Magic don't work if you don't believe in it

A dear old friend said something yesterday that gave me pause.  ‘Magic don’t work if you don’t believe in it.’  And I thought about it, and felt about it, and I think and feel she’s right.

If you shut your eyes and close your ears and lock away your hopes and dreams behind a mile-high wall, then, sure as eggs is eggs, ain’t nothing magical going to happen, is it?   Just as you won’t win the Lottery if you don’t buy a ticket, you’ve got to meet magic halfway.  You’ve got to give Fate a chance. 

Maybe there is no real magic, maybe there are no elves and dragons, maybe there are no fairies at the end of the garden or gold at the end of the rainbow, maybe there are no fairytale princes or genies in bottles granting wishes or happy ever afters but, hey, so what if there aren't?  Let’s live as if there were, because…well, maybe because life is simply nicer than way.  And who knows?

Delusion?  Maybe.  Bonkers New Age claptrap?  Quite possibly.  But hey, who gives a fuck?  J 

If you baulk at that, then maybe change the words.  Spell it differently.  Instead of ‘magic’ say ‘good things’, say ‘chance’, say ‘serendipity’, say whatever the hell you like but just open up, allow a glimmer of hope in for hope's sake.

Sometimes you have to believe in order to let the magic happen, to give it a toehold, to let it breathe.  I’ve told you already that there was a firepit at the Pause, on the top of the sun/moon/starlit hill, within the magic circle – and we sat around it at night and talked, and meditated, and watched the stars and all sorts.  And it was lovely.  But…

‘I almost brought my guitar,’ said Sarah.

And we all sighed.  Music…that was what was missing.  Because there is nothing more magical than the combination of fire and music. 

Remember this magical fire song?

 

Lynn said that her chap Dave was a musician, and she said, ‘Shall I get him to come and play for us?’

We looked at her in amazement.  They live in Whitstable, on the East coast, and we were in Cornwall, right down in the far West, at the other end of the country. 

‘But he’s 300 miles away,’ someone said.

‘So?’ She smiled and turned to her phone. 

She whistled and he came.  Just like that.  He just got in his van and drove, not quite all night but for a heck of a long time, just to come down for an evening to play for us around the fire.  Just?  The power of Love, huh?  And it was so so magical, lounging around the fire, sipping wine, nibbling on those healthy truffles of Amy’s, and passing round Dave’s list of songs and shouting out numbers, like a Chinese menu.

And, funny thing…there had been a lot of tears during our five days at The Pause, but I hadn’t cried once.  Much as I will sob in private, I never let my defences down in public.  But when he started playing, I couldn’t help myself.  Tears welled up and I started gulping a bit.  And it was, really, deeply embarrassing because it was that old bloody standard, The Sound of Silence, the bane of my school assemblies.  How many times had I strummed it out on stage?  So clichéd.  But it just whacked me in the solar plexus and then whammied me in the heart.  And, yeah, I cried.  And was that magic?  Yup. 

Anyhow, you can book Dave for your own firepit, should you wish.  I hear he’s also pretty good at clubs and parties and anything really. Cos he's one absolutely lovely guy.  No bullshit. Just magic.  http://www.davela.co.uk

Meditating on pain; arguing with the boot

So, I have been meditating on pain.  Not out of choice (because that would be a bit perverse) but because one meditates on whatever comes up really.  I was lying there, in bed, wondering quite how to get through the night, and I thought about how pain is a message.  Pain is simply the way our body tells our mind that something is wrong.   So I acknowledged it, thanked it for letting me know all wasn’t quite right (okay, not remotely right), and promised I’d sort it out in the morning.  But it didn’t go.  So I furrowed my brow and said, ‘Okay, body, what’s this pain about then?’  And my bodymind threw out an image of a sort of dark cloud that coalesced into a boot which kicked me in the guts again and again.

‘Ouch,’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ said my bodymind.  ‘Ouch indeed.’

‘So you’re not going away?’ I said.

‘In the dreams you won't be having, baby,’ it said, and ramped up the pain factor a bit, just to show who was boss.

Well, screw you, pain, I thought.  But, of course, becoming tense and angry just made it ten times worse.  So that was when I figured I might as well meditate it.  I mean, pain is just our mind, right? It’s just messages from the brain.  So there must be an override switch, right?  And meditation works pretty well for emotional and mental pain, so why not physical?  After all, where does one end and the other begin, huh?  The boot laughed and said, 'Just our mind? Just messages? Just?  Just? JUST?'

