tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34915244501209876902024-03-13T15:14:08.997+00:00being, living, doingHow am I?...Who am I with?...Where am I?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.comBlogger182125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-16192067382707835132012-11-18T12:15:00.002+00:002012-11-18T12:15:24.645+00:00The illusion of Freedom<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A muddier puddle than the one I was describing in a previous post is the debate about what is acceptable to write about on internet social media such as Twitter, Facebook and in blogs. Most of the posts and comments I have ever made have been so superficial and dull that they hardly draw the attention of my friends let alone whoever constitutes the internet police. Most of the recent high-profile prosecutions in Britain have been met with surprising apathy by the people I talk to. Newspaper commentators and bloggers from a wide range of interest comment and debate. Some of them seem genuinely concerned that freedom of speech is being eroded, some of them appear to see rather darker forces at work.<br />
There is plenty of material on the web and in other media discussing the issues of internet censorship and freedom of speech. I'm pretty sure that my thoughts and fears will not make any contribution or difference. And that's the problem I think. The voting turnout for the recent Police Commissioners election was dismal. I think it was partly because people had almost no idea what it was about and felt that their vote was probably meaningless. When it comes to talent shows and celebrities in jungle hell pits the people are keener to participate, even though it costs them to do it. If television programming is any indication of what people value then humiliating other people or watching them squirm as they await some trial or tribulation is at the top of our entertainment agenda. It's ugly to me.<br />
Last weekend a man was arrested by Kent police for publishing an image of a burning poppy on a social media site on suspicion of "malicious telecommunications". This week a man lost his job because he expressed an opinion about gay marriage on Facebook. There is a weird irony here. The poppy seemed to me to be a symbol of the sacrifice millions of people made to protect freedom and yet when someone dissents from the "accepted" attitude of reverence an attempt is made to censor and subdue it.<br />
The social networking sites started out as vehicles to let people share their thoughts and actions in democracies apparently dedicated to free speech and thought. It would be stupid to imagine that the various social media were set up as totally altruistic ventures. Financial gain is the driving force, but that's just a part of what we accept and agree to by remaining a part of "western" society. The illusion that we can say what we think with impunity has been exposed and it is being actively regulated by the authority of our governments. In some countries the regulation and censorship is very tight. In Britain we seem to be anxious about a few highly publicised events without perhaps considering where this might be heading. 1984 came and went, Orwell cleverly predicted the paranoia and control that we now accept as we are watched, regulated, prosecuted and censored.<br />
I feel uncomfortable about blandly ignoring these events and shifts in the way our society behaves and reacts to these issues. But I'm coming to recognise that my "right" to freedom of opinion is being re-evaluated by bodies that I don't feel I have any agency to influence. It is a miserable admission. Freedom might be an illusion. The easiest option is to keep ones head down and be dulled to change and enforcement. Winston Smith tried this too and look where it got him.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-47841980097673419712012-11-17T09:42:00.000+00:002012-11-17T09:55:21.525+00:00A muddy puddle<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF2fT7lbygGy_cWraIAzma2ReL_qJDx2vjawX0MWCyOOG85VVH3fEAHHmkHX4J9WueYkO4djXZ8-1hb0sJa1npF3a_rw8raaY8gf5gqLnBFSLjew8CJZuhEtdy3ac4zhDG7grpi4YSmOg/s1600/P1020825.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF2fT7lbygGy_cWraIAzma2ReL_qJDx2vjawX0MWCyOOG85VVH3fEAHHmkHX4J9WueYkO4djXZ8-1hb0sJa1npF3a_rw8raaY8gf5gqLnBFSLjew8CJZuhEtdy3ac4zhDG7grpi4YSmOg/s400/P1020825.JPG" width="300" /></a>I dreamed that I was walking aimlessly in a sodden field. At some point I found myself standing in a muddy puddle, it was obvious that whichever way I turned to extricate myself, I'd get messy. I stood almost still, swishing my boots about in the wet earth unable to decide where to step next and enjoying the indecision and the wasting time. All around me the land looked green and firm but somehow I couldn't find the impulse to move.
I must have woken before I moved on in my dream and in my mind I found myself waiting for something to change that would make what I should do next obvious. It hasn't been a comfortable place to be.<br />
I was away in London last week, visiting my daughter, it was lovely and encouraging to see her starting to take control of what she is doing and enjoying the place and building her life. But to me the city seemed like a massive lake of squelching confusion. People rushing and not rushing everywhere, the underground packed and the pavements heaving and dense. It was the Remembrance Sunday weekend so the place was full of soldiers and police and black suited men and women looking serious and determined. I felt uneasy and confused at times trying to figure out which street to turn down, which bus to ride, where to eat and what to look for. When I was much younger, London was my home and I loved living there but now the familiarity has gone, the buildings and the streets looked quite different and I was lost some of the time and out of love.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj44siAjXR7gszagKqovFq4H6oYN8J3elVK4YwLtxkWjgjiDDMwpuWJXAYh-DG6UbjKDu5jJWrc77OU2BijXGeAYK4WgzwqEok5TANvjlfX2KxiKgZ7Se5LwOrhZabCn2pIkSlK12ygquM/s1600/P1020851.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj44siAjXR7gszagKqovFq4H6oYN8J3elVK4YwLtxkWjgjiDDMwpuWJXAYh-DG6UbjKDu5jJWrc77OU2BijXGeAYK4WgzwqEok5TANvjlfX2KxiKgZ7Se5LwOrhZabCn2pIkSlK12ygquM/s400/P1020851.JPG" width="300" /></a>While I was wandering about, looking at great works of art in galleries, or shuffling through crowded shops and tube stations or sitting comfortably in a quite pub sipping my drink I realised that I have been feeling grumpy and detached for a few weeks now. My dream of the muddy puddle seemed analogous with my state of mind and I realised that I needed to make some positive step to release myself from the numbing ennui of indecision and the foreboding murkiness I seemed to be in.</div>
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This time last year I was depressed and ill. I had become unable to move, quite literally. When I emerged from it earlier this year I came to assign the state I was in to disappointment in myself and others and to my lack of energy to effect any change or achieve a sense of realistic purpose. It was a horrid place to be. Like most people who get depressed and sad from time to time, I know that I get fearful that the dark clouds that seem to surround me will envelop and cloud everything so that taking a step forward seems impossible. My journey through London simply amplified the murkiness and rang alarm bells in my mind alerting me to my need to take some positive action and turn myself towards a more positive route. </div>
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Returning home I regretted that I had missed the enthusiasm and verve of the capital but I was happy knowing that Emma is on a journey she has chosen and is enjoying. My trip had focused my mind on what I am uncomfortable about, the feeling that I was stuck in a muddy puddle, especially in some of the projects I have been working on, worthlessly shuffling about, and yet not moving forwards (or backwards). </div>
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So I am writing this to remind myself of where I've been and to insist that I find a more attractive and less judgmental journey to proceed along. My first action is to acknowledge that I need to be more realistic about what I agree to do. I find it hard to say no. And even when I have said no, it doesn't take much to persuade me that I should attempt to do whatever it is anyway. This is has recently proved to be a costly mistake. I have been disillusioned, frustrated and filled with disappointment. Exhaustion and loss of humor inevitably follows, everything seems tiresome and ridiculous. That's a sad and untenable state to remain in. So here are my first, more intelligent and considered steps out of the messiness. I said no to something I'm clear that I cannot achieve on my return and immediately I began to feel my perspective recovering. It is not a simple experience, there are consequences to everything we decide, obviously. My whining insecurities are beginning to speak with less fervent and intrusive noise and those of others are loosing their demanding insistence. It may take time to recognise and trust my instinct for the right thing to do again, I got hurt, that was silly. I'm up for saying "yes" to more inspiring, achievable and purposeful actions. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-60197992139553824352012-11-04T21:24:00.000+00:002012-11-04T21:24:00.578+00:00Pandiculating<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last night we walked out of North Park Mansions into a crisp, perfect evening for a bonfire and firework display on The Stray. I've not been to this annual event which raises money for <a href="http://www.stmichaelshospice.org/" target="_blank">St Michael's Hospice</a>, since we moved to Harrogate a couple of years ago. For the last two years I have hung out of the bathroom window, glimpsing rocket bursts and sniffing the gunpowder. But on Saturday night we were swept up in the river of pedestrians strolling toward the event. It was quite a remarkable sight when we got there. Literally thousands of people were wandering about in the definite dark and the squidgy slush of night and mud. It was a controlled Harrogate hedonism, a good number of the population gathered around an enormous bonfire with the splash of sparks and popping, whizzing and banging explosions. The barriers and the police and the marshals kept crowds clean and safe. The mummies and the daddies clung to their children and squelched about in their Hunter wellington boots and quilted jackets. The local radio station blurted out the latest rants from Rita Ora and begged people to enjoy themselves. I relished the brief distraction, the cold and the sparklers and the clumps of gawky girls and louty lads and children asking to go home after every blattering boom.<br />
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When the last rocket had fizzled, the congregation was suddenly, like one definite body, on the move again, back to our warm homes and security of the television and plumped-up sofas. On the way we wandered down a narrow alleyway surrounded by youths, swearing thoughtlessly and swaggering aggressively. I felt a bit old. I was determined not to be intimidated or reactionary. These are the people who will rule the world and deal with the things we can't or won't be able to any more. They all seemed so very like each other, it was hard to distinguish one from another, a bit like their parents, in their own comfortable cultural correctness. In the darkness, surrounded by hooded men cursing and scratching and wobbly women clutching and feeding their mobiles I had an odd desire to yawn, perhaps everyone else was yawning too. It's catching.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-58241549579720616292012-10-28T09:45:00.000+00:002012-10-28T09:45:19.749+00:00The settling dust<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7155259343/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Harrogate Cinema by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="Harrogate Cinema" height="336" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7232/7155259343_8f2a8157cb.jpg" width="448" /></a><br />
I have spent a couple of weeks not writing. Stuff has happened, ordinary, quotidian, nothing special stuff. There have also been a few wake up calls too. The Jimmy Saville 'revelations' have preoccupied the news and the killing has continued in foreign places. I've had an odd time, walking out of my secure bolt-hole into misty mornings where the fog has been dense enough to not be able to quite see what there is in front of me.<br />
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I retreated into the comfort of routine and tried to do the things people have asked of me. But I've been having difficulty navigating and keeping steady. For the last week I worried that I was sleeping in late. I never sleep in late. Time seemed to flash by. I can usually accomplish lots, but recently some of the things I tried to get done seemed to be so dense that despite hours of effort and thinking, very little was completed. I have been disorientated I think. I found myself out of my comfort zone. Little obstacles, disappointments and uncertainties clumped together to form an almost impenetrable cloud obscuring my path. </div>
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I've lived a lot, I know that this happens from time to time and experience has taught me to be patient. I'm not always very patient. I get upset when I cannot finish something. I get angry with myself when my energy fails and I want to sleep instead of do. <span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">This is normal, but it is uncomfortable</span>. I get frustrated by the dust that accumulates and settles on every surface while I try to restore my balance and find my way. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-85336672677162532762012-10-14T21:03:00.000+01:002012-10-14T21:03:00.922+01:00Disability and ability<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've been thinking about what being <i>"a person with disabilities"</i> means. It isn't perhaps that surprising because I spend a lot of time with people who are described as or describe themselves as being "<i>a person with disabilities</i>". There has been a long debate about reaching this description. Experts, focus groups and public consultations have pondered on the line of names, descriptors and euphemisms we use to describe a person who has, for example, lost a limb from an accident or had a disease that has impaired their ordinary physical functions or was born without sight or hearing. There are definitions accepted, encouraged, published and taught. The generally accepted recommendation is to put the person before the 'disability', so we say <i>"she is a person with a disability</i>" rather than <i>"she is a disabled person"</i> or to be more specific <i>"he is a person with a visual impairment"</i> rather than <i>"he is blind"</i>. When a person is born with a congenital condition like say spina bifida or have an injury to their spinal chord we say "<i>she is a person with paraplegia</i>" instead of <i>"she's parplegic"</i> or once upon a time "<i>spastic</i>". We have used the words crippled, lame and handicapped and some rather more offensive names. When someone is born with a body different to what we like to think of as the 'normal' they get defined with a title. If their brain appears to function in a way that doesn't meet the expectation of ordinary they get diagnosed and labeled.<br />
When you disable some 'thing', you make it inoperable. For example if you are fiddling with the remote control for your television and your partner is tired of your channel-hopping, they might remove the batteries and then the box becomes useless. If you are a soldier and you are tasked to defuse a road-side bomb you might carefully and courageously remove it's trigger mechanism to make it safe. We disable objects to make them useless. It might be a temporary decision which can easily be reinstated or a permanent action to stop something bad happening. We know full well what we are doing, these are positive, considered actions.<br />
