tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33139972012-02-16T14:45:48.570ZAll content copyright Andy C.Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.comBlogger5541100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-42744281469353579292012-02-15T21:14:00.000Z2012-02-15T21:14:23.560Z

Flow State The thing that had always bugged him about the guy was that he said ‘station wagon’ when he meant ‘pickup truck’. But because he didn’t like the guy, he held back from saying anything about it, in a way that he would never have done if he’d instead been picking up on what someone he liked had said. Funny, that - how you hold in your criticisms, because at some level you know that if

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-22971762997237002822012-02-13T21:00:00.001Z2012-02-13T21:00:37.393Z

Freeform Been doing too much *thinking* about writing and not doing enough actual writing. There have been too many unwieldy novel-related thoughts ricocheting around the inside my head and never seeing the light of day, and too many momentary images and visions that have got lost by not being articulated or fleshed out. All of which means that the words never get written. But this thread is

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-69838580044846413542011-10-02T12:38:00.003Z2011-10-02T12:38:45.184Z

Goosebumps Astonishing radio experience this morning, listening to Radio 3 in the car. Rob Cowan played a movement from Smetana's Ma Vlast (My Fatherland), from a recording made at a concert in Prague, a few weeks after Czechoslovakia was occupied by the Nazis in 1939. At the end of the piece (which is based on a legend of knights emerging from a mountain to save the fatherland from peril),

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-82561636160359574152011-09-26T20:14:00.001Z2011-09-26T20:15:27.132Z

Autumnal Raining acorns in the car park today: the clattering fall of them through the branches and onto the tarmac echoed between the trees. A green woodpecker, its harsh call startling and loud in the yellow sunshine, flew up into the branches of a tree, and a red kite drifted overhead on cranked wings. The yellowing leaves in the late morning sun. The glare of light on an adjacent car's

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-13766723555640263602011-08-16T19:14:00.000Z2011-08-16T19:14:38.670Z

Cue Harpsichord... Plink plink plink plink plink-plink, plink plink plink-plink... "Ah, Mr Ambassador, with this fine writing you are really spoiling us!" The second really well-written book inside six months. Remarkable. I'm currently reading Andrew Graham-Dixon's biography of Caravaggio, and am thoroughly enthused about it. It places the artist's life and work in a richly evocative social/

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-59364412246791651432011-08-10T18:54:00.002Z2011-08-10T18:54:56.634Z

ResonanceReading a book about German intellectual history this evening, and this passage (citing Herder) resonated with me given the current febrile social climate: "To fail to make use of man's divine and noble gifts, to allow these to rust and thus to give rise to bitterness and frustration, is not only an act of treason against humanity, but also the greatest harm which a state can inflict

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-28636015693842143642011-08-02T10:41:00.000Z2011-08-02T10:41:38.510Z

QuietingI turned off my machine, which was playing my habitual choice of music. I turned off my preferred radio station. I turned off the car ignition, and the air blower stopped huffing. The leaves of the trees whispering. The birds in the hedge-shadows calling to each other. The low rumble of a distant airliner. A pigeon's rhythmic cooing, dreamy and drowsy in the dappled sunlight. In

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-15717938992697192002011-07-17T18:26:00.000Z2011-07-17T18:26:38.495Z

Add caption

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-60586177550173179282011-05-30T15:22:00.002Z2011-05-30T15:22:47.651Z

Hell+Handcart, Part 47 I know that I am somewhat out of touch with the dominant norms in my country's popular consciousness, but when all of the UK's leading news organisations agree that the doings of FIFA are the lead news story...well, I am forced to resort to astonishment.

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-3504504472524300092011-05-23T18:37:00.003Z2011-05-23T18:38:41.942Z

Resisting Anthropomorphism, Part 735 You walk across the field. The sheep and the lambs look up, startle, skitter away from the path. Then they pause in the golden evening sunlight, feet planted in the emerald-green-after-the-rain grass. You look at them, and they look at you. You see the cheeky-looking ones, the lively ones, the nervous ones hiding behind their mothers, and the little pale one,

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-75216365221946242632011-05-22T14:49:00.000Z2011-05-22T14:49:04.279Z

Fabulous story. http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-hampshire-13491268

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-78600882909686341762011-05-11T19:17:00.003Z2011-05-11T19:21:41.938Z

