buzzers but, wet and more than slightly annoyed at how long it had taken to find the place, I decided to throw caution to the wind... The door released itself and we walked in.
The gallery was a typical clinical, white framing device; a space to allow the functioning of whatever art was placed within it. Immediately, I was drawn to a sketch and a small block of text on the wall directly in front of me. The text was an accurate imitation of the first page of a traveller's log as he arrives in an alien land and the picture was of said traveller and the first human being he encounters there. Meanwhile, across the room there were maps and charts and a geographical globe of Avery's other world; I was hooked!
The exhibition is described on the press release as "a meditation on making art and the impossibility of finding truth" but I think that is a far too wordy explanation for a genius venture back into the realm of the sandpit. When I was a young I used to undertake a hundred million expeditions to other lands in my parents' box garden but, every year, I lost a little piece of the spirit of imagination which enabled me to make the journey, until, one day, I had to save up and buy a painfully expensive plane ticket to do exactly the same thing...
Now, the above is not to belittle Avery's art in the least, as, with his references to Wittgenstein and his obvious debt to, among others, Thomas Moore, this four year work is no exercise in simplicity or anti-intellectualism. Instead, Avery has fused his interests, both the facets of child and adult in his brain and created something truly magical. The artist is multi-skilled and talented, accomplished in geometry, in sculpture, in life drawing, travel writing and, in the case of 'The Eternity Box', the art of optical illusion, too; all of which he puts to use to build his world.
'The Islanders' is an exhibition that truly deserves the epithet "sublime" for its ability to both inspire and terrify other creative people in equal measure. On the one hand, when such a fully-realised work exists, you have to ask yourself what is the point of even attempting to create anything else ever again? It is no exageration to say that very little could come anywhere near the broad sweep of Avery’s ambition or the skill of his execution. The point of renaissance men and other men of genius however, is not to put other artists off pursuing their dreams but, instead, show them the very limits of the possible thus freeing up their minds to unleash their full faculties.
If you haven’t clocked on already I am heavily recommending that everyone who reads this blog takes a visit to see The Islanders before they vanish on the eighth of November.
To begin with, my friend and I were almost thwarted by the labyrinthine arrangement of roads outside the tube station. We headed one way, then another, then we went back down into the tube and up through a different exit, all to no avail. After we had repeated this procedure two or three times in the rain, I decided to make a couple of calls and thanks to the twin miracles of mobile telephonia and the internet we were guided up City Road, past McDonalds, to a little, inconspicuous-looking warehouse with a sign reading:
"Buzz for entry"
Trepidation and feelings of acute embarrassment usually prevent me from pressing other people's buzzers but, wet and more than slightly annoyed at how long it had taken to find the place, I decided to throw caution to the wind... The door released itself and we walked in.
The gallery was a typical clinical, white framing device; a space to allow the functioning of whatever art was placed within it. Immediately, I was drawn to a sketch and a small block of text on the wall directly in front of me. The text was an accurate imitation of the first page of a traveller's log as he arrives in an alien land and the picture was of said traveller and the first human being he encounters there. Meanwhile, across the room there were maps and charts and a geographical globe of Avery's other world; I was hooked!
The exhibition is described on the press release as "a meditation on making art and the impossibility of finding truth" but I think that is a far too wordy explanation for a genius venture back into the realm of the sandpit. When I was a young I used to undertake a hundred million expeditions to other lands in my parents' box garden but, every year, I lost a little piece of the spirit of imagination which enabled me to make the journey, until, one day, I had to save up and buy a painfully expensive plane ticket to do exactly the same thing...
Now, the above is not to belittle Avery's art in the least, as, with his references to Wittgenstein and his obvious debt to, among others, Thomas Moore, this four year work is no exercise in simplicity or anti-intellectualism. Instead, Avery has fused his interests, both the facets of child and adult in his brain and created something truly magical. The artist is multi-skilled and talented, accomplished in geometry, in sculpture, in life drawing, travel writing and, in the case of 'The Eternity Box', the art of optical illusion, too; all of which he puts to use to build his world.
'The Islanders' is an exhibition that truly deserves the epithet "sublime" for its ability to both inspire and terrify other creative people in equal measure. On the one hand, when such a fully-realised work exists, you have to ask yourself what is the point of even attempting to create anything else ever again? It is no exageration to say that very little could come anywhere near the broad sweep of Avery’s ambition or the skill of his execution. The point of renaissance men and other men of genius however, is not to put other artists off pursuing their dreams but, instead, show them the very limits of the possible thus freeing up their minds to unleash their full faculties.
If you haven’t clocked on already I am heavily recommending that everyone who reads this blog takes a visit to see The Islanders before they vanish on the eighth of November.
