Header taken at Porth May 13
Header taken at Porth May 13
I love a bit of a mystery so here you go
and 10 unsolved ones
and here’s another one, well it’s not really, it all comes down to money. A few posts ago I wrote about Birmingham council doing away with Arts Fest which ran from a Friday through to Sunday and was free and set all over the town in pubs/theaters and open spaces. The new festival Birmingham Fest is set over 2 1/2 weeks (from what I can see mostly evenings) in pubs and theaters and are mostly paid tickets. So families have lost the nice free family weekend out, ticket prices and evening events means that a lot of families who made use of this festival will no longer be able to. It was nice to see families sitting together listening to the bands and to watch the little ones jointing in with the Birmingham Royal ballet. It’s such a shame.
Do you want a go? Here’s the link and just to make you feel better here’s
The Waste Lands by
T. S. Eliot
I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD
APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu,
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
They called me the hyacinth girl.”
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Öd’ und leer das Meer.
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying “Stetson!
You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”
II. A GAME OF CHESS
The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
“Jug Jug” to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair,
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
“My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
I never know what you are thinking. Think.”
I think we are in rats’ alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.
“What is that noise?”
The wind under the door.
“What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?”
Nothing again nothing.
You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
“Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It’s so elegant
“What shall I do now? What shall I do?
I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
What shall we ever do?”
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said,
I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.
And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.
Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said,
Others can pick and choose if you can’t.
But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be alright, but I’ve never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don’t want children?
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
III. THE FIRE SERMON
The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept…
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse.
Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck
And on the king my father’s death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year.
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et, O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc’d.
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
C. i. f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a week-end at the Metropole.
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at tea-time, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house-agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronizing kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit…
She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
“Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.”
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone.
“This music crept by me upon the waters”
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City City, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.
The river sweats
Oil and tar
The barges drift
With the turning tide
To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
The barges wash
Down Greenwich reach
Past the Isle of Dogs.
Elizabeth and Leicester
The stern was formed
A gilded shell
Red and gold
The brisk swell
Rippled both shores
Carried down stream
The peal of bells
“Trams and dusty trees.
Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.“
“My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
Under my feet. After the event
He wept. He promised ‘a new start.’
I made no comment. What should I resent?”
“On Margate Sands.
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken finger-nails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
To Carthage then I came
Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest
IV. DEATH BY WATER
Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell
And the profit and loss.
A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID
After the torch-light red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and place and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience
Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
If there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mud-cracked houses
If there were water
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
A pool among the rock
If there were the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
But sound of water over a rock
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
But there is no water
Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
—But who is that on the other side of you?
What is that sound high in the air
Murmur of maternal lamentation
Who are those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed by the flat horizon only
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one.
Only a cock stood on the roof-tree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder
Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment’s surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours
Damyata: The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands
I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam ceu chelidon—O swallow swallow
Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih shantih shantih.
and now for something lighter because I couldn’t leave you with such dark thoughts
Hubby was away with his biking mates for a long weekend, so number 1 and myself headed for London, we caught the 7.30 train into Birmingham and then caught the 8.30 coach to London. I wanted to go to the Natural History Museum and to see Camden markets. We used the tube to get around, I will say one thing for the tube it is an excellent service. Number 1 had booked tickets to see the butterflies before we went so that we didn’t have to queue, but as it turned out there was hardly anybody there anyway. Which was nice because it meant we could have a good look and yes we did have them land on us. We then headed for the museum and the queue for this was very long, number 1 suggested we tried the back entrance around the corner which we did and there wasn’t a soul at that one which meant we could walk straight in. The place is huge, it’s worth going just to look at the architecture and I don’t know how people say they looked all around it in a day, we were there for just over three hours and didn’t see half of it, but then I do like to read all the labels and have a good nose. We did see the Dinosaurs, the Mammals section with its life-size whale and the oh so cute Dugong and here’s a song about the Dugong but be warned once it’s in your head that’s it, it’s in there forever . Vision of Earth with its sculptures, and celestial map was interesting. From the beginning and Restless Surface were also interesting, but I liked Earth’s Treasury, ohhh all those shiny things I really need to go back for another look around. Back on the tube to Camden Markets, yet another place where a full day is needed to see all of them, we chose the stable market to look around, I loved the place, so many wonderful things to look at. We also had tea from one of the many food stalls here and sat by one of the huge horses heads to eat it. Then number 1 took me to one of his favorite pubs The Worlds End, there are some nice photos and the history of the pub on the link. It used to be called The Mother Red Cap after the woman who used to live on the site before the pub was built there, people thought she was a witch, just because she lived with a cat, and all of her husbands met with strange deaths, doesn’t make her a witch, I think she was misunderstood Then it was a walk to Euston and back on the tube to Victoria to pick the coach up. we arrived back at home at around 10.30, a long but enjoyable day.
