Meic Stevens - Ghost Town

When I was thirteen I got up in front of school and performed a solo violin piece. It was a really obscure choice. I remember the music teacher's look of deep concern. As if up till that point I had possessed a certain degree of respect, and was about to put it in the shredder. I did it anyway. The applause at the end was forthcoming, but uncertain. Like the old Hawkwind song "we took the wrong step years ago.." I feel that this was the first of just many stupid ideas. But then social conformity was always elusive to me. Like that sad realisation that being counted as 'gifted and talented' in school is not a blessing. It is in fact an early signpost to a lifetime of feeling lost and confused in a world where anyone who is even slightly different will be stigmatised. "Sometimes it's better to conform." A friend said this to me recently. She has a point. Sometimes we have to sacrifice ourselves to the flow even though on reflection it isn't what we'd decide given time. I don't know whether at school I was deliberately obtuse or whether it really was impossible to fit in. A bit of both maybe. I used to get called lezza because of my clunky boots. That wasn't deliberate -- I couldn't afford better boots. Interestingly the jeering subsided almost to nothing when I invested in a pair of mainstream branded trainers; which shows you how cheap the elites of conformity are. If I went to school now I'd be classed as autistic. I read somewhere that some people with autism display difficulty in following rules and aligning themselves socially. Is it progress to find new labels for people who think differently? Or just another way of controlling unruly children who happen to have a mind of their own? Whenever you read studies on Autism there seems to be some sort of grey area in between arguments that Autism/EBD is an illness and that it is a brain type. That's a big difference. One wants to treat the 'sick' child who is being afflicted by bad thoughts. The other embraces the child as a victim in a system in which their intelligence and way of thinking are unlikely to ever be accepted.

Morton Feldman

Can't remember what the piece was called. It was short, apparently dedicated to his piano teacher. It sounded like the sky. Well timed radio schedule - just in time to scare the ghost away. You might think I'm making it up. I'm not. There is a spectre thing which comes into my room at night. It tugs at my duvet like a patient calling for the nurse. Maybe it wants to talk. Maybe it wants to be alive again. Not what it's cracked up to be though living, is it? As a ghost you could have more fun turning invisible and scaring chavs. A few hours later bedroom door slammed shut. Would have cacked pants except Dilly was there. I jumped and she sat bolt upright. Strange how a small furry animal can make you feel less alone. She's a really stupid cat but does have an amazing talent for spotting when I'm down. If ever I start descending into the hole of doom she appears as if to say, don't look at that look at me. It's far more exciting. Makes you wonder though, are people with depression weak? Watched a bbc thing a week back. It was about what happens in your head when you get the more severe forms. Apparently part of your brain shrinks and you lose the ability to process normal emotions. Nice. Reassuring in a way. I never felt it was right to tell a victim of clinical depression to 'pull themselves together.' But it's understandable. Sad really. Like the bit of the brain that used to believe in something has been crushed. How do you cure something like that? Part of living here has forced me to recognise my limitations. I am poor, and not 'good' at anything. I'm just dull. What happened to me in the past was a result of me trying to exceed those limitations. I wanted to prove a point. One up against the truth. It went very badly wrong. I wanted to believe that there was something better out there. In fact there was, but even the slightest glimpse came on sufferance. I paid the price. Now I don't even feel better, because all that I could have had is gone. Ignorance = bliss. Those were the days. I've accepted my origins, my history, who I am, and actually it's okay. I'm not good enough. I'm constrained by my own selfishness. Probably always will be. I tried to be good, but one day woke up and realised that I have never been good my whole life. I take after my parents, and that says a lot. At best I consume, at worst I thieve. That little part of my brain that once made happiness just can't anymore. If it feels anything like I do, it's exhausted.

Jaga Jazzist

Unpacked about half of my stuff. Still minor breathing problems but otherwise allergy seems to be subsiding. I think the reason it persisted in my childhood was the horrendous black carpet of dust on top of the wardrobe next to bed in spare room. It had somehow slipped mum's radar and passed unnoticed, gradually amassing troops of dead skin and cat fur to form thick regiments of klller dirt. I can only suppose that it had once existed as the regualr, recognisable type that you find on top of the tv. This new strain required holding a scarf over my mouth with one hand while scraping the dirt into a rag with the other. Perhaps I should get a gas mask. That's the least of my problems though. Main source of trouble comes in the form of a ghost spirit that is unwilling to share its quarters with me. It has the indecency to wake me up at 2am just so it can plague me. It's like water going down the plug in the bath, only the water is the air and the bath is the wall. Luckily putting the little lamp on seems to scare it off. It came too close the other night though. And it wasn't coming on a social visit. I'm not normally the 'metaphysical' type. I enjoy philosophy on many things, but that doesn't normally extend to the paranormal. I am, however, open-minded and wouldn't rule it out. Especially if that particular spirit was trying to eat me. I think thus far we have a cordial agreement. It will resist consumming me if I respect its superiority. The other thing that spooked me at about 4am that same night was a discussion between two birds in the tree opposite the window. Bare in mind that Natnwich is REALLY silent at 4am, so birdcalls will cut though the air. There was a distinct pause of about four seconds in between each call and response. They were talking about something. I wish I knew what. It sent a shiver up my spine. There were other birds present but they were not participating. They did eventually -- after about 20 mins -- as part of usual dawn chorus rituals, but not before these two protagonists has had their say. It was about something important. I wish I knew what.