I tried breathing it away but that didn’t work – the breaths were too long, they stretched too far. So I took the focus smaller and smaller, into each moment.  And started wondering what exactly a moment is; how small it can be.  My focus shrank smaller and smaller still.  And smaller...  Until, suddenly, there it was – no pain.  Just a sensation.  And this is nothing new but it struck me that pain is a time construct – a combination of past memory and future fear.  Rather like music.  More and more these days, as I listen to music, I find myself thinking how funny it is that we can ‘like’ a song, a piece of music, a symphony, a whatever.  When really all we ever hear in the ‘now’ is a single note or even just a part of a note.  It is purely our mind, flicking back and forth over time past and future, that creates a hologram of the whole piece of music.  And, of course, that goes for everything really – every poem, every book, every meal, every drink, every joke, every dream, every kiss, every orgasm, every day, every year, every life.  Every thing.  Strings of moments that we tug together to create meaningful ‘wholes’, chunks of time that become events or things. 

Again, nothing new.  All very Zen.  But, actually, very damn useful.  Of course, it’s hard to keep it going hour after hour.  I would struggle with pain-free meditation for eight hours.  But it bought me time.  It's buying me time. J

The Pretender...

Last night I dreamed I was at an old funfair.  Adrian said, 'This way' and I realised we were climbing up the wooden tracks of the runaway train ride. 'Is this a good idea?' I thought, but didn't say. 'The bends are blind and what if a train comes down?'  But the tracks were old and worn.  And no train came and we came to a break in the track, an opening out, and people looked at us as if we were mad and someone said, 'And why on earth would you do that?' And I shook my head and shrugged and silently agreed.

And the last few weeks, I have had this song running through my head which I can't stop. In fact, I got up even earlier than usual this morning to steal James' headphones so I could listen to it, to see if it is how I remember. But seems even his headphones don't work in my PC now. You gotta laugh, huh?  You gotta laugh.

Anyhow, you can hear it even if I can't. Can't you?  :-)

In my Pedlars-fuelled dreams...

I don’t know about you but I have these alternative fantasy lifestyles that play out inside my head.  And one pokes its nose out every time the Pedlars catalogue lands on my mat.

I browse through it and off I go again.  In this particular fantasy I am the kind of woman who goes off camping in wild beautiful places.  I have a VW camper or a large Landrover (can’t quite decide) with tent, canoe, guitar, surf boards in the back and we just drive around in a relaxed manner (windows down, music pouring out) and find somewhere lovely (not some scuzzy campsite of course) with nobody else around and pitch the tent and light a fire and lie down and catch the rays and watch the stars. 

How cool is that?

Okay, so I can’t surf but hey… In my head I can, right?  Just like I can swim like a mermaid and play slide guitar like Ry Cooder.  But, actually, you may be surprised to learn that I do have some outdoor skills.  I lay a mean fire. I can construct an emergency shelter. And…er…that’s about it.  Mind you, let's be really honest here, in my fantasy I am also twenty years younger, have pert tits and the kind of skin that tans to a soft glow (rather than trying to make up its mind whether to burn or go in for extreme freckling). 

Anyhow. I love Pedlars.  And no, they aren’t paying me. In fact they have no idea I’m writing this post.  I love them cos they are a small (well, not so very small now) company who have high standards, great principles, a fabulous sense of design and a brilliant sense of humour. I used to buy quite a bit from them back in the day (when I wasn’t broke) and their service was (and I suspect still is) just awesome.  Truly, if you want to go into business, you could do far worse than use them as your template.  

And yes, I'm plugging them because...

a) I figure a lot of you lot will love their stuff.

b) I feel ethical authentic businesses should get a shout-out from time to time.

c) Their catalogue says 'Everything's going to be alright' at the bottom of every other page.

d) They have a Dog of the Week page and app. 

e) Occasionally they have wildly brilliant little practical products like the Corkcicle (keeps white wine cool without having to dunk it in a river) and the Bheestie Bag (which allegedly dries out mobiles, iPods etc that have been dropped in water). Seriously. 

Yes, some of their stuff is expensive but that’s cos they are picky and for some bits of kit (like tents and so on), they hunt out the best.  I just love that they can make me yearn for things like a Swedish firesteel (developed by the Swedish Defence Department), a hurricane lamp and an axe.  Of course, in this alternative life of mine, I also live in a cool warehouse apartment kitted out with their posters, lights, plates and so on. 