To a Mountain in Tibet I'm not usually one to go in for gushing reviews, but sometimes something comes along that is so good that I just can't help myself. One such artefact is Colin Thubron's To a Mountain in Tibet. There are always good reasons to read Thubron's books: the beautifully balanced and poised prose, the colourful imagery, the historical and philosophical depth, and the insights into

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-88007996359360561752010-11-04T20:00:00.001Z2010-11-04T20:01:47.351Z

Food and Dreams Dreamed last night that I was riding around the village on my bike, and that I stopped at a house, went in, and sat on the floor (bare boards). I was watching the family pet - a beetle - move an inverted teacup around on the floor. The beetle then transformed itself into a piece of china, then a rodent, and then a cat. The family took all this in their stride, accepting that this

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-71860863972161646322010-09-28T20:36:00.000Z2010-09-28T20:36:58.679Z

Sidetracked True to my resolution to get out in the open air more, this morning I wheeled my mountain bike out of the newly cleaned garage and set off, heading for the Farndon Road. It was one of those ‘in-between’ autumn mornings: sun and some white cloud, with a surprisingly strong breeze that made me glad I had layered up under my fluorescent yellow waterproof jacket; remind me to apologise to

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-49347041816077431522010-07-26T19:09:00.001Z2010-07-26T19:10:18.199Z

Eulogy for my stepdad(from his funeral last week)I consider myself very lucky to have known Glyn, and privileged to have such a kind man as a step-father.I don’t think that Glyn would have thought of himself as an heroic man, but he did something pretty brave in his mid-50s – he married my mum. Not that that was brave in itself (she’s lovely, of course), but she came attached to three sons and a

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-22612757078459018062010-04-27T06:28:00.000Z2010-04-27T06:29:16.245Z

A 361, Early MorningAbove the hedge, where the road bends ahead, I can see a little bit of steam catching the light from the just-risen sun. When I get there, there are some cows browsing the grass and hedge, brown and white shoulders and heads all lit up in the bright light. As I pass, I can see the sunlight glinting in the big, glossy eye of the nearest cow, which is lifting its nose up. That

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-19911192490891571812010-04-25T08:26:00.002Z2010-04-25T08:33:49.680Z

QuoteA resonant passage from a review of books on the financial crisis in this week's TLS (23 April, p.8): ' "More than any other individual...[Greenspan] was responsible for letting the hogs run wild. [...] It was a form of crony capitalism...The gains of financial innovation and speculation are privatised, with the bulk of them going to a small group of wealthy people who sit at the apex of the

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-33257818272838893662010-04-17T16:45:00.002Z2010-04-17T16:54:10.993Z

My own private spring-watchStopped for a while during today's invigorating, sunlit bike-ride to watch some birds above a bare field under a cloudless sky. There was just one at first, a lapwing, with that distinctive squarish wing shape, the black and white underwing catching the sunlight with each up-flap. Then another one appeared, and the first one started doing an amazing display flight:

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-26139029597295810502010-04-13T08:18:00.002Z2010-04-13T08:19:19.961Z

Editors: You Count!From a review in this week's TLS:"All writers make mistakes, and someone could find plenty of them in any unedited manuscript of mine. But we count on publishers to provide an essential safety net in the form of good copyediting and proofreading. Here, Oxford University Press has let its author down, to a degree I have never seen in a published book. Whatever the cause, it is

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-14157227505138640622010-04-04T17:08:00.000Z2010-04-04T19:14:45.189Z

The Power of Music ReduxListening to Ligeti's Requiem for Soprano, mezzo-soprano, mixed chorus and orchestra recently, I was struck by the way that this music can unsettle me, physically, and - in the right circumstances - even evoke feelings of fear and paranoia. This is rare: I'm struggling to think of other pieces of music that I listen to regularly that can elicit similar feelings. In

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-31584972888241741242010-04-04T12:02:00.002Z2010-04-04T12:08:03.506Z

Power of MusicJust heard a remarkable piece by Poulenc for the first time. It's from the end of his The Dialogues of the Carmelites opera, and is based on the execution of Carmelite nuns during the French Revolution. The all-female chorus gradually diminishes in intensity and number as, one by one, the nuns are led to the guillotine, while the remainder sing a beautiful Salve Regina. The singing

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-68745599097207524212010-03-21T12:27:00.002Z2010-03-21T12:31:41.815Z

Spring Song in B flatBike, B-roads, bright and breezy. Two butterflies. Big endorphin surge. Bootiful.But.A brace of dead pheasants, bright blood and paler entrails on the bitumen, and a gas-bloated badger decomposing by a field gate: sodden and battered by yesterday's rain, canines exposed in a final, fixed snarl.Another day between here and gone.

