For me it was a time of freedom - to get on the (motor)bike and enjoy roads that felt like nineteen-forty something. Occasional police riders acknowledged my nod, presuming perhaps I was a key worker - bikes were out fetching and carrying for the NHS. And my decision to ride was considered, before anyone jumps in about irresponsible, like having an accident and diverting medical staff to a self inflicted harm. Ask yourself first, has no-one ever had an accident (DIY or otherwise) at home/in the garden/walking round the block? I kept myself safe out of habit (adnaced rider) anyway and to get to the nub of that, what a joy it was to be free of vehicular numptyism. And be able to stop and hear....birdsong.
But I've always written something or other, regardless of company or lack thereof. Actually, I prefer my ownsomeness. It was never a concious decision. As a kid, you didn't go round for your mates and ask if they fancied 'writing out'. Growing up in the 60/70s any sort of liiterary group was rare, especially in the West Riding or whatever the dickheads renamed it. And actually admitting to writing - heaven forfend being a poet - was liable to encourage severe and frequent beating, taunting and mockery - even from girls who you knew secretly liked it. By my early twenties it was verging on OK among arty types 9but not punks, they'd rather burn books). But even I would join with my mate as we passed a poet's bedsit, drunk as the dark, dark night, in comments like "see the light in yonder window, for the poet is at home". We'd snigger all the way home 'speaking poet'. Cursed be the day he ever caught us - we might have learned something.
I have oft thought (no, this is me now) about the bookcase thing. Item placement is all part of the mise en scene in creating a shot/photo that works. Can a judge pronounce you're guilcup with no wig? My home is understated bookcase wise these days. It stems from the need to add a washing machine, some chairs etc and having limited space. So the content thereon is changing and focussed. Focus is Latin for hearth since you ask. Still, much as we love a given tome, how regularly do we re-read it? There are some items I don't think I could let go. Rock Dreams - OK it's a picture book, but it defined my generational cross-over youth, from R&B (the real one), rock and roll (the real one) and pop into psychedelia, rock and protest folk. Ok and blues revival.
Then there's Rock Griffin's erm, I forgot the title but its his art (with some text - think those eye creatures with arms n legs, Hispanic martyrdom/knights and Dali-esque acid-trip visions); again, a pivotal literary lump that has lingered long after "Hells Angels", other similar items by Sonny Barger and Snappy Jack, Kerouac's "On The Road," "Fear And loathing", Castenada, De Bono, whoever wrote Survival (about squatting and carpet tiles etc), The "Acid Test", Lobsang Rampa and more phooey than you can imagine slipped away. They made room for Maria Correlli, something on "Animal Magnetism" I wish I still had, something about prana, Hessian House Plant guide, Snow Blind, Portnoy's Complaint and watching Easy Rider/Cabaret and some Cheech and Chong business. Oh and architectural catalogues from yr dot for my business.
When I joined a virtual (see pandemic) open mic, I'd stand in front of the bookcase arsing about with whichever guitar was flavour of the moment. And it was slowly dawning that I liked my voice less and less, and tried to compose instrumentals instead of songs. As I chopped and changed guitar loyalties, I was less and less at home with any of them. The bike rides got posted not with photos but with ever more elaborate reviews. I found myself unconsciously finding better ways to describe motorcycling; the poetry and songs about it are horrid, redolent stereotypical bletherings. Don't write what you don't know, you'll make yourself look a twitter and bikers'll be quick to advise you, with some brevity. Born to be wiping my arse. Get some imagination (actually Steppenwolfe did a good job, I'm unfair with that, it's the chuffing media who bang it out if you do 11mph in a bleeeeeedin milk float). Where was I?
Oh, Mike O'Brien's post...I didn't think I'd harp on sae much, but once you start... I think he created a good poem about this (as indeed just about any) subject (experts, bookcases, teaching and Panem) - but my tastes are such a narrow band - the more I read the finer it seems sliced. I picked up Dryden today (thank you John Beal) and call me a political @@@3&**, when I saw he'd walked at Cromwell's funeral my eyes narrowed. Cromwell was England's premier Margaret Thatcher of course. Then I saw that he'd converted to catholicism - opposite tack to me. But it's perhaps the language of the past that either allures or repels. I er towards folk/colloquial and free verse - but not so much as dots, dashes, numbers and random thought burst that is obviously trying to impress. Paint yourself grey an' stand to one side, fffs:). Oh it moved. Meh.