Wednesday, 22 October 2008
One more slap down from the arbiters of egotism
Another rejection today: a poem this time. My fault I suppose for submitting something I penned in a half hour, again to a web-based magazine. Although my poem had some “nice lines”, this particular editor, arbiter of my egotism was “not sure if (she) was following it as a whole”; a bit of a shame, as I worked very hard in keeping the piece in question unusually coherent...
Monday, 20 October 2008
The continual venture into the realm of rejection... er... continues
Today I received a rejection from a web-based magazine (which I will not be vulgar and name here, less my legions of fans bombard the editor with hatemail) for a short work of mine called "London Under". Before I collapse into a fit of protracted hysterics I'll include a few of the critical quotes from the letter, for posterity:
"Dear Mr. Hampton"... good. "Thank you for your submission"... good. "Although I enjoyed your story"... good; slightly ambivalent tone. "I'm afraid we will not be accepting your work for publication"... What in Heaven's name happened, it was all going so well?
Chin up I guess; it was only a throw away piece that I thought might suit a sci-fi fanzine...
One last thing, I was accused of having omitted "in short, elements of plot". Well, a) my piece did have plot it was just that plot elements related to possible future actions and a sensible reader would have inferred that these are probable, nay even definite actions. B) I can find you some Kafka that has no plot at all but is still very enjoyable, furthermore, it came up on my course the other day so it must be of academic worth, too.
For anyone interested in the story in question, I am sure it will appear in my collected works in a few years. All I can offer for the moment is a big, unprofessional raspberry directed at the editor of said magazine and the above cynical comments.
Don't expect another entry for a few days while I continue to reel from this philistinism!
"Dear Mr. Hampton"... good. "Thank you for your submission"... good. "Although I enjoyed your story"... good; slightly ambivalent tone. "I'm afraid we will not be accepting your work for publication"... What in Heaven's name happened, it was all going so well?
Chin up I guess; it was only a throw away piece that I thought might suit a sci-fi fanzine...
One last thing, I was accused of having omitted "in short, elements of plot". Well, a) my piece did have plot it was just that plot elements related to possible future actions and a sensible reader would have inferred that these are probable, nay even definite actions. B) I can find you some Kafka that has no plot at all but is still very enjoyable, furthermore, it came up on my course the other day so it must be of academic worth, too.
For anyone interested in the story in question, I am sure it will appear in my collected works in a few years. All I can offer for the moment is a big, unprofessional raspberry directed at the editor of said magazine and the above cynical comments.
Don't expect another entry for a few days while I continue to reel from this philistinism!
Sunday, 19 October 2008
Walter Mitty may have been on to something...
I once had a friend who, basically, lived a fiction. He was the ultimate J.D. Salinger / Keith Waterhouse character, except devoid of any endearing characteristics whatsoever. I had known him since childhood but we had drifted out of touch until I met him one morning on a train. At first he seemed totally different, a reformed character, an easy-going guy, albeit a little unfortunate (he was working as a post-boy and had been since he was fifteen) but this was, of course, just a part of his condition. We slipped into a routine where we would meet on the same early train every morning and the conversation developed to a point where we were considering sharing a flat together.
Around this time things began to unravel; it turned out he was “a little nervous of estate agents” and I ended up viewing several properties alone. In fact, now that I consider, I don’t think he was present at a single viewing. It was also at this time that the frequency and complexity of his self-promoting tales increased. He was “off to Turin next week, mate” or “travelling up to Manchester, you know, just to catch the game and do a bit of shopping”. Shopping? Manchester? It’s a four hour train journey, I thought. The game? As far as I was aware Manchester United games were expensive and inaccessible affairs. Occasionally he would flash me a ticket-stub or holiday snap (sans self) and allay my growing doubts about his sanity, at least for an afternoon.
In the end I called the whole thing off. I think it was when I asked him to go for a drink in town and he told me he couldn’t because he was “in his tracky bottoms” but I was welcome at his “local”, near the estate he lived on, a couple of miles walk from the train station. There is something about keeping company with a compulsive liar that makes you feel terrible, like you’re co-operating in the lies and that, somehow, you are the sick one. I just couldn’t handle it anymore.
Why am I thinking about all this tonight? Well, I’ve just been for dinner and, on the walk home, alone under the streetlamps, hearing distant shouts and roaring engines and thinking about this week’s uninspiring lectures and deathly silent seminars, I began to wonder which one of us was wrong! Yes, my friend, the habitual fantasist, did mess me around a little bit but at what cost? He didn’t defraud me of any money or defame my character; in truth, all his lies were self-referential.