And there is music, always music. I have lost track (ho ho) of the number of brilliant artists I’ve discovered through their music club.  To give you an idea, their current playlist includes Nick Drake, Pink Floyd, Air, Fleet Foxes, Nicholas Jaar, Beach House and Lanterns on the Lake. They mix up the old with the very new.  I don’t always agree but I always check out their recommendations cos sometimes they suggest real gems. 

So, if you don't already know them, check 'em out and say 'hi' from me.  

And now, on this wet soggy morning, let me leave you with a few of my favourites from their 'songs for a sultry summer's evening'… Sympathetic magic, huh?  

And this one isn’t on their playlist…but I figure it should be. My favourite camp-fire song…  Now if I could only play guitar like that…

Oh, and they have a blog too: http://charlieandcaroline-pedlars.blogspot.co.uk/

Second thing

Second thing.  A skinny Amazon envelope. I hadn’t ordered anything.  I opened it, slowly, with a slight frown. Leonard Cohen’s new album. Old Ideas.  I didn’t even need to look at the note to know who it was from. ‘Lots of love, Horace.’  My oldest dearest friend, Jane.  Horace? Well, that’s another story.

What can I say? I love Leonard Cohen. Deeply. Passionately. Always have. Suspect I always will.

I love music, hate to be without it, but most of my musical loves wax and wane.  But Cohen has been a constant in my life since I was, what?  Eight or nine maybe?  My brother came home with Songs of Leonard Cohen one day and we all fell in love, instantly.  Well, not my father perhaps. 

There was always music in our house when I was a child. All sorts. Shedload of classical in the living room.  Meanwhile, up in our shared room, my teenage sister played singles obsessively as she shimmied from one love to another; a string of boyfriends breaking her heart (rarely) but mainly having theirs broken.  The soundtrack to all this longing: Dusty Springfield, Sandie Shaw, The Beatles, Marianne Faithfull, the Stones. Then she met a guitarist and it was all Hendrix and Clapton, Cream and Yes. And I danced behind, entranced. But throughout, Cohen’s mesmerising guitar and his poetry always plucked at our hearts.

Songs from a Room followed by Songs of Love and Hate. And I wasn’t even out of junior school. Nobody suggested it wasn’t suitable listening for a child. Was it?

Jane and I met in 1971 but we didn’t become friends until quite some years later. After the release of New Skin for the Old Ceremony for sure and in time to be appalled by the radical shift of Death of a Lady’s Man. What was he thinking?  He’d wanted a spare sparse sound for Songs of Leonard Cohen – yes, even more sparse than it already was. So how did he come to be seduced by Spector?  Apparently he (Cohen) called the end result ‘grotesque’. Yeah, right. It’s a shame as the songs themselves are beautiful – but the arrangements are overblown, barbaric. I tried listening again today – and couldn’t bear it. Had to find later arrangements on YouTube.

I took Leonard with me to college; played him in my tiny coffin-shaped attic room, letting his growl of a voice stream out over my balcony into the streets below. Listened to him as I looked across the houses into other people’s lives, the students and the prostitutes.  And went to see him live in Manchester, at the Apollo. My first ‘grown-up’ gig, the first time I’d seen people sit in their seats for a whole set. The first time I’d seen people strike matches or hold up lighters and sway to the music. The audience felt old too – middle-aged women, not students like me. I didn’t care – I still loved him.

He came back to London with me and was there, not played so often maybe, but still a friend for the dark nights of the soul, when the drink and drugs and clubbing didn’t take me far enough away from myself.

We weren’t such close companions during my time in America because, really, there were so many other, new sounds to hear and somehow he didn’t feel right in those big wide open spaces of sea and endless roads and desert and canyon and prairie. But then, every so often, I’d sit by the fire late at night and pull out an album and let his chords pull me back home.

And yes, back to London we went and by now people laughed. ‘Gloomy old Leonard Cohen’ they said. But no, no, no. Not gloomy. Not really. Just so beautiful. I didn’t buy any more albums though, not after the travesty of DoaLM.   My mother stayed faithful though – bought each and every one. But I wouldn’t listen. I stayed with the old.  Until, not so many years ago, when I heard Hallelujah and found myself in floods of tears.  Who the hell sang that, I wondered and found out it was Jeff Buckley. Raced out and bought more of his stuff only to find that, no, he hadn’t written it – the cheater – it was Leonard’s.  Well, of course it was.