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-15762348202631670952010-02-11T18:44:00.000Z2010-02-11T18:51:34.096Z

Winter Nature NotesBeautiful winter late afternoon: clear blue sky, the sun going down in flames beyond the steam billows of Didcot power station, and some streaky grey-purple clouds in the east. Windscreen flecks of motorway salt refract the last sunlight, all scratchy on the eye.By the time I get to Junction 9, the northern sky is a perfect winter gradation: down from pale blue, to aquamarine,

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-81616066398086715082010-02-01T21:01:00.001Z2010-02-02T08:46:24.468Z

The Road Wrongly TravelledAs I've got older, its got harder not to dwell in (and upon) darkness. This is partly a function of ageing itself, and what increasing age brings with it: a decline in physical and mental capacity; family illnesses and family deaths; your peer group's struggle with parents in decline; and the way that your abstract, intellectual understanding of the certainty of death

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-21215195674104724202009-07-29T17:54:00.002Z2009-07-29T18:09:41.101Z

What're the Odds?I'm not even sure that I know how to ask the right question: that's why I need some help from a mathematician/logician/probabilityician.On Radio 3 this morning, at about 0715, the chap on the Breakfast programme played the Gloria from William Byrd's mighty Mass for Five Voices. It's a rather quiet piece, and not terribly audible on the M40 at 70mph, so I switched over to my iPod,

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-25508166938135230232008-10-28T19:11:00.000Z2008-10-28T19:20:16.278Z

Autumn into WinterMiraculously beautiful morning today. Set off in the dark in the slightly fogged-up car after scraping ice from the windscreen and side windows: the ice is always crustier on the west-facing windows, for some reason - more ridges, requiring more elbow grease. Once the light started fading up above the motorway, it turned into a chillily beautiful, Hardyesque pastoral scene: a

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-62958538141311036222008-04-15T18:17:00.001Z2008-04-15T18:51:47.016Z

Snow in AprilA very chilly, sunny Sunday morning in April; the snow on the trees starting to melt, falling from the branches and slithering down the back of my neck as I cycle around the lanes; new lambs bleating and wondering 'what the baaaaaa is this?Snow in April 1Snow in April 2Snow in April 3

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-64837895372529216832008-04-01T19:05:00.000Z2008-04-01T19:07:20.374Z

Epiphanies Like London BusesYou know how it is: you go weeks and weeks without a single epiphany, and then two of them come along at once. Well, maybe not simultaneously - let's say a week apart. And neither of them was red, it must be said, or had numbers and destinations displayed on the front. Those things apart, these epiphanies were uncannily like London buses. Uncannily so.Epiphany number 1

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-9647241398669920652008-03-29T07:57:00.000Z2008-03-29T08:02:45.848Z

CornMy subconscious popped up a punchline this morning for a terrible, corny, shaggy-dog-story kind of a joke, which would probably involve a clumsy journalist interviewing Lionel Richie over breakfast at Lionel's hotel; the set-up would feature the accidental flicking of toast-related preserves onto Lionel's clothing, between two and four times. Clearly the punchline would involve the words "But

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-45208740982803861422008-03-26T20:47:00.000Z2008-03-26T20:58:35.754Z

BombsI'm coming towards the end of Keith Lowe's Inferno: The Devastation of Hamburg, 1943. This is an interesting book, which tells 'both sides' of the story of the RAF/USAAF bombing of the German city; there are some slightly strange (to my mind) tonal elements that sit a little awkwardly with the generally measured, objective and sombre tone of the book (as if he's trying too hard to create a

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-16589602523479432352008-03-03T18:24:00.001Z2008-03-03T18:53:32.574Z

Skyscape Number 76So. Driving home late this afternoon. The inside of my car is full of bright sunlight from the low-ish sun; in the middle distance, the still-wintry landscape of brown fields, bare trees, the odd streak of green or tan; in the far distance, a great curtain of grey-black cloud, with a scouring of paler grey in front - rain or snow falling - and a seam of paler sky showing between

