moment_of_clarity#2

sitting in wooden pews in a candlelit church at Christmas

moment_of_clarity#1

waking up after sleeping in the car

studioview-3-a

studioview-2-e

studioview-2-d/in_tent_city

_richard foster saith

"allow the blaring noise of our modern megalopolis to be overtaken by the sound of rustling leaves and cool forest streams"

David Scales' mirror noir

http://cdn.stereogum.com/mp3/Arcade%20Fire%20-%20Black%20Mirror%20(team9%20Remix).mp3

studioview-2-c

If you do need to break the silence...

http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/science/rams/birdsong-blackbird.ram
http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/science/rams/birdsong-nightingale.ram

S _ _ E _ _ E

hello. i've not disappeared. i'm just thinking//
when was the last time you embraced silence?
turned off the background noise and listened?

something_from_something

studioview-2-b

studioview-2-a

studioview-1-e

studioview-1-d

studioview-1-c

_through the mist

Through the mist stands a tower
That no-one has seen
But on every hour
The chimes resound
As the bells ring out
In dusty old books
Pictures and graphs
Estimate details
And speculate facts
Of the tower’s age and its origin.

If legend’s believed then guarding the tower’s doors
Are a brethren of owls who chase away trespassers.

Late in the night the villagers meet
To share their proposals of who it should be
To walk through the mist
Outside of the walls
To see if there’s really a tower at all
But week after week there’s no volunteer
Just frozen expressions and unspoken fear
Sooner or later all will be clear
On one sunny morn when the mist disappears

Seven miles north of Robin Hood’s Bay
There’s a series of potholes
That run right the way to the western tip of the Peak District.
After every four years at quarter to three
A genius flautist appears from the caves
Playing skilfully
The purest of melodies

After every performance a squadron of local moles
Shout out their encores although it’s to no avail

Just out of sight
With a hipflask of gin
There’s a record executive stroking his chin
Pondering life and what it all means
And whether he’s satisfied sealing his deals
Maybe he’ll sell everything that he owns
To purchase a beautiful North Yorkshire home
The fresh country air of Hutton-le-Hole
Has got to be better than selling fool’s gold.

On a clear cloudless night we turn of the headlights
When the moon shines so bright we can see the way

Climbing up the winding staircase
Looking at the hedgehog landscape
Scratch away the thin veneer
Underneath lies the original features

_the factory in a garden

Put your tools down
Put your tools down
We won't be long
We won't be long

16,000 people gathering in deep respect
Everyone a testament of the life he'd given them
For he built their houses
Planted each a garden
Gave them back their dignity
Taught their children literacy
16,000 people given opportunity
Rescued from obscurity
Lifted out of poverty
Treated individually
Not as a commodity
Room to stretch and spread their wings
Not caged in as battery hens

//systematic behaviour

studioview-1-b

studioview-1-a

ROOM TO RENT

in large town house
£37 per week

The successful applicant will be quietly engaging, uncomplicatedly complicated and have an appreciation for home baked bread.
NO GLITTER BALLS
NO STILETTOS
NO ARGOS BREAD MACHINES

Interviews to take place Thursday 11th September. Bring an object with you that somehow expresses your personality.

The long awaited Nils Olav album will be released on @! the 2* of maycember and will sound like this...

Prepare to be outrageously moved

Ol'bigmouth

re: splutter for the gutter

Not a word to anyone
Open eyes
Breathless sigh
Slightest detail magnified
Faintest sound amplified
Every sense;
vivid.
awoken.
One Breath
vivid.
awoken.
Not a word for anyone
Only space

You lucky people

Tha' ain't my bag

After Pascal's death

Here are some more lyrics//this song won't be on the first album because the recording makes it sound like a cha-cha-cha calypso song. It wasn't intentional. These things happen.// it may be released at a later date with a little healthy revision.