I digress. There was something else Mike mentioned that set me off...oh yes, education. My professorial hindsight burgeons by the wasted minute. Having alumneseses in MGS and PPX I can see how grammar ed directs towards office, and secmod deflects us directly to the pithead/forge, whatever. You - well I didn't know that at the time. I believed all men (and even women, harrrrrupmht) were equal. Naiive eejit. There used to be two iis - the OED just pander to trends thinking it makes them cool and sells copy. Sellz. Grr, manic outburst. Anyway like so - My first foray into education was quite impromptu. The umpteenth person came up to me after a gig and said "how did you do this/that, etc? I had no blinking idea.
I thusly decided to watch myself playing (oh god I do not look cool) and try to create some kind of terminology that people could grasp. But words aren't right for some people; they like to watch (birds n bees anybody?) while diagrams or text are for others. Don't want much, do they? So no-one was after music grades; they wanted showy tricks or perhaps even musicological dexterity to enable their composition/advancement. Practise then I said, failing that, practice. People were saying they'd pay for lessons. It wasn't entirely an altruistic decision to agree to this, ask any starving musician. Even the ones getting plaudits are cannon fodder as far as venues are concerned. It was ever thus.
So I had to devise courses, decide on suitable curriculae/ism and ask others how much they charged. No wonder they didn't get many students. I entered the market just up from Woolworths prices. I got kids on The Joke Of Edinborough Award and godwot until one day a teacher with the WEA asked if I'd take over his beginners, as his intermediate demand had grown. Thank you Robin Hoare. I was teaching classes of forty-odd. So I split them into sections, taught each section different parts and got them playing ensemble. Jesus, it actually worked. And kept them busy while I tried to get round fotty students in an hour...
Here's where I get back to O'Briens, as they say. The lovely June Fisher (WEA, RIP) asked if I wanted a free teacher training course/qualification. "Oreet goo-on luv" I says. Didactic, pedagogic, gingang goolywatcha; prep, post mortem. Even an unexpected question had to be documented. I'm afraid that as my Dip Cert already qualifed me to teach, I left the course. And the job, because despite the progress the class had made under my governance, the WEA weren't satisfied - not even with growing numbers. It was there way or no way, as we dynamicists bleat on. I gave them a nanosecond notice and rode my rebel born to phking hoover up motorcycle the hell outta there and never looked back. Or, briefly, any governing body anywhere in the world has no more idea than fly (help me etc).
Wow! Your reply is only about 50 words short of the length of my article - poem included. You really ought to harness your power into producing longer pieces yourself. I know that you already do to an extent, but I would certainly sign up to a series of "Captain Cat looks at issues of the day" pieces.
Love "See the light at yonder window, for the poet is at home" line. It cries out for a life of its own, beyond this reply thread.
Stunning expression of pre and post pandemic reflections. Being both writer and musician (or rather musical instrument player, let's say) your every word resonated. Excellent work. And the poem good, too.
Ah, my Substack. Actually, I've no idea what navigational mistake I made that got me a Substack account. The words there, "I write 1,000 words a day" was in response to a live chat question during a marathon known as 1,000 Words of Summer conducted by Jami Attenberg. Anyway -- I consider maybe posting to the Substack, but I fear it'll become another one of those legitimate distractions a writer begs to have all too often. You think? Plus, I still have a day job!
I think that Substack does sort of make you set up a page if you are not careful. Its probably how I started. These weekly articles constitute the majority of my writing. I too work - although only three days a week nowadays - and it is the self imposed deadline of getting something ready for the Sunday which gives me my discipline. I fill the rest of the time that I have for literary pursuits with both legitimate and illegitimate distractions :)
Panem - ic.