Remote controls and road-side bombs are tools and objects, they don't think or feel, we have manufactured them to make something happen for us.<br />
People on the other hand are not things. People have thoughts, feelings and desires. We recognise that some parts of our functioning as human beings is automatic and some parts we train and control. We have experiences, we have various levels of ability to make decisions and to take action. Our individual physical, emotional and intellectual capacities determine what we are able to achieve. Some people believe we are born as a blank slate upon which anything can be written. Some people believe we are an aggregate of the nurture we receive Most people recognise that each of us is born with genetic baggage and incorporate that 'nature' with the 'nurture' we experience from the world we arrive in. From the moment we are born we get support from those around us to develop the skills and ability we perceived as owning or that we could have. We are cared for by our parents, taught by our teachers, encouraged by our friends, classified by decision makers, mentored by our employers, diagnosed by our doctors, and indoctrinated by our media. We learn how to make objects work for us, to control; 'things' and to use them to our advantage.<br />
So having stated the obvious, I am still thinking about what <i>"being a person with disabilities"</i> means. It shouldn't be difficult to answer. Perhaps it means having and owning an 'impairment' and I suppose that means that you have something about you, your way of being, that is different. We describe it in terms of a lack, and that seems to make you appear less able than other people. It also means that there is something that stops you, impedes your abilities and effectiveness and removes your power to perform like others. Some people describe themselves as <i>"differently-abled", </i>recognising the skills and attributes they possess as contributions rather than lacks or omissions of ability. Some people don't have anything close to that description in their vocabulary.<br />
All of us get taught to label ourselves. People want to know "<i>Who are you?</i>", to give them a clue about how we see our roles in society, our beliefs and the abilities we can contribute. <i>"I'm a father", "I'm a wife"</i> or <i>"I'm a homosexual", "I'm an atheiest"</i> or "<i>I'm an artist", "I'm a cook". </i>They are very general pictures with concomitant associations which mean different things to each individual<i> </i>and culture. When the response is "<i>I'm a person with a disability"</i> the other descriptors seem to pale in significance We see the disability long before we recognise the roles, beliefs and abilities that person owns. It's hard, perhaps impossible not to. The disability is what seems to make that person different, not their role, belief or skill.<br />
We like to ask each other "<i>How are you?"</i> to get an idea of how you are feeling so that we can respond accordingly: <i>"I'm well"</i> generally with positivity and reinforcement <i>"that's good!"</i> or <i>"I'm depressed"</i> usually with sympathy and concern <i>"Can I help?</i>", or "<i>I'm tired"</i> hopefully with empathy and acknowledgement "<i>I know how you feel!</i>".<br />
When the answer comes from someone who appears to be 'disabled', we (by which I mean I) judge that apparent impairment way before we hear their feelings and it changes the way we respond. I hope it is obvious that I am generalising reactions, especially mine. There are no doubt many people who see nothing more than the person, there are definitely people who only see the disability. People have abilities, that is what is really important. Every person I work with has awesome abilities and contribution that make me look at my own and work harder.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-79987949931496755412012-10-09T08:12:00.002+01:002012-10-09T08:12:29.429+01:00I'm not the only one<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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John Winston Lennon was born on this day in Liverpool in 1940. He is one of a good list of people who have changed the way I see the world. I first listened to "<i>Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band"</i> at a rather odd party I went to with my Father in 1967. I think I was the only child there and a young woman took pity on me and sat me down in a room, opened the lid of her portable gramophone, and left me to listen to the record. I was a little boy then, brought up on enforced enjoyment of Jim Reeves, Mantovanni and The Ray Conniff Orchestra. It was a heavenly, sparkling diamond. After 20 minutes of side one, I found her again so that she could kindly flip the disk and I could absorb the rest. My head was never quite the same again.<br />
My dad and I watched the Beatles and their friends performing "<i>All You Need Is Love</i>" later that month on the first live global television broadcast shared by an estimated 400 million people. It was produced with contributions from countries around the world. The BBC had commissioned The Beatles to write a song to represent Great Britain. My Dad was horrified and declared it an obscene waste of taxpayers money. But I knew, with a blissful certainty, that at last I wasn't alone. My true family was alive and singing and wearing caftans.<br />
When Lennon wrote "<i>Imagine</i>", his beautiful manifesto for change in October 1971, I was almost old enough to leave home and start my own life. When I did, just past being a sixteen year old, I headed for London and the community I knew were waiting for me to join and contribute to. It was wonderful, optimistic and completely insane time. I had almost no fear. "<i>Imagine</i>" inspired me to trust the process of transmutation from a kid to a person. I was ready for anything. I lived in a dream of community, activism, discovery, chemicals and illusory mysticism. I tried everything that came my way. I was busy, fully occupied in finding me and whatever treasure was available to experience.<br />
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In December 1980 I was living a street away from Portabello Road. I was browsing in a sham hippy clothing shop with a friend when the news of Lennon's assassination was announced on the radio playing through discrete speakers. The first chords of<i> "Imagine</i>" tinkled out and eyes filled with tears and became an anthem owned by the world. A dream was wounded and then it seemed, might also die. A month later I bought The Rolling Stone which featured an interview with Lennon from inside the domestic parenting bliss of his home on the West Side and a courageously human image by<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; line-height: 21.983333587646484px;">Annie Leibovitz </span>o</span>f a naked John curled around Yoko Ono like a fetus.<br />
Within a few years I was also gestating a domestic dream. I was older, not much wiser but still inspired and excited by the dream of embodying change and unity. My beautiful daughters, Laura and Emma arrived in my life to shake up and re-sculpture everything I thought I knew. We grew up together, playing, eating, crying and laughing. A while later, in New York City, the Apple campaign "<i>Think Different</i>" featured a memorably vast poster of of John and Yoko holding flowers at a bed-in some place. It turned out that John Lennon's vision was still alive and being celebrated. At Strawberry Field in Central Park people sing and hold each other and light a candle and place a flower in gratitude, at all sorts of levels of consciousness, that they feel for his sharing and honesty.<br />
This morning I'm celebrating John Lennon's birthday and my own. A lot of the years have drifted along like clouds, songs have been sung, meaning and significance noted, some of the words forgotten. There are wrinkles of laughter and stress which have appeared and remained and my heart has opened and closed with rhythmic regularity. My shifting perceptions of reality rock and roll me around, comforting and disturbing everything I think I know. I am still filled with awe and expectation every morning when I wake. I am a dreamer, but then I'm not the only one.<br />
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<iframe frameborder="0" height="360" src="http://www.dailymotion.com/embed/video/x102el" width="480"></iframe><br />
<a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x102el_john-lennon-imagine_music" target="_blank">John Lennon - Imagine</a> <i>by <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/hushhush112" target="_blank">hushhush112</a></i>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-79957786912610381882012-10-05T09:10:00.004+01:002012-10-05T09:17:11.129+01:00The Fox, the Grapes and the Silver<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I like working. I enjoy most of the things I do. In the past two months I have become almost fully employed. I used to work in the 'outside' world for a couple of days and spend the rest of my time at home being 'creative', making, painting and writing. I revelled in keeping house, tidying, plumping, cleaning the plants. I read books, big ideas and email and thought about my life and people. The doing of my days was tidy and ordered. They were relatively simple, my thinking process was uncomplicated and my emotions were obvious and unguarded. Recently though, especially since I returned from my break in America I have been more like a refrigerator poorly packed with potentially tasty foods, refreshing drinks, spicy condiments and pre-loved left-overs with little apparent regard for order or safety.<br />
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There are cloudy containers with half-consumed ideas hidden at the back, and vegetating tasks curling and gently rotting in the salad drawer. Some of the milky plans are close to curdling, there are several bottles of sugary nonesense waiting to be recognised as flat. New stuff is mixed up and sitting beside the old and tired, there are dribbles of brown-coloured sauce and sticky, gungy patches and the evidence of exudate in rings where exciting jars of optimistic plans had been and gone. Best before and use by dates have been ignored, the door light has blown and the temperature gauge is broken.<br />
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I'm conscious of the mess but have let myself imagine that I am too busy to have time get it clean and stacked in order again. I have an inflated view of the pressure I've been happy enough to to let in. I'm excited and flighty and I forget the joyful sobriety of time to contemplate because my mind is buzzing with asks and possibilities. I'm greedy and and easily intoxicated by dreams and wishful thinking. The heat alarm should be ringing but I've stuffed damp excusses over it.</div>
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I spent some of this week helping to interview prospective candidates for creative and managerial posts. It was both a fascinating and deflating process. Some people turned up sparkling and enthusiastic with a lexicon of sure-fire answers dressed-up and tailored to impress. Others arrived already resigned to failure or swimming out of their comfort depth, clothed in ill-fitting half truths and illusory costumes. Every one of them expressed a desire to "progress". It might have been the new word for "compete" or perhaps "contibute". I was expecting to meet extraordinary. I was imagining people who would twinkle brightly like the first star in the evening sky or an optimistic ray of warm light at dawn. Each of them had potential, we all have potential. They came with their over-stuffed portfolio's of perceived success or tried to wing it with cloudy personality and fumbling out-of-date peccadilloes.Within the first three blinks it was generally clear that we were reading very different books, and humming discordant tunes, squandering each others time and energy. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij0CRQF4wWFhrh1iLO5Cg5FHTb4GkIoqPBIPVWjye_56ykyVNq2WpwJKHTJ38r5ZvY-NG8FVb9q1ubdEwJpzWuWsxR6_N6erOVk0LUV8KH5rslIgadqxhCTYYnj9J60Har41GFYz9MomA/s1600/housework-polishing-silver1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij0CRQF4wWFhrh1iLO5Cg5FHTb4GkIoqPBIPVWjye_56ykyVNq2WpwJKHTJ38r5ZvY-NG8FVb9q1ubdEwJpzWuWsxR6_N6erOVk0LUV8KH5rslIgadqxhCTYYnj9J60Har41GFYz9MomA/s400/housework-polishing-silver1.jpg" width="312" /></a>I resisted my initial gut-wrenching impressions and persevered, keen to find treasure in the barren desert of suits and poorly considered frocks and extension heels. I was determined to be open and patient. And I was nice, (I hope) encouraging each to climb out of their laundry baskets of worn and sometimes discarded costumes and try on something adventurous and unexpected. Most of the candidates seemed set on playing a loosing game, unable to keep their attention on the incoming ball, wield a bat and remember the rules. Generally the match concluded slightly awkwardly. Uncertain of who had won and lost we went our separate ways to wonder what it was about and what it could have been about.<br />
My cognitive dissonance can easily be replaced by mildly expediant rationalization and some tidy and timely polishing of the silver already in the drawer. I'm not going to try to eat the sour-looking grapes, someone else can turn them into a sweet wine. I can sort the out-of-date left-overs and let them go. There are plenty of fresh ideas to taste and I simply need to get organised, respect my own boundaries, rest and recuperate properly and get off bluffing so busily. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-12732470493104628672012-10-02T21:50:00.002+01:002012-10-02T22:33:11.292+01:00Deceitful organ<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Several people told me I looked tired today. For a short while I thought it was Friday. It didn't take long to have that illusion squashed. I felt good actually and I was relieved to find it was Tuesday. I was hoping to get a lot of work achieved, I had a plan but it didn't work out that way. Everything took a long time to do. Colleagues asked if I was OK. "<i>You're frowning...is everything well?"</i> I have one of those faces I think, my expressions are confusing to others. From the inside I have a permanent smile, I'm feeling pretty happy about what I'm doing, but when I am concentrating I look a bit grumpy. I wanted to apologize but it was too late. Like an infectious virus various people sympathized and wondered if I'd recover my happy public fascia soonly. I resolved to cheat and exaggerate my smile.<br />
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I started reading Nick Kent's 1970's memoir <i>"<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Apathy-Devil-Nick-Kent/dp/057123285X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1349211675&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Apathy For the Devil</a>"</i>. Back in the day, reading his comments in the NME (New Musical Express to the unitiated, just who are you?) was a crucial element of political and cultural reasoning. The school common room was my first exposure to NME and later reading worn copies of <a href="http://www.ibiblio.org/mal/MO/philm/friends/" target="_blank">Frendz</a> and International Times discarded in old boxes or found under mattresses took over. They seemed brilliant then. Looking back on those times they seemed to be revolutionary and exciting. Mr Kent was an occasional presence on the Portabello Road on the odd Saturday morning. he might have been somewhere in the crowd as me and my mates swigged Carlesburg Special Brew under then apparently harmless influence of a Quaalude (or two).<br />
