tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34302933200704536912024-03-15T16:11:10.498-07:00All Too Many WordsAdam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.comBlogger293125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-15022443314597415452023-09-08T16:59:00.001-07:002023-09-08T16:59:45.208-07:00morning view from Belgrave<p>I had a bench and a footrest</p><p>in a quiet spot</p><p>put there by the sea</p><p>morning haze for blaze of just gone sunrise</p><p>a view across the Roussel</p><p>now the tides have got big and shifted again</p><p>my bench is a little askew</p><p>my footrest out of reach</p><p>so I'll perch slanted and start the day differently</p>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-87732227546826675032023-07-24T00:48:00.005-07:002023-07-24T00:48:59.209-07:00exercise 292<div style="text-align: left;">our boundaries are drawn <br />in different lines<br />that intersect <br />nicely at times<br />at others there are bitter cuts</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />I've used you <br />all up</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />the sky is vast<br />and we're weepingly tiny</div>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-46671962930859262692023-07-22T18:14:00.006-07:002023-07-22T18:21:00.353-07:00exercise 291<p>no Jesus no</p><p>put my faith in a madman</p><p>language endlessly inane</p><p>and skirting off into corners</p><p>noise and discomfort</p><p>but</p><p>The Word is pure and true</p><p>also</p><p>money matters nought, no?</p>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-37123420242957187592023-07-05T10:12:00.000-07:002023-07-05T10:12:40.051-07:00an ecstasy of hunger<div style="text-align: left;">we fit together </div><div style="text-align: left;">like pieces of broken biscuit from different tins</div><div style="text-align: left;">a cocktail made with different gins<br />falling apart: not gonna risk it<br />see some love crime - wanna frisk it</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">this is the biggest part of my life<br />so far<br />emotions like hot tar<br />leaving behind trouble and strife<br />wanna make you my wife</div>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-3936237598257510012022-08-20T05:48:00.006-07:002022-08-20T05:49:31.271-07:00Swimming in the Dark<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The flock flew up - </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">We saw them then:</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Thousand stars every direction.<br />We were below - Out in the dark.<br />Ancient rises beyond the beach<br />Appeared to move in time with each </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">[wave].</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Even at distance they were cold.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Bright lights swam up from the seabed <br />And we both were carried away.<br />This quiet - Beneath endless sky.<br />We floated there</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And talked.</span></div>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-74097660180094896502022-07-06T18:08:00.001-07:002022-07-06T23:55:29.708-07:00this time backwards<p>[2am] the day pours in and pours out at once like the frame cannot hold</p><p>the assembled leftovers from the past 24 hours rush up - it's July: there are tennis matches on the radio and tv - the heat and the conversations about it, being hungry for half the day followed by cooking and the meal at the right moment</p><p>and when work was overwhelming and when it was enjoyable - there are too many factors to stack - there's a seemingly endless line of tasks. yet they are all balanced at once in this headache and are all found together in a wishpot, a collymarsh of thoughts that become feelings and transform back again via actions and out the door</p><p>the moment is full and empty with watering plants first thing, tennis commentary and walking when the sun was barely up and there was no one around, sat in the midday heat and now late and not sleeping</p><p>all's gathered, falling into and out of a moment both greater than could be enumerated and smaller than nothing</p>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-88087631086445137732022-06-17T06:47:00.000-07:002022-06-17T06:47:36.123-07:00written for another tweet on another sunny day<div style="text-align: left;">Since we had plenty</div><div style="text-align: left;">We garlanded your halo with tomato flowers</div><div style="text-align: left;">Blossoms from elsewhere: daisy,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Rosemary and bright salvia</div><div style="text-align: left;">They mocked you for smelling like a herb garden</div><div style="text-align: left;">Saying 'salad princess' and 'kitchen porter'</div><div style="text-align: left;">Illuminated we walked into clear water</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-88174439127833961842022-06-15T08:23:00.008-07:002022-06-15T08:26:44.940-07:00written for a tweet on a sunny day<p>you've put on sunshine again</p><p>and look your best </p><p>clear halo in bright tops</p><p>light in rises catching drops</p><p>cooked clean, round here's in a fetching vest</p><p>hedge resplendent still</p><p>over chirp under trill</p><p>this horse manure ditch street </p><p>has us loosing unbound feet</p>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-51070356768675079572022-06-13T16:39:00.001-07:002022-06-14T02:49:05.900-07:00Watch Stopped<p>Watch stopped working at five past six in the morning.</p><p>I woke up feeling terrible.</p><p>End of the day you've got more energy after a long shift.</p><p>Flying up at dawn in a flock.</p><p>Noise and light: all stimulation at the verge of something magnificent.</p><div style="text-align: left;">In a single moment one lives more than one might when crossing continents of wasteland all crammed with maybes, should haves and whens.</div>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-61481374384822103712021-10-04T01:58:00.004-07:002021-10-29T04:08:26.712-07:00We Live in a World of Futurists<p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">We live in a world of Futurists.</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-1350f2ce-7fff-0187-700d-74b40c6ed1a1"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Indeed the Futurists won and, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">for 50 years,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">we’ve been occupied by their forces.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But the elderly have the most experience, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">and the several thousand generations of people who’ve come and gone in the past:</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Well,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">they had a lot of experience, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">and a lot of wisdom too. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Worth heeding those lessons. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is always crucial to live in the moment. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Not dwelling too much on the past. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Not fretting over what’s to come. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">However, while we plan for what may be, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">and seek to improve our lot in life, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">and prepare a good world, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">we must not throw the baby out with the bath water. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Read history. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Learn lessons. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Enrich.</span></p></span>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-88160275909180029362021-09-26T12:09:00.004-07:002021-09-28T17:01:43.452-07:00lights beside the water - part two<p>He was walking slowly. The hill was steep enough anyway, though he'd managed it without any problems a dozen times or so since his arrival weeks before. Several pints this evening hadn't helped his speed. He'd got into a quiet state again, unable really to communicate even those few thoughts he had that would have been suitable to share.