Karlheinz Stockhausen

My shitty job sacked me so I'm moving to Nantwich. Their reasoning was apparently my "not being suited to customer service roles." Laughable; it's almost like saying, "due to your being so feral we've decided you should leave this place and return to your hole." I think the actual reason was that I don't smoke (thereby losing valuable fag break gossip points) and my boobs are too small. Or that I just didn't fit in. I probably should have left Sheffield sooner. The stranglehold of the welfare state has been slowly but surely suffocating my oxygen supply for three years now. It feels frightening to be a newly fledged non-doler. It will be refreshing if people stop looking at me in that way. No need to make a song and dance I suppose. Will have to nip back for gig needs. Maybe once or twice a year. Did consider possibility of canal boat. I had a dream about folk on the boat. It was a pleasant dream until more experienced and worldly friend pointed out that I'd want £20,000 for something remotely more than floating shoebox. She reckons caravans are the way forward. She probably right. Part of me still wants to grab Sheffield full throttle and embrace it in the heart of my averagely endowed bosom, part of it is paralysed by doubt. Perhaps if I was more well endowed in the bosom department it wouldn't be so much of an issue. I understand the half baked sentiment though. I feel the same. I should go somewhere where the embrace is less half hearted. I may become perhaps the second or third busker of Nantwich. I may also make some less shoddy business cards for some lessons to small people. However, this thought terrifies me. I have no idea why I should be scared of children. No doubt an older person would say that it is because I am still like a child. Perhaps. I think condition definitely worsened when I volunteered in a Primary School and someone asked, "Are you a psychologist?" To which a witty nine year-old replied, "No she's a psycho." That summed it up really. I was like the hanger on at a kids party. Even the saddos didn't want to talk to me.

Listen to the Silence - George Russel

Got spotify. Had it once, but shunned fbook then comp got asthma and died. By the time got round to downloading it again it was all newfangled and I didn't get it. That'll teach me for turning my back on networking websites, and not cleaning my desk. Anyway, this time it worked, and though it pains me to say it, I'm content. Missed it as was previously dependent on sites that were great for the new and unknown, but no good for entire albums. Sound quality seems much improved too. I tend to use this blog as a way of keeping track of decent music. If it made the post title it's because it pleased me in some way. I don't want to be a music critic, nor do I want to write for the hell of it if uninspired to write. Whenever the music does not warrant unnecessary wordiness I tend to go off topic. It's more fun. Lack of comment doesn't mean the work was unworthy though, more that no words spring to mind at that particular moment. What I'm listening to now is a good example. It literally has everything. There's groovy percussion, big-band brass, orchestral strings and choral singing. It doesn't fit into a category. Maybe it's modern classical, but that seems a loose term for something so rhythmic. It could be some shade of experimental sound art, but that's too non specific and flat. So, if forced to categorize I'd call it 'operatic jazz', but probably not to it's face.

Jackie Oats - Dream Angus

It's International Women's Day. Phew! So pleased. Will be celebrating by ------ not celebrating. The reason I hesitate before cracking open the fizzy stuff is: I don't believe in it. Call me jaded but, much as I'd like to, I don't feel that progress has been made regarding women's empowerment. Save perhaps my own personal journey (sexist jokes don't bother me as they used to, but I'm practised at it by now; I am what you'd call a bookish rather than sexy woman). Yup tis true that education is the key to equlity, and I don't mean attending school in a blazer, fountain pen at the ready. I mean getting out and doing stuff. A while back I heard someone say that if it's Women's Day today, it's men's for the other 364. I'm inclined to agree. Not sure a single day in which I'm revered for my gender was what I had in mind. Would have preferred good solid respect the year round as a normal hard-working citizen, regardless of what's between my legs! Men get better pay, don't have to bother with maternity leave and are more likely obtain positions of power. Indian males don't get drowned at infancy. Something to do with arranged marriages and dowries. Does it matter??? It's enough to make your blood boil. I happened to catch Nawal el Saadawi, a feminist writer from Egypt on the radio a few months ago. She gave a very moving account of what she went though, such as being told as a girl that, "one man is worth ten women." I remember thinking, "Yea but what if he's a useless c**t." ---- I'm not going to have a rant about men. For one thing, most of them do not displease me. And for another, I cannot be arsed. It does make me wonder though, "Are we feminists just experiencing a bit a bad pmt, or, is it just really f**king hard being female???" I've added Richard Dawkins to my twitter account, being a fan of modern atheist philosophy. I thought nothing of it until one of his tweets popped up on my newsfeed: "Blessed are you, King of the Universe, for not having made me a Gentile." "Blessed are you for not having made me a woman." A copy and paste into google later I could conclude that this was something he himself had written. I found myself feeling angry, then scolded myself for being stupid. It seemed disheartening that a modern scientist and philosopher should make such a seemingly narrow statement. Then again, maybe he was just showing sympathy. An open acknowledgement that women have it tough. I haven't filed a complaint yet. :)

John Cage

As I sit in my room listening to static noise I become aware of the horrible futility of existence. It doesn't matter what I do. What I go in for, went in for, set out to do, will be forgotten and swept away like sand in the wind. My thoughts are flecks of dust on a clean mirror. They don't exist. Where should I put these thoughts, this noise? This image? I cannot touch it. Like light it changes upon reaching my eye.