dark energy
moves
between bodies
through
sterile atmospheres
and inert barren lands
the supernovae strands
of expanding borders
will you?
can i?
catch on the edges of this map
our universe
is accelerating
past the cartographers reach
one more degree of infinity
breached
and we fumble
step out into air
just past
the centre
of
our gravity
falling
waving
and watching
as we slip
on the best
of our efforts
Monday, 2 November 2009
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
Soap&Skin
...live last night at the Royal Northern College of Music. We were a tiny audience, some of whom were reluctant to clap anything more than a golf clap or show any response to her huge sonic and emotional output (possibly b/c that's *not done* among avant arsey circles of obscure music students who ignored her remark after the first song that 'this is not a school play')....
...but some of us were blown away.
Her 18 year old teenage self was evident between songs when she turned away from the audience, occasionally peeking from under her hair to see if we were still there....then her hands hit the keys and she opened her mouth...
...amazing.
...but some of us were blown away.
Her 18 year old teenage self was evident between songs when she turned away from the audience, occasionally peeking from under her hair to see if we were still there....then her hands hit the keys and she opened her mouth...
...amazing.
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Gay Tories, Manchester Loves You
This week, a big part of Manchester city centre has been cordoned off for the yearly party political conference. Same old.
Last year, it involved having to re-route on foot around a massive exclusion zone that was being guarded by hundreds of yellow jacket hornet cops who periodically broke off in small groups to monitor the rabblerousing band of pensioners and parents with small children who were chanting anti-war slogans and smiling at passersby a mere two blocks away from the conference centre doors. Can't be too careful. Labour have pissed off a lot of its former supporters, and they can be a gobby lot.
This year, though, it's the Conservative party conference that's fucking up my city centre movements. Yes. The Tories. In Manchester.
There's a tangible air of malice in the city right now, of anger, and the relentless rain seems to be in on it.
The Shadow Secretary for Culture plans to visit rehearsals at a local theatre, and the staff ruminate on their options: should we take him hostage? Kick him out? Make him answer all our questions on Tory statements about arts priorities using only hiphop theatre techniques?
The psychogeographic fairy godmother of Manchester, she who talks back to the cctv and keeps and distributes records of new infringements into our free-moving city lives, retreats from the party blue zone, unable to walk with her usual certainty that this is her city and its public spaces are open to her.
I get on a train and am pinned by shuffling men in navy suits as they exit one stop too late, onto Oxford Road, huffing and darting their eyes around under the stares of a carriage-full of unfriendly straight ahead northern faces.
I don't want to be too black and white (or red and blue, or north and south), but I think it's fair to say that Manchester is not the natural environ of the Tory. They really are not welcome here.
The city council have erected street billboards declaring 'Manchester Welcomes the Conservative Party Conference', and I laugh out loud at the first one I see. The second, no laugh, just a moment of eye contact with the copper standing to the left, thumbs in belt.
Tonight they are holding a Tory Pride (yes, really) social event in cooperation with Stonewall* ........in The Gay Village.
Yes, the biggest and most badly dressed after work office do yet is coming to Canal Street to teeter over the cobbles and giggle at the drag queens on the door and feel ever so ever so outre for being able to get pissed in a place where men are known to happily take it up the arse just under that nearby bridge - -ooer daring!
This is the same party that recently lent uncritical support in the form of an abstained vote to the Lithuanian government who are building 'Section 28' style legislation that will make it illegal for teachers to promote services aimed at helping the victims of homophobia and transphobia....so I can't - I Can Not - see this Canal Street outing as anything more than a hollow piece of PR fluff for a party that intends to do nothing tangible about their horrendous record on LGBT issues.
But hey, we're not doing bitter irony tonight - we're at the Tory Party Conference for heck's sake!
A coalition of groups are planning to meet outside Spirit on Canal Street at 9.30 tonight to make it known that despite the fact that our council tax has been spent on those awful welcome signs, and that thousands-strong police escort, you really really AREN'T, toryfolk.