</p><p>He stumbled on the narrow pavement and came to a halt outside the Helmsman. Glancing across as he steadied himself - breathing slowly and with a great deal of noise all the while - he saw the light within. It seemed more inviting than he would have expected, but there were three or four other places between here and the fort. Enough options if he wanted a last drink. </p><p>Looking inside the Helmsman he thought he could see a woman reaching below a man's dirty apron. There was a group of reprehensible looking fellows speaking with their heads close together. He noticed one particularly quiet and nasty type looking at him right now. As he started to walk off, he could hear the bloke speaking towards him. He didn't wait around to find out what it was.</p><p>At the bottom of Cornet Street there had been prostitutes everywhere, and drunks singing in the cemetery. He tried to avoid even looking at anyone. Calling out, one of the women had said, "I've a good place for you to lie down, Captain". Of course they knew him for a soldier even though he wasn't in uniform. </p><p>Thinking now about the thing he wanted to hunt out, he kept walking up the hill. He was still making slow progress, but decided that he'd reward himself with a drink at the Dorset. Of course the drink was second choice. If his chosen quarry appeared then that would take priority.</p>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-63273678568691272522021-09-15T07:56:00.003-07:002021-09-15T07:56:57.652-07:00lights beside the water - part one<p>There were lights across the water. Maybe a mile. They just sat in silence and watched them move. The movement was slow, like clouds or waves. Nothing natural, and once or twice they swept closer. A collective gasp went round. Would they capsize?</p><p>Andre had the oars. He didn't gasp. He hardly moved. Were you watching him, which no one in the boat was, you might have seen his shoulders rise and fall ever so slightly as he breathed evenly. Meanwhile the others fidgeted and lost control of their senses. This was normal. They were seeing something they had never seen before. It provoked an instant reaction in them. </p><p>The lights again came closer and again faded back. They sailed from east to west and disappeared behind the headland. Even then you could see them setting fire to the horizon and backlighting every building and tree all along the coastline. </p><p>Fish were forgotten. Who could say anything that would be any kind of response to this kind of thing?</p><p>Once the lights were gone the silence was complete: like even the air had stopped moving, like even their breath had ceased to make a sound. They'd let the experience wash over him, like they'd thought the sea would. </p><p>So many had drowned and there was so much to fear and now here was this light: larger and more assured than anything they had seen in their lives. Made the boots of the constables seem more pathetic still. Made the shined up and buffed cuffs on those uniforms look like dog piss. Such weight and majesty - like a shoal of whales, like a lone monster octopus that would, with one lazy turn, send them to their deaths. But nothing like that had happened.</p><p>It was now Andre who made a puff of his cheeks and a loud exhalation and pulled on the oars. He said "we'd have to get back soon anyway" and waited to hear what nonsense was going to pour forth.</p><p>He loved his brothers, though he'd never said anything of the sort to any of them. He even had a deep affection for the half-idiot Jep. But he lived at the edge of his tether hearing the crap they sought to spew forth constantly. Now, as their silence persisted for a few seconds more, he waited to see what theories they would have.</p><p>What they had seen defied categorisation. Nothing made light like that. A freighter? A whaling ship that had lost its way? Anything like that would be sinking before them now, in this bay there wasn't half the draft such a ship would need.</p><p>A plane? They had heard of such things. But where was the light from? Something passing over head like that - it would never have been piloted at night. And never would it have created such light.</p><p>Now they began to chat.</p><p>"We've been visited by angels" Marcel was speaking now.</p><p>This seemed as sensible as any suggestion Andre could dream up himself.</p>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-19363553775080798592021-09-05T02:29:00.001-07:002021-09-05T02:29:20.378-07:00281<p>in my dreams i heard all my podcasts sped up: then there was a glitching sound that would not stop. it went on and on and it didn't matter for how long i held down the power button. i just wanted to switch it off [and on again] but it would not work and this noise was ringing through my ears, totally painful and quite eerie. i did not sleep well.</p>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-49390766334780821272021-08-29T02:29:00.000-07:002021-08-29T02:29:23.830-07:00photos from the agricultural show<p>These are all 35mm photos that I took on a day when Jo and her dad, Mike, and I went out in St Peter's, Guernsey. It was a pretty good day: a Sunday with good weather when we could do what we wanted. That's a pleasure of course, whether or not you have a quirky event in a field to attend. Said quirky event - namely an agricultural show - featured a lot of old machinery (including a shedload of tractors); all manner of vintage cars; various animals including shire horses; a beer tent of course; history re-enactors and a lot of other games and inventions. It was fun. I took the pictures with my Nikon F-301, which a friend gave it to me when she moved away, using Fujicolor C200 film. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqzPPWho-svNitXZ1GL5uLu3S06Od4xwL1Jcx6QzmgZDqgyfRgz6ZIpFmkq7RH3O-BTiY_Tu5f_H8aqEKGRm-zzUqZb3nu48ID3lH4VRulgizLfEjovhl68ifK3xLMeOIfmQnk8Ai_fdmA/s2048/A04217_001A.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1372" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqzPPWho-svNitXZ1GL5uLu3S06Od4xwL1Jcx6QzmgZDqgyfRgz6ZIpFmkq7RH3O-BTiY_Tu5f_H8aqEKGRm-zzUqZb3nu48ID3lH4VRulgizLfEjovhl68ifK3xLMeOIfmQnk8Ai_fdmA/w400-h268/A04217_001A.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a sea mine in a vineyard - nice work if you can get it</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh01jDpKdvbTXFrixWBkkB-kZ4IyXnrw5KxVR-rlgSiLCo-dbcbCgzRHg9o6lXqffZ0IWwvJ-uIKebFcVCLL7KVhjvlDLGOSfzIpjXbUkGWIbxGhTfcJjz-C7zdtX80o0x2thH5U8YH_j2g/s2048/A04217_002A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1372" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh01jDpKdvbTXFrixWBkkB-kZ4IyXnrw5KxVR-rlgSiLCo-dbcbCgzRHg9o6lXqffZ0IWwvJ-uIKebFcVCLL7KVhjvlDLGOSfzIpjXbUkGWIbxGhTfcJjz-C7zdtX80o0x2thH5U8YH_j2g/w268-h400/A04217_002A.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0X1ApCj-s4wd17Eb8-UO1HbypX2ffbfgDSuoPkcFcfXEczZk2Lng0267UpWYKGbFn7kDm8hyphenhyphen4Wnjg3wNtsvqabpRpAfrFVVa0-9ddPUPKZ7tg2rZNyjSIYPzoqCLRwQRxZhvHkpZlhAuw/s2048/A04217_003A.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1372" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0X1ApCj-s4wd17Eb8-UO1HbypX2ffbfgDSuoPkcFcfXEczZk2Lng0267UpWYKGbFn7kDm8hyphenhyphen4Wnjg3wNtsvqabpRpAfrFVVa0-9ddPUPKZ7tg2rZNyjSIYPzoqCLRwQRxZhvHkpZlhAuw/w268-h400/A04217_003A.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a granite wall while we were still walking to the show</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLsPPSC7z1G8DY3GnuEc06IJsVAel0Suxa2YAGzNIKdTSy4fACU4yJR2BLo_4k6ZyTH94ZHSQo-Jnsf1gQqblv7Cj8UGVQojWjLa28AFWhay0dWe8RopuRUXMgPwG4Q7Eup5ESUF20TWLd/s2048/A04217_004A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1372" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLsPPSC7z1G8DY3GnuEc06IJsVAel0Suxa2YAGzNIKdTSy4fACU4yJR2BLo_4k6ZyTH94ZHSQo-Jnsf1gQqblv7Cj8UGVQojWjLa28AFWhay0dWe8RopuRUXMgPwG4Q7Eup5ESUF20TWLd/w400-h268/A04217_004A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Jo and Mike on their way to the show</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdQIydDwMXof8N9TSqan39XjfKn3QzkWAkfgRIeCrfVPfK4jAyJ2NCtLKfW7Rx3OFpYiVpmvkIRY8wlI24pWaCVCJ-0t1gn2G47HH5zcf4UgtwK4ZYjEGij3teWr3V6gygo2B6gumZy8-v/s2048/A04217_005A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1372" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdQIydDwMXof8N9TSqan39XjfKn3QzkWAkfgRIeCrfVPfK4jAyJ2NCtLKfW7Rx3OFpYiVpmvkIRY8wlI24pWaCVCJ-0t1gn2G47HH5zcf4UgtwK4ZYjEGij3teWr3V6gygo2B6gumZy8-v/w268-h400/A04217_005A.