The market was a treasure trove of incense and cotton shirts and herbs and Ceres bread. It was a long a happy stroll from Westbourne Terrace to the Flyover and then to my friends flat above the African Freedom Party headquarters which had once hosted editorial meetings and extended rap and roll sessions. I'd end up there and drink cups of sweet 'Camp' Coffee and curl up in front of the open fire and lig, starry-eyed as a parade of hopefuls and almost famous post-hippies dropped by with little silver packages and rolled up fivers. Late in the night, bleary and chemically challenged I'd join the talk of change and music and occasionally a bit of mystism.<br />
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<a href="http://www.roughtraderecords.com/" target="_blank">Rough Trade Records</a> was just starting up, <i>"Sniffin' Glue"</i> was the news that fitted and people would turn up saying that Elvis had been in and played a demo of some amazing tune or that there was a new band <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Adverts" target="_blank">The Adverts</a> who had a song about Gary Gilmore. Nick Kent starts his book with "<i>...When you get right down to it, the human memory is a deceitful organ to have to rely on. Past reality gets confused with wishful fantasy..."</i><br />
His book ends with a soundtrack of 70's songs, a list that befits a music journalist who had seen and heard it all. <i>"...music remains the only key that can unlock the past for me in a way that I can inherently trust..."</i> I can still rely on Joni Mitchell and Steeley Dan. I can turn to Dylan for perspective, miss Lennon for raw dignity and Harry Nilson for being himself..<br />
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These days music, by which I mean songs, mostly seem tame by comparison to then. People no doubt try really hard. But mostly it seems to have lost its truthfulness and been replaced by savvy business ethic. The most honest stuff is contained in the pure pop of teenies and tweenies who aren't trying very hard or at all to make a cultural statement of any importance or record in depth feelings of their hearts and souls. I was listening to Keanes recent album over the weekend, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Strangeland_(album)" target="_blank">"<i>Strangeland</i>"</a>. The songs all rhyme nicely and remind me of living in Sussex and hanging out in the sun and the rain at the De La Warr in Bexhill, but that's it. There are a couple of pleasant bits but mostly it is inconsequential. Nicki Minaj is closer to true. I would love their record to have been as memorable and accurate as their first,<i> "Hopes and Fears"</i>. Now I am tired, still smiling inside and ready to give in and accept what I failed to achieve and aim to try harder tomorrow.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-53951935579242315672012-09-28T08:34:00.000+01:002012-09-28T08:46:04.878+01:00High shelves and confined spaces<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2xX-0ISzjHlobBnF9DGnAMQny_KN69lLmxT_hXia6ZIRQaahD35qnsXNKr7W2a67dSN7ZRUobK1apJ-nQ8UmYXRZzvbChfYmsOHPk6_QFgKBwvHzap4IAOG73E8XcPZaKRuPdo8_Onp0/s1600/sight+impaired.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2xX-0ISzjHlobBnF9DGnAMQny_KN69lLmxT_hXia6ZIRQaahD35qnsXNKr7W2a67dSN7ZRUobK1apJ-nQ8UmYXRZzvbChfYmsOHPk6_QFgKBwvHzap4IAOG73E8XcPZaKRuPdo8_Onp0/s400/sight+impaired.jpg" width="400" /></a>I work two days of my week enabling small groups of people to understand and use information technology. Some of participants have used computers before and understand the basics of powering them up and navigating the screens, opening software and using the keyboard and mouse to communicate and explore. Some of the people who come to the workshop have very little experience and need to be encouraged and supported to engage at the simplest level. It might be, but not invariably, because they have a variety of degrees of sight impairment, or that they are actually living without any sight at all. We have enlarged keyboards, and programmes that magnify the screen resolution and speak the text. For some of the people I work with the way they think and understand and learn is complex or apparently uncomplicated.<br />
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Negotiating dimmed or black-out territory, over-coming barriers and obstacles, knowing where you are going and recognising who you are with relies on senses most people don't have much consciousness of. Some of the people who come to the workshop have abilities which seem different to mine, their senses are tuned to wavelengths I seem to have missed or lost and they 'see' the world from a perspective I have never considered or had the energy to attempt.</div>
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Mostly the participants have been diagnosed and classified, they have had risk assessments and been categorised, they have been trained, left alone, nurtured, bullied, mentored and patronised. Many of folks I work with have been through care homes and 'special' education facilities. Some of them have family and friends who regard them as ordinary as themselves. Some have been abandoned to a variety of socially responsible systems. They have been helped along the way by, or endured, appointed psychologists and psychiatrists. There have been co-opted social workers and well-meaning volunteers with their theories, their kindness, patience and condescension. They have been indoctrinated to be suspicious and wary at all times. At the same time, these individuals are encouraged to trust with little question or personal agency, their ever-changing enablers, key workers, supply staff, managers and doctors. Most people get used to constant change or become resigned to it. They accept the demands of vagueness of staff working rotas and to new policies and procedures. They have become used to being reviewed and discussed, to being talked over and about. They have no choice or ability to influence the limiting effects of cost-cutting government decrees. They are taught to be polite and worry that at every and any uncertain turn they might be in danger. Some are constantly concerned that the person they are with might misunderstand what they are saying. Occasionally a sparky person really doesn't engage with consideration, perhaps it doesn't functionally exist for them or because they have become desensitised to the onslaught of generated niceness and manipulation. They know they have rights, they are used to being 'served' and cushioned and to being treated with occasionally ridiculous caution.</div>
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The picture I have described above seems ridiculously negative. It isn't deliberately though. I have very little real knowledge or experience of how people with disabilities and complex behaviour were treated and cared for say thirty years ago. I'm pretty certain it was weirder and less inclusive and much less human than it is now. There are some supremely successful individuals who come to my workshop who have transcended the rubbish piles and pit-falls of social care and being trained to be disabled. They strive tirelessly and contribute ideas and share concepts and ideas that leave me inspired to try harder to be creative, interact and achieve pleasure from everything I do. They have been encouraged and enabled to engage and contribute as well as everyone else by people who are talented citizens, respectful supporters and experts in being human themselves. This group of workers mostly receive ridiculously low-pay, are often trained with little consistency, sometimes provided with perfunctory or inadequate guidelines and are expected to take extra-ordinary responsibility and understand incredibly complex ethical guidelines. Of course there are some of these 'workers' who are barely able to keep their own lives in order, let alone be creative and responsible citizens and inspire successful citizenship in the vulnerable folk they support. It is easy to judge them harshly but actually it is the agencies and care provider businesses who choose to employ them and are trying to swing a profit who have to reconcile quality and experience with financial and commercial reality. Government fiscal policies decide the levels of funding which pay wages and fees, and we are all democratically responsible for that.</div>
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It is a remarkable world of people who I never really noticed before and if I did I simply probably pretended that I hadn't seen them or discretely ignored their presence like a burp inappropriately expressed and unexpectedly expelled. I think I'm a caring, sharing, inclusive kind of person but actually I'm selfish, selective and prejudiced. I don't feel especially good about admitting that but now I have, I am very slightly more conscious of my petty, naive and limiting behaviours.<br />
The experience of working with this group of individuals has helped me to get off my some of my high selves and out of the confined spaces from which I idealise where I am, who I am with and what I am doing . I imagine myself conscious and aware, I think that I live in bright light and can see the barriers and obstacles that surround me. I feel, see, talk, taste, smell and listen selectively, it's what I have been taught to do, I've taught myself to be discriminating and careful. The people I work with are challenging my treasured certainties and enable my consciousness to attempt a wider vision and recognise the modest nature of what I think I've achieved.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-84600728619341530902012-09-25T22:40:00.003+01:002012-09-25T22:44:35.030+01:00The Weather Report<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px; text-align: start;">Photograph: Patrick Swirc</span>
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<a href="http://www.rachelkhoo.com/" target="_blank">Rachel Khoo</a> is an interesting British lady who runs La Petit Cuisine a Paris from her tiny kitchen. I managed to watch one episode on television of her recent series and I was excited enough to buy her book. It is full of simple, easy, properly French reciepes made without fuss and tested in her kitchen which is smaller than mine or Ms Knaggs'. Some while ago I had a steak and frites supper somewhere in the quattrieme arrondissement, late at night with copious amounts of tasty table wine and people I had met just half an hour before. I've been to Paris a few times since but never had such a fine meal since.<br />
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Rachel Khoo's reciepe for 'frites de legumes racines' was my first delve. Chips made from parsnips, sweet potato and carrot roasted in an almond paste to which I added some Japanese gomasio was a very tasty winner. The rest of her book is filled with meals and sweets I'm going to try out on MKG, especially les gourmandises. Last night I enjoyed <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b01n2y25" target="_blank">Nigelaissima</a> on the BBC. I thought I might have tired of her greedy optimism, but no, she continues to woo me with her curvy charms. I love the simplicity and wreckless, olive oil-dribbling ease of her cooking. I may not invest in her book but I'll definitely be adding more extra virgins to my pasta.<br />
I'm enthraled again by the Mumford lads, who have a new album out, <i><a href="http://www.mumfordandsons.com/" target="_blank">"Babel"</a></i>. Not so instantly memorable as their first one but the music is mostly jolly and the sentiments are intelligent and enticingly accurate. I get a shiver of happiness when someone writes a song with words that seem to express what I am feeling, or tell the news of what I've seen about myself. In one of the songs, probably the title song, a Mumford sings<i> "...I ain't ever lived a year better spent in love"</i>. I get that. I feel that about this last year. So I'm happy to have this record on my pod of joy.<br />
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What I like about Rachel Khoo is her sophisticated simplicity. Nigella Lawson is responsible for helping me to feel good about eating and drooling. The Mumfords and a load of other ballardiers have helped me to recognise that my vain idea that I am unique is an illusion. This does not make me feel bad, it makes me feel really good.<br />
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Since I'm on this superficial "I Like It" kick, I feel the need to mention how much I enjoyed watching the whole series of <i><a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b01m7rn8" target="_blank">"Parades End"</a></i> on iPlayer almost back to back this last weekend. How much? A lot. Enough to keep my attention for five hours. It is an Edwardian period drama adapted by Tom Stoppard from Ford Maddox Ford's four books about weighing the balance between personal principles and standards over the unpredictable vaugeries of love and devotion. When we were in America we met people who were enjoying <i>"Downton Abbey"</i> for it's soap opera take on a slightly later time in Yorkshire social history. American television is mostly rather dull apart from <i>The Weather Channel</i>. I think those folks will enjoy the collaboration between the BBC, HBO and VRT (Belgium television) on <i>"Parades End"</i> even more than Downton or even singing <i>"...I can gather all the news I need from the weather report"</i> to themselves in private.<i> </i>It is a grand set of stories, acted out by a worthy and talented cast and like all good tales it resonated with recognisable (at least to mine own) quandries and fantasies.<br />
My appetite is whetted, my heart has been seen and my mind is reeling with questions of conscience. Meanwhile, outside (and with a slight leak indoors), the Flood seems to be taking hold.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-25728107029001938142012-09-20T23:28:00.002+01:002012-09-20T23:36:52.293+01:00Hip Gnosis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"Number 8" Jackson Pollack</i></td></tr>
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Sometimes what I think I'm communicating turns out to be misunderstood. When I write or say something I am usually fairly confident that I know what I mean. But the intention of my words may not be what the other person grasps, sometimes people seem to hear something completely else. They might read meaning that wasn't consciously there for me or intended or they have an insight into my ego or state of mind that I haven't noticed or been able to access.<br />
Once in a while what gets uttered is clear and unambiguous, focused and objective. Occasionally what comes out is total rubbish of course which I imagine is ridiculous, time-wasting and confusing to anyone who is listening or reading what I trying to say.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"Dark Side of the Moon" Hipgnosis and George Hardy</i></td></tr>
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I spend a lot of my working life explaining how to do something to someone else. One step at a time or chunks of instruction and sometimes a whole methodology. Expressing what I mean with clarity and precision is my goal, the reality is sometimes a mess of gobbldygoop. I can write a list of precise instructions, I can imagine myself completing a task in exact sequence, practising a routine. When I work with someone to enable them to complete a task or to replicate my method I am becoming increasingly aware that each person hears what is said in their own unique way based on what they already know, (or think they know) from experience and sometimes indoctrination.<br />