I saw him live again, a few years ago, at the O2 stadium, the old Millennium Dome. Jane again. ‘Come and stay, I’ve got tickets for Leonard Cohen,’ she said.  In Manchester I’d been right near the front, close enough to watch his fingers flicker over the frets. But the only tickets left this time were pitched up so high I felt dizzy.  Incredible musicians. Amazing man.  He’d lost the lot by this point, been ripped off, gone bankrupt, had to sing for his supper once more.

Funny thing, I never knew much about his actual life. I don’t read biographies. I rarely read interviews. I don’t even really like music vids (except the most vague and atmospheric) as they colour the music for me. I like to make my own relationship with music; to weave my own stories around it.

And so here I am, all those years on, sitting in a cold room, once again, listening to Cohen. Today I have been through all his albums, one by one.  Some songs wash over me; some catch me in the throat, in the solar plexus, in the heart. Who needs words when you’ve got Cohen, eh?

Favourite album? The new one is growing on me.  Ah hell. Songs of Leonard Cohen has some of my all-time favourite songs.  It’s tight.  Between that and New Skin for the Old Ceremony. Both just plain agonisingly beautiful. Songs? We could be here a long time. Here are just two. One from the first, one from the last. Which would be my middle one? My second thing?  Ah, I wonder.  

Scared shitless of the big bad UUUUH sound

You have to laugh.  Talk about food and everyone flocks over. Talk about meditation and everyone runs away. But it’s okay.  If I end up talking to myself, that’s fine.  I may even come to like the sound of my own voice. Or I may just lapse into silence (it's happening more and more). J

Except for when I make the big bad UUUH sound.  Zoe mentioned the word 'chant' yesterday and it’s funny cos it’s not one I use. I never think of myself as chanting yet AUM is indeed a mantra, a chant. When I started off trying to meditate in the Labyrinth, I couldn’t get to the pure AUM. My mind was too skittery.  So I went back to a form of meditation I’d tried years before: toning or sounding vowels as mantras.  Yeah, chanting basically. Years ago I did some research on sound healing and I came across Jonathan Goldman’s Healing Sounds tape. Yes, a cassette tape, it was that long ago. I played it sitting at my desk in one of my deeply sceptical moods but I was literally blown away.  In fact it scared me because there came a point where I really didn’t know where I was; I felt completely adrift in time and space.  Now, of course, I’d love that but back then it scared me shitless and the tape gathered dust.

So, when Ma.Ste. talked about meditation in the Labyrinth, I remembered the tape, rummaged in the old chest of drawers and tugged it out.  Found that, yes, we did still have an ancient sound system with a cassette slot and plugged it and myself in.  

Wow. Triple wow actually. 

You start off with the base chakra, with a very deep uuuuh sound then slowly move up until you reach the crown with a high-pitched iiiiii sound. 

There I was, in my study, eyes shut, grunting and squeaking along.  I still can't do the really low uuuuh sound, not deep enough to feel it. Maybe I'm still not really grounded enough?  Some sounds come easier than others and you have to wonder if that means one chakra is happier than the others?

Don't believe in chakras, in the energy centres of the body? 

Doesn't matter in the least.  They probably don't believe in you either. :-)  But I do. Because I can feel them and when I make these chakra sounds, I can feel them vibrating in the relevant part of my body. 

Anyhow, if you find it hard to jump to the pure Zen stuff, I dunno, this might be a way in. It’s active, it gives you stuff to do with your vocal chords and mind (you can visualise each chakra with its relevant colour if you like).  Yet you still get pretty damn good results. 

Sounds woo-woo?  Mebbe. Or mebbe not. 

Here’s how Goldman puts it. ‘Modern science is now in agreement with what the ancient mystics have told us—that everything is in a state of vibration, from the electrons moving around the nucleus of an atom, to planets and distant galaxies moving around stars. As they’re creating movement, they are creating vibration, and this vibration can be perceived of as sound. So everything is creating a sound, including the sofa that we’re sitting on, or this table, or our bodies. Every organ, every bone, every tissue, every system of the body is creating a sound. When we are in a state of health, we’re like an extraordinary orchestra that’s playing a wonderful symphony of the self. But what happens if the second violin player loses her sheet music? She begins to play out of tune, and pretty soon the entire string section sounds bad. Pretty soon, in fact, the entire orchestra is off. This is a metaphor for disease.’