After Pascal's death a servant discovered
Sewn in to his coat a scrap of parchment
That apparently he carried around
Among it's breathless lines and broken phrases
Read a true insight - a cry of amazement
An experience only God himself can give

and it said...
Non des philosophes et des savants
Certitude! Certitude!
It's not to scholars or philosophers
Not to learning, but to love

From a mind so brilliant
Came a truth so humbling
That wisdom speaks
To those who seek that which cannot be found from within
There's no disgrace nor any shame
In risking all in simple faith
No words describe the peace of mind
For those who trust in what they don't see

Père juste, le monde ne t'a point connu, mais je t'ai connu
Righteous Father, they have not known you, but I have known You

_storyline

Tsar-y it's been a while...

'Everybody thinks of changing humanity and nobody thinks of changing himself'

Leo Tolstoy, when asked if he wanted a cup of tea. A simple yes or no would've sufficed.

Arggggghhhhhhhhh

Arrgggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

....that's better

O Wonderful Night

Gazing through the window, curtains open, kneeling on the wooden chair
Street-lamps gleam unveiling falling snowflakes
Gently floating in the air
Such unexpected sight!
How welcome here this winter's night!

Ancient leather suitcase full of knitted clothes we plunder once a year
Cosy woollen jumpers, tucked in tightly over many, many layers
Wrapped up from head to toe
No part besides from eyes exposed

Racing down the stairs, across the hall and out the door
Skidding recklessly, sent crashing to the frosty floor
We close our eyes to take us to this very place
When you least expect the answer stares you in the face
I was born nearby
I was born nearby

Sneaking through the car park, past the broken fence
Our footprints on the course
Clutching to the sleigh string, every 20 yards the snow needs emptying
We take it in turns to ride
With one decent sledge out the five

Haring down the fairway, everytime we try to stand we tumble down
Softer than a mattress; not a graze when falling headfirst to the ground
So scarcely seen again
Til' the fox and badgers share their dens

Back beside the fire, the chillblaines let us know we're home
Sipping sugared tea, the radiators clunk and moan
We snuggle up, Our frozen bodies huddled close
It's often said, "the kindest things can hurt the most"
They expose the bones
They expose the bones

oh-ooo-o-e-o-e-oh
oh-e-o-e-o-e-yeahhh
oh-ooo-o-e-o-uuu-oh

I was born nearby, I was born nearby

five to six

_promised_land//

Get this man to commentate on MOTD immediately

"Walcott. Waaal-cott. Theo, theo, theo, theo, theo, theo Walcott"

The magnificent machine of cogs: Part 7

With all the might they could muster and
with cheers of encouragement from the crowd, they
managed to place the cog back into the machine.
As its teeth clicked into place with those of two smaller
cogs a miraculous noise was heard. It was the sound of
the cogs, one by one beginning to re-spin. Slowly but
surely the cogs turned one another until the machine
was back to its original, magnificent self. It ticked
and ticked and ticked away. Its mechanisms were smooth and
consistent, it would never fail to rotate once again.
Come daylight, come eventide. It would spin. Spin. Spin.
The people celebrated. Quite a lot of food was eaten.
Lots of rhubarb wine was drank, although people were
very restrained and knew when enough was enough. The
Mayor, wearing a rather splendid new coat spoke to the
townfolk; "We have learnt a great lesson together.
But, had it it not been for a very wise oak of a lady
we would not have known what to do. Her famous words
will be written down on a dead posh bit of paper
and displayed where the cog that we removed was going
to be placed. It will be a permanent reminder of her wisdom.
May we never forget the role the little cogs play in our great machine".

The magnificent machine of cogs: Part 6

With a desperate cry the Mayor lamented, "Oh marvellous cog!
Oh great machine! Why do you spin no more? For years you
have spun continually, consistently, majestically? Why
do you spin no more?".
From the back of the crowd, in no more than a whisper
Lena Jackdaw spoke, "It is the little cogs, those that are seemingly
unimportant and unspectacular that drive the largest cogs around.
The little ones turn the big ones and the machine works
perfectly. It's wholly amicable. The big cogs return
the favour, helping to rotate the wee ones.
Micro-Macro harmony. One big happy family".
Upon hearing Mrs Jackdaw's words, the Mayor responded
hastily. "Let's get to it!", he said, "Vaughan and Garr-Reth, lift the
largest cog and set it where it belongs, in the heart of the machine".