*Stonewall: formerly gay rights activist organisation, now transphobic hand sitters who are happy to state on behalf of 'the lgbt community' that homophobic and transphobic hate crime isn't really much of a big deal any more
Afterparty Listing:
Poptastic hold a Tory Shame dancefest tonight in some dank hellhole of a city centre venue. If I could stomach the idea of four hours of passive popper inhalation and being chatted up/puked on by a 19 year old design student, I might go to bounce around to loud music of my teenage years. But I'm not bouncing so much these days. I'll skip the Tory Shame party and raise a glass of bloody mary (extra tobasco) to those with the robust immune systems.
Last year, it involved having to re-route on foot around a massive exclusion zone that was being guarded by hundreds of yellow jacket hornet cops who periodically broke off in small groups to monitor the rabblerousing band of pensioners and parents with small children who were chanting anti-war slogans and smiling at passersby a mere two blocks away from the conference centre doors. Can't be too careful. Labour have pissed off a lot of its former supporters, and they can be a gobby lot.
This year, though, it's the Conservative party conference that's fucking up my city centre movements. Yes. The Tories. In Manchester.
There's a tangible air of malice in the city right now, of anger, and the relentless rain seems to be in on it.
The Shadow Secretary for Culture plans to visit rehearsals at a local theatre, and the staff ruminate on their options: should we take him hostage? Kick him out? Make him answer all our questions on Tory statements about arts priorities using only hiphop theatre techniques?
The psychogeographic fairy godmother of Manchester, she who talks back to the cctv and keeps and distributes records of new infringements into our free-moving city lives, retreats from the party blue zone, unable to walk with her usual certainty that this is her city and its public spaces are open to her.
I get on a train and am pinned by shuffling men in navy suits as they exit one stop too late, onto Oxford Road, huffing and darting their eyes around under the stares of a carriage-full of unfriendly straight ahead northern faces.
I don't want to be too black and white (or red and blue, or north and south), but I think it's fair to say that Manchester is not the natural environ of the Tory. They really are not welcome here.
The city council have erected street billboards declaring 'Manchester Welcomes the Conservative Party Conference', and I laugh out loud at the first one I see. The second, no laugh, just a moment of eye contact with the copper standing to the left, thumbs in belt.
Tonight they are holding a Tory Pride (yes, really) social event in cooperation with Stonewall* ........in The Gay Village.
Yes, the biggest and most badly dressed after work office do yet is coming to Canal Street to teeter over the cobbles and giggle at the drag queens on the door and feel ever so ever so outre for being able to get pissed in a place where men are known to happily take it up the arse just under that nearby bridge - -ooer daring!
This is the same party that recently lent uncritical support in the form of an abstained vote to the Lithuanian government who are building 'Section 28' style legislation that will make it illegal for teachers to promote services aimed at helping the victims of homophobia and transphobia....so I can't - I Can Not - see this Canal Street outing as anything more than a hollow piece of PR fluff for a party that intends to do nothing tangible about their horrendous record on LGBT issues.
But hey, we're not doing bitter irony tonight - we're at the Tory Party Conference for heck's sake!
A coalition of groups are planning to meet outside Spirit on Canal Street at 9.30 tonight to make it known that despite the fact that our council tax has been spent on those awful welcome signs, and that thousands-strong police escort, you really really AREN'T, toryfolk.
*Stonewall: formerly gay rights activist organisation, now transphobic hand sitters who are happy to state on behalf of 'the lgbt community' that homophobic and transphobic hate crime isn't really much of a big deal any more
Afterparty Listing:
Poptastic hold a Tory Shame dancefest tonight in some dank hellhole of a city centre venue. If I could stomach the idea of four hours of passive popper inhalation and being chatted up/puked on by a 19 year old design student, I might go to bounce around to loud music of my teenage years. But I'm not bouncing so much these days. I'll skip the Tory Shame party and raise a glass of bloody mary (extra tobasco) to those with the robust immune systems.
When I wasn't even looking...