Saturday we headed back into Birmingham to take a look around the pen museum very interesting, but you do need to pick you time to visit as it is very small. We got it wrong so couldn’t make a pen nib or practice Calligraphy, still never mind it was still a nice visit, don’t forget to drop some money in the box on your way out it relies on donations.
We also went to The Museum of Jewellery I found this very interesting, you can look around The ‘Earth’s Riches’ gallery which has jewellery made from all sorts of things, there’s gold and sliver and gem stones that we all know about, but what about cloves and shells. Then there is a guided tour of the old factory which was closed down in August 1981 after trading for 80 years. The factory was simple shut and left, and now you can see it as it was left, with tools still on benches, tea still in mugs, and ash trays still full. They didn’t move with the times and still made jewellery the old way and by hand and weren’t up to the ‘health and safety’ standards which made it impossible to sell as a going concern, which I found a little sad. From there we went to another of the pubs number 1 likes for something to eat, this time the Lord Clifden which has a very quirky beer garden, I rather liked the place.
Then we went for a quick look around the Ikon gallery where we had a nosey at Francois Morellet (look at them long enough and you feel sea sick), This this monster this things mmm odd but in a good way, and tapa barkcloth paintings from the Pacific really beautiful,
Days ends is a docu-drama made by the BBC, 4 possible doomsday scenarios are covered. The plot follows scientist Dr. Howel, as he travels from his London hotel room to his laboratory in New York City, and shows how each scenario affects his journey as well as those around him, with various experts providing commentary on the disaster as it unfolds. I found this very interesting.
of gigs/concerts and or musical type things I have been too, well as many as I can remember. It’s at times like these I wish I had kept a diary. I was going to do a theater list too, but there is not a cat in hell’s chance of me remembering all those. So here we go,
in the 70′s
Tonight (they were a punk band)
Queen (saw these several times)
Status Quo ( ” ” ” “)
Thin Lizzy ( ” ” ” “)
Black Sabbath (” ” ” “)
Barclay James Harvest
in the 80′s and up to now
Little shop of horrors
Rocky Horror picture show
Oh What a Night (Kid Creole)
Haydn’s The Creation
Carl Davis and the CBSO Sci-Fi
David Benson’s – Star Struck
Think no evil of us-my life with Kenneth Williams
Titter ye not.
Some other plays and bits can be found here on my old blog, well this is the page that I listed it on, there’s even a few photos and some write ups about some of the above
stockhausen – Mittochaus Light my write up and video.
The Voyage my write up and links
Wings of Desire write up and links
life’s a dream my write up
If you haven’t heard of any of these a quick Google will give you the answers…, maybe.
Have you ever wonder why we cry? I mean the reason for the tears, here’s an interesting look at it.
I hate, that’s HATE shopping, but there come’s a time when I have no choice and yesterday was one of those days, my bras are on the verge of suicide. It did not go well, I went out with what I wanted in mind, and I couldn’t find anything at all in my size, I tried all 6 clothes/underwear shops in our little towns and nothing. it looks like it’s going to be a trip into the city, oh joy. I was that fed-up with it all I went into bookworks and did some Christmas shopping, yes that’s right Christmas shopping, that’s how fed-up with it I was!
In our little garden
Saturday number 1 and me, (or is it I) went to the Chainmakers Festival. In 1910 Mary Macarthur led the women chainmakers of Cradley Heath in a 10 week dispute for equal paid, and won. It makes you proud This festival used to be held at The Back Country museum but for the past three years or so has been held in Cradley, it’s a shame because it could be so much better with a little thought, yes you do have a lot of union tents, (well it is a union led festival), and there’s a tent with kids activities, burger bar, bar, ice-cream van, bouncy castles and a tent where there were quite a few good folk bands/groups/solo artists playing. I partially liked Carol Widenbar and some of her music can be heard here, she is now on my ‘I want to see list’ But sadly not a lot else, it could do with a history tent with the story of Mary, for those that don’t know all the back ground, the dressed up in period costume actors could do with interacting with the public, not just wander around in little groups, more family type attractions would bring more people in, (good for local business). The two attractions this year were a display of bikes from Dudley Heathens Speedway, (two bikes) and Birmingham archery club, yes I did have a go and given that I had never picked up a bow before I was rather pleased with myself. All my arrows went in the target, 4 of the 6 very close to the bulls eye bit, but not quite in. Just call me William in the making.
Sad news Iain Banks has died, I enjoyed many of his books.
I have just finished reading Wyrd sisters by Terry Prattchett, I just love nanny Ogg.
and just for fun…
You Are a Calm Tea
You definitely march to the beat of your own drum, and you don’t succumb to peer pressure.
You enjoy doing your own thing – and this means having your own unique tastes and preferences.You are confident and calm. You tend to find other people annoying, especially when they want to tell you what to do.
Just because everyone else is doing something, it doesn’t mean you want to do it. And you’re okay with that.