He reckons that if you can project the right resonant frequency (for a healthy organ) to the diseased part it will return to balance by a form of entrainment. It makes sense to me.

Sacred chants (such as Gregorian chants) often employ very high frequencies (around 8,000 Hz) which are capable of stimulating the central nervous system and the cortex of the brain. Simply listening to music that is high in harmonic content is beneficial to us humans.  When you make the sounds yourself, it can be even more powerful.

He also believes that it’s not the sound or harmonic alone that creates healing but that sound in combination with the intention of the person who is projecting it. Magic? No. Just science that hasn’t quite become known yet. And probably won’t because, as Goldman says, ‘You can’t patent a tone.’

Actually he says a whole lot of interesting stuff and if you wanna, follow this link to read an interview with him.  

If you go to his website Healing Sounds you can download this 'chakra tune up' for free. 

7 Minute Chakra Tune Up

There’s tons to say about sound and vibration but I reckon that’s enough for now.  What would Ma.Ste. say?  Probably this…

‘…since it’s music you are supposed to make it or listen to it, and not to write or read about it. Relax.’

And then pick up a guitar…

Words drive me crazy...literally

Words by Eighty-3 at deviantart

Words. They drive me crazy. No matter how hard you try, no matter what you do, no matter how careful and precise you try to be, they slide away; they do their own thing.  Because what you can’t ever control is how another person will read them, will interpret them.  It’s why emoticons are so important in social media, on forums.  End it with a J  and it’s all okay (or not).  But, really, emoticons aren’t enough.  You can’t express tone when you write.  Sometimes I think we need to write as if we were writing novels… adding in the adverbs (against all advice to the contrary) *smiling wanly*. Do you know what I mean? *small sad voice pleadingly, brow furrowed*  

Music is purer, not so open to misinterpretation. *relatively certain tone* Or is it? *frowns* The listener can so easily pull out one lyric rather than another; what one person perceives as a positive note will be seen by another as a negation. It’s why one song can mean a myriad different things to each and every person who listens to it. 

What we really need is a way to beam emotion and intent straight to other people.  That can be done on a one-on-one basis, if both parties are attuned or understand other dimensional working (though I am not always entirely sure about that either nowadays *sad sigh again*). But expressing one's intent, one's feeling, to a mass audience isn't possible or *pause, ponders* probably desirable, come to think of it. Maybe other people need to put their own interpretations on things. Maybe there are reasons for misunderstandings, for missed communications?  Maybe the misunderstandings are there as mirrors? *really don't know, just stabbing in the dark here*. Maybe they help us grow?  And growing is good, right? *asking, not remotely telling* 

Anyhow *with small, not irritated, just sad, sigh; in resigned tone*. I thought I’d been gone long enough, been down deep enough. I thought I was done with the underworld for just a little while. *long pause while looks out of window at soft rain falling, mist over the valley, leaves turning yellow, ochre and copper, breathing consciously, feeling deep yet strangely good pain in heart*.

I tried being back in the world, tried to smile and talk and be normal but it felt like I was outside myself, watching a puppet moving jerkily, on strings. I really had nothing to say; I have nothing to say. Because, see/hear/feel, right now, I'm only half-cooked (or half-baked, yeah, yeah, I'll say it so you don't have to *smile, yes really, smile*). And that’s okay, really it is…*nods, trying to convince self as much as anyone else*.

This morning the path was slippery, slick. I felt like I could so easily fall.  The big field was no longer empty; cows stood watching.  The path was strewn with shit. Go figure *rueful smile*. A friend said she’d dreamed of me, twice…with shelves full of dust.  And so I took the books that had been gathering dust and started to read.  And the synchronicities started crashing in again, one after another, again and again and again and again. Just too too much. *awe, wonder, fear, trepidation, uncertain to the core*.  What the shit is going on? I don’t understand.

Whatever it is or isn’t, I realised, *big deep sigh* that I had come back too soon.  I have more I have to do.  Back to the crucible I go.  Honestly, don’t worry – it’s okay.  It is what it is. Byss; abyss. 

A message from Pisser summons me to the Past

‘Mum, are you ever going to answer that phone?’
‘No. If whoever it is wants to talk to us, whoever can damn well leave a message.’
‘But they’ve been ringing for four days now and, if you answer it, you can tell them to leave a message next time. It’s not some kind of peeing contest, Mum.’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake.’