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-41897290009050273242008-02-22T21:12:00.001Z2008-02-22T21:22:06.547Z

The ReturnPutting.Some.Words.In.A.Line.So simple and so pleasurable. All of my life can be seen as a word-based reflection/commentary/stream of thoughts; without the words there is no life, there is no consciousness. There is nothing to leave behind. Words and language are everything - and yet we waste them.Coming up with a phrase or a well-balanced sentence is so pleasurable: there was something

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-68407867053134768522007-10-12T14:37:00.000Z2007-10-12T14:41:17.243Z

Cinematic SibilanceI've watched two films this week: Atonement (at the cinema) and The Seventh Seal (a reviewing on DVD after seeing it first about 20 years ago). I think Atonement is probably the best film I've seen this year. I came away from the cinema feeling sad and reflective, while at the same time excited by what I had just seen, in the sense of being reminded how art can sometimes

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-16577717866974217492007-07-24T19:18:00.000Z2007-07-24T19:30:07.640Z

Natural History Museum, Oxford. Monday. Cretaceous periodLink

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-83780340905759112102007-07-17T21:29:00.000Z2007-07-17T21:38:07.302Z

Memories/Memoir and/as TherapyI’ve been reading Jonathan Franzen’s "The Discomfort Zone". It’s primarily a memoir of his childhood and adolescence, his relationship with his mother when she was terminally ill, with the sale of the former family home after her death as the initial point of departure. As almost always happens when I’m reading other people’s memoirs about their childhood, I find

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-72384911113635621832007-04-15T21:10:00.000Z2007-04-15T21:11:36.034Z

I love.........this tree. It does this every year, beautifully.

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-54858951068804911782007-04-14T14:55:00.000Z2007-04-14T14:57:46.853Z

Vapour trailsI love what air and water can do.

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-61296342510211065662007-04-14T14:46:00.000Z2007-04-14T14:47:46.309Z

What the expletive is going on?Every TV and radio news bulletin, plus the BBC News website, has, as their main story, the news that Prince William and his girlfriend are splitting up.WHAAAAAAT? Clearly somebody has redefined the meaning of 'news' while I had my back turned. Sometimes I despair about my country and its culture.

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-23024932933048425772007-04-13T22:10:00.000Z2007-04-13T22:22:05.176Z

Yes, it has.Been a while, that is. Not sure why. Secretiveness? Laziness? Wariness? Mm.Anyway. It struck me that all the news reports I heard (on UK TV/radio) about the bombing inside the Iraqi parliament talked about how the blast had killed 'three MPs and five others'. Look at that bit in inverted commas.The implicit assumption is that the people from the political class are more important than

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-15924731048909699582007-02-28T22:18:00.001Z2007-02-28T22:19:00.373Z

Thomas and Denis in the FieldI strain to lift my backside off the ground and the weight on my shifts a little, so I settle back down onto the ground and push at the rags with my hands. The rags are slippery wet, with something spongy inside them, but I get some purchase on them and they start sliding down my legs, the backs of which are aching with the effort and the use of unaccustomed muscles.

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-57915314821520603192007-02-22T23:25:00.001Z2007-02-22T23:25:42.957Z

Denis: his aside about memory…{placement?}It’s funny how I can remember so much from that time, and yet I can barely remember what I did yesterday. Whenever I watch a detective thing on the TV and the police officers ask somebody what they were doing on a particular day six months ago, I realise how far-fetched these whole things are, they way that they always ask the same questions. It’s not

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-15896697314822554972007-02-15T22:09:00.000Z2007-02-15T22:10:38.446Z

Denis and ThomasThomas leads me right around to the far end of the bar and through a door into another room, where there are more seats, but where it’s quieter and darker: the ceiling lights are all turned off, and the tables and chairs are only illuminated by the light spilling from the bar; beyond the bright bar lights and the scurrying figures of the barmaids I can see the throng of men that

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-54489462037912331592007-02-13T22:58:00.000Z2007-02-12T22:40:03.192Z