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjoSwFaHaY7HKZ3qLtRknNYbLynB9IO0b03hyTw6aHx5Ernk0wYV5_qFqlr75NfyG7ejtbzCBIgqccK4vOZjzsbyqSCitC7ZI5QKM7diOfzgnSpW3otdowHdvl2xuMBdCz5LW4Z9YqtQ4U/s2048/A04217_006A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1372" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjoSwFaHaY7HKZ3qLtRknNYbLynB9IO0b03hyTw6aHx5Ernk0wYV5_qFqlr75NfyG7ejtbzCBIgqccK4vOZjzsbyqSCitC7ZI5QKM7diOfzgnSpW3otdowHdvl2xuMBdCz5LW4Z9YqtQ4U/w268-h400/A04217_006A.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk7evm5tcMUE816hkTp617fFD_eXMLYeep20eQukwE57qXNiDK92v-uVesUDfxRwwUgKfttDeH2UPqEeCVkC3sVGJ1mPcDcjGaGoNGmHog0FQx42YUdaV8Edf7pQgUiZjVROkqY4KS8AJ5/s2048/A04217_010A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1372" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk7evm5tcMUE816hkTp617fFD_eXMLYeep20eQukwE57qXNiDK92v-uVesUDfxRwwUgKfttDeH2UPqEeCVkC3sVGJ1mPcDcjGaGoNGmHog0FQx42YUdaV8Edf7pQgUiZjVROkqY4KS8AJ5/w400-h268/A04217_010A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9NHNGHWWB5FUBw-mLh7MpAJrvYUbNUyrDD1d2zkYyO9Cb-sFlGK4E9R7ttK9m-VL78V3Sji8-t2OGIjDcpWXLOLkE0M34PwT-Ljgs9LcpBi-_wJi1PntVfNBgxoTBLGyG2WIJi6S12mA/s2048/A04217_008A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1372" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9NHNGHWWB5FUBw-mLh7MpAJrvYUbNUyrDD1d2zkYyO9Cb-sFlGK4E9R7ttK9m-VL78V3Sji8-t2OGIjDcpWXLOLkE0M34PwT-Ljgs9LcpBi-_wJi1PntVfNBgxoTBLGyG2WIJi6S12mA/w400-h268/A04217_008A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqUZtjV7a4m85nCYOQJcBDVnmGT3gatAekA6drZ8kd8zLftxAy4oJfkL8guDrIKk21jBqnjGBZQmhUw_hZYWgfGmk7_pM7Wyslu4Mvi5cnitGTRcqDwkQrkDxlfGxaNJJTFnK9SZHGn5uP/s2048/A04217_013A.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1372" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqUZtjV7a4m85nCYOQJcBDVnmGT3gatAekA6drZ8kd8zLftxAy4oJfkL8guDrIKk21jBqnjGBZQmhUw_hZYWgfGmk7_pM7Wyslu4Mvi5cnitGTRcqDwkQrkDxlfGxaNJJTFnK9SZHGn5uP/w268-h400/A04217_013A.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jo and Peter</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ1HNwcCqUtcXvYc2yYNWrpq9kudC4j5hABtDqDBfOW1Eu2rH6nk7XTi9vAV8kz6MUZETmN6dzP1hyPg2n_vQI4j9hf6uULuuITkSkTt8xdYtBENOGaF4CV7nqtikC62081W55SCy19nS7/s2048/A04217_014A.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1372" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ1HNwcCqUtcXvYc2yYNWrpq9kudC4j5hABtDqDBfOW1Eu2rH6nk7XTi9vAV8kz6MUZETmN6dzP1hyPg2n_vQI4j9hf6uULuuITkSkTt8xdYtBENOGaF4CV7nqtikC62081W55SCy19nS7/w268-h400/A04217_014A.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lloyd by a steamer that was used in greenhouses</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXhUPXpVCBbvisyO5krMz8mMrNRu6wu8jQHaoyk4AoGSBhQmpWaZWcv-7LAuPIm79mx3EQxJA63eOXKWcqAAcriIetSi4lUcZj03U-lONiDwlBnZZeUC_qMROtfVdNwn9xj9iL3I90N4Ab/s2048/A04217_017A.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1372" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXhUPXpVCBbvisyO5krMz8mMrNRu6wu8jQHaoyk4AoGSBhQmpWaZWcv-7LAuPIm79mx3EQxJA63eOXKWcqAAcriIetSi4lUcZj03U-lONiDwlBnZZeUC_qMROtfVdNwn9xj9iL3I90N4Ab/w268-h400/A04217_017A.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the steamer was kept going by a wood fire</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9G6Am_OrXwIXp3M3RSEg0oxz50RprPG_qGuzIvV2cSXBJ2oSM-J0jr-4_G4cEd87rgwyZOMLktASOuzUPGJjUiL61gfjeeLB7NaMTLN5eFI1yw4yh-MUZ-wMPI40N-4NKrdZiDjztZiVZ/s2048/A04217_019A.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1372" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9G6Am_OrXwIXp3M3RSEg0oxz50RprPG_qGuzIvV2cSXBJ2oSM-J0jr-4_G4cEd87rgwyZOMLktASOuzUPGJjUiL61gfjeeLB7NaMTLN5eFI1yw4yh-MUZ-wMPI40N-4NKrdZiDjztZiVZ/w268-h400/A04217_019A.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Russ from the living history group (in first world war era garb)</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRm1UKIBBHS9enyM4PGWAVIxxoWsb4RynYAJ7oMnc-eT5crzgQYPcXMaBct854hN9IZcFeVjC_UrBQF3kpto1Yha5CBRj8IrOr8SfwyZYzs98y0GzJnhdRIFDux2497G8Sta_lAUK1JJqu/s2048/A04217_026A.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1372" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRm1UKIBBHS9enyM4PGWAVIxxoWsb4RynYAJ7oMnc-eT5crzgQYPcXMaBct854hN9IZcFeVjC_UrBQF3kpto1Yha5CBRj8IrOr8SfwyZYzs98y0GzJnhdRIFDux2497G8Sta_lAUK1JJqu/w268-h400/A04217_026A.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brett</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit6YEp23kP3vpXZpdY_aJmKkuPR-2kuqqPuQdJy1oT9VHKJKdZzEOnZGS6U9UGgXs_Zs6a_wpECia3087x8N-VFrYaiXo9X6HZG97bpeHC6jAY8OuE42eqhPffeVHc8j-4a2P0pFsbW0lf/s2048/A04217_020A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1372" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit6YEp23kP3vpXZpdY_aJmKkuPR-2kuqqPuQdJy1oT9VHKJKdZzEOnZGS6U9UGgXs_Zs6a_wpECia3087x8N-VFrYaiXo9X6HZG97bpeHC6jAY8OuE42eqhPffeVHc8j-4a2P0pFsbW0lf/w400-h268/A04217_020A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVzFfpG-ORB50IKO6uhgbN2e2LvEe2a-7icnWufZkF-RXdmaVo7A6fANr_RqMUC-dbaJmtcvSarzCG16VtDnJGnQKF9H3WhtQ9PR-8uSAqlDggmD2BMDXKU3bxI_Hmq5M0v_Cm63nuLTxh/s2048/A04217_022A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1372" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVzFfpG-ORB50IKO6uhgbN2e2LvEe2a-7icnWufZkF-RXdmaVo7A6fANr_RqMUC-dbaJmtcvSarzCG16VtDnJGnQKF9H3WhtQ9PR-8uSAqlDggmD2BMDXKU3bxI_Hmq5M0v_Cm63nuLTxh/w400-h268/A04217_022A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsXHDsaHnED8Cl5FRwcFIRu_BKj_tx9ohP8LLtBgSclH3tQYR5IplScdC4p0bsDQrLDLq7G5YNUJdbRrQnHOx0ma-rAgPCDw8YoSdPmJvzaEmoFWdzWeaDBRZ-Kfe1V6_w-CI957B67ZgE/s2048/A04217_021A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1372" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsXHDsaHnED8Cl5FRwcFIRu_BKj_tx9ohP8LLtBgSclH3tQYR5IplScdC4p0bsDQrLDLq7G5YNUJdbRrQnHOx0ma-rAgPCDw8YoSdPmJvzaEmoFWdzWeaDBRZ-Kfe1V6_w-CI957B67ZgE/w268-h400/A04217_021A.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFQYsyYdeGbAenjl4va-UnKom28hu8DmGkbSEme45wbsn70cwOCPcG_HM6EdYqKti632QjHfuERELzRoM4RgrTn38HAdl28RtlSGwzxgb3SJTB9j4sgWKwcl0bLHj4vrG21BYRScufvKZp/s2048/A04217_023A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1372" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFQYsyYdeGbAenjl4va-UnKom28hu8DmGkbSEme45wbsn70cwOCPcG_HM6EdYqKti632QjHfuERELzRoM4RgrTn38HAdl28RtlSGwzxgb3SJTB9j4sgWKwcl0bLHj4vrG21BYRScufvKZp/w400-h268/A04217_023A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-NcKecD653tsoYBAdCTkz2XS_w1J_2vxGqdwYBbqhYUCUMJkKRUxz5518IujxyNEWABTMMLTip2_FcSTgueHeQd1b_WQLMxpbL8aCk65Mo7RCZ8KnUZ6wL18DX4pigQPr2lnwUc10QZpD/s2048/A04217_024A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1372" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-NcKecD653tsoYBAdCTkz2XS_w1J_2vxGqdwYBbqhYUCUMJkKRUxz5518IujxyNEWABTMMLTip2_FcSTgueHeQd1b_WQLMxpbL8aCk65Mo7RCZ8KnUZ6wL18DX4pigQPr2lnwUc10QZpD/w400-h268/A04217_024A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl6hns-ydSXrtWzAA9nMUxQKWWbxUI1kUvigJitb8Scs0PT2LcVqm7v6C_WxusrA9ZkIz-LtKqXEqIfA1Ky-ywcsxcLpnvOrkmM6eIuIMc9tauVmGhkSVJ9s9mESem-cJXSriGrl8ZGErB/s2048/A04217_025A.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1372" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl6hns-ydSXrtWzAA9nMUxQKWWbxUI1kUvigJitb8Scs0PT2LcVqm7v6C_WxusrA9ZkIz-LtKqXEqIfA1Ky-ywcsxcLpnvOrkmM6eIuIMc9tauVmGhkSVJ9s9mESem-cJXSriGrl8ZGErB/w400-h268/A04217_025A.