...unfinished thoughts...

Last Tuesday, I showed an uncharacteristic display of frustration as I was more or less ridiculed by some friends for my thoughts on music. I had, with the others in question, just performed and therefore listened to a performance of Cage's 4' 33". This, for the large part, was a highly enjoyable performance. The sound of Worcestershire is far different from that of London and a rare treat for one who spends the majority of his time in the city. It is a far more subtle in the way in presents itself to you, yet no less interesting. This is all providing one listens, of course. My friends chose only to hear the sound of their own mocking in their heads and could not hide from their faces how ridiculous they thought the listening was. Perhaps inevitably, a laughter filled applause finished the piece. How long had they anticipated the moment they could use this particular 'oh-so-quick-witted' response, I wonder? I would hazard a guess at 4 mins and 33 seconds. How sad it is that folk can no longer listen. Let me quote something Cage said in response to the accusation that 4' 33" is not music;
"Ah! you like sounds after all when they are made up of vowels and consonants. You are slow-witted, for you have never brought your mind to the location of urgency. Do you need me or someone else to hold you up? Why don't you realize as I do that nothing is accomplished by writing, playing or listening to music? Otherwise, deaf as a doornail, you will never be able to hear anything, even what's well within earshot"
Why is it acceptable to gaze at a landscape, countryside or otherwise, or even a photograph of 'something' and muse on it's "composition", yet to listen to the same space is ludicrous? How sad it is that folk can no longer listen.

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I think Americans get a bit of a hard time from us Brits. Sure, Americans get a hard time from everyone, but just as our sceptre'd isle has a "special relationship" with the US, so we give them a bit of "special" flak. I need not go into especial detail of the kind of flak that gets bandied about. I've heard many a comment to the tune of "dumb", "loud", "oblivious to the outside world", "debaser of the English language", blah blah blah blah blah.... . These, of course, are just social stereotypes, yet are used with some seriousness. OK, so stereotypes don't occur for no reason, so I guess that some of the accusations brought against Americans must have been at least to some degree true, at some point. But many of the accusations levelled are also a matter of serious conjecture and are, for want of a better word, just plain unfair.
What I have found since being in London is that we Brits can be a cold, self-righteous sort. Of course, this is also a wild generalisation, but what is disturbing is that unpalatable social characteristics can rub off on people and I'm slightly afraid that I am party to the cold, unloving nature that fog the streets of London. Of all the different kinds of people I have met in the nine months I have spent here, the Americans have been far and away the kindest and most gracious. The guy who works in the Art section in Waterstones Covent Garden had the good nature just to be kind and amiable. The girl who helped me with my bike into my halls building was kind enough to spare a few seconds to help. I have found myself appreciating an American accent in London, because it seems to represent some an attitude of community and kindness. Why can I not recognise that in Londoners?
Perhaps it is a cultural thing, but if it is our culture to think of one's self above others and have the kind of self-righteous attitude to make accusations against others whilst blind to our own inadequacies, then it is time we took a long, hard look in the mirror.

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These are unfinshed thoughts. Maybe at some point I will resolve them...

The man with the microphones

It's coming.....

Sorry guys, I've been a bit lame on the posting front recently. Suffice to say, I shall return soon...

A place to call home

Harassed by what the future holds, my thoughts have recently been around where I may be from September and what I may be doing there. I suppose it's rather natural, as I approach the end of my course at Goldsmiths' I should muse upon what is to happen next.
These thoughts have been taken up a little like this...

What can I do to earn enough money next year?
What do I want to do next year?
What does God want me to do next year?
Where do I want to be next year?
Where does God want me next year?

The fourth and fifth questions down have particularly taken my attention, since I recently decided that I didn't want to live in New Cross again next year. This may not come as a surprise to some of you who have heard me rant about New Cross' badass nature, but it surely isn't an awful place to be. I reckon a large part of the issue is not fear of mugging, but that I don't think I will ever be able to call London (let alone just New Cross) Home. This, I know, all sounds a little much for a man of twenty three to be saying, but it holds at least some gravity with me.
I have been wondering if, although a Southerner by majority habitation period in Thatcham, I am still really Northerner where it really matters. Born and raised (at least some time in the North) by two born and bred scousers, with a large majority northern extended family, this must have had more than a passing cultural influence on me. I don't just mean psychologically, either.
I, as far as I know, have always been very close to my parents. My father was a complete role model for me (I was convinced into accepting a pair of brogues for school shoes by my parents, because my father wore a pair to work) and I consult my mother on pretty much everything I do. I am sure then, growing up even in adolescence, I have been much influenced by my parents' Liverpudlianness (I'm not sure that's actually a word) or Northernness.
The last time I was in Liverpool was a year ago, when I had a(n?) university admission interview at the University of Liverpool (I know that does sound fairly obvious, but there are two others in the city!!). To be honest, I was a bit lost trying to find the faculty of music, so I stood in a street I had never before encountered and it took all of ten seconds for somebody to help me out. OK, so this isn't a particularly exceptional example, but I can't help thinking that it's part of what I value about Liverpool and the North. Community. (sorry to plaigerise a topic here, Chin :)) The last time I boarded a bus in Liverpool, pretty much everybody was talking with everybody else and I'm sure they didn't know each other, but they were on the same bus and that seemed enough for them to be friendly enough to chat. This was a little while ago, I must admit, but I'm sure things haven't changed that much.
London is a place where millions of people co-exist individually. Indeed, it seems to lack community altogether. I could have stood with a massive map outstretched infront of me with confusion written all over my face in London and I'm sure nobody would have helped me. I'm not surprised either. In London people daren't even smile at each other, let alone help each other out. In the words of an underground busker I met a couple of days ago.. "Cheer up, ya miserable bastards!!" (While people turn their heads away in embarassment. That made me smile)
Don't get me wrong, I like London. It's exciting and fast-moving and one can't help but to be drawn in, but maybe the ways of the people do not match well with mine. Perhaps 'home' will never be London, but instead the North. Perhaps Liverpool.
Oh and another thing, don't assume I have a rose-tinted view of the place. I know it's not all that perfect. I recall seeing bullet holes in a wall down Anfield Road. It's a place where the people have a reputation for theft (particularly car wheels) and where they all wear tracksuits, despite the fact that it's been 15 years since the end of the 80's. But on those kind of terms, London can do a lot worse (except the tracksuits, of course. Read 'Burberry caps and white trainers' instead).
I know some people will consider these thoughts to be fairly influenced by the recent Liverpool victory in the European Cup. Well, you're not too far off the mark.
Last Wednesday was an emotional night and the first time I have properly hugged my brother.... ever, I think. I returned home to watch the game with my brother and his friends in a pub and due to the trains being the way they are, I arrived in time to see Milan put in their third of the night. The next two hours that unfolded placed me in an emotional medley of anxiety, desperation, relief and utter jubilation. It was truly amazing. It wasn't just getting caught up in the excitement of it all, since I was irritatingly nervous from about six hours before kick off, it seemed to mean that much. That sounds a bit sad, doesn't it? I guess what I'm trying to say is that the very real and sober experience of caring that much maybe wasn't just merely about football, but maybe also of where I have always considered my roots to be, in spite of my southernness, in Liverpool itself. And I'm sorry for sounding so saccharine about it.
These, however, are only my thoughts. I haven't prayed much about it and that is somewhat of a priority at the moment. Maybe God will send me North. Maybe He'll keep me in London, or even send me abroad. I don't know. Which is exciting... and completely terrifying at the same time. :)

A composition about composition

At 3am
Draw an imaginary circle on the floor
Walk around the imaginary circle
When you can no longer think coherently, stop
Go to bed