Denis and ThomasBehind the curtains, the little stage is lit by streaks of light and the reflected pallor of the yellowed ceiling. The other boy pulls the curtains together, and immediately it feels quieter, cut off and private, despite the heave and hum of the drunk men in the bar. Thomas sits down on a fold-up wooden chair; there are others stacked at the back of the stage, as well as a couple

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-12478825398055314902007-02-12T22:33:00.000Z2007-02-12T22:10:36.358Z

Cacktopia - 1. The openingShe's convinced that everyone's life has an arc, like a line on a graph. Most of the time, when you're in the midst of your life, you might have a sense of the ups and downs of the day, the week, the month, the year. But it's only with distance, with the perspective of the years, that you can see the shape of the arc; and the whole arc can only be plotted when you are

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-89631298458051910622007-02-10T18:23:00.000Z2007-02-10T18:36:51.506Z

Denis: Thomas’ Bloody Death(…to the soundtrack of Vaughan Williams’ Phantasy Quintet and Yes’ “The Gates of Delerium”?)Whenever we went to recover vehicles that had been disabled in combat, we couldn’t resist trying to reconstruct the circumstances of the fighting that had taken place. When our convoy of recovery trucks, cranes and trailers slithered to a halt at the edge of the snowy field that

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1171033746639211352007-02-09T15:07:00.000Z2007-02-09T16:54:42.976Z

My lovely new digital radio: it's a beaut! Originally uploaded by andycorsham.

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1171033426463973342007-02-09T15:02:00.000Z2007-02-09T16:53:37.756Z

Multimedia message Originally uploaded by andycorsham.

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1171033416242156422007-02-09T15:01:00.001Z2007-02-09T16:52:55.206Z

Multimedia message Originally uploaded by andycorsham.

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1171033373481529182007-02-09T15:01:00.000Z2007-02-09T16:52:09.383Z

Multimedia message Originally uploaded by andycorsham.

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1170883503109861322007-02-07T21:23:00.000Z2007-02-09T06:45:15.626Z

Multimedia message Originally uploaded by andycorsham.

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1170800813834484862007-02-06T22:21:00.000Z2007-02-06T22:26:54.413Z

Denis at the doorLuckily, someone inside the door starts pulling on it. The hinges squeak and the bottom of the door grates on something and gets stuck, so the person inside shoves the door towards me and then tries again, with the same result. I hear the man inside muttering and huffing, and he kicks at the bottom of the door and then tries pushing and pulling it some more. I look over my

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1170708584814870402007-02-05T20:48:00.000Z2007-02-05T20:49:45.296Z

Denis outside the barOutside, the day is tipping over into evening; the sky between the buildings, overcast all day, is flattened into a uniform grey. The building frontages have lost all possibility of detailed contrast now that the invisible sun has dipped below the taller [city financial district] buildings to the West. Already there’s a faint damp, smoky smell in the air as the temperature

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Denis Again Again“Denis! Oi, Denis!” – it’s pappi’s voice, but I have to wait until he shouts again before I can find out the direction that his voice came from. But there he is, off to the left, around by the wall where the bar curves inwards towards a door next to the bottles. I find my way around the legs of the men, which make me think of the forest of tree trunks I’ve seen in one of the

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1170361693827911942007-02-01T20:26:00.000Z2007-02-01T21:36:16.373Z

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Denis AgainThe rain has stopped and the sky has cleared a little while I have been playing around on the trams inside the depot, and the crowds on the street is thinner now that the morning has passed. There are more women and girls on the street now, and fewer men in dark clothes and overalls. Young women seem to be gathered in little groups on the street corners, smoking cigarettes and laughing

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1170197301358971212007-01-30T22:48:00.000Z2007-01-30T22:48:21.706Z

Milk and Static - 2I'm a bit obsessed with recalling and recording the past at the moment, especially the time when I was on the cusp of adolescence. Another of my current manias is to think about my life in terms of the music that I associate with specific periods, events and moods. It's a bit of a nostalgia thingy, but I think I'm trying to capture as much of it as I can before age, distance,

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1170110228352569352007-01-29T22:36:00.001Z2007-01-29T22:37:09.250Z

Static and Milk (1)I'm not sure how I first started doing milk deliveries as my Saturday job, but I suspect that I got the gig through Stephen H, who was already 'on the milk'. The more I think about it, the more certain that that's right, because my first milk round memory is standing in the H family's dimly-lit kitchen in the pre-dawn dark while Stephen made us instant coffee in those

