This video was shot from the same sort of angle as my own view. The stuff she can do with her voice, yet remain controlled and concentrated.
Wild Vanilla
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Author Archives: essiep
Complicated
4°C, sleety showers; no ride today
Borderline: this is going to be complicated, drive to North London to help someone move house, then to the gig at Borderline near Tottenham Court road. Ice and rain will have cleared, and I have company. Tomorrow will be for recovery from lack of sleep and eat Japanese food.
The audience was an uneven demographic distribution: lots of blokes (about my age), some couples, and lots of lesbian couples. I never suspected that KH would have a large lesbian following. The venue turned out to be likable, we were all close, the sound was adequate (very important to me as you know). There was a cloakroom and nice bar with drinks at fairly normal prices for London.
i(*)Classic due
5°C, winter storms imminent
Monday is a day to deliver things to this house. That’s wishful thinking, I ordered myself a birthday pres. – a bigger capacity iPod. No more removing music to make space for additions. A full iPod is a terrible thing in these decadent/materialistic times. I’m in want of something materialistic to soften the fact that Monday I will no longer be a 43: Birthday presents as a form of compensation.
That’s pales in comparison to my organisational skills which are taut past the Hook’s-law limit (oh dear, suggest better metaphors someone).
That’s pales in comparison to my organisational skills which are taut past the Hook’s-law limit (oh dear, suggest better metaphors someone).
Kristin Hersh, tomorrow, me and my spare ticket.
~>_<~
~>_<~
the kind…
10°C, same as yesterday, cold northerly due soon
A retrospective of some of my finest Flickr work from shhexycorin on Vimeo.
I bet I end up deleting this post.
http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=174652&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1the kind of mood I am in today. It is certainly not my video, but rules are to be broken.
A retrospective of some of my finest Flickr work from shhexycorin on Vimeo.
I bet I end up deleting this post.
Signal left
9°C, nearly dry, NW winds
How can this happen: stretch an arm out left to signal on a roundabout, and OUCH! Suddenly my back wrenches with muscular pain. It must have been quietly taut for days, but this sudden movement found it. Now I can’t do stuff. I haven’t had backache for most of this year.
What’s left to do; finish that letter, and this could be the excuse to finish reading that book. No painting tonight, I can’t even sit cross legged- ouch!
What’s left to do; finish that letter, and this could be the excuse to finish reading that book. No painting tonight, I can’t even sit cross legged- ouch!
Back to Tom Waits
9°C, clearing, windy.
Watch Her Disappear :
(Tom Waits/Kathleen Brennan)
Last night I dreamed that I was dreaming of you
And from a window across the lawn I watched you undress
Wearing your sunset of purple tightly woven around your hair
That rose in strangled ebony curls
Moving in a yellow bedroom light
The air is wet with sound
The faraway yelping of a wounded dog
And the ground is drinking a slow faucet leak
Your house is so soft and fading as it soaks the black summer heat
A light goes on and the door opens
And a yellow cat runs out on the stream of hall light and into the yard
A wooden cherry scent is faintly breathing the air
I hear your champagne laugh
You wear two lavender orchids
One in your hair and one on your hip
A string of yellow carnival lights comes on with the dusk
Circling the lake with a slowly dipping halo
And I hear a banjo tango
And you dance into the shadow of a black poplar tree
And I watched you as you disappeared
I watched you as you disappeared
(Tom Waits/Kathleen Brennan)
Last night I dreamed that I was dreaming of you
And from a window across the lawn I watched you undress
Wearing your sunset of purple tightly woven around your hair
That rose in strangled ebony curls
Moving in a yellow bedroom light
The air is wet with sound
The faraway yelping of a wounded dog
And the ground is drinking a slow faucet leak
Your house is so soft and fading as it soaks the black summer heat
A light goes on and the door opens
And a yellow cat runs out on the stream of hall light and into the yard
A wooden cherry scent is faintly breathing the air
I hear your champagne laugh
You wear two lavender orchids
One in your hair and one on your hip
A string of yellow carnival lights comes on with the dusk
Circling the lake with a slowly dipping halo
And I hear a banjo tango
And you dance into the shadow of a black poplar tree
And I watched you as you disappeared
I watched you as you disappeared
Leaden
9°C, rain.
Drive home from work in a car. The traffic was thick, the rain was thick and the journey – retarded. Looking out through sparkling drips on the windscreen you can see into a world of lead. The surface of Venus must be like this. Surfaces are shiny with molten lead, wet, gunmetal-grey, and filthy. Well, cool temperatures and only about 15psi. not really crushing, so not Venus then. That place must be hell.
What can I read after "Norwegian Wood"? More Murakami, but which one? (South Of the Border, Sputnik Sweetheart or Wind Up Bird Chronicle)
Boomwhack!
Drizzle, 13°C. c 18 miles
Still firing off fireworks outside.
Fixing a puncture in the drizzle today, a funny time to get a phone call & a text.Out in the country, near a river confluence, drizzley mist wafting between trees wrapped in moss and dead vines. Water drops grew on the trees before dropping on me, the bike and the phone wrapped in a plastic bag. The caller heard me clearly never-the-less. The puncture, though filthy, fixed well enough. I returned then.
November is being very november
11°C, November ish
Typical….tchoh! Grey everywhere, apart from some golden leaves left on trees. There are puddles reflecting the grey skies, with expanding rings appearing at random in the surface. No doubt watched from below by Rhombic Bdelloids when they haven’t got anything else to do.
.
Oh, Aaand I found Nero.
Don’t cool down too fast
9°C, dry & windy.
Cooling down takes a some good judgement. Cool too fast and you go too far, but getting back to normal is then more work. In short; I’m cold.
Ikea pasta for supper, it’s different, denser and easier to eat with chop-sticks.
Aubade
Cooling down takes a some good judgement. Cool too fast and you go too far, but getting back to normal is then more work. In short; I’m cold.
Ikea pasta for supper, it’s different, denser and easier to eat with chop-sticks.
Aubade
work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what’s really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
– The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused – nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear – no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can’t escape,
Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
Philip Larkin
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what’s really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
– The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused – nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear – no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can’t escape,
Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
Philip Larkin
Micycle 