The nouns and pro-nouns we use name the people we know or think we know, places we have been to, have thought about or wished to go to, things, objects, materials and substances we own or have seen or desired, quantities like big and small, qualities like wet and dry and ideas of every conceivable complexion and so on. It seems that each word has an association in our minds with at least another, say sleep with tiredness or confused with foolishness or rebellious with being disobedient. It is almost endless, there are so many nearly infinite possibilities for the concomitant associations we make with each word uttered or thought of read. When someone says to me <i>"I am disorganised"</i>, I might think they mean that they are muddled or confused or chaotic, careless and forgetful. And each of those words might bring up in my mind an new set of associations. For example 'chaotic' might also mean to me, jumbled, disordered, messy, unfocused, anarchic, topsy-turvy and so on.<br />
It is as if the person I am hearing is speaking one language and I am hearing another and of course visa versa, that is to say another way round, nuanced with their own and my own concomitant associations. I am in deep linguistic hot water here, I know. There are adjectives and verbs, adverbs, modifiers, prepositions and conjunctions. Then there are metaphors and analogies, and rhetoric and epistemology. And there are 'experts' who understand all this with clarity and commitment to objectivity and reason.<br />
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Today a colleague said "<i>You are a star</i>". Whatever could she mean? Am I good? Does my work shine out as excellent, could she want to express her gratitude? Am I better than the next person, have I reached a peak? Should I audition for X factor? Perhaps she says that to everyone, like asking <i>"...how are you doing?" </i>or saying <i>"...have a nice day..."</i>. It is so easy to misrepresent what you mean and to misunderstand what you hear. My meaning of good is coloured by all of my past experiences. My understanding of what it means to be 'good' has been informed by how my mum let me know my behaviour was appropriate "<i>...eat your dinner, like a good boy...</i>" or my friends might have said "<i>...that</i> <i>painting is good..."</i> or my partner might say "<i>....a cup of tea would be good..."</i>.<br />
'Good' might also mean conforming, legal, useful, admirable, commendable, kind, polite, reliable, loyal and so on. <i>"Are you good?"</i>. I try to be. But that might also be a query to find out if I'm feeling well, or satisfied or happy. Or it might mean something quite other. And so it goes on, interpreting the words you hear is dependent on what you've been taught and experienced, your aspirations and desires and what you have been indoctrinated to believe. I am sure there are some people who would say every word has an absolute meaning, defined in a dictionary, reliable and true.What I think I know is that the way I understand each word has been constructed over time experimentally, expotentially, experientially, existentially. I know what I mean but do you?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-63406992166698553032012-09-19T21:13:00.002+01:002012-09-19T21:17:05.075+01:00Everybody changes the past<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Since I got home from America, I have been catching up with my world here. I downloaded the new Bob Dylan album <a href="http://www.bobdylan.com/us/news/tempest" target="_blank"><i>"Tempest"</i>.</a> I used to be a fanatical fan but lately, or really the last twenty five years I rarely got excited by his work. I bought <i><a href="http://www.bobdylan.com/us/music/love-and-theft" target="_blank">"Love and Theft"</a> </i>whenever it was it came out and when Sheryl Crowe recorded an up-tempo version of <i><a href="http://youtu.be/OZedANJA76s" target="_blank">"Mississippi"</a></i>, I was hooked. I like both versions. The new Dylan album is interesting to me because he just refuses to collude with fashion or expectation. In a recent interview in <a href="http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/bob-dylan-i-was-transfigured-in-the-sixties-20120918" target="_blank">Rolling Stone Magazine</a> Bobsie is asked about his view of history.<i> "Everybody changes the past in their own way. It's habitual...we always see things the way they really weren't, or we see them the way we want to see them. We can't change the present or the future. We can only change the past and we do it all the time..."</i> It is not necessarily an easily accepted view, people think that how they perceived an event is how it was. Often we rely on someone else's reporting anyway to inform our opinions, judgments and decisions. This is where stuff gets sticky and thick.<br />
Dylan devotes 13 minutes and 54 seconds to a song about the Titanic. After two or three plays of "<i>Tempest</i>", I found myself humming and swaying slightly from side to side as if I were bobbing along in a little life boat..<i>."The watchman, he lay dreaming, the damage had been done. He dreamed the Titanic was sinking, and he tried to tell someone..."</i><br />
For Dylanphanatics there is probably some deep meaning embedded in this track, perhaps a comment on how humanity is headed toward icy oblivion with our eyes closed even though we have an idea of what might be to come...that sort of thing. In the Rolling Stone interview Bob remarks that <i>"...I remember what I want to remember. And what I want to forget, I forget..."</i> This I understand.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzpiQH4XwZH1bxGghV_rutbb1fGU9Pfa2A2WFh4P4fOwJxfvEOTIHFc6CWUvur2MlZB_DsH2E17c4Rwq2KzwVXxJAa_u4a-_8mbNldWSIWk1lcwvSGdt5ZxhxnuP3wc1j2wqC0lgXDrYA/s1600/content-000418.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzpiQH4XwZH1bxGghV_rutbb1fGU9Pfa2A2WFh4P4fOwJxfvEOTIHFc6CWUvur2MlZB_DsH2E17c4Rwq2KzwVXxJAa_u4a-_8mbNldWSIWk1lcwvSGdt5ZxhxnuP3wc1j2wqC0lgXDrYA/s320/content-000418.jpg" width="320" /></a>When I am trying to explain a belief or propose an opinion I am selective in accessing whatever knowledge I have gained from my past, at least when I get reflective, that's how it seems. Already my memory of our trip is coloured with a warm glow and that's nice. But there was also a haze of over-sunned light and superficial frontage. Back in the wet green of England there is a depth and a past I didn't notice in the canyons and mountain however magnificent they were.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_cWz2UqOb6OJaBhB4mNJaBXqV3u7FLjyurLCQKqGJeSf_JUOGPd79mowZUfu0spFzy39AUex-0V6AYXbl8nskOdf-KM0v7-gnl5vgCf8H97eJHbqKvDPWa3v28IUmCmEtIIWV-o_GP7k/s1600/Rolling_Stone_Magazine_first_issue-8x6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_cWz2UqOb6OJaBhB4mNJaBXqV3u7FLjyurLCQKqGJeSf_JUOGPd79mowZUfu0spFzy39AUex-0V6AYXbl8nskOdf-KM0v7-gnl5vgCf8H97eJHbqKvDPWa3v28IUmCmEtIIWV-o_GP7k/s320/Rolling_Stone_Magazine_first_issue-8x6.jpg" width="211" /></a>And by the way, what happened to Rolling Stone? What happened to <i>"All the news that fits"</i>? an adapted motto first coined by Jann Werner in 1967. It meant something to me back then, now it looks corporate and perfunctory. The original is perhaps from The New York Times which from it's first edition in 1897, declared <i>"All the news that's fit to print"</i> and might even been more honest in it's leanings then and now. Those statements say a lot to me. Rolling Stone is selling popular content nowadays, even Dylan got bored pretty quickly with the inane questions posed by Mikal Gilmore. He is a bit grumpy, but then he can afford to be. Rolling Stone used to be part of the revolution, now along with The New York Times it seems like an obvious propaganda standard.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-17108085855017374632012-09-14T12:54:00.000+01:002012-09-15T23:52:56.692+01:00Day Fourteen: Leaving Las Vegas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Leaving Las Vegas wasn't that glamourous. I probably didn't 't notice that our departure time was 6am when I booked our flights some months ago. It meant that we needed to be at the airport two hours before. As we left the hotel there were plenty of revellers coming and going and the slots and their prisoners were singing and cursing. An occasional cheer could be heard about the slamming of one-armed bandits which sounded hopeful.
The airport was efficient though, like so much of America.<br />
In Britain everything is a game of power, so the 'lowliest' operative can imagine they wield some influence by making customers wait while they drink their tea or read The Star sports page. In restaurants, British servers will ignore pleading glances while in America jolly staff will fill your glass with water and bring the check unbidden. That's a tad unkindly. The point is in Las Vegas the airport peeps might have been brusk but checking in our baggage was sorted without fuss.<br />
I had stayed awake all night, reading and gazing out of our sloping pyramid room at the neon nonsense on The Strip. Mr G slept like a baby, refreshing himself after his humiliating result at the casino (I think he left with a voucher for a few cents). He was in remarkably good humour when I woke him and seemed keen and ready to get on.
During the body check process in the airport when there is usually little joy apart from mutual sighs of resignation, a bloke in the queue, when asked to remove his belt, dropped his shorts to the floor and stood proud in his tightie whities. An alarmed guard called for security. This tickled Mr G into peals of sniggering giggles.<br />
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Our lift off from LasVegas afforded a stunning view of the sprawl and sunrise. United Airlines are rather an indifferent operator, there was nothing nice about the tight accommodation or the trolley-dollies but it was smoothly done. We arrived five hours on in Newark with a stop-over to view Manhattan from a safe distance. The miserable process of security checks was repeated without pant-dropping to cheer us up. So we settled into soporific stupor and watched movies and napped, our heads cradled with new memory foam neck rests. The rest was a blur of silly meals and luke warm teas. I was though, very definitely happy to be heading homewards to North Park Mansions after an excellent holiday and adventurette.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-52584586080016688012012-09-13T23:15:00.000+01:002012-09-16T00:26:15.052+01:00Day Thirteen: What Happens in Vegas<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7985266720/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Untitled by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="Untitled" height="640" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8301/7985266720_76d05e4154.jpg" width="480" /></a><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">The day began very early for me. I was awake at 4am and the stars were very definitely shining and the moon was eery. I sat out on a rocking chair on the patio in front of our room and thought about this trip and all the amazing sights we'd seen and places and people we've met along the way. They were rather good thoughts of fulfilling a longing for the desert and the canyons. Why these desolate and glorious places fill us (well at least me) with such awe is probably explained by some academic postulating about, let's say, evolutionary behavioural psychology for starters.</span><br />
We set off around 8.30 up the Valley heading for Las Vegas and the journey home. Mark was unusually quiet. The miles, and the desert and the mountains sped by and at some point I realised we were almost out of gas. I could hear Jackson Browne singing <i>"...running on empty..."</i> in my head and that's how it felt. So much stimulation and novelty and now the anticipation of rejoining the crazy world of The city of sin.
All was going smoothly as we got down to business entering the city on Highway 129. The traffic got thicker and tighter and people weaved in and out of lanes. Our map-reading skills have not been especially good, particularly in big places and we missed the turn for the car rental return and ended up chuntering through the University. I was huffing and puffing, Mr G was trying to stay calm as I cursed and blamed him for my poor navigation skills. A one-sided fracas erupted like a little puddle of volcanic mud. "<i>I can't drive and think!</i>" I inconsiderately moaned, <i>"...where the hell are we.</i>
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MKG looked wounded like a punctured bicycle tire. I thought of the person who described me as aggressive when I rather fancifully thought of myself as placid and steady. It turned out that in extreme heat, map frustration and mid-morning traffic I can be demonic. After a few spins around the airport parameter and some ripe cursing and unnecessary blaming from me he pointed at the car rental return ramp. And then we were safely processed and ready for our return to The Strip. We hugged each other ( in a very manly, yo, bro kind of way) and got into a taxi for the short ride to the Luxor Hotel. It was very quiet in the cab. We just wanted to stop for a while. The driver helped unload our stuff and bags and we got checked in to the weirdest accommodation yet.
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7988571553/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="The Luxor Hotel, Las Vegas by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="The Luxor Hotel, Las Vegas" height="500" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8039/7988571553_76f0226a58.jpg" width="375" /></a>The Luxor is a humongous pyramid of glass on the outside and a strangely unattractive blend of concrete and camp Egyptology on the inside. Our room had slopping windows and faux pharaoh decorated wardrobes. The front of the Hotel has an enormous Sphinx entrance and this is followed by even more phoney statues and approximations of Egyptian architecture and artefact within. Like all the hotels and their casinos here, The Luxor bustles with visitors coming and going. The hotel was at the other end of The Strip from the Stratosphere, where we stayed when we arrived nearly two weeks ago. Not quite so absolutely chavachious, but a close fourth, it is linked by walkways to the Excaliber, a messy Disneyfied castle affair and to the Mandalay Resort which is a bit more upmarket like say Ruislip is to Dagenham Broadway.
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After a brief rest we walked up The Strip, in and out of casinos of increasingly grand and obscene proportions and extravagance. We watched the fountain show at The Belagio and wandered into The Flamingo again for some relief from the heat. The people were out in force, despite the lateness of the season. We ended up in the Fashion Mall, a ridiculously massive shopping spree of Chanel's and Louis V's and Jimmy Chou's. We sat in a bar and sipped soft drinks served by a young lad from Essex, where else? Then back through thickening crowds, via casino and hotel lobby, one after another and past sky scaperish buildings that looked like glass and steel canyons.
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7988674753/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Elvis on The Strip, Las Vegas by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="Elvis on The Strip, Las Vegas" height="500" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8307/7988674753_bdb080f048.jpg" width="375" /></a>
The best part of Las Vegas is the illusion of equality. You can trip into any store, or any fancy hotel and you are treated with politeness and democracy. Just feet away from the entrances though there are shoeless beggars and neo-hustlers with forlorn faces and aaaaascrawled cardboard signs describing their predicaments. One brilliant, healthy looking lass was sat with a sign the read..."<i>too proud to prostitute, please help..."</i> And as you walk along men are clicking little cards with pictures of naked women accompanied by premium rate telephone numbers. Elvis impersonators, Disney characters and ageing fall-outs in full metal hippy outfits offering to pose in your snapshot with you abound.