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CH3CH2OH - Part 3So. I'm 11 or 12, I guess, making the transition between 'junior' and 'senior' school: when I was a kid, you were in the 'infants' school from 5-7 (ish), juniors from 8-11, and senior school from 12-16 (or 18 if you stayed on and did A-levels); I grew up with the idea that people who 'stayed on' were a bit 'poncey' or 'up themselves'. Neither of those phrases existed in those

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CH3CH2OH - part 2So, where was I? Ah yes, listening to the near-silence at the end of that King Crimson album in that early 70s bedroom, one afternoon after school. The lisp of the dust-muffled needle is slurring across the album run-out, the tone arm veering in towards the LP's centre and the shiny chrome - what's it called? the spindle? Christ, how can I have forgotten that? Bloody digital age.

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CH3CH2OH - part 1There's a scene transition in Children of Men where you find yourself looking out through the windscreen of a Rolls-Royce as it negotiates its way through one of the film's many grunge-laden and crowd-congealed streets. The soundtrack to this traverse is the final track from the old King Crimson LP, In the Court of the Crimson King. This is one of the albums that I have to thank

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1169498256768737312007-01-22T20:36:00.000Z2007-01-22T20:37:37.046Z

Thing“What makes Dystopias so compelling is that they confirm us in our belief that we have seen the world as it truly is, at its bleak, horrific worst in those moments when the baseness and brutality of humanity is most vivid and heart-sinkingly pervasive. Those times when we’re stripped momentarily of our idealism and hope, and can see that it’s all gone to shit and that it will never get

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1169406323594976412007-01-21T19:02:00.000Z2007-01-21T19:05:24.463Z

FilmHave you seen Children of Men? It's well worth seeing.

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1168981465873065462007-01-16T21:03:00.000Z2007-01-16T21:04:26.250Z

DenisThe men are playing cards on top of a wooden crate. One of them says, “What can we do for you, son? You look a bit lost, mate,” without taking his cigarette out of his mouth, and one of the others laughs a funny gurgly laugh that sounded like spit and stones being stirred in a bucket.I said, “Have you seen my pappi, please? I can’t find him.”They look at each other and snigger. One of them

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Everyday Epiphanies, part 423I've watched every episode of Six Feet Under, and I know that I, all of my family and everyone I know will die, however much I love them. I know, I know, I know it: but I live in denial - I suppose most of us do. As so often, there's that gap between the understanding of the intellect and the emotional understanding and acceptance that you have to have before you

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More DenisYes, I know: this is rambling and directionless. But that's how I find novel-writing works for me; I find something, and follow it, and it wanders in a certain direction until it reaches what feels like an end-point. My writing isn't driven by tight plotting (not this time, anyway...), and these digressions and meanders are part of my 'finding the story' - I have a broad framework for

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Denis (poor little lad)One day, when I was still quite small, pappi took me to work with him. He was wearing his dark green [? – and cf earlier ‘coming home from work’ memories…] overalls that smelt of washing soap and oil, and a black cap with a little stiff peak that he pulled down over his eyes a little bit. I remember sitting on his lap on the tram, feeling the judder and bump of the tram as

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Multimedia message Originally uploaded by andycorsham.

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Blossom. January 5th... Originally uploaded by andycorsham.

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1167942145629233072007-01-04T20:17:00.000Z2007-01-04T20:23:11.643Z

I Know, I know...Still a bit dormant at the moment, because trying to reconcile the new year, being back at work, being out of condition, living in a new environment and - the result of all these - feeling like I'm really short of energy. However, there are some promising signs: I wrote a few (novel) words tonight; I'm back on a healthy eating regime; and I have been laughing and smiling a lot

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AnewHappy new year to you - whichever calendar system you happen to be on.