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr Browning with his tractor from the 70s - he told me some funny stories</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-4828197342040421292021-08-28T19:22:00.003-07:002021-08-28T19:37:23.877-07:00notes for a sentimental poem<p>walking home under the stars</p><p>listening to music from another continent</p><p>electric magic I might never comprehend</p><p>lyrics in a language I don't know</p><p>sung in a voice that makes me want to cry out loud</p><p>but the dark road and the endless way</p><p>[in leaves underfoot and speckled worlds overhead]</p><p>makes silence perfectly preferable </p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></div><p>electric magic I'll never comprehend</p><p>flashing roadworks signs</p><p>and stillness my only friend</p>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-59091732242822140102021-08-14T07:45:00.007-07:002021-08-14T09:31:33.974-07:00even while it's in bloom<p>even while it's in bloom, and before you know it, summer is wearing you out and winding down towards a soft and colourful landing </p><p>it started at a great height and kept climbing</p><p>it took you all year to adjust and now that you have you are alive to the fact that the flowers have gone to seed and the colours have changed and the garden is fundamentally different</p><p>summer is ending just as you got used to it happening</p><p>somewhy you only see it's passing you by once it's already gone</p><p>then again</p><p>the first few moments of summer you cannot bear how much there is to see - if anything you want to curl up once again near the fire, even when it's unlit: just get back into position where you spent so many months hibernating</p><p>though winds blew and rain and rain poured and all the time you knew that this was summer because the longest day came and went and everything grew up to a hundred foot high and suddenly everywhere was alive with colour and there were more flying insects bopping and bumbling and buzzing about than you could count on all the hands of all the people you know [a lot of bugs] and everywhere a profusion of scents: honeysuckle, verbena. lupin. campion even. </p><p>everything. all at once. every day a new flower comes to go again. aquilegia all over.</p><p>now the lilies have come and the colour has changed. camellia flowers are not only finished but you see now no signs that the bushes can even grow at all - they rest before a long winter before a long next summer and they are trees really that move slow.</p><p>but back to the summer</p><p>it passes you by even as you are in its midst</p><p>the hot hot days you are dazed</p><p>too hot to not be in the sea</p><p>cooling your mad brain and finding everything lovely everywhere</p><p>everything lit up now and ten times better looking for it</p><p>under the bright light you can see virtually every detail</p><p>everything becomes magnificent under such bright and warm light</p><p>you are too hot and the mornings are too early and the nights too late and you hold on with exhausted fingers and a beleaguered mind as the celebrations and everyone wanting to do everything all at once comes all at once - every day it seems is some kind of festival or exhibition or some other reason to be outside</p><p>never mind seasonal affective disorder this is like a primal urge to dance to sing and strut about because the days are long and the nights are long and you are hot all the time and the light wakes you before dawn even, before the birds it seems.</p><p>it is a four am every day rise and you rush and dance about and love it but are too distracted or exhausted to manage really or to notice the time passing and then, one day, right in the midst of it with still the hottest days to come but the days really now shortening enough that it is like a reverse spring [an unsprung] - a putting back in the box, a forcing down of the spring into the jack in the box - well, you notice now that the colour has changed and the flowers have gone to seed and somehow summer has passed you by even as you are living it</p><p>cliché one: life happened while you were busy making other plans</p><p>even while it's in bloom, all the while, before you know it, the summer crests and peaks and the flowers are become seed pods now and the colour has changed and you have been passed by again - time goes on with or without you</p><p>cliché two: gather ye rosebuds while ye may </p>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-75727781205489319022021-08-04T15:14:00.000-07:002021-08-04T15:14:20.285-07:00I look back on the past<p> I look back on the past. I look back on the past. I look back on the past.</p><p>I seem to do this all the time. I think about what I should have done. I regret everything. Or, occasionally, I imagine everything was better back then.</p><p>Of course I agonise over what I might do in the future too. But I believe really that mostly I just think about the past. Like it is a full-time job. A highly paid one for which I am highly motivated. One for which I leap out of bed in the mornings. One for which I drink gallons of coffee throughout the day. One that keeps me awake at night fretting over every detail. One for which I give everything.</p><p>It is my job and my hobby and my curse and my living daydream/nightmare: I think about the past and sometimes I agonise over the future and I am perpetually inattentive to what is happening around me and to me and to those around me just now. I have no time for now, you see: I am thinking about the past.</p>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-42686053007617513782021-07-21T02:17:00.002-07:002021-07-21T02:19:17.887-07:00Arriving by Bus in the French Countryside <div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">The
bus left me in a place that looked like it wouldn’t need a bus
stop. A place with no landmarks. Fields in front and fields behind.
And the nearest crossroads was about two hundred yards away at least.
Some careful calculation must have been made to make sure that the
stop was in the best location, but I couldn’t work it out at all.</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><br />People
had got on and gotten off at the various towns we had passed through:
places with a restaurant and a post office maybe and, in a lot of
cases, a pretty church in front of a pretty square, perhaps a
fountain as a mark of distinction. There was no one to be seen on the
streets a lot of the time. Shutters up over the windows. It was a
bright day, so you could see all the more clearly how bare the
streets were.</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><br />One
town we came through did have some activity: a couple of people
sitting outside a cafe drinking and speaking to each other. This was
as lively as it got along the way. Otherwise it was fields and fields
and fields.</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><br />At
the stop where I had been told I’d need to get off: if I had been
the only one getting off then I probably would have doubted myself to
the point of staying on the bus. There have been times when I would
lack confidence so much that I could stay put and ride out any amount
of inconvenience, all the way to the end of the line, rather than
face the fearful prospect of – gasp, horror – having to stand up
and be seen and speak to someone.</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><br />In
any case I did get off at that stop, along with three other people.<br /><br /></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">One
went over to a bicycle that was chained to a pole there. He was
youngish, wearing shoes that I wouldn’t fancy cycling in. More like
slippers, but made from something like woven straw. Very odd looking.
He was also wearing chic trousers that didn’t cover his ankles and
a kind of military jacket.<br /><br /></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">Probably,
he had found this jacket in a bin of clothes at a Parisian second
hand shop. He had the whiff of the big city about him, though he was
unchaining his bike in the middle of nowhere where he would wreck his
straw shoes within two seconds if he stepped in any mud. He wheeled
away. As he was speeding off with great purpose, I started to imagine
he was on his way to a fine old house that had been converted into an
artists’ commune. He certainly had the jacket to make him a
lieutenant there.</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><br />The
other two crossed the road to where a car was waiting. They got in,
greeted the driver and he sped them away.</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><br />Then,
with the bus gone too, I was left to look around and wonder which
direction I had to go. I really should have more of an effort to
speak to people on the bus.