For me it was a time of freedom - to get on the (motor)bike and enjoy roads that felt like nineteen-forty something. Occasional police riders acknowledged my nod, presuming perhaps I was a key worker - bikes were out fetching and carrying for the NHS. And my decision to ride was considered, before anyone jumps in about irresponsible, like having an accident and diverting medical staff to a self inflicted harm. Ask yourself first, has no-one ever had an accident (DIY or otherwise) at home/in the garden/walking round the block? I kept myself safe out of habit (adnaced rider) anyway and to get to the nub of that, what a joy it was to be free of vehicular numptyism. And be able to stop and hear....birdsong.
But I've always written something or other, regardless of company or lack thereof. Actually, I prefer my ownsomeness. It was never a concious decision. As a kid, you didn't go round for your mates and ask if they fancied 'writing out'. Growing up in the 60/70s any sort of liiterary group was rare, especially in the West Riding or whatever the dickheads renamed it. And actually admitting to writing - heaven forfend being a poet - was liable to encourage severe and frequent beating, taunting and mockery - even from girls who you knew secretly liked it. By my early twenties it was verging on OK among arty types 9but not punks, they'd rather burn books). But even I would join with my mate as we passed a poet's bedsit, drunk as the dark, dark night, in comments like "see the light in yonder window, for the poet is at home". We'd snigger all the way home 'speaking poet'. Cursed be the day he ever caught us - we might have learned something.
I have oft thought (no, this is me now) about the bookcase thing. Item placement is all part of the mise en scene in creating a shot/photo that works. Can a judge pronounce you're guilcup with no wig? My home is understated bookcase wise these days. It stems from the need to add a washing machine, some chairs etc and having limited space. So the content thereon is changing and focussed. Focus is Latin for hearth since you ask. Still, much as we love a given tome, how regularly do we re-read it? There are some items I don't think I could let go. Rock Dreams - OK it's a picture book, but it defined my generational cross-over youth, from R&B (the real one), rock and roll (the real one) and pop into psychedelia, rock and protest folk. Ok and blues revival.
Then there's Rock Griffin's erm, I forgot the title but its his art (with some text - think those eye creatures with arms n legs, Hispanic martyrdom/knights and Dali-esque acid-trip visions); again, a pivotal literary lump that has lingered long after "Hells Angels", other similar items by Sonny Barger and Snappy Jack, Kerouac's "On The Road," "Fear And loathing", Castenada, De Bono, whoever wrote Survival (about squatting and carpet tiles etc), The "Acid Test", Lobsang Rampa and more phooey than you can imagine slipped away. They made room for Maria Correlli, something on "Animal Magnetism" I wish I still had, something about prana, Hessian House Plant guide, Snow Blind, Portnoy's Complaint and watching Easy Rider/Cabaret and some Cheech and Chong business. Oh and architectural catalogues from yr dot for my business.
When I joined a virtual (see pandemic) open mic, I'd stand in front of the bookcase arsing about with whichever guitar was flavour of the moment. And it was slowly dawning that I liked my voice less and less, and tried to compose instrumentals instead of songs. As I chopped and changed guitar loyalties, I was less and less at home with any of them. The bike rides got posted not with photos but with ever more elaborate reviews. I found myself unconsciously finding better ways to describe motorcycling; the poetry and songs about it are horrid, redolent stereotypical bletherings. Don't write what you don't know, you'll make yourself look a twitter and bikers'll be quick to advise you, with some brevity. Born to be wiping my arse. Get some imagination (actually Steppenwolfe did a good job, I'm unfair with that, it's the chuffing media who bang it out if you do 11mph in a bleeeeeedin milk float). Where was I?
Oh, Mike O'Brien's post...I didn't think I'd harp on sae much, but once you start... I think he created a good poem about this (as indeed just about any) subject (experts, bookcases, teaching and Panem) - but my tastes are such a narrow band - the more I read the finer it seems sliced. I picked up Dryden today (thank you John Beal) and call me a political @@@3&**, when I saw he'd walked at Cromwell's funeral my eyes narrowed. Cromwell was England's premier Margaret Thatcher of course. Then I saw that he'd converted to catholicism - opposite tack to me. But it's perhaps the language of the past that either allures or repels. I er towards folk/colloquial and free verse - but not so much as dots, dashes, numbers and random thought burst that is obviously trying to impress. Paint yourself grey an' stand to one side, fffs:). Oh it moved. Meh.