On the other hand, I am no further forward than when I knew him: I am still studying in the same town, taking trains on the same railway line, thinking the same thoughts. In the intervening time I have travelled across the whole United States, been to Italy and lived, for the best part of a year, in Ireland, but I feel no different. I want to be a writer but I am getting nowhere. My friend had a little notebook where he was forever planning a script for the BBC (rather like Adrian Mole) but he seemed happy. When he was reeling off lists of his imaginary friends, he did it with a smile.
I am already self-absorbed but perhaps it would be better to go the whole hog and actually live in a fantasy world. I'm sure, whatever I built, it would be better than Surbiton...
Around this time things began to unravel; it turned out he was “a little nervous of estate agents” and I ended up viewing several properties alone. In fact, now that I consider, I don’t think he was present at a single viewing. It was also at this time that the frequency and complexity of his self-promoting tales increased. He was “off to Turin next week, mate” or “travelling up to Manchester, you know, just to catch the game and do a bit of shopping”. Shopping? Manchester? It’s a four hour train journey, I thought. The game? As far as I was aware Manchester United games were expensive and inaccessible affairs. Occasionally he would flash me a ticket-stub or holiday snap (sans self) and allay my growing doubts about his sanity, at least for an afternoon.
In the end I called the whole thing off. I think it was when I asked him to go for a drink in town and he told me he couldn’t because he was “in his tracky bottoms” but I was welcome at his “local”, near the estate he lived on, a couple of miles walk from the train station. There is something about keeping company with a compulsive liar that makes you feel terrible, like you’re co-operating in the lies and that, somehow, you are the sick one. I just couldn’t handle it anymore.
Why am I thinking about all this tonight? Well, I’ve just been for dinner and, on the walk home, alone under the streetlamps, hearing distant shouts and roaring engines and thinking about this week’s uninspiring lectures and deathly silent seminars, I began to wonder which one of us was wrong! Yes, my friend, the habitual fantasist, did mess me around a little bit but at what cost? He didn’t defraud me of any money or defame my character; in truth, all his lies were self-referential.
On the other hand, I am no further forward than when I knew him: I am still studying in the same town, taking trains on the same railway line, thinking the same thoughts. In the intervening time I have travelled across the whole United States, been to Italy and lived, for the best part of a year, in Ireland, but I feel no different. I want to be a writer but I am getting nowhere. My friend had a little notebook where he was forever planning a script for the BBC (rather like Adrian Mole) but he seemed happy. When he was reeling off lists of his imaginary friends, he did it with a smile.
I am already self-absorbed but perhaps it would be better to go the whole hog and actually live in a fantasy world. I'm sure, whatever I built, it would be better than Surbiton...
Paisley, poetry and a vent of the spleen
Today I wrote an extended ode to Ian Paisley. I know that sounds rather strange but I have always found the ex-Northern Irish First Minister both curiously attractive and hopelessly repellent in equal measure.
Odes are very difficult to write as they follow the rhyme scheme "ababcdecde" which sounds simple enough, except it traps you into making certain connections and practically forbids you making others; "the tyranny of rhyme..." as a wiseman once said. Still, having ventured onto the heinous "Poetry.com" a few days ago just to see their three million, post-postmodernist freeverse poems, along with the encouraging welcome message:
"Hello NFHampton, you need 201 points to reach the next poet level of apprentice"
I am evermore of the opinion that the conventions of metre are not only useful but need to be adhered to, on pain of death. Poetry is a game but like the best games: Risk, Chess and Scrabble, it is one with strict rules and if people don't start waking up to this then somebody better bust out the Playdough!
Odes are very difficult to write as they follow the rhyme scheme "ababcdecde" which sounds simple enough, except it traps you into making certain connections and practically forbids you making others; "the tyranny of rhyme..." as a wiseman once said. Still, having ventured onto the heinous "Poetry.com" a few days ago just to see their three million, post-postmodernist freeverse poems, along with the encouraging welcome message:
"Hello NFHampton, you need 201 points to reach the next poet level of apprentice"
I am evermore of the opinion that the conventions of metre are not only useful but need to be adhered to, on pain of death. Poetry is a game but like the best games: Risk, Chess and Scrabble, it is one with strict rules and if people don't start waking up to this then somebody better bust out the Playdough!
Degrees of Irishness
There are those in New York City and elsewhere who describe themselves as Irish when, in fact, they have far less- genuine- Irish blood than I do! Yet, somehow, owning in varying degrees to proximity, history and my accursed accent, I am condemned to an overriding Englishness that is as crippling as it is perpetual. Maybe I haven't immersed myself particularly well in Irish culture (all the 'Danny boy' stuff, when done tongue-in-cheek by my fellow countrymen on St. Patrick's day, irks me something rotten) and, perhaps, I do not have such a claim to the heritage as my half-Irish Mother, my Uncle and my Aunt...