</div>
Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-28598358599997615302021-07-20T04:06:00.002-07:002021-07-20T04:06:35.901-07:00to any critics of the verisimilitudinous Daily Mail<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've dropped my monocle on the well-kept lawn, while going for a well-timed yawn, during which I had intended to begin the spinning of my yarn, one in which your mistake's the banjo and my wit is the side of the barn.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Allow me; however, to impart on you some friendly advice. Excuse me for a moment while I descend from my stallion, Bryce! Don't come at the Daily Mail with complaints that we write nonsense, we're fit for purpose, believe you me: You want truthful words? We've got license!<br />
<br />Meticulous research is the wallpaper in the corridors of power [where we're from] - and yes, we will indeed take you up on that offer of a cup of tea, chum - just glance over our reporting history and you will see that research is the bedrock on which we've built this media empire: ill-gotten pictures of tits? we threw them on the fire long ago.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Look us up when you're in town. Turn upside down that frown. Come for that cuppa. We embrace you, beloved reader.</div>
Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-41564311212233957762021-07-06T16:40:00.001-07:002021-07-06T16:41:31.377-07:00274<p> you slip below the pavement</p><p>the slats of wood an inch apart sometime</p><p>and when Wednesday comes that song with</p><p>echoes</p><p>plays through from </p><p>your one ear and out your hair again</p><p>you are</p><p>spreading fingers to take in the peace</p><p>when weather takes you up in its indifferent embrace</p><p>it's warm enough to lay out </p><p>and cool enough to stay wet after </p><p>freezing swim</p><p>you slip below the surface</p><p>down where it's quiet for a mile on every side</p><p>so you swim on to below the pavement</p><p>light is split by the boards above</p><p>it hurts to look up anyway </p><p>blind steps take you by the eyes</p><p>you find yourself picking yourself up from your floor</p><p>ten minutes lost</p><p>gravel rash to the face</p><p>and that reverb pacing out the distance </p><p>from your inner ear to your domed dementia</p><p>starlings have set a nest there</p><p>and you climb down while ascending</p><p>stretch and accept this rippling call</p><p>cross the new waters</p><p>where you dived in</p>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-14457053052517005592020-12-31T09:07:00.003-08:002020-12-31T09:10:39.658-08:00twenty-one new years resolutions<div style="text-align: left;">I will plan to be better in the future tense</div><div style="text-align: left;">As of midnight all self-improvements recommence</div><div style="text-align: left;">I would step over buildings without breaking stride<br />Be yogafied daily till it engenders pride</div><div style="text-align: left;">Run in the rain, up hills and along the beaches <br />Sing loudly just to see where to my voice reaches</div><div style="text-align: left;">Give up coffee again and leave my comfort zone</div><div style="text-align: left;"><div>Stop spending half the day just staring at my phone</div></div><div style="text-align: left;">Disentangle the nervousness within my dog</div><div style="text-align: left;">And learn to live with my internal monologue</div><div style="text-align: left;">Give loads to charity without telling a soul</div><div style="text-align: left;">Stand up to butter: exercise self-control</div><div style="text-align: left;">Go rock climbing and swimming till my toes give out</div><div style="text-align: left;">Hit the brakes: do a U-turn on the road to gout</div><div style="text-align: left;">Read more and go out more and learn an instrument</div><div style="text-align: left;">See the ordinary can be magnificent</div><div style="text-align: left;">Learn to keep schtum while also having my say</div><div style="text-align: left;">Ease off and</div><div style="text-align: left;">take each day</div><div style="text-align: left;">as just </div><div style="text-align: left;">another</div><div style="text-align: left;">day</div>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-34644402207492784662020-12-24T04:54:00.007-08:002020-12-24T04:58:57.799-08:00The Kings of Manuel<p>2003 we lived in Manuel. 'Christmas is cancelled' they said. Anyone who wanted to celebrate had to get out. You had until midnight on 11th December. Anyone who remained within Manuel after that, well, you were stuck. This included us mind. We were too stoned to pay the right amount of attention of course.</p><p>Instead of worrying about what was really going on, we panicked over a walk to the shops. Sure walks to the shops were about to be outlawed and people were forming gangs to fight back against what they saw as government interference. But we were sweating over the prospect of running out of rizlas. If we had to go out for supplies then we'd be climbing the walls, and getting ready to go and buy some milk: it was like we were going on an intergalactic expedition. Never mind astronaut suits, we had our hats on and backpacks strapped up ready for carrying coke and coco pops back to the flat so we wouldn't have to leave again (at least not for a few days).</p><p>The news transformed us. We carried on smoking pot of course but we got active in defiance of the orders to stay indoors. These days I would be more responsible but this was no pandemic. This was economic collapse and governmental liquidation. Christmas was excessive. Manuel as a city couldn't both have it and keep order, hence the ban. </p><p>The surprise was how quiet everything went. As of the eve of the announcement there was total compliance. This in itself was terrifying. As teenagers, albeit ones who were supposed to be studying and earning money and becoming adults (according to what our parents expected of us), we disregarded the rules and we went out but let's start at the start:</p><p>First we heard of the new orders was our neighbour pounding on the door. We had one anaemic plant growing under a lamp in an incongruous cupboard in Johnny's bedroom. When the pounding on the door began we just looked at each other with that look that said 'it's the police'. With a joint in hand and no more than half a braincell between us, we seemed unprepared for storm troops.</p><p>'What are we going to do?' I asked Johnny (whispering obviously).</p><p>Johnny just looked at me blankly, his mouth slack, his eyes shifting slightly towards the door.</p><p>'Do you want me to answer it?' he said.</p><p>'Hold on. Hold on,' I said. 'Think about Ted'. (I was still whispering, don't worry - oh, and Ted was the plant).</p><p>'Ah. Well.' Finally he stopped and turned his face away as if in thought. Almost immediately, though, he stood up. He was about to move for the door, so I reached out for his hand.</p><p>'Hold on. What if it's the police?'</p><p>'I've thought about that,' he said in his most grown-up voice. 'If it were the police then they would have said so. They have to.'</p><p>I wasn't so sure about this but then, as the pounding on the door started up again, I noticed that it wasn't the most para-military pounding. It didn't sound official. Wouldn't fascist door poundings be more meaty and menacing? </p><p>Still the two of us were standing in silence and looking at the door.</p><p>'Johnny! Are you in there?' - came the voice of our neighbour, Beryl.</p><p>Another, quieter voice could be heard just then: 'Of course he's in. Where would he be?' This was her husband, Bill. She could be heard shooing him away.</p><p>'Have you heard?' she was saying.</p><p>We opened the door.</p><p>She walked straight in. She had never set foot in the place before but apparently nothing, not even two skinny boys stinking of weed, fazed her: she waked in and turned around and while we were adjusting to the fact that she was standing the other side of us and wasn't the police, she said:</p><p>'You wont have seen the news right?'</p><p>Before laughing as if at the idea that we would even answer her from beyond the marajuana mist-curtain that was settled at head height between us. She may as well have gestured at the no TV in the room. This was 2003. We used LimeWire. That was about as high tech as we got. Six or seven months earlier coalition forces had invaded Iraq. There were marches against it but otherwise it was business as usual. </p><p>Quickly she said: 'They've said that Christmas is cancelled, okay? Do you need to go home or, well, what are you doing?' We had chatted casually once or twice on the stairs or in the bit by the bins outside. Now she seemed like an impatient older sister but clearly she cared.</p><p>In any case, before giving us time to answer she said impatiently, as if suffering from cigarette cravings:</p><p>'If you're staying here then you should look at what they're doing. Put the radio on at least.'</p><p>She walked around looking here and there and by and by we passively led her to Johnny's bedroom where there was an alarm clock radio on the floor. We switched it on and there was the crackle of Radio 5 where football commentary had been heard the night before. An exotic European tie.</p><p>On came radio 5 and an authoritative, no-messing kind of voice could be heard saying:</p><p>'... you must abide by these regulations. This is for the good of everyone and it is not the time to think of oneself above and beyond the greater good ...'