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A beer in New York, New York later and we were back at The Luxor for sunset and as the light faded the keystone beam shone up from its apex. It was at this late point we discovered that Mr G had mislaid his camera bag which was empty but for a memory card with most of his photographs on it. A horrible blow. I lost all my pictures from a big trip to California ten years gone and I still hurt a little, so I really do empathise with the pain. He had put so much into them and had worked hard not to simply snap pifflries. He was only just consolable enough to carry on without bursting into tears of frustration and regret. We worked out that it must have been left in the boot of the cab from the car rental drop-off. So we spoke to the hotel security just on the off chance...but no. The woman there very kindly gave us the numbers for all of the cab companies in Las Vegas and you never know, it might be in a lost property some place...so we will get in touch with them all when we get home.
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To lift our spirits and relieve the tiredness, we suppered at Mandalay and then ventured into the casino. I spent two bucks on the slots and cashed in my winnings of almost seven. My virgin cherry properly popped, I retained my other winning voucher of ten cents to show off at home. Mark did not win so much but he seemed satisfied with the partaking. We leave the happy slotters and roulette players behind us at 6am, so we will be checking out in the very middle of the night.
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Inspite of lost photographs and my directional rant, we have had a brilliant brief stop-over in Las Vegas, I couldn't be here many hours more though. My heart is beginning to yearn for Yorkshire and my mind for England and my body for sleepy Harrogate...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-88238432958018654172012-09-13T14:25:00.004+01:002012-09-16T02:35:20.437+01:00Day Twelve: Death Valley Rangers<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7980008262/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Sunrise at Death Valley, California by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="Sunrise at Death Valley, California" height="400" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8311/7980008262_8c6e645ede.jpg" width="300" /></a>
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One of the things that most inspired me about being in Death Valley was the lack of Humans. This sounds a bit anti-social. There were plenty of people, interesting, pleasant people I was keen to interact with but overall the place is pretty much empty. There is very little sign that we have messed with it, a strip of road, occasional reassuring signs and a very few and far between places where people can stay and get a beer.<br />
I woke at good early, to still get to see the last of the stars and the beginning of dawnshine. One hundred yards from our cabin was a bench conveniently and deliberately positioned for watching the sunrise. I made a cuppa tea, (a most civilised way to begin a day) and sat with my camera to catch the new day begin. The light came slowly, the temperature was still warm, and a slight breeze softened everything. A few birds started to make conversation, lizardy things darted about, moths flittered here and there and red ants kept busy. In its own perfect time the sun rose over the mountains to the East and then quite abruptly the day began. The truck driver from next door hitched up his long johns and set off in a gigantic Freightliner. The topless fat bloke came out to smoke a cigarette. He hadn't lost any weight over night. Two unlikely young ladies had washed out their skimpy smells and left them to dry on the stone wall for a few minutes while they passed the time of day in their PJ's. The desert stoically carried on with the business of getting hot. Actually very hot, within half an hour.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Ctks4di_yNY?rel=0" width="480"></iframe>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">The Park Rangers and the visitor information sheets and the tee shirts all extol the value of preparation before venturing out into the badlands of death, so when Mark woke, vaguely miffed at having missed the sunrise, we ventured off to get a hearty Continental breakfast in the Saloon. Water bottles were filled, a route was planned, sunny tan lotion was applied and backpacks with saltine crackers were loaded. We set off, in the car northwards, actually it turned out to be westwards (our sense of direction was seriously inadequate) along the dry highway towards a mountainous distance. We thought we were heading for the giant, Ubehebe volcanic crater but it turned out we were off to Panamint Springs instead. No matter, having climbed to almost 5,000 feet and the descended into a vast flat valley we were quite happy. We drove on to Father Crowley Vista up a horribly twisty road to find a few other intrepid drivers there viewing the splendour. We chatted to an English couple about their road trips, visiting each State of America. They loved everyone, it was so refreshing to talk to Brits with little cynisism and loads of positivity. The scene was breath-taking and the heat was also enervating so we headed back down the mountain road back to Panamint. We stopped there for gas and an ice lolly and considered our options in one of the hottest and driest areas of the planet.</span><br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7980932813/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Mark Griffiths at Mustard Canyon, Death Valley, California by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="Mark Griffiths at Mustard Canyon, Death Valley, California" height="500" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8038/7980932813_a310b3c309.jpg" width="289" /></a>We returned to Stovepipe Wells to visit the Mesquite Dunes. The sand was so hot your feet might burn if you touched it, totally crazy and totally beautiful even with the eponymous tourist bus full of French and Germans keen to have their photographs taken. We watched these folks get out, snap and return to the comfort of the air con. We were driving commando, windows down, hot breeze blowing past our heads, stopping from time to time to say "wow" out loud. Our whole trip has been a series of exclamations of wonder and stimulation. Although we haven't been particularly adventuress (our sober trekking has been limited, most of our over-night ears relatively luxurious), the experience has exceeded any foolish expectations, refreshed surprise and contemplation.<br />
It is a short ride to Furnace Creek, our next lodgings. On the way, down a dirt track, we stopped off for a short walk through Salt Creek where we were quite alone. It was very, very dry and the impact of the intense captured heat is astounding. How anything survives in temperatures of 108 degrees (which is sorta mild for this place) is amazing. But even there, hardy adapted plants are green and lizards and little beasties scurry about finding shade or digging themselves into the dried mud and salt or taking refuge under stones and rocks. Trying to photograph some of the panoramic views we have witnessed is practically impossible with ordinary cameras. The results tend to be dull, blue hazed rockiness that fail to express the enormity and immensity of the landscape. We quickly realised that you can spend more time with your eyes fixed on a little digital screen than you do actually being there. We wondered what happens to the billions of photographs people snap everyday. Me and him standing before some extraordinary backdrop. The Peeps click away, mobiles held at arms length while they smile briefly for their shot. It is happening everywhere, right? On street corners in Flagstaff, and in bars and clubs and casinos in Las Vegas and on mountain tops in Utah, at the base of canyons in Arizona and on some desolate salt flat in California. We haven't got one yet but we still have a final day in Las Vegas to rectify that.<br />
The next stop was the borax mines, or what was left of them at Mustard Canyon. I was beginning to feel slightly dizzy and stupid with the heat but we plodded through the 'interpretive' trail, water bottles in hand just about maintaining interest equilibrium. It was definitely time to stop and chill out at the Furnace Creek Ranch nearby, one of the oldest and original settlements in the Valley. It is a suddenly bustling place with rows of huge date palms and unlikely grass watered to within an inch of crispness. All pretense of wildness disappears with a very civilised pool and delux room with a shower and the Weather Channel on TV.<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7981571925/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Sunset at Artists Drive, Death Vally, California by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="Sunset at Artists Drive, Death Vally, California" height="375" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8029/7981571925_53f403c159.jpg" width="500" /></a>
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After a rest and an upload of afor-mentioned snapology via super fast 'comlimentary' wi-fi, it seemed only right that we should complete the tourist route and zip out to The Artist's Drive a few miles south to see the multi-coloured rocks and landslides. We were probably too late to get the very best photo opportunity there. The sun had almost set below the mountains in the west and most of the folks had returned to their degrees of Furnace Creek luxury or camped up in their RV's. It was as fabulous as the guide books say though and the light was historic and the vistas epic. We were ready for supper and so back at the ranch we dined, imbibing silly cocktails and munching on California Cuisine. Happily and lightly blathered we walked in the dark with the stars down the avenue of date palms and retired to bed too tired for television frippery.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-15725385055947063372012-09-11T15:36:00.000+01:002012-09-12T16:04:08.288+01:00Day Eleven: 9/11<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7978458724/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="9/11 in Death Valley, California by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="9/11 in Death Valley, California" height="500" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8442/7978458724_49cfd970f8.jpg" width="375" /></a><br />
As the sun rose this morning, it began to rain. The tops were covered in mist and huge raindrops were splashing into the river in an optimistic revelry. We checked out and drove down through the rest of Mount Zion towards Las Vegas. In every hamlet and town we passed the flag was at half mast. When we reached the outskirts of the city and the familiar tower of The Stratosphere seemed to pierce the haze.<br />
The driving rain abated briefly when we arrived on the north side and headed up the State Highway towards Death Valley. But then the clouds built up again and an apocalyptic scene blew up in front of us. Vast space, vast sky, vast clouds. When the rain hit us again it was awesome, the dry, scrub desert was pounded and unreal puddles appeared all over, lorries whamed by, splashing great waves of freshly fallen water all over. The smell was lovely, the temperature became almost temperate. I am finding it difficult to find words to describe the scenery leading to Death Valley National Park. <br />
Remembering the events of this anniversary are tough too. I was taking a break at work and colleagues were stood around the television, hands over their faces, tearful and shocked as the image of the first Tower collapsing was relayed so graphically. People shook in shame and shock. I tried calling a friend in New York who worked not far from the Trade Centre. No reply. I emailed and felt sick. And as the second tower tumbled and the enormity of the violence became so much more material, we became silent. The dust blew around us and I was filled with a horrible, vicarious fear and loathing. Later my friend Rob, emailed, and I was grateful but everything was different by then.
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A couple of years later I went to the city with my kids. We stayed in the middle of Manhatten and we visited the places newbies go. We went to Liberty Island on the ferry and looked across to where the Towers had been, it was still an appalling shock to find them gone. When I had lived in New York, I almost didn't notice them. Of course that's just stupid, you could not help noticing them but they were part of the geography of the place. Now it was as if the mountains in the distance had disappeared and a very different vista had emerged. A bloke was on his mobile talking to his wife <i>"....Yeah, I've done Cenral Park, yep, done the Empire State, yeah, yeah, I've done Ground Zero..."</i>
It was a horrible reminder of how fragile respect can be. We decided to return, there
and then, to downtown and we walked a few blocks to that place and took our few moments of reflection and respect to undo the done-ness of the hapless tourist from Maine.
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Later we met up with Cousin Rob for dinner at a Manhatten Itallian restaurant. It was wonderful to find him, dusted off from the sadness and horror, still an ardent New Yorker with his beautiful generous smile.
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So here we were at the Death Valley Visitor Center. More than a decade has passed and the flag was fluttering, half mast in the 100 degrees of heat. And earlier in the day, in another time zone, the families of the lost and fallen spoke their loved-ones names. We drove onwards to Stovepipe Wells and got to our room over-looking the dunes in the distance and surrounded by the heat and dust. It was a little like standing in the Subway on 23rd Street waiting for an Uptown Train. We went for a drink in the bar, for a pink Stovepipe shandy and flirted with the waitress until she tired of our foolishness.
As the sun began to set, I realised how directionally disoriented I was. What felt like East turned out to be West. It was the same feeling I had on 9/11.
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Later when the dark had fully arrived and we'd had our fill of desert and heat, we retired to the blasting air conditioner and I stood for a while in front of the unit, cooling one part of me at a time. On the television the History Channel was showing video from cell phones and cameras of people who witnessed the tumbling from civilisation. It was as always a very graphic and exhausting exhibition. From time to time I walked out into the night for some relief and realised how still and onwards the grief and the loss filled me with doubt and anguish. But people were getting on with their lives, drinking a beer under the canopy and smoking and chatting.