Oh dear, oh dear

"and then the Lord told Sarah to shoot the foreigner"

Meet my son-in-law

The magnificent machine of cogs: Part 5

The head engineer addressed the crowd, "When the tuba
sounds, with one great heave Vaughan and Garr-Reth
will push the cog from the machine. Only then can you
offer applause". The people watched as the cogs
continued to spin momentously. As the musician, who as
it happens was called Donald, raised the tuba to
his mouth the people gasped. Donald unfortunately got a
tickle in his throat, but after clearing it, and after
another gasp from the townfolk the tuba was sounded.
Vaughan and Garr-Reth pushed with all their might and
the largest cog was dislodged from the machine.
The cog fell to the floor, offered a few desperate
rotations and ground to a halt. It lay there
motionless. A lifeless heap. Furthermore, the cogs in
the machine, which just a few seconds previously had
been spinning relentlessly, slowly ceased to turn.
The crowd were silent.
Not a single pair of hands clapped together.
Not a single cheer.
The mayor, astonished, fell to his knees.

to be continued tomorrow...

The magnificent machine of cogs: Part 4

Lena Jackdaw was a very wise oak of a lady. She lived
in a treetop barn conversion, and a very nice one at
that. She hadn't spoken a word to any of the town
folk in many years. Not through malice, she was
just having a rest.

The magnificent machine of cogs: Part 3

The very next morning, at the first hint of sunlight,
a team of highly skilled engineers set out to remove
the largest, most splendid cog. The machine had been
in continual operation for many years and no one could
remember how to bring it to a halt. For as long as
anyone could remember the cogs were in motion. Come
daylight, come eventide. Spin. Spin. Spin. After
hours of discussion, flawed brainwaves and many glasses of
rhubarb wine, the engineers agreed that there was only
one way to remove the cog. The machine could not be
stopped, so the cog would need to be pushed with
one great heave, mid-motion. The strongest townfolk were
called to push the cog at the necessary time.
The entire population of the town gathered for the
removal of the most magnificent cog. Amongst the
melee was Lena Jackdaw.

Seventhoughts

Employer of the month

I wrote a song called 'The factory in the garden", which was inspired by the story of George Cadbury.

You can read about his life here...
http://www.markroques.com/story1.htm

The magnificent machine of cogs: Part 2

One day the town Mayor went to inspect the machine.
He had heard about it from Mr Johann Shmidt, the local
greengrocer who enthused rhapsodically, "Your Mayor-jesty
you must see this magnificent machine with your own own eye".
The Mayor had unfortunately lost sight in his right eye,
for when he was a bairn he fell on an axe, having
misunderstood Jesus' command to take the log out of
one's eye rather than the speck out of a neighbour's.
Upon seeing the beautiful grandeur of the machine the
Mayor burst into spontaneous applause. He was aghast,
dumbfounded by the sheer brilliance of the structure.
It was a compositional miracle. Not only was it
operationally astounding, but the craftsmanship was
breathtakingly phenomenal. This was obviously a well
cared for machine. Lovingly maintained. It shone
majestically, radiating brilliantly. It was hard to
look up at it without shielding one's eye. In a
trembling voice the Mayor spoke, "...I have never seen
anything quite so magnificent as what is before me
right now. I am lost for words... simply
flabbergasted". With shaking hands the Mayor pointed
to the largest of the cogs and continued to speak,
"That cog must be honoured. It is the greatest of all
the cogs in the machine. Remove
it immediately, it is
to be displayed in the centre of town and placed on a
gold foundation. Surround it with bulletproof glass to
protect it. There it will spin, come daylight, come
eventide, without the distraction of the other cogs.
The people can revel in its glory".

to be continued...

The magnificent machine of cogs: Part 1

There was a magnificent machine that ticked and ticked
and ticked away. Its mechanisms were smooth and
consistent, never failing to rotate. Come daylight,
come eventide. Spin. Spin.
Spin.
The machine was always well cared for. It sparkled. A
scintillating glitter! People would note with wonder
the brilliance of the machine's cogs. They were
central to the machine's operation. They held
the
machine together. Without the cogs there would be no
machine. A no show.
The machine was built up of many cogs of all
different shapes and sizes. Each cog shone to a
different degree. Some dazzled brightly whilst others
glimmered and gleamed. Some of the cogs were of grand
proportions, whilst others were miniscule. The tiniest
cog had the most intricate of features. Detail itself.
It did not shine as brightly as the other cogs though.