</p><p>Beryl explained that she was going out for a big shop with Bill and then they were going to celebrate alone the two of them and didn't want to be bothered really. They would help us before the deadline of the 11th but not after that. It wasn't worth the risk, she said. Having done what she came to do and seeing now that we at least were aware of what was happening in the outside world, she left</p><p style="text-align: center;">-</p><p>We stayed in Manuel. There was a curfew of 5:45 each evening. It got dark and people cleared off the streets. Even during the day people were only out if they had to be. People filed to and from work. We watched some of the quiet from our windows.</p><p>These were, though, the best two weeks of our lives despite the fact that we were fearing for our lives constantly. Fearing for our lives as we broke out and broke back in an again to our flat. Everyone else seemed to be safe indoors. The streets were being watched but somehow we were free. We managed to get to a lot of places and meet some people.</p><p>First of all we found that we were able to tunnel out. This did not take long. We were out through our tunnel within three days of our arriving in this new situation. It turns out the land around there was not so hard. </p><p>By the time the 11th came round we had not only prepared our escape tunnel but also stocked up on pot and bought some cans of soup, and bread obviously: these large, sweet loaves you could get there - even eating toast every day they were enough to keep both of us going for a while and of course noodles. Nothing much. Tea. Biscuits. We stocked up and we were set.</p><p>Then we left the building through our tunnel. The first day we didn't know what we were doing really. We took some minimal supplies, just things we could have fresh: water and snacks and that.</p><p>We were out and into the car park garage of a building a hundred yards or so away. This was a stroke of luck as none of the other places for a good stretch around had a basement or anything like that. We came up into it and wandered between the cars.</p><p>There were some serious cars there as well: shiny and in good condition, some with only a minimal amount of miles on the clock. They wouldn't be moving for a while.</p><p>We made our way to the stairs and, without a care in the world, started to make our way upwards. I guess we sensed that no one would care. We simply carried on up silently to the top and went out onto the roof - unusual enough to get out onto a flat roof like that at the best of times, especially in that part of Manuel.</p><p>There was nothing out on the street, no movement and no cars driving and not a one person walking around.</p><p>It was night and the lights were on automatically along the empty roads.</p><p>The last thing we needed, I would think now, was to draw attention to ourselves. Yet we started shouting. Off that concrete rooftop and out into the concrete void. Beyond the galvanised railings. Over the divide from this lonely structure to the next tower and the one beyond: we drove our reedy screams. Into a flat calf strapless night we sang out of tune and without finding a key at all:</p><p>'We are not banned'. And afterwards once the impact of words on silence had flowed around for seconds of impossible nothingness:</p><p>'Come on' and 'We're here and we are going to have stuffing and Yorkshire puddings and mince pies'.</p><p>We laughed. As it happened neither of us liked mince pies back then.</p><p>'Merry Christmas' Johnny shouted at one point and then the silence grew around us and the words seemed to reach out for a mile into the void and weirdly, and this was the only response we had apart from unidentified clattering and the meowing of an unseen cat, there came a plaintive yet assertive call:</p><p>'Happy Christmas, you twats'.</p><p>And we grinned from ear to ear.</p><p>There had been some kind of maintenance work going on and just inside the door at the top of the building we had seen buckets and other gear. We took some lengths of rope that were inexplicably left there too and we abseiled down the side of the building. For a moment we were hung there off the side of this massive structure with the silence of the sleepified city ringing round. Buzzings and hums all the same in the lit- up night time but none of the hubbub of life. Not even the annoyance of an 8-bit Christmas carol peeping along. </p><p>We hung there at the end of our ropes for a few seconds before dropping together the final six feet or so down onto our feet and away with our backpacks and our grins.</p><p>Almost immediately we could see uniformed people moving between the buildings fifty yards ahead or so. We made ourselves quiet: stopped in our tracks and hunched down.</p><p>We didn't look at each other but for a few moments we were watchful and then we could hear them speaking, these uniformed types:</p><p>There were three voices. As far as we knew these were three officers of the law. There were two female voices and a male one. Before this story could become anything like a tale of romance, it is worth saying that we had spent so much time getting stoned, Johnny and me, that the prospect of company of any kind just filled us with dread. We did not imagine ourselves to be Casanovas. We were not on the prowl in any sense. Actually, without meaning to, we had lucked upon a kind of grey celibacy. The two of us watched cheap DVDs (even Blockbuster existed then and you could buy the ex-rental copies for the cost of renting one new release). We were happy in our haze of drowsiness. Long sleeps and afternoon wakes and bake. It was bliss. Sex taken out of life. But here you are, two women and a man were having a conversation. As far as we knew they were the law.</p><p>'If we take Mongrove towards George Street then we are bound to. Hold on.' This was a bold female voice.</p><p>'Have you seen that as well?' asked another woman. </p><p>'Yeah, look Robbie.'</p><p>And Robbie could be heard now: 'Jesus. Who do you think that is then?'</p><p>'Definitely not one of ours' came the first females voice again.</p><p>By this point, and emboldened by our shouting off the rooftops and not so fuzzy headed as usual, the two of us stepped forward and we walked - even with Johnny saying to me 'Hold on,' and again 'Hold on' - towards this group of what we had thought was the law. They didn't sound like the law and now, as we got closer, they didn't even look anything like the law, their uniforms were nothing but similar looking dark clothes, only enough to fool a very stoned person or someone at a distance.</p><p>They saw us, our law-looking stranger friends, and they moved round slightly and back. We were still a ways away from each other, perhaps fifty metres at least and there were bike sheds and railings and the corners of two buildings around. At once we all moved into a nothing courtyard that happened between two buildings there.</p><p>Johnny trailed behind slighlty.</p><p>One non-uniform uniformed girl stepped forward and we spoke to each other then</p><p>'Merry Christmas,' I said, wanting for anything better thing to say, though it was a mild evening and I was exhilarated and greeting anyone like that felt fine anyway.</p><p>'Well, season's fucking greetings,' she said.</p><p>We had binged, Johnny and I, on just about every trash American release that you could buy cheaply on DVD around Woolham and Hackneath. Anywhere else in Manuel, say somewhere you had to take a bus to, we wouldn't be buying DVDs but the selection was probably not too dissimilar unless you went into the centre.</p><p>She had probably seen the same DVDs. Or we just assumed everyone who was roughly our age had the same references. We were basically quoting factories, bouncing about lines from John Hughes and Eddie Murphy and Dan O'Bannon.</p><p>As his own greeting Johnny said: 'Yippie kay yay!' belatedly and a little over the top. Bear in mind we never saw anyone usually and we were all breaking the law just then. A normally nervous Johnny was excitable to say the least.</p><p>'Were you the idiots shouting just now?' she asked us</p><p>'We were, we were' Johnny said proudly. He seemed to be flush with pride. The abseiling down a building and general lawlesness and now this apparent brush with danger: he seemed to have woken up and be wider eyed than I'd seen him before.</p><p>Being young and being told to not go out: it had worked like magic and, albeit with enough weed that we didn't have to worry about running out any time soon, we would have taken a train to St Peter's or anywhere (if any trains were running).</p><p>'You do need to be careful you know' This was the other woman now. She had a pair of red braids and was stepping forward to stand alongside the one who had spoken to us first. They were a similar height but otherwise as different as could be.</p><p>The man with them stayed quiet, brooding behind. As for us: We were excited to see other people but old habits die hard and once you have been sat indoors for months trying to avoid any responsibility and planning your day around sleeping until 2 or 3 in the afternoon, well, you don't become a pair of chatty Cathys.</p><p>We were virtually ready to go our separate ways. It was like being on pause in a video game. The Final Fantasy music playing perhaps, all synth relaxation and expansive harmonies. Maybe some faux glockenspiel and of course reverby drums pounding away.