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The stars, always present appeared to twinkle through breaks in the cloud and moths gathered around the spotlights and hovered about. I came back inside and the contestants on some talent show were warbling about how tough their lives had been and why they deserved a break. I flipped channels and peacefully slept in the rocky hard, hot place.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-39207292864011787192012-09-11T06:00:00.002+01:002012-09-11T15:04:00.527+01:00Day Ten: Brimstone<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7975312868/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Untitled by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="Untitled" height="400" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8451/7975312868_ae77c3e2a0.jpg" width="300" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">After all the driving of yesterday Iwas ready to take things slowly today. I watched people on the television discussing Obama's speech to the Democratic Convention. They seemed to find it lack-lustre, and they were disappointed. I imagine whatever happens, however fine the rhetoric, honest or phoney, inspired or calculating it will come down to the persauding power of dollars. Mitt is a rich man and advertising and media presentations are what seem to form and influence American political opinions. Actually I have no real knowledge to back that up, just prejudice. Some people are commenting on Obama's style describing it as socialist properganda. He seems like a nice bloke, slightly over-awed by the ridiculous and disingenuous power games of Washington.</span><br />
There is a genuine feeling that something was lost, an opportunity to change things fundamentally. It seems to hinge on jobs and poor economic growth and the middle-class hatred (especially those who have so assiduously saved) for the social health care programme. The righteous Republicans are almost over-joyed and invigorated by the apathy and disappointment of the optimistic young and the blacks and the liberals.<br />
After a good breakfast at Parry Lodge we went to buy some 501's on sale at Denny's Wigwam. Bargin score! And then to the Kenab Hospital Thrift Store where Mr G purchased a very jolly, genuine Hawaian shirt, and he looks gorgeous wearing it. I bought a Willy Nelson record of sing alongable standards to play in the car. I haven't mentioned the music on this road trip yet. We have enjoyed loads of great classic rock music stations, with almost no chatter and advertisement breaks only every half hour. Eric Church was yesterday's favourite and before that we dallied with Chicane and of course The Midnight Howlers.<br />
The guide books tell you that Kenab was known as "Little Hollywood" and where ever we went people had a story to share about those times or there are photographs and autographs. We parked up at Moqui Cave on Route 89 going north from Kenab. We were greeted enthusiastically by Sage, grand-daughter of Garth Chamberlain who purchased the site in the 1950's and created a bar and dance hall and later a museum to house his extensive collection of fossils, geological samples and memorabilia. Sage described the history and told us abou her grandfather's movie history, hanging out with the stars in his bar and acting as an extra in many Hollywood Westerns. It was a great little museum, not at all slick and clinical, properly real and eclectic.<br />
Onwards through beautiful vermillion sandstone cliffs we turned off to visit Peach Sands a unique area of pale orange sand dunes across a gentle valley. By now it was well past midday and the sun was heating the sand to almost unwalkable. But shuffling and sliding over the dunes was fun, the area seemed empty of people and we had the illusion of solitude. Definitely a place off the tourist route, a certainly worth a twelve mile detour.<br />
Then it was time to head towards Mount Zion National Park. I wasn't prepared for the sheerness of the topography, the totally awesome wowness of every twist and turn on the chicane road. As each new scene was revealed, literally second by second, I was exclaiming loudly about the immensity and beauty before us. I am so grateful to have had the experience. Except that is, for one section of the road that takes you through an extraordinary long black-dark tunnel that must stretch for at least a mile. It was scarey and seemed endless, probably as well I had no idea it was coming. We stopped for a break and meditated on the total wonder that Zion Canyon provides.<br />
Eventually and slowly we arrived in Springdale and found our lodgings at The Desert Pearl. Our room is huge and luxurious with a balcony and a view over North Fork Virgin River with Watchman mountain as a backdrop. After a shower and relaxing cuppa sat out on our balcony we walked into town for us tea. I finally had a steak at Wildcat Willies restaurant, it was worth very mouthful and I was hungry. We left as the sky began to light up with a spectacular lightning display and thunder roared around the canyon. <br />
On the way back we stopped of to look at some excellent photography in David J West's Gallery. This lad uses the same printing technique as William Carr and his work is rather fine too. He captures images mostly around Zion Canyon, mostly obvious targets but some of the material is inspired. He was enthusiastic and keen to talk. His USP is collaborating with a local artist who extends his images by painting onto the mounting board surrounding his huge photographs. The result is delicate and a unique work of arts. David's website is definitely worth a look, to get an idea of the quality of his work. But nothing compares to the effect of viewing the images in soft light when the beauty of the crystal-enfused 'paper' comes into its own.<br />
It rained refreshingly for a few brief minutes and we gasped at every fork of lightning that lit the cloudy night sky. We hung out on our balcony trying to snap a lightning hit. Mark did well. It was very exciting and then wonderfully refreshing as the rain softened the night air. It was a brilliant finale to the evening and our visit to Mount Zion.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-13959487004486888232012-09-10T06:53:00.000+01:002012-09-16T00:44:39.290+01:00Day Nine: Monument<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7968647776/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Monument Valley, Utah by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="Monument Valley, Utah" height="300" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8033/7968647776_dedc0575b1.jpg" width="400" /></a>
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Sunday morning in Page, Arizona was quiet. We decided to take a car ride to Monument Valley in Utah which is a good 150 miles on to the east. It was a rewarding journey, every turn, every straight road, every bit of geology was fantastic. When we got to the National Park we set off down the dirt road to attempt the loop around the main features. It was an unbelievably bumpy ride. Mr G was very nervous..."<i>this car is very low slung, ya know</i>..." <i>and then "...careful!!! Huge pothole ahead, oh my word!"</i> He wasn't enjoying the ride much and to be fair it was tricky. Tourists like us were dodging the worst of mounds and falls and skiddering in the sand. The tour buggies whamed past at breakneck speed, wrecking the track even further, their occupants screaming and hollering at us as they passed. It was definitely wild even if a bit easterly.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Q435t-dg_dU?rel=0" width="640"></iframe>We stopped about a mile down the hell ride and walked along a trail towards one of the gigantic buttes. The sheer immensity was exhilarating.
I would have been happy at this point to reurn to the visitor centre and survey the scene from it's vantage point, but MKG had recovered his composure and requested a re-match. So we drove on some more to even more fantastic rocks and rolled about on the bumpy track as far as John Wayne Point. A load of movies have been made in this place, and old John contributed his talent to making it iconic. When I was a kid, I'm sure I watched "<i style="font-style: italic;">The Searchers" </i>at Saturday Morning Pictures for sixpence, dreaming of roaming the same scene one day. Here we were, digital cameras a kimbo. I imagine countless tourists have the same images on their laptops and 8 gig memory cards. Not to be outdone, we snapped away until realising that we'd miss the beauty of it all, we stopped and contemplated the wonder.
<br />
At some point I realised that we had a long journey ahead of us and that it was time to let attachment to more go. So we headed back to Page and then across the bridge at Lake Powell through a quite other landscape of 'painted' canyons and vast plains of brushwood and Juniper Trees. We were hot and tired when we rolled into Kenab, and found the Parry Lodge. This was the venue of choice for hundreds of Hollywood movies, mostly Westerns from the Twenties until almost now. Actors and crew would hole up at the Lodge and get out onto the surrounding countryside locations to film their movies.
<br />
The Parry Lodge is very proud of this heritage, the lobby of the Reception is filled with signed autographs. Ronald Regan, John Wayne, Sammy Davis Jnr, Dean Martin, all sorts of infamous thespians have stayed in the motel rooms. We were assigned room 176, where Omar Shariff lodged in 1969 while making some inglorious film. It was quite a modest room, but like Flagstaff and the Siouxsie Sioux thing, there I was having a shower where Omar had bathed before me.
<br />
We lopped about the town briefly and being Sunday evening and Morman territory perhaps, most of it was closed so we took refuge in the Denny's Wigwam restaurant and emporium across the road for beef brisket and BBQ baked beans. It was pretty good. The booze laws are a little odd here, which meant that once Mark got his turn at the bar, the waitress had, by State Law, to bring our drinks over to our table. Had we wanted a Flagstaff Shandy we would have been screwed because the law states you can only have one drink at a time, so cocktails were definitely out. We talked to a couple from Texas who didn't rate the BBQ meat very highly or the booze laws and suggested we visit Texas for the rest of of vacation to make up for the relative Puritanism of Utah.
<br />
I was pretty happy though and returning to the Lodge we decided to retire. Outside the members of some 'horseless carriage' convention were sitting outside their cabins alongside the bikers from Germany, eyeing up each others vintage cars and smart shiny Harley D's. MKG crashed and I spent a while sitting on the porch hoping the night clouds would pass so I could enjoy the stars. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-89408473757712876902012-09-09T07:05:00.001+01:002012-09-16T05:04:20.656+01:00Day Eight: Navajo Country<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7960154074/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Mark Griffiths at Wukoki pueblo, Wupatki National Monument, Arizona by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="Mark Griffiths at Wukoki pueblo, Wupatki National Monument, Arizona" height="640" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8169/7960154074_d4ed984d50.jpg" width="480" /></a><br />
The day began with a vintage car rally in Downtown Flagstaff. Proud and zealous owners were polishing their cars at 7am and eager to talk about cam shafts and remodelling. The cars were mostly pretty, some almost beyond drivability, some so fresh and perfect it seemed unlikely that anyone had ever driven to the Mall in them let alone allow the leather upholstery to be sullied with passengers. Mr G feigned interest and knowledge, perhaps that's a little unfair. He knows how to turn on the ignition to a car and how to give advice about coming to a Stop! sign when I'm driving.
Our stomachs rumbled for breakie after the modest excess of last night, so we headed for a coffee shop with a three ninety nine deal.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">Clued up now on Breakfast in America, MKG ordered a slight three eggs scrambled on white toast. I was ready for the full monty and after several cups of coffee we were tanked up and ready to go.
Out of Flagstaff and heading northwest arrived I the Sunset Crater National Monument park to see the debris of a fairly recent volcano (1045ad) and check out the Wukoki pueblo on the Wupatki National Monument park. Actually for a reputable pre-historic three storey red stone, it was quite cool. Amazingly accurate masonry and dramatic setting added to the wonder. Where did they get the water from? Mark commented to some passing elderly visitors that the least they could have done was to chooses site near the main road (it's two and half miles from the highway). Ruins come and go when you are in the tourist business, but this one did have a presence.
We continued our journey north passing through Cameron (I wouldn't bother should I, in the unlikely event, ever return this way). </span><br />
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We crossed and increasingly destroy landscape with 'painted' hillocks and spectacular red sandstone cliffs over-looking a vast desert like countryside.
Page, our destination is archetypal, nowhere America. Only started in 1958, it is a modern sprawl of suburbia in the desert. Our motel was comfortable and convenient. An Italian restaurant on the corner of the block was good. The waitress, a psychology graduate was working her summer break before returning to Fagstaff for the winter and being a pharmaceutical student. Mr G over reached himself with a medium size (14inch) pizza, I fattened up on a grand lasagne. The shandy was a little different here...Bud with pink lemonade and ice, it did the trick although the waitress was confused and the couple sitting beyond looked disdainful. No matter, it was really good.
I have not only been able to write my blog but also upload some of <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/" target="_blank">my trip photographs to my Flickr page</a>. They all need editing but I can do that properly when I am back in Blighty again. Sleepy now and ready for bed.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-37270551967462697732012-09-08T14:34:00.000+01:002012-09-09T06:25:22.603+01:00Day Seven: The Monte Vista<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7960045806/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Monte Vista Hotel, Flagstaff by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="Monte Vista Hotel, Flagstaff" height="300" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8445/7960045806_4eca87b037.jpg" width="400" /></a>
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">So we arrived at our last day at the South Rim of Grand Canyon. No need to rush, we had a leisurely start, breakfast at the deli and I got Internet access so I could update my blog. The last attraction was to visit the very eastern part of the Village . The bus driver that took us to Yaki Point was funny, giving advice to the stupid about taking the trail and how not to die. The passengers giggled nervously, the hackers looked on sagely. We chatted to a couple from England now relocated to San Francisco about the horrors of disease in Yosemite and the joys of Blackpool.
A walk along the rim took us back to the impressive Visitor Centre and we dallied briefly reading info-exhibits and watching a video projected onto a spinning globe. A restroom break and we were off along another trail. Across the Canyon there were storm clouds abrewing, you could see the downpour approaching and we were hopeful for some cooling rain.</span><br />
I started driving south again towards Flagstaff through driving rain and exciting lightning in the near distance. While I was keen to see it, I wasn't so keen to participate. But I bet the most of the storm and drove a sleeping Mr G through pine clad forests and into Flagstaff.
It turned out to be easy to negotiate and the Monte Vista Hotel, in the middle of Downtown was obvious. We parked up in the grubby lot behind and checked in. It was like being in the Portabello Hotel but on an Arizona scale and style. Same rock 'n roll ambiance, worldly wise desk clerk and just off tatty environment. It's a beautiful gem, saved from ugly modernisation. So much so that thr rooms have trunking for the electric wires that have been added to provide extra sockets, the blinds are slightly broken here and there and there is a creaminess to the corridors which makes it lovely.<br />
We stayed in the Siouxsie Sioux room on the second floor with a great view of the air conditioning ducting from the famous Cocktail Bar below. Slightly antique or possibly thrift shop furniture with a comfortingly soft king size bed added to the joy. Plus taking a pee where Siouxsiehad done her thing before was a total thrill. (Is it too late to take that back, sounds well pervy).
Most of the rooms have the names of famous folk who once inhabited them, on the corridor we were assigned was the Bob Hope Suite, Esther Williams and Linda Ronstadt to name a few. I wonder if they change the names from time to time, on our door was a photograph do Siouxie in iconic pose in a frame that made her look like a Russian Madonna. Downstairs, past the lobby which is suitably equipped with candy bendy machines in case the rock chicks get the munches, is the Bar. We were delighted with our 'Flagstaff Shandy' (the usual plus a squeeze of orange and a hefty shot of flavoured vodka) by very far the best yet served unflinchingly by a chunky bar man.
