Sinister: cirrus

[Gordon]

I bought all the EP's. Now I know what *being a rebel's fine* refers to.

Lazy Line Painter Jane is the best I've ever heard.

A man writes in the (formerly the Manchester)Guardian newspaper that
Stuart Murdoch's original constituency are now served anti-depressant
medication and opportunities in the teaching profession. Although the
band, in the reviewer's opinion (and mine) are going from 'strength to
strength' their fan-base is now a 'core audience of passionate devotees,
misfits of too delicate a constitution to even stomach Pulp.'
Whilst the review isn't exactly a hagiography I do detect some sympathy
there.
And whilst Pulp are a band I've yet to listen to I did go see James
Macmillan's *Ines de Castro* at the opera. Although there was a torture
scene followed by what can best be described as Francis Bacon's
Screaming Pope brought to life and volumetrically encompassing singing
that nearly reduced me to tears of horror. But we go there, mister
reviewer.

I think the EP's are the keys to this list: all the references I never
got before.

The monologue 'A Century of Elvis' is a bit like one of the Peel session
tracks where the Go-betweens are name-checked. I taped peely but my
recorder seems to have an internal respect of copyright law and whilst I
pushed all the buttons and the magnetic tape rolled nothing was
recorded.

Thanks Richard for the name of a whistling novelty artiste, which I now
have in my wallet and shall find, one way or another.

I visited a Scottish castle this afternoon: grand doorway in a tower.
There used to be avenues stretching towards the four corners; rose
be-decked parterres assembled towards the distant winding silver river
Forth. No more, but there remains a grand stair leading to jigsaw
volumes and a painting on the first level reminds one of one's location.
It is resolved on the roof: a panorama of treetops close; factories;
powerstations semi and silvery waters and hills and mountains variously
distant. There is a bird's nest in a tiny niche... empty except for a
feather. I looked but didn't touch.

Below was an art show. Good art, like serious proper internationally
important stuff. They had to abseil the larger canvasses through the
windows. A woman; the artist, grew up in the town under the shadow of
the war, and recalls dreams of her father in the north Atlantic waters
and her mother's hands as she kneads dough for the bakery: an endurance
of love with some evervescent tingle of the horror of the bloodshed and
unknown and the tender strength of feet and hands.

Then I waited for a phonecall, which I seemed to miss.

How the mind is variously focused and distracted: is it a power-play?

JUst ConFusIon. That's all.

:)

Gordon


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