...this creative type by the name of Glenn-emlyn Richards whipped up an animated interpretation of a thing I wrote some time ago.
We've still not met in oxygen-land, as he lives in France...but perhaps will at the upcoming Version Fest of new film in el Manc in November. In the meantime, I'm still all bowled over at this distance collaboration thing.
T'internet is a wonderful thing...
http://www.wodum.co.uk/06etbmov.html
(If blogspot was working properly, a still image of raindrops on a window would be HERE.)
We've still not met in oxygen-land, as he lives in France...but perhaps will at the upcoming Version Fest of new film in el Manc in November. In the meantime, I'm still all bowled over at this distance collaboration thing.
T'internet is a wonderful thing...
http://www.wodum.co.uk/06etbmov.html
(If blogspot was working properly, a still image of raindrops on a window would be HERE.)
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
Dear Miss: Tomato has been absent because...
OK, so here's the thing: prose is, like, really hard, y'know?
I am learning how to be a proper writer. Not one who fluffs through cafes, penning verse on the back of a metaphorical napkin, barely dodging cliches like red wine and angst - no.
After committing to writing a collection of shorts (stories...no bermudas, I can promise that much) I've realised that I need to get me some discipline, some stamina, some routine.
It's happening. The poet in me still has little tantrums occasionally (precious), but I really am getting down to this thing. Books don't write themselves! Oh no, I see that now. Monkeys. Typewriters. What a load of old bollocks.
Of course the implications for my blog could not be more serious. Left to wither on the vine, depriving five, nay, even six people of something to look at during a dull moment at work, and I do humbly apologise. But there ain't enough to go round.
About 4 years ago I read at this gay literary thing (really, gay. Like, oriented towards others of the same gender. Get it?) and was paired up with a Proper Writer from London. She had spare charisma spilling out of her handbag, that one, and as well as that she shared the following taxicab wisdom with me, little writer girl: 'stop using up all your writing energy on a blog and make it into a novel instead'.
I was resistant. It seemed too simple, too blunt. Where's the catch? my inner procrastinator shouted in defence.
But she has a point.
Henceforth I will be even more inconsistant with posts than previous. Or, consistant in my inconsistancy. Pick whichever you like. Nothing changes. Nothing stays the same. Halas.
I am learning how to be a proper writer. Not one who fluffs through cafes, penning verse on the back of a metaphorical napkin, barely dodging cliches like red wine and angst - no.
After committing to writing a collection of shorts (stories...no bermudas, I can promise that much) I've realised that I need to get me some discipline, some stamina, some routine.
It's happening. The poet in me still has little tantrums occasionally (precious), but I really am getting down to this thing. Books don't write themselves! Oh no, I see that now. Monkeys. Typewriters. What a load of old bollocks.
Of course the implications for my blog could not be more serious. Left to wither on the vine, depriving five, nay, even six people of something to look at during a dull moment at work, and I do humbly apologise. But there ain't enough to go round.
About 4 years ago I read at this gay literary thing (really, gay. Like, oriented towards others of the same gender. Get it?) and was paired up with a Proper Writer from London. She had spare charisma spilling out of her handbag, that one, and as well as that she shared the following taxicab wisdom with me, little writer girl: 'stop using up all your writing energy on a blog and make it into a novel instead'.
I was resistant. It seemed too simple, too blunt. Where's the catch? my inner procrastinator shouted in defence.
But she has a point.
Henceforth I will be even more inconsistant with posts than previous. Or, consistant in my inconsistancy. Pick whichever you like. Nothing changes. Nothing stays the same. Halas.
Monday, 3 August 2009
Comms to be resumed shortly: please stand by
I can feel a post coming on. Like a satisfying spot, simmering underneath the skin of my chin, oh yes.
It's not quite ready to pick at yet. But soon. Very very soon...
It's not quite ready to pick at yet. But soon. Very very soon...
Hulme to-do list
...spotted around the Redbricks in Hulme, Manchester: favoured locale of the inspiration behind the previous post.
Isn't artistic synchronicity amazing?!
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