</p><p>The world was empty but for us and our adventures.</p><p>'I'm Jimmy,' I said.</p><p>'Verne' said the first woman. I saw now that she had green eyes. Beside her the other woman said: 'Sure, I'm Jules. It's good to meet you'.</p><p>At this moment the man behind them, who had been leaning against the side of the building there, he stepped forward and reached out slightly and contorted as if he were going to offer his hand and say hello but instead twisted a bit like in Alien and then - instead of writhing around while a miniature extra-terrestrial burst out of this chest - he let our a jet of yellow vomit. It was all fairly controlled, like he had done this several times before that evening.</p><p>On cue and with an apologetic look on her face, Verne swung her bag off her back and said to us:</p><p>'We found a load of noodles. We have more than we could need' - she opened up the bag and we could see in there a whole mess of yellow packages of noodles with Vietnamese and Chinese writing on them.</p><p>'Thank you very much' said Johnny - I didn't know where this new boldness had come from with him. He took his bag off of his back and pulled out a bar of Cadbury's fruit and nut. A pretty treasured thing. Verne accepted this and thanked him.</p><p>We had a little chat with Jules and Verne and we found out that the man's name was Robbie and that they had been running through the streets trying to make it all the way to the other side of Manuel and back before sunrise and we stood there chatting for a few moments in the concrete void, with the orange sky above us starless and grim but comforting somehow in its grimness. We had the city to ourselves. They warned us to be more careful and, before we went off with four or five of their noodles packets and they went off with one of our chocolate bars, Jules wanted to tell us something. It didn't make a lot of sense then either:</p><p>'Do you know the house of David? The Syrian confederacy by Epharim? If you watch the trees there they are moved by the wind. The lord has said to me that I should take heed and be quiet but that we should not feel fear. Nor should we be fainthearted'.</p><p>Admittedly, in the context of what had been a casual chat and with all the ban on Christmas stuff in the air, Jules was speaking in total non-sequiturs here but we enjoyed it. I guess we had our minds open to all sorts of quasi-prophetic stuff. She went on anyway:</p><p>'... for there are two tails like smoking irons. You know the name of the city, right? Manuel. It says in Isaiah 7:14 - "Therefore the Lord himself shall give you a sign; Behold a virginshall conceive and bear a son and shall call his name Immanuel" - and Immanuel means God with us. And here we are and Christmas is cancelled. But it's all tinsel and baubles anyway right? Listen, peace.'</p><p>With that they were gone, leaving the small puddle of yellow vomit behind.</p><p style="text-align: center;">-</p><p style="text-align: left;">O<span style="text-align: left;">ver the next several nights we had our own twelves days of Christmas.</span></p><p>The next night, the first day of Christmas you could say, we went out with paints and Johnny drew a bird flying on the side of the empty community centre - I daubed a message that I thought was hopeful. Now I just regret ever doing graffiti. I'm not sure why, it can look gorgeous.</p><p>I wrote: 'chin up and be happy' - I'm not sure it would have made me feel good to see that and anyway we never saw anyone at night and we slept in the da, so I never saw a reaction from anyone but Johnny and he was mostly so stoned that he limited himself to two or three word sentences - anyone going to work might have clocked it but they may as well have hated us and our daubings.</p><p>On the second night of Christmas we found piles of chestnuts.</p><p>On the third night of Christmas we tunnelled in to a shop that sold costumes and we pratted about for hours dressing up as soldiers and gangsters. We tried not to make a mess of everything but I think we always got carried away. I spilled cup a soup everywhere and we decided it was time to call it a night.</p><p>On the fourth night we danced in the streets, just the two of us and the hum of the city.</p><p>The fifth night we just sort of called it in and once we had reached the top of the building next door into which he had tunnelled that first night, well, we just kind of sat there on the roof and looked out over the empty buildings and smoked a few joints. We saw in the distance a person stood on top of another building. We waved and them and they waved back, it was quite solemn but comforting all the same to reach out to someone. </p><p>The sixth night we went scaling trees in the park. We wanted to get a better view in a different direction - we were going to have to go further, we realised - our ambitions had been small and so we had not found too much.</p><p>Johnny was growing in confidence all the time, it was great to see. He got this fixation on the phrase 'kings of Manuel' and it wasn't just the encounter with Jules and her religious babblings.</p><p>'We're the kings of Manuel, don't you see?' he would say to me. Admittedly we said all sorts of weird stuff to each other all the time and he had been supposed to be studying theology so he often had this phrases about king of this and kingdom of that, but the phrase kings of Manuel he said so many times that it stuck between us - after a few days, if we were going to shout something from the rooftops again then it would most likely be 'we're the kings of Manuel'.</p><p>The seventh night of Christmas we went out with our bags empty, planning to steal some stuff. The shops were shuttered and the businesses had been put on ice. We had no idea about economic forces. We couldn't tell our fiscal year from our elbows and we thought that somehow there was money somewhere and it was being kept from us and other people like us (not stoners, you understand, we would have identified as normal people). Perhaps we were closer to the truth then even if we were brash.</p><p>We thought it meant nothing to steal. We did not go to small corner shops or whatever, I would say that in our defence. We tunnelled our way into one of the larger shopping centres in Woolham, though not some grand expensive all flashing lights and stainless steel place, just the centre where you could buy some foodstuffs and cards and a few gifts. </p><p>We loaded up on sweets and crisps and treats of all different kinds.</p><p>We then went wandering through the streets and found our way into buildings and left a few chocolate bars here and a bag of crisps there. It must have looked pathetic really, as people who had been told that Christmas was cancelled came out of their doors in the morning to find that some pair of idiots had left a Starbar on the welcome mat, but it was fun doing it and it put us in a festive mood.</p><p>We repeated the feat on the eighth night of Christmas - this time we focused on getting bottles and cans of drink to people and again we went round giving to people indiscriminately. It was amazing how people obeyed the curfew, we almost never saw anyone.</p><p>Then on the ninth night of Christmas we met Fin.</p><p>Fin had long fingernails and a habit of ripping up things in his hands - like empty fag packets. His hair was fairly long too and it was grey and bedraggled. He smoked a lot and he had a good sense of humour.</p><p>He was simply sat in the hallway of one the buildings that we came to - he had brought a chair out for the occasion.</p><p>'This isn't my place' he said 'but you boys don't live here either, do you?'</p><p>'Panic, they say' Fin was telling us. we pretty much just listened like a pair of children at his stinky feet. He let us have a couple of his B&H and it all felt very much like an enjoyable December evening, which it was. </p><p>'We are told that if we think there is a plot against us then we're paranoid. The trick is to make it so you don't know when you are being paranoid and when you have a genuine grievance. I mean, what could a real argument be with the authorities. The powers that be? What could you have to complain about? Well, just about everything under the sun. But to complain about any one thing would be foolish.'</p><p>We were kind of unsure of what to say anyway, every now and again I would try to show that I knew what he was talking about - 'You can't trust the police' or 'People want to put you in boxes, man', I would say.</p><p>Meanwhile Johnny, thanks to his new found confidence, was able to speak fluently and make sense as far as I could tell. But he was too eager to tell Fin how much he knew. 'The kingdom of god is not a place separate from here, heaven really is a place on earth - this sounds stupid but it's not a Madonna lyric, well it is but ...'.</p><p>Len would go on, he could go on ad infinitum as far as I could tell, even being interrupted didn't break his flow. He got on to Daoism and other things we knew nothing about whatsoever. Our education in matters Chinese came from those little packets of noodles and we couldn't understand the script on the side of them anyway. If you poured out boiling eater into a bowl and put the noodles in there and covered it all with a plate for a few minutes then you could have a snack, otherwise we knew nothing about noodles instructions or Daosim. </p><p>Fin enlightened us somewhat while we smoked his B&H in that stairwell. We had offered him some of our ill-gotten fizzy drinks and chocolate but he wasn't interested. Nor did he want to smoke pot.