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1167431019413827342006-12-29T22:22:00.000Z2006-12-29T22:23:39.663Z

Dream and Memory FloodI'm in one of those funny phases at the moment, when all of the channels are open, and all of the pipes are connected, and memories and vivid dream images are able to flood through into my consciousness and my subconscious.Last night, for example, I had two extremely vivid dreams. The first one involved me standing on a football terrace with my little brother, in a time that

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Transformations[Calendar note - this refers to Saturday 23rd December] Travelling in to London on the train yesterday, I noticed that there were patches of foggy countryside where the trackside trees were all liberally sprinkled with a Christmassy frosting of - well, of frost. These trees looked clean and crusty white - like the thick white icing on a home-made Christmas cake against the duller

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1166473968026382872006-12-18T20:32:00.000Z2006-12-18T20:32:48.510Z

Denis again: starting putting words in a line again at lastFurther along, the shopping streets give way for a while to some more open areas, flanked by grass- and tree-planted green spaces with benches and flower beds, and sometimes a small bandstand or an over scale chess set. Then you came to the part of town where all the [Jews] lived: the poorer [Jews], that is – the men with their beards and

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1166307251768383792006-12-16T22:12:00.000Z2006-12-16T22:14:13.026Z

Open/ShutI took a lovely drive this morning: cross country from Woodford Halse (Northants) to Long Stratton (Norfolk) via the A14/A11/A140, to pick up my 70-year-old mother, newly-returned from her latest late-flowered holiday trip - Prague, this time.I had intended to drive over on Friday night straight after work, but a sleepy head and the prospect of crawling round the M25 and along the A12

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1166041199456447192006-12-13T20:19:00.000Z2006-12-13T20:19:59.803Z

P l a c e h o l d e rWell, here we are...my cold starting to fade, and my new job starting to lose its grip on me, freeing me up gradually so that I can give my attention to other things apart from work. It's always all-encompassing and knackering at first, innit?Anyway. Having access to a broadband connection, I had a bit of a play at 'Second Life'. After registering and setting up my avatar, I

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1165869404602444552006-12-11T20:34:00.000Z2006-12-11T20:36:44.930Z

S t i l l o n p a u s e, s o m e w h a tA bit quiet around here, I know: I'm a bit preoccupied with my new job and living arrangements, plus I have a reet manky cold (bah humbug). I've pledged to myself that I'll start to get back on track on...Wednesday this week.Thank you for your patience.

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1165515535650098532006-12-07T18:17:00.000Z2006-12-07T18:18:56.883Z

H i a t u sJust started a new job in a new location - hope to return to prolificness next week...

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1164921653005551892006-11-30T21:19:00.000Z2006-11-30T21:20:55.260Z

Gabriella half-pissed rant fragment – for somewhere...The central paradox, it seems to me, comes down to this: one, you look at the world around you every day, at all scales, and it’s boring and hard and ugly and plain fucking brutal for most – especially for the people who don’t live in our cosy, economically dominant little Western/Northern bubble, with our historically supreme capitalist

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1164893234829488772006-11-30T13:27:00.001Z2006-11-30T13:28:25.366Z

Multimedia message Originally uploaded by andycorsham.

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Reading and RememberingAt the moment I'm reading Robert Fisk's The Great War for Civilisation which, as the title doesn't really suggest in an obvious way, is his collected/reworked journalism/memoir from his foreign correspondent postings in the Middle East (as it used to be called when I was a nipper). This is an excellent read so far, for three main reasons: (1) The prose is very tight,

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PietersMaybe I am too soft. Like that time I found that blackbird in our back yard, mauled by a cat. This is – what? – fifteen years ago now? And I tried to kill it, to put it out of its misery, but it just wouldn’t die. I can’t really think about it still, it’s such a horrible memory. I think I got a bit tougher for a while after that – closed off a bit, and didn’t let things hurt me or get

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PietersIt’s almost frightening to think about how long ago I started in this job…how long I’ve been here. It’s nearly eight years. Christ, just thinking about that number takes me aback every time – how could so much time have passed, almost without me noticing? Frightening, frightening. Anyway. Back then the department didn’t even supply the free boots, so you had to wear your own. That year,

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1164639155550369222006-11-27T14:44:00.000Z2006-11-27T18:03:32.420Z

Wall/light/light Originally uploaded by andyc.