Somewhat better for wear we tottered out into Downtown and perused the amusing hippy-themed stores, the local cowboy boot outfitters and a few of the galleries showing work by local artists.<br />
In West of the Moon we found Erica Fareio's beautiful paintings of the Canyon in a series called "Our True Nature". Her work is very graphic and colourful and imbued with spiritual and mystical undertone. I was enthraled. Then at the Artists Gallery across the street I got talking to David Brimhall, a pleasant bloke who also paints with a graphic bent. We chatted about form and style and colour, it was refreshing to have an easy, non-competitive conversation with an artist and he gave me his Vista Print card. David's paintings and Erica Fareio's inspired me and I'm looking forward to painting again when I get home.
It was time for tea, so we had a meal at Pa To Thai Restaurant just off the lobby of the MV as recommended by the cute bar person.<br />
A very huge and tasty meal later, some packed into little boxes for some time in the hungry future, we returned to the Bar for another shot at Flagstaff Shandy. The co-workers behind the stage jostled delicately like macho ballerinas, deftly sloshing sugar syrup into tall glasses of whiskey or some other rather more exotic booze and then whooshing them about in cocktail shakers.
In the Cocktail Bar, on the tiny stage, the Midnight Howlers began to Rockabilly and Swing, I hustled to the front for a while and quivered and boogied along with the other drunks. Outside the young folk were riding up and down in their souped-up cars or sauntering along with their skateboards, high five-ing and laughing and hugging each other. We retired from the music to our room so conveniently located above the stage area that we were able to hear them out from the comfort of our king size.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-111247524755466622012-09-06T17:51:00.000+01:002012-09-09T06:20:34.261+01:00Day Six: Bright Angel <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7959959210/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Sunset at Yavapai Point, Grand Canyon by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="Sunset at Yavapai Point, Grand Canyon" height="300" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8318/7959959210_7dfaeca4cd.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">woke suddenly and although it was still dark outside, I convinced myself that it was 5.30 am. I got dressed and ready to go for a hike, packed my backpack with chilled water and salty snacks, sunnytan lotion and drank a load of water. Turned out it was just 12.30. My enthusiasm peaked inappropriately and MKG was not amused, he looked more than miffed, actually he looked a bit sick. Another few hours of sleep and we got up and prepared for our hike down the Bright Angel trail to the bottom of the canyon.</span><br />
At six we set off at a good pace along the sandy trail. Mark was brave keeping his eyes firmly on the descending path (he really gets vertigo just looking down the staircase at North Lodge Heights). The trail we were on drops almost vertically for most of the way to around three thousand feet, and that's just to a spot below Three Mile Rest on the first bit of flat ground. The trail continues to the Indian Garden and finally down to the Colorado River. We knew our limitations and the advice is to allow double the time you take to descend to ascend, so after about four miles on the trail we stopped and had a meal and rested. The view up from the bottom is awesome. The walls of the canyon are broken up with horizontal stripes of sandstones and rocks of the ages. It is an experience which has to be achieved to be appreciated.<br />
We are lightweight walkers and we were thrilled, literally, by the experience. Along the way we met some brilliant people, everyone encouraging each other, especially on the slow return plod back to the Rim edge. You have to take it slow, not just because it is so physically demanding but because with every glance there is yet another spine-chilling scene to absorb.
By the time we made it back to Bright Angel Lodge not long past noon we were starving and ready for a re-hydrating hikers shandy. Mark was dripping with exertion and so pleased with himself for over-coming his significant reluctance and surviving. By now the temperature was in the mid nineties and we repaired to the Lodge for an afternoon nap.
Around 5.30 we set off to walk up to Mather Point to view the sunset, the massive had already gathered to get their pictures taken against the reddening canyon backdrop. Some people were perched perilously on outcrops, others were hogging prime outlook spots and as the sun appeared to sink in the west the excitement intensified. It was quite beautiful almost more impressive than the sunrise, a few clouds enhanced the picturesque atmosphere. As the light began to change and fade the visitors evaporated into buses and cars and off to their evening meals. We were left almost alone to walk along the Rim trail back to the Village in the dark. The sound of crickets in the trees was sometimes almost deafening and the warm up-draft from the canyon was refreshing, it was wonderfully peaceful and calming. Given that we been on a strenuous hike and taken in the definitive evening photo opportunity we were feeling surprisingly spirited and awake. A bar beer, listening to a cowboy crooner was a satisfying end to the day. Life is good, our fortune immense.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-8327873021474438142012-09-05T18:07:00.000+01:002012-09-09T03:35:00.093+01:00Day Five: Grand Canyon<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7959413996/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Sunrise at Hopi Point, Grand Canyon by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="Sunrise at Hopi Point, Grand Canyon" height="300" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8177/7959413996_90c731be39.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">Fortunately I wake most days around 5am. This morning was no exception, so I woke Mr G and we scrambled to get out for sunrise. Visitors to Grand Canyon sorta have to witness the sunrise and the sunset. Xanterra, the company who run the South Rim resort have a series of buses that transport visitors around the park. The buses are free and much more efficient than I had read about in my Rough Guide. Also they run on natural gas, in fact the whole Xanterra operation is believably attuned to good environmental commitment. This is in stark contrast to the wastefulness that seems endemic in American society. The buses make it possible for drivers to leave their cars and be taken off around the Rim to view and walk and take pictures without polluting the warm, juniper-scented air.
We took a bus to Hopi Point, one of a few "classic" spots to see the sun rise and the sun set. At this time of the day, there are just a handful of people out there, the rest are still snuggled up on their swish beds or camper van pull-outs. Just the same, I found it hard to bear the incessant chatter of camera snaps and declarations of marvellousness. So I took off a little way from the designated view opportunity point, along the Rim Trail and found a spot on a rock and waited for the Sun to show up.
I was reminded of other times when I had been filled with sunrise anticipation like sleeping out on Glastonbury Tor at the Summer Solstice or standing with the hippies and the Druids at Stonehenge, arms aloft to welcome the god. The sun did indeed do it's beautiful thing. The pale blue sky began to warm with yellow and orange and red and in the distance I could hear the gasps of joy and wonder. I took a few moments to reflect and scampered back to find Mr G who had enjoyed the spectacle from a different perspective and made friends with an Austrian lady. She had all the appropriate kit to record the moment with. Her camera was set on continuous snapage, and she was planning to make a fancy stop-motion movie with the result. There must be literally millions of images on people's hard-drives of this scene, I wonder what they do with them?
Mark and I started to walk the Rim Trail of time back to the village. Every few feet the is a marker saying "...so many millions of years". Every turn reveals yet more extraordinary views, it's the easiest part of the trail because it is conveniently paved for the over-fifties in their motorised buggies and their clean new walking-style sneakers. There are strategically sited viewing spots where you can walk out onto what seem like precipices, railed to stop over enthusiastic viewers from tumbling 3,000 feet to an inglorious end. We stopped along the way for breakfast of fruit and saltine crackers with proper Irish cheddar and then back for a shower.
The on-site bus service is excellent, with mostly cheery drivers wh helpfully point out interesting spots along the way. We took the bus to the furthest point accessible by road on the west of the Rim, Hermits Rest. Here there is a fine little building designed by Mary Jane Colter in 1914 which now houses a gift shop and a small refreshment concession. The whole thing is a romantic faux fantasy, even the soot on the chimney breast is modelled. But the effect is almost convincing, like so much of America. The peeps were lining up for ice-cream and snacks as we passed by. The Rim trail heads east and we walked like madmen in the hot sun, stopping to rest every few hundred yards on wooden benches to absorb another view. I photographed a load of wild flowers, surprisingly varied even this late in the year. We talked and sometimes just walked, saying hello to the French and German walkers who seemed to have amassed along the route. The overlook sites have names which give a vague clue to what might be below for example Mohave Point allows a view of "The Inferno" and "The Abyss", obviously that's a dizzying view of a plummeting wall of smooth rock.
Several hours on we're back at the Village Market and so hungry that we ate ate the Yavapai Cafeteria. Do not eat here if you value your digestive tract. The service was unusually disinterested and poor and the food was disgusting and although it looks like it is a cheap option, it really isn't. Knackered we repaired to our room and slept.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-25210433704983205482012-09-04T18:10:00.000+01:002012-09-19T22:09:03.148+01:00Day Four: Onwards<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7958742666/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Seligman, Arizona by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="Seligman, Arizona" height="300" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8301/7958742666_2ba1e15d61.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">I woke up really early today, before sunrise and sat out on the porch outside our motel room in the cool morning air. Seligman was still. Once the world started stir I was ready for some breakfast. Mark had already established that the place to go was Westside Lilo's Diner. It didn't disappoint. MKG was astounded by the size and number of the first course pancakes, bless him. He made a brave attempt with loads of cheap maple syrup, an inexperienced American breakfaster he wisely opted to call a halt after scoffing about half of the stack. The next plates arrived, perfectly prepared eggs and crispy bacon with Arizona-style potatas (fried chunks with green peppers and onions). My guess is that British have been by before because black tea came with little tea pots of unusually hot water (they have no idea about how to make tea properly and clearly Yorkshire Tea has yet to infiltrate Arizona). Every once in a while, a wissend local would arrive, take their usual seat and be greeted with coffee. It was really good, after the fury of Las Vegas, to be around very normally behaved folk.
Afterwards we took a short walk down Main Street, taking photographs like proper tourists, of anything static and rusty.</span><br />
The Post Office was open, so we bobbed in to get stamps, more locals looking properly rustic and slightly crazy. We ended up at the <a href="http://www.route66motoporium.com/" target="_blank">Route 66 Motoporium</a>, run by a very charming lady, Debbie Balistreri. Her store sells a good range of Route 66 memorabilia, among the predictable the tatt there are a range of excellent and unique tee shirts and postcards designed by her son and vintage signs, books and magazines and much more. Debbie was a friendly soul and we passed the time talking about her business, the ups and downs and the local intrigues. She kindly gave me one of her son's postcards, stamped by hand on the back with his signature. Mark bought a load of trivia, postcards and gifts "<i>...sorted! done!"</i> he boasted. I doubt that is an end to it, but he is ahead of the game and has at least posted some cards home already.<br />
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We set off along the 'Mother Road" towards the next proper place, Williams, a very laid back, genuwine cowboy town. The guide books seem to like it and we did too. The Williams Art Gallery,a collective of artists, had some interesting work. I got chatting to resident wildlife photographer who told us about his adventures filming bears and wolves. Turns out he is a 'bear whisperer' and works with people to raise awareness of the fauna and encourage respect and proper distance. He was a lovely cowboy fella.
A fruit smoothie later, onwards east we headed for the Grand Canyon road.
It is about fifty miles of almost entirely straight road. The dark clouds were gathering over our destination in the distance and we had a few blobs of rain. By the time we arrived at the entrance to the park we were so excited we took a right turn around the east rim. We quickly realised that this wasn't where we were supposed to be heading, so we stopped, mapped and recalculated...I couldn't get the car in gear...I tried everything, restarting, turn off the ignition, MKG was thumbing through the manual...it was like a Laurel and Hardy comedy moment..<i>."now look what you've made me do..."</i> Driving an automatic is pretty easy so long as you know a couple of basics. It turned out you need to have your foot on the break...simples.<br />
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On the way to our lodging we stopped to take our first view of the Canyon. Breath-taking is not an exaduration. Mark posed for a predictable<i> "...I'm falling off the edge" </i>photograph. That done we arrived in Grand Canyon Village and got booked in to <a href="http://www.grandcanyonlodges.com/lodging-413.html" target="_blank">The Yavapai Lodge</a>. Because it is located at least a mile from the rim and the main hotel and other lodges, it is the least popular accommodation. Our room was a good standard, motel-style, clean and easy, quiet and convenient for shops and post office.
A pleasant walk to the rim of the Canyon, through pine woodlands and past deer and assorted wildlife we dined at the <a href="http://www.grandcanyonlodges.com/bright-angel-lodge-408.html" target="_blank">Bright Angel Lodge</a> while the sun was setting. The food was decent, the waiter was cute and efficient. We walked back in the dark, better for some beer and ready for exploration and adventure.
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-80626231531909771892012-09-03T15:48:00.000+01:002012-09-15T23:51:48.246+01:00Day Three: Moving on<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7958724130/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Seligman, Arizona by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="Seligman, Arizona" height="400" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8299/7958724130_d44183d591.jpg" width="300" /></a>
I had a really fine night's sleep and woke in time to see the sunrise over the valley. I decided to take a stroll out onto the sidewalk, passing the all-nighter game players and the yawning security guards. A bloke approached me, worse for the night's wear and asked for a ciggarette. He wanted to talk about his impending divourse from his lost wife. He was feeling miserable and we chatted about the pain of it all and the anxious wait for it to be completed. We watched the sky light up together and then I was ready to return to the madness within. By six am the casino floor was beginning to get busy and I headed skywards for a shower and and refresh and get Mr G woken and ready for the day ahead. We took a cab and headed back to the airport to collect our hire car. The cab driver was from Ethiopia, living in Vegas to earn money to send home to his family. He didn't much care for Las Vegas <i>"...it's dangerous and crazy here, the people get drunk and take drugs...it's not good...I don't like..."