</p><p>'Kings of Manuel indeed,' Fin said. 'What would it be being a king anyway - forget the actual royal family, they are worth nothing as far as I can see, but who would want to be a king?' Fin was dirty and a little smelly: not very king-like but very intelligent. Still, I thought, I would have taken a shot at the fine robes and the silver bathtub with attendants.</p><p>'You put your feet in the river right now and you wander off again and come back and put your feet in the river again - it's not the same river any more. Anyway - the best story from that kind of thing for my money is from when that Zhuang Zhou was asked by some courtly officials what kind of position he would like to have in the ministry of whatever province or imperial jurisdiction they represented, I don't know - point is they offered him the moon on a stick. </p><p>'"What do you want, Zhuang Zhou?" - they said - "You can have any job, even above and beyond what we've got. What do you want?" Zhuang Zhou says to them: "There's a tortoise shell, from a tortoise that's been dead for 3,000 years, this is in the province way beyond" wherever, some far off place that he mentions. "This tortoise shell", he says - "It has been dressed up in silk and put on display as some kind of special prize in a gorgeous house. But which tortoise is better off? The one that has been dead all that time and is displayed in silk or the one that is dragging its tail through the mud here by the riverside? Well, I'm better off dragging my tail in the mud anyway so leave me alone". And I imagine he told them to bugger off in no uncertain terms.'.</p><p>Fin was good to listen to and we were glad to have met him: one of the very few people we saw on our nightly excursions.</p><p>The tenth night of Christmas we stole ourselves a tiny tree. These had been bought in and displayed in shops prior to the ban - we smuggled home this tiny thing with no decorations and ate our noodles and admired our spoils.</p><p>The eleventh night of Christmas we saw Jules and Verne again. We chatted and wandered the silent streets. Robbie and his vomit were nowhere to be seen.</p><p>'You've survived this long' Verne said to us.</p><p>'Yippie kay yay' said Johnny as if he knew no other lines from films.</p><p>'It's peaceful, isn't it?' she said. 'This is better than Christmas anyway. Long nights full of peace and quiet. Oh, and petty theft.'</p><p>The twelfth night of Christmas we danced - the four of us in the streets. Robbie even joined us. Fin watched on. We sang songs and Johnny was shouting 'We're the kings of Manuel' and we all joined in. We even shouted 'Merry Christmas' at the tops of ours voices and had people shouting things back at us.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYXFVYKntjdmt9qFVhth8tCJNCj257zkkmi2T-mDrGqBYzuAZMwjktxiTVcVAwbTaYJghFsJEPeMY2brk7gzMDiW3vBUUw4IqSw6a2TcOyzeFpmi03dfttz_joDZkSJviDyPVL53rGwXdR/s1796/Virgin%252BMary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1796" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYXFVYKntjdmt9qFVhth8tCJNCj257zkkmi2T-mDrGqBYzuAZMwjktxiTVcVAwbTaYJghFsJEPeMY2brk7gzMDiW3vBUUw4IqSw6a2TcOyzeFpmi03dfttz_joDZkSJviDyPVL53rGwXdR/s320/Virgin%252BMary.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">taken from knowingscripture.com</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIwICUwk54PXGaZiz5J2NMlF-4K8sCUQp45pc7SbT2Cz9mrJknpB-yURR-nBQ_65vm7mXo4mP5HKC8ml6wyJCPAXzaOPZprlJuZfRw4oQUVxKwDeWMRN3bAW1dp7UZitq0rgdUf6-YDufB/s481/kissingfacegodMorganWeistling.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="360" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIwICUwk54PXGaZiz5J2NMlF-4K8sCUQp45pc7SbT2Cz9mrJknpB-yURR-nBQ_65vm7mXo4mP5HKC8ml6wyJCPAXzaOPZprlJuZfRw4oQUVxKwDeWMRN3bAW1dp7UZitq0rgdUf6-YDufB/s320/kissingfacegodMorganWeistling.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">credit: Morgan Weistling</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-6275715632313371862020-12-23T09:21:00.001-08:002020-12-23T09:21:25.255-08:00in light of brexit and other bullshit<p> </p><div class="mail-message expanded" id="m-622424966779421184" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><div class="mail-message-content collapsible zoom-normal mail-show-images " style="margin: 16px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; user-select: auto; width: 380px;"><div class="clear"><div dir="auto">This poem is simple and is addressed to the deputies in guernseys states. It goes like this: form a republic -The end.</div></div></div><div class="mail-message-footer spacer collapsible" style="height: 0px;"></div></div>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-42257054300828032772020-12-19T12:00:00.007-08:002020-12-19T12:02:20.239-08:00A-Z: walking along the front<div style="text-align: left;">A challenge was given out in my writers group: write a story that is 26 sentences, with each sentence starting with the next letter of the alphabet.<br />This was my attempt while walking along the front Saturday afternoon. I made it in time for a little Christmas shopping, after hearing the announcement of further lockdown restrictions.<br />Couldn't manage a narrative but I want to share what I wrote all the same:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p>Abject horizons rise up. Built up: too many of everything. Capitalism's pattern has wrought disaster. Damnation comes yet slow. Egos after all outnumber the ready witnesses of death (enough to distract fools). Fools are the countless millions and within their number are we ourselves. </p>
Horizons rise up in such a way as to draw the eye. Inside any building around here the lights are on. Just beyond, unseen but by any who are outdoors, and stood in the right spot, the sky is lit up bronze orange: eternal fruit. <br />
<br />
Kilowatts and megawatts and constant electric destruction: all these are rife here as anywhere for thousands of miles around - barring the dark sea that stretches beyond that orange vista.<br />
<br />
Love still exists beyond, and within, such horizons. Most find it. Nothing's really to fear in life but life itself. Otherwise, if you can keep fear from your mind, well, it's good. Perspective is everything.<br />
<br />
Queens can be captured and pawns become queens. Royal blood is the same as non-royal blood. Some things in life are just what they appear to be. Terrible dreams aside, and those are for sleeping minds alone and, again, can be forgot, there is, when you strip it back, existence for all, regardless of rank.<br />
<br />
Universal love may come strange: especially if you allow yourself the lie - 'everyone else is at fault'. Violence is never the answer. Winning is just winning: don't run it in or waste you life seeking only wins. Xylophones, pianos, stringed instruments generally and the chiffonie will, regardless, all play in your wake.<br />
<br />
You alone know yourself. Zebras cross the plains.<!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_201219_195256_904.sdoc-->Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430293320070453691.post-8854713954336133712020-12-18T01:50:00.000-08:002020-12-18T01:50:07.321-08:00Herm School Nativity<p>Earlier this month we had the pleasure of seeing a nativity play performed by Herm primary school (all seven of the student body performed there in the church). If this were supposed to be a review then it would be hard to find anything critical to say about what was, on the whole, the best thing I have seen this year.</p><p>The nativity was played out in a customarily unconventional fashion. Sure there was the story of the birth of our lord and saviour, but the show's tagline was 'feelin' groovy'. Simon and Garfunkel songs were reworked with comic effect (Sound of Silence became Birth of Jesus, while a lot was made of the line 'Jesus loves you more than you will know'). Previous years have seen similar holy transformations involving the songs of Dolly Parton, ABBA and others. Black Sabbath next time around perhaps.</p><p>The children's singing was exceptional. Rachel Wright played piano on the night and had done an excellent job coaching the cast. Not only that: this was a more imaginative and nuanced nativity than I've seen elsewhere. This was thanks to good writing that featured plenty of jokes and a few touching references to troubles in the world. Maybe it's the small island mentality: the smaller the island, the better the drama. On Houmet Paradis fairies are perhaps, as I write this even, creating the 21st century's answer to Hamlet.</p><p>Jo was in bits (I cried too - the solo from Joseph set me off). Once she had gathered her thoughts, I got the following ideas from her (for any review that I might want to write):</p><p>Q: What would you say to Mary [Carey - the teacher/executive producer] vis-a-vis the nativity?</p><p>Jo: Another triumph. Any parent would only hope their child's teacher had 1% of your creativity.</p><p>Q: Who was the most under-rated performer, if anyone?</p><p>Jo: The cymbal player during The Boxer, for giving it his all.</p><p>Q: Who would appear on a poster of the Herm nativity, as designed by you?</p><p>Jo: The album cover of Simon and Garfunkel's Bridge Over Troubled Water, photoshopped so we see the background of the Little Russel: Mary and Joseph's faces are superimposed over S&G's.</p>Adam Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13735193125002333025noreply@blogger.com0