Sir Nils Olav - Colonel in Chief of the Norwegian Royal Guard

"Nils Olav is a very, very good Norwegian guardsman".

Ilana Halperin

http://www.ilanahalperin.com/

Enjoy!

A comprehensive rulebook for the online blogger

Blog rule number 335a

Quote obscure writers, unknown artists and independent, underground bands who nobody will have heard of - You will come across as a cultured bird; interesting and 'artistically credible'. If you have been to the theatre (excluding pantomime) or read a book in the last year then communicate how much you enjoyed them, or better still how interesting, thought-provoking or moving they were. You will be invited to dinner parties at large, detached houses in no time.

Abandoned lyrics

Beneath the sycamore we slip away
Where morning jewels anoint
the open hands of infant shoots
While watchful eyes gaze on
Samaras spinning slowly to the ground
All time is frozen motionless
A hidden masterpiece
Never to be found

Deep in to the woodland we find our new home
Deep in to the woodland we find our new home

A silent tension broods over the land
Awoken herds, astounded, lift their mighty heads in fear
for no-one knows the law
Autumnal fires illuminate the glen
Revealing silhouettes of crumbled ruined city walls
Soon to be rebuilt

Deep in to the woodland we find our new home
Deep in to the woodland we find our new home


glitter
glimmer
glisten
gleam
flicker
sparkle
shimmer
Shine
lustre
illumine
twinkle
glow
dazzle
glint
etc.

E.T.O.A.

Managed to get me 'ands on a cheapo particle åcceleraŤor.

Tell me a story. I want that milk and cookies feeling.

They're going to make a drug one day that makes you permanently high but 100% efficient. We probably won't even need to talk then. At least not to other people. We won't need to listen. Work will feel like play. Play will feel like a waste of time. We'll hold hands and say to God "why didn't you make us like this originally". Then someone dressed in purple will say "we don't believe in God anymore". We'll let go of each others hands and go back to work. We'll finish work at 9pm prompt and return home to our shelters.
- - - - - -
Better still we can sleep here tonight. We'll drink decaf coffee because scientists have proved that real coffee isn't a factual possibility. No one likes a hypocrite.
- - - - - -
Hypocrites won't be given the drug. They will have to answer the phones without the drug. Behind locked doors. No, make that bars. Bars behind doors. shut out the sunlight. No treats for bad dogs. Perhaps I'm being too kind.
- - - - - -
I liked the old celebrities more at first. They were abhorrent. But abhorrence was in fashion. People in magazines can't catch germs. Always a plus. They were easy on the eye. And give them credit; they were amongst the first to take the drug, well before anyone had really heard of it.

But
we don't need to buy the magazines anymore. We're too focussed. We DON'T have time. We DO have more money saved up for that rainy day.
- - - - - -
I dropped my keys on the floor yesterday. Had to go and get a new door. I could've locked myself out if it wasn't for some quick thinking. Do you have to report yourself if you break in to your own house? Where was I?
- - - - - -
The last time I spoke to anyone was two days after my grandmother died. People didn't believe what you told them in those days. You had to put a sarcastic accent on everything. I remember being sincere and everyone laughed. I remember telling a joke and nobody laughed. I told them it was ironic and they bought me a drink. They said I should do stand-up. I defiled myself. That's why I took the drug. The habitat that I had grown up in would no longer be able to rub off on me. That could only be a good thing. You can't defile that which is no longer sacred. My sacrosanctity so to speak would no longer be an issue. I rarely related to maths, but this equation circled my brain endlessly;

upbringing (inc. environment) + relationships ÷ conscience = personality

My conscience was telling me that I needed to keep certain things sacred. That didn't seem fair to me. Other people had an influence over how I should behave. How dare they!
So I...
- - - - - - -