</i>
We queued for a long time at the Dollar Car Hire counter. A Polish couple engaged us in an extended discussion about car hire and what they should do with their limited funds to get to the Canyon and on to Phoenix. They argued good-heartedly with each other in Polish and we mediated in English. It was sweet, they were asking our advice and we laughed and joked and suggested alternatives. We said goodbye and they went off to who knows where.<br />
We got our car eventually after what seemed like a very dull wait. Nobody else spoke to us, they were probably all British or attempting to recover from yesterday. So we set off cautiously. I'm the named driver and that must be tough for MKG because he usually takes charge of the wheel everywhere we go. But I did pretty well negotiating the slip roads onto the highway and although he wouldn't let me turn on the radio until we were safely on the big road and cruising at 50 eventually he was comfortable enough to listen to some local muzak.
Quite soon we were travelling through rocky cliffs and then wide open vistas of scrubby desert land, all apparently parched and barren. We arrived in Boulder City, home of the Hoover Dam having negotiated a traffic jam of holiday drivers and headed south. It seemed madness to join this tiresome throng just to look at a wall of concrete, however awesome it might be.<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7958720104/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Mark Griffiths, Seligman, Arizona by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="Mark Griffiths, Seligman, Arizona" height="375" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8171/7958720104_5e2c482be2.jpg" width="500" /></a>
Mark was saying<i> "...this is lovely, you and me, on the road..."</i> as the traffic thinned out and we crossed wide valleys which seemed to become increasingly green. Along the highway there were bright slashes of wild yellow sunflowers and after Kingman we took a slight detour from the main road to Grand Canyon along the longest remaining stretch of <i>"Route 66"</i> to Peach Springs. It was a good place to take a break and so we had a meal at the Hualapai Lodge which hit the spot of need.
The village is an historic landmark, originally a settlement of the Hualapai native Americans for generations before the Europeans arrived and made their mark with the railway and then saloon bars and shops and eventually gas stations to serve themselves. It is now owned and run by the tribe and the PeachSprings lodge has become not only a lucrative business but is also the hub of community life and events. It was a very welcome change from the madness of Vegas.<br />
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Then, just a short ride eastwards across another vast valley which was surprisingly verdant and edged with rocky hills and canyon like toppings, we pulled into Seligman, looking out for the Supai Motel. And there it was with an incongruous neon sign twinkling brightly. I chatted to the owner, a fellow from Mumbai, about real "Indian" food, not the bland counterfeit Pakistani stuff we accept most British and American restaurants. We exchanged the details of our favourite gujuratti vegetarian restaurants, his in Mumbai, mine in Leeds (Hanzas, obviously). The room was archetypal on-the-road America, with a little fridge and loud air-con unit and comfortable and clean. Mr G declared it perfect. Perfeck.
So then the obvious thing to do was to walk down the road past the wooden shacks and rough front yards to the 'Road Kill Cafe' for a shandy and to hangout a bit. The bloke behind the bar was bemused by our request for a shandy, <i>"...really? OK then..."</i> and he reached into a huge wood front refrigerator and pulled out two giant beer tankards. Not a bad attempt, refreshingly made with Coors Lite and Sprite, just right for two Englishmen Abroad.
The bar is filled with dead animal heads, guns and memorabilia from the real cowboy days and dollar bills pasted to the ceiling, signed by seasoned Route 66 veterans. Did we want to eat?<i> "...what road kill do you have on the menu tonight?"</i> Mark wondered. The barman looked a bit weary,<i> "...not real road kill gentleman..."</i> which was a shame because even though I wasn't in the least bit hungry I would have been up for it anyway. <i>"...You mean I've come all this way and..."</i> but he'd heard this line before and got on with wiping done the old wooden bar and polishing his silver till. We trolled back in the sun setting, evening light, jolly enough from our refreshments to the joy of the Weather Channel on cable TV.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3491524450120987690.post-57905189845680943072012-09-02T18:14:00.000+01:002012-09-15T23:36:58.678+01:00Day Two: What happens in Vegas...<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7958437084/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Sahara Casino, Las Vegas by york bimp, on Flickr"><br /><img alt="Sahara Casino, Las Vegas" height="300" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8451/7958437084_496d91be9e.jpg" width="400" /></a>I woke several times through the night and checked out the city. Most of the bright neon dies sometime in the darkness but there was still a continuos stream of cars and the sound of sirens at four in the morning. It is Labour Day Weekend here, a public holiday and so the city is up to party. More sleep and then waking early to the beautiful clear blue sky and the heat. I wandered out for a little air and to see what was happening. In the casino people were playing poker and sat smoking at their favourite slot machines, the music was lively and the cleaners were finishing a final polish of the hardware.
We had a takeaway breakfast from the 50's diner. Pancakes and maple syrup and fresh coffee seemed perfect while sat in bed, crossed legged and watching Sunday morning sports news and gossip about Prince Harry. Happily, soldiers from around the World have been posting pictures of themselves butt naked and covering (approximately) their more interesting parts with their weapons of war to show solidarity and the humour of it all.
We gathered our cameras and dark glasses and decided to walk down Las Vegas Avenue to where the meat and potatoes are really served. On the way we went past the closed-up Sahara Casino. It is a sad sight, as if some apocalypse had occurred and the tenants had evacuated south. It must have been amazing once, in an earlier time before majestic billion pixel advertising screens and conglomerate muscle when the Rat Pack mafia were clearly in charge and the border between corporate business and ordinary greed was less well defined.
Walking a slow, laid back pace we drank bottles of chilled 'purified' water bought from the 7Eleven and negotiated the increasingly complex sidewalk past iconic buildings seen previously only on CSI and in books and films.<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7958401278/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Flamingo Casino, Las Vegas by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="Flamingo Casino, Las Vegas" height="300" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8446/7958401278_3e4011f8b8.jpg" width="400" /></a>
We stopped off at The Flamingo, which looks almost modest from the outside but once indoors a cavernous jungle of shops and betting malls and restaurants are laid out to explore. We headed into the garden which has pink flamingos preening themselves in little pools beside relaxing gamblers. Onwards we headed along the Strip until we reached the almost elegant Paris Casino with its one-third sized Eiffel Tower and metro awnings. The dawning of ridiculous outrage gives way to curious acceptance. It is all bizarre and fantastic. Arriving at Planet Hollywood and the Miracle Mile Shopping Mall I took a deep breath as if I were about to attempt several lengths of the Olympic pool.
The place is a testament to the success of richness and the duplicity of poverty. Literally outside the door are grubby street sellers proffering bottles of water for <i>"just a dollar, just a dollar..."</i> Once inside I spotted a gallery owned by William Carr, a unique photographer, world famous for his images of the Grand Canyon. We got chatting to Scott Ferguson, the sales manager, who it turned out has a little ex-Council flat in Hove, East Sussex. It is a tiny world even in it's bigness. He took us into a side room to show us the extraordinary quality of Carr's work. The photographic images are printed onto a material embedded with colour crystals, even with the most minimal of light (Scott dimmed the spots), they shine like jewel-encrusted tableaux. I had read about the technique on the plane in a catalogue which was promoting a new kind of printer for iPad devotees. It is surely one of the next big things. Mr Carr is a very talented and careful artist, every detail is pin-sharp and electric.
We thanked Scott and smiled and exited slowly. I would love to capture and create images like those, and I'm inspired now to get better photographs when we continue our journey around Arizona and Utah. There ought to be ample opportunity Scott assured us.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We continued through the mall, it was time to stop at a bar for a drink and to enjoy the parade of consumers and tarts. The bar person was almost defeated by our request for a shandy, but he adapted quickly and delivered some refreshing liquids. The people were having their photos taken, looking up the skirt of a gigantic model of a vaunderville princess. The stream of fully wigged and blinged ladies with their bro' boy toys, clutching long tubes of ice-cold strawberry daiquiris continued and once revived we headed on and into Kush Fine Art, a gallery of weird but kinda wonderful paintings by Valdimir Kush.
Our gently excited host was Donna Weisbard, who managed to engage me in a reasonable conversation about fantasy Dali-inspired artwork. Actually in spite of most of the work being outrageously expensive and equally outrageously superficial, there were a few interesting pieces. I especially enjoyed discovering the "Aries the sheep" app for iPad, designed by Vlad, which allows you </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">"...to colour, interact, read, listen, enjoy artwork and music"</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">. If I manage to retain her card, I will probably check it out sometime on the iTunes store.</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7958421914/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Miracle Mile Mall, Las Vegas by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="Miracle Mile Mall, Las Vegas" height="500" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8041/7958421914_d7b16bd0ef.jpg" width="375" /></a>
The final straw in the mad mile mall was a visit to the Onsen beauty shop. MKG was immediately sucked in by the charms of Anna who not unreasonably offered to demonstrate the amazing cleansing power of one of her Dead Sea water-based products.<i> "Have you showered today Mr Griffiths?" and fortunately but not unexpectedly he had. "</i>...I want to show you what you missed..." He took this easily in his stride, as she rubbed some expensive-looking substance onto his wrist. <i>"The skin on your wrist, is very similar to that on your face, ya know..."</i> He smiled weakly. By now she was rubbing the stuff into his skin and muttering<i> "...oh dear, oh yes, you see....dirty still..."</i> There was indeed a growing slurry accumulating. I wanted to look away but somehow it was fascinating.<i> "...As a new customer, I can sell you, Mister Griffiths, this jar for just 99 dollars today. Usually itsells for 199 a jar...</i>" Mark was beginning to look a little anxious as she continued with <i>"...the redness on your face...genetic or gained from poor diet?...I think you like spicy food, no?"</i> To be fair, MKG dealt with this question with admirable equanimity and humour. It didn't seem likely that he would cave in to this line of sales talk but she persisted and took out her calculator...."you see that works out adjust four and a half bucks a day....tell you what..." and then she continued hopelessly to reduce the price with a spectacular offer to let us purchase at her personal discount price... We tried to excuse ourselves at this point before she might start with the begging, but undeterred Anna marched us out of the store to meet her friend Joe who was selling a brilliant range of light-powered iPhone rechargers. You have to admire the commitment. Anna was off and Joe quickly realised we were grazing and he had almost no chance of a sale. So we bid our farewells and headed off to find luncheon in one of the more expansive and incredible casino hotels on the other side of the Strip.
The massive fountain display which plays on the half-hour in front of the Bellagio set the tone for for our meal. The routine is quite fantastic, choreographed fountains exploded from an enormous lake to classical music, pumped as everywhere in Las Vegas, from the sidewalk and the terraces. Once inside the Bellagio we realised that we had at last found the beginnings of LV luxury proper. We joined a short queue for the restaurant and chatted with everyone in line...<i>"where are you guys from? what y'all doing here?".</i> And such like.<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yorkbimp/7958363972/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Las Vegas by york bimp, on Flickr"><img alt="Las Vegas" height="375" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8304/7958363972_65457bea77.jpg" width="500" /></a>
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The people we met were friendly and funny and keen to share. One woman told us about her love for Hyacinth Bucket in <i>"Keeping Up Appearances</i>" as she adjusted her "damned" wig, while another couple chatted about their success at the tables and how to get the best from Vegas, while stifling her surprise that 'till now we had only spent a dollar on gambling...When we got to our table, a banquette, the waitress was jolly and moustached. She was lovely and managed to procure the best shandy yet, spiked with a twist of lemon. Excellent. We had a leisurely meal in relatively refined and definitely pleasing surroundings.
Suitably re-mealed and refreshed we set off again to sample the extravagance of Caesars Palace next door...it had to be done and of course you step up a notch or several into a world of total excess and glitter and hilarity. We glimpsed the statue of David (obviously my personal body-double) and ambled though the debauchery of the pool yard...The blistering heat and the over-stimulation were beginning to make their presence properly felt and although a visit to Trashure, I mean Treasure Island and Circus Circus seemed attractive we decided it was time to split.
Back at the Tattosphere we collapsed into a post Vegas tour nap, for hours and until the sun had set and the sparkling neon was back on strong. We figured it would be a good plan to visit the top of the Strato-tower again, "Vegas without a net..."' this time with our cameras. By now it was well past eleven and the people were surprisingly chilled in the bar while the R&B thundered through the ever present speakers. We watched the nutters screaming or waving their arms high in the air in displays of faux fearlessness or both while enjoying the "must do" thrill rides. We marvelled at the lights and the twinkling below and headed back to our room with a carrier bag full of Cracker Jacks and potato chips and other suspect nutritional wonders.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12288013042100854360noreply@blogger.com0