On the other hand, I did live in Ireland for the best part of a 2006 and have returned for extended periods since. Furthermore, The Cranberries, Duke Special and even Boyzone have reduced me to tears on seperate occasions... Still, short of a blood transfusion and a radical overhaul of my genome, nothing can make me more Irish! Meanwhile, over the Atlantic, I just know that some mixed-up Yankee-doodah is strolling around mouthing off about his great, great grandfather's Irish uncle, while sending a monthly cheque to Sinn Fein and doing an embarrassing impression of a leprechuan every time he meets a genuine Irishman. A very unjust state of affairs I must say...
On the other hand, I did live in Ireland for the best part of a 2006 and have returned for extended periods since. Furthermore, The Cranberries, Duke Special and even Boyzone have reduced me to tears on seperate occasions... Still, short of a blood transfusion and a radical overhaul of my genome, nothing can make me more Irish! Meanwhile, over the Atlantic, I just know that some mixed-up Yankee-doodah is strolling around mouthing off about his great, great grandfather's Irish uncle, while sending a monthly cheque to Sinn Fein and doing an embarrassing impression of a leprechuan every time he meets a genuine Irishman. A very unjust state of affairs I must say...
Disillusionment with the Artform
I thought that nobody was writing poetry, that it was a dying art and I therefore had a free hand and could take time to hone my craft. I believed I was transmitting to a select group of people on one of the last available frequencies. I was pleased but I was complacent. Instead, it turns out that everybody and their uncle is broadcasting some kind of self-obsessed, semi-lyrical, mixed metaphor drivel with which they are clogging up the airwaves. All in all, I need to up my game pretty drastically if I don’t want to be caught with my metaphorical trousers around my figurative ankles. I feel like I’ve been striving to emulate Houdini all this time and, all the while, everyone else has been upstaging me, behaving like bloody Paul Daniels.
Humanity
There are times when it is just nice to feel human! Today was one of those pleasant but subtly wearing, wearying days; a day in which there was neither time nor budget for eating. It was cold, too, and my nose went a different colour (red) from my face (white). When I got home and lay back on the sofa, it began to dawn on me that something was missing. With a shock I realised it was all my little, colourful characteristic bits; my human bits...
Sometimes all it takes to seize back one’s humanity is a twenty pence tin of beans and a cup of tea. It’s true that at other times it takes considerably more: medication, drastic upheavals in geography, even lobotomies but thankfully, today was not one of those days!
Sometimes all it takes to seize back one’s humanity is a twenty pence tin of beans and a cup of tea. It’s true that at other times it takes considerably more: medication, drastic upheavals in geography, even lobotomies but thankfully, today was not one of those days!
N.F. Hampton: A brief character sketch
N. F. Hampton (7th August 1987 - ?) is an English poet and critic. In addition to a plethora of poetry submissions, Hampton writes and submits short stories to various Science Fiction magazines; a continual venture into the realms of rejection and dejection, as well as bitter letters to various literary journals.
Hampton's best known works include his pieces in ‘The Parishioner’- the Ash Vale parish magazine, as well as an article in the publication for ‘friends’ of the Imperial War Museum, an interview with the, now, Chancellor, Alistair Darling for ‘The Daily Mirror’ and a picture of a hungry hippo in ‘Playdays Magazine’. He has also self-published a book of his poems, ‘Airstrip Music’, a cynical and vitriolic critique of his worthless existence in the suburbs, juxtaposed with the fields of his childhood and his extended stays in south-west Ireland.
N.F. Hampton lives and studies in Kingston, Greater London; possibly one of the least inspiring towns in England (bar Aldershot, with which he is also unnecessarily familiar).
Hampton's best known works include his pieces in ‘The Parishioner’- the Ash Vale parish magazine, as well as an article in the publication for ‘friends’ of the Imperial War Museum, an interview with the, now, Chancellor, Alistair Darling for ‘The Daily Mirror’ and a picture of a hungry hippo in ‘Playdays Magazine’. He has also self-published a book of his poems, ‘Airstrip Music’, a cynical and vitriolic critique of his worthless existence in the suburbs, juxtaposed with the fields of his childhood and his extended stays in south-west Ireland.
N.F. Hampton lives and studies in Kingston, Greater London; possibly one of the least inspiring towns in England (bar Aldershot, with which he is also unnecessarily familiar).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
About Me
- N.F. Hampton
- An aspiring writer trapped in the never-ending suburbs at the edge of G. London