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The Customs Officer – Pieters?There’s history here – that’s one of the things about the job that he loves. There’s been a customs post here for more than five hundred years. Think about that: a building on this very spot for five centuries, serving the same purpose for decade after decade after decade. All of the people who have served here and lived in the accommodation, all serving their

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Odd richnessI don't know why, but my dreams over the last couple of nights have been very vivid, rich and varied. I've been married to Madonna (who was surprisingly down to earth, loving and considerate); run away from Starsky and Hutch (who were, surprisingly, both vampires); sat next to a bloke called 'Terminator' who was a 6 foot 5 inch cross between the Harvey Keitel character in Pulp Fiction

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1164480264209544062006-11-25T18:41:00.000Z2006-11-25T18:44:24.596Z

HendricksHe doesn’t actually enjoy seeing people struggle and flounder, but he does prefer them to damn themselves rather than go through the collected evidence and series of failures – which he finds much more sordid and depressing. So he gives them plenty of rope, and time, and lets them get on with it. Ultimately there’s not going to be any argument about his decision, so any semblance of a

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1164325883068207362006-11-23T23:50:00.000Z2006-11-23T23:51:33.196Z

Hope, hopeIan Fleming's first novel - Casino Royale - was published in 1953, when he was 45.I'm 44. 44.Hurrah!

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1164310266196803012006-11-23T19:28:00.000Z2006-11-23T19:31:11.903Z

03.00 The Right Honourable Councillor Peter Hendricks, in his office in the Palace of Councils building (Interior Ministry)In the mist and dusk Hendricks can just about make out the shape of the cathedral tower on the other side of the Palace of Councils’ plaza [?]. The cathedral bells’ three o’clock chimes are shuffling their muffled way through the damp air. He presses his face against the

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1164237564031205262006-11-22T23:11:00.000Z2006-11-26T16:35:24.390Z

Multimedia message Originally uploaded by andycorsham.

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Gabriella[The soldier/he] remembers how strong and secure he felt then: his mother and father providing him with everything in the comfort of their sturdy village home, and he was young and healthy, with all the possibilities of his life still open before him: the village, the market town, the more distant city and, from the port there, the great river to the sea. And then across the whole world,

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1164141720834067372006-11-21T20:39:00.000Z2006-11-21T20:42:04.070Z

Gabriella When I think of those woods, and that hill in the moonlight, I see the mess and chaos left behind in the evening after the battle that took place there, many years before the little girl was born. Nanny Anna’s stories often included references to this battle, and to soldiers, and to the wars that seem to have been the constant backdrop to the lives of the people in the village and in

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TuesdayAnother flawless winter's day. Managed a quick 12 mile circuit on my bike this morning, not wearing enough layers on my torso. Brrrrr... I say 'quick', but actually the wind was an icy bully with a longer reach than me, and it reached out its bony hands and put them flat against my chest, pushing me backwards for half of the circuit. Bastard.

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1164094680911186702006-11-21T07:28:00.000Z2006-11-21T07:38:06.383Z

DailyI'm aiming to post something on here daily at the moment. I've got two weeks off between jobs, which should allow me - theoretically - to concentrate on being creative. However, I think I'm still just getting used to the removal of the daily discipline of working hours: yesterday I kept feeling as if I should be 'doing something' - that non-specific sense of being driven, and time-limited.

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1164029942653560962006-11-20T13:37:00.000Z2006-11-20T13:39:04.003Z

Being StillEverything's moving, too muchFlowing and spinning past,But, once in a while,You turn your head and look outThrough the window of the fast-moving trainAnd the blurred confusion of the night-darkenedCity's brick walls and lighted back windowsPivots past, controlled, like meshed gears,And you see the trackside room whole,Profoundly clear and impressed.

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1163958181727252622006-11-19T17:38:00.000Z2006-11-19T17:43:04.830Z

Casino RoyaleThe last Bond film I saw at the pictures was Live and Let Die. That would have been in 1973, at the Ealing ABC, I think. Between now and then, if you'd asked me to characterise Bond films, I would have thought of Roger Moore's stiltedly-arched eyebrow, and his knowing eye contact with the camera: that camp self-awareness and self-referentiality, coupled with schoolboy-level sexual

Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10064855305042230736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3313997.post-1163712944284554922006-11-16T21:34:00.000Z2006-11-16T21:42:00.110Z

DreamsI will look into dreams more, I think: I was thinking about them in the bog today while I watched the cloud-dodging light flicker on the pebbled glass. Dreams are everywhere you look in literature, in film, in TV shows. Clearly I haven't made a study or anything, yet, but what strikes me is that dreams are universal, and that they reveal things to us that we already know (but can't

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