I digress. There was something else Mike mentioned that set me off...oh yes, education. My professorial hindsight burgeons by the wasted minute. Having alumneseses in MGS and PPX I can see how grammar ed directs towards office, and secmod deflects us directly to the pithead/forge, whatever. You - well I didn't know that at the time. I believed all men (and even women, harrrrrupmht) were equal. Naiive eejit. There used to be two iis - the OED just pander to trends thinking it makes them cool and sells copy. Sellz. Grr, manic outburst. Anyway like so - My first foray into education was quite impromptu. The umpteenth person came up to me after a gig and said "how did you do this/that, etc? I had no blinking idea.
I thusly decided to watch myself playing (oh god I do not look cool) and try to create some kind of terminology that people could grasp. But words aren't right for some people; they like to watch (birds n bees anybody?) while diagrams or text are for others. Don't want much, do they? So no-one was after music grades; they wanted showy tricks or perhaps even musicological dexterity to enable their composition/advancement. Practise then I said, failing that, practice. People were saying they'd pay for lessons. It wasn't entirely an altruistic decision to agree to this, ask any starving musician. Even the ones getting plaudits are cannon fodder as far as venues are concerned. It was ever thus.
So I had to devise courses, decide on suitable curriculae/ism and ask others how much they charged. No wonder they didn't get many students. I entered the market just up from Woolworths prices. I got kids on The Joke Of Edinborough Award and godwot until one day a teacher with the WEA asked if I'd take over his beginners, as his intermediate demand had grown. Thank you Robin Hoare. I was teaching classes of forty-odd. So I split them into sections, taught each section different parts and got them playing ensemble. Jesus, it actually worked. And kept them busy while I tried to get round fotty students in an hour...
Here's where I get back to O'Briens, as they say. The lovely June Fisher (WEA, RIP) asked if I wanted a free teacher training course/qualification. "Oreet goo-on luv" I says. Didactic, pedagogic, gingang goolywatcha; prep, post mortem. Even an unexpected question had to be documented. I'm afraid that as my Dip Cert already qualifed me to teach, I left the course. And the job, because despite the progress the class had made under my governance, the WEA weren't satisfied - not even with growing numbers. It was there way or no way, as we dynamicists bleat on. I gave them a nanosecond notice and rode my rebel born to phking hoover up motorcycle the hell outta there and never looked back. Or, briefly, any governing body anywhere in the world has no more idea than fly (help me etc).
Great article Mike, it got me going....
Wow! Your reply is only about 50 words short of the length of my article - poem included. You really ought to harness your power into producing longer pieces yourself. I know that you already do to an extent, but I would certainly sign up to a series of "Captain Cat looks at issues of the day" pieces.
Love "See the light at yonder window, for the poet is at home" line. It cries out for a life of its own, beyond this reply thread.
Stunning expression of pre and post pandemic reflections. Being both writer and musician (or rather musical instrument player, let's say) your every word resonated. Excellent work. And the poem good, too.
Thank you Karen. I means a lot to know that the things I write hit home now and again. Hope to see your projected Substack soon - (or hear some music)
Ah, my Substack. Actually, I've no idea what navigational mistake I made that got me a Substack account. The words there, "I write 1,000 words a day" was in response to a live chat question during a marathon known as 1,000 Words of Summer conducted by Jami Attenberg. Anyway -- I consider maybe posting to the Substack, but I fear it'll become another one of those legitimate distractions a writer begs to have all too often. You think? Plus, I still have a day job!
I think that Substack does sort of make you set up a page if you are not careful. Its probably how I started. These weekly articles constitute the majority of my writing. I too work - although only three days a week nowadays - and it is the self imposed deadline of getting something ready for the Sunday which gives me my discipline. I fill the rest of the time that I have for literary pursuits with both legitimate and illegitimate distractions :)