I snatched up the phone. ‘YES???’
A tinny voice emerged. Obviously a text message. ‘Blah, blah…Pisser…blah blah…three in a bed…ha ha…blah blah…Daddy wants to see you…’
What the…??? I threw myself over the machine so James wouldn’t hear what was clearly some pervy nutter. Fat chance.
‘Who is it? And why are you tackling the phone? And who’s John Warren and why isn’t he coming?’
‘I really don’t have the foggiest.’

But, hang about… John Warren. I knew that name. Way back in the mists of time. And, slowly, I deciphered it. It was my friend Fi, at Pisa (not Pisser) airport asking if I wanted to stay at her house as there would be room (because JW wasn’t coming). And Daddy? Another friend, usually called by her surname Dady (Daydee).  Stupid phone, as Milla would say.

Turned out that tomorrow, now today, was the City Limits reunion party, in London. City Limits was a London listings magazine, a worker’s co-operative, which started when Time Out stopped paying parity. I left my nice well-paid job doing the accounts for the Royal Tournament (where I was fed champagne and had my own pet Commander) to become the magazine’s office manager (on a pittance).

On my first day, I walked in and said hello to the first person I met. ‘Oh good. Glad you’re here,’ he replied. ‘The cellar’s flooded. It's full of shit - literally.’ Kinda set the tone.
I met some wonderful people there and, truth be told, some totally repulsive ones. I started reviewing (theatre, books, food and, weirdly, museums). Ended up as Shopping and Travel editor before being poached by the London Evening Standard. And, to be honest, by that point, it was all over. The spirit and soul of the place had been sucked out. It had lost its way.

But, in its heyday, it was wonderfully, blissfully bonkers and packed with some serious talent. John Fordham and Nigel Fountain were the editors. Duncan Campbell, Bea Campbell and Melissa Benn were in the news room. Ros Asquith and Lyn Gardner were the theatre editors. Sheryl Garratt was music editor. Kim Newman used to wander in swishing his black cape. And on and on..  Ah, the memories come flooding back… some good, some bad.

‘You are going?’ said Lyn (Gardner) on Twitter.
‘Yeah, I guess. Though I think I may be wearing dark glasses.’
‘I’ll have a wig,’ she responded firmly. I could her her voice in my head, clear as a bell.
‘Will we recognise one another?’

I wonder. I also wonder this, as I pack my overnight bag and try to erase the bags under my eyes. Should one revisit the past? All those people who shone so bright…will they still shine? Many won’t be there. Some, like my lovely mate Nicky Pellegrino, cos they live so very far away. Others because they are, not to put too fine a point on it, dead. Daddy sent me an email (she was always of a depressive bent) giving a list of our deceased former workmates. 14 of ‘em. Fecking sad.

Should one go back? I dunno. But I do know I’m looking forward mightily to going back to Dalston to stay at Fi and Andrew’s house (and seeing Daddy of course). Cos, in my twenties, I spent so much time there – at their kitchen table drinking wine; in their back garden chatting over the fence with the Jehovah’s Witnesses (and drinking wine). Arguing animatedly about art and politics, waving our arms around, laughing our heads off, occasionally shouting our heads off.

Should one go back?  Time will tell.

X-rated Kindle? Should e-books come with warning stickers?

Should e-books come with warning stickers?  Well, should they? 

I bought two books on Amazon for my Kindle the other day.  One was The Power of Six by Pittacus Lore. The other was Django Zoon: The Straightener by Jobo Pooks.  One was for James; one was for me.  Because, see, James has sort of purloined my Kindle, having consumed Kim Jewell’s YA books, Invisible Justice and BruteJustice.  And I tell you, if you have a recalcitrant reader, try him or her with an e-reader…while adults may baulk at the lack of a ‘real’ book, children seem to feel quite the opposite.

Now then.  Here’s the thing.  Zoon is huge fun – I read the first few chapters on Authonomy and it’s a wild roller-coaster ride, totally crazy and, in places, laugh-out-loud funny. Incorrect in every which way but that’s part of the charm. However  it also has a high filth level and some pretty fruity language.  Is it the kind of thing even a feckless liberal parent like me would want their twelve-year old to read?  Umm, no, not really. 

It kinda crossed my mind at the time whether I should say anything about it to James but I figured that doing so would only draw his attention to it, thus making it quite quite irresistible. So I kept schtum.  But I joked to Jobo, on Twitter, that my son was enjoying it – and he didn’t think it was remotely funny; in fact he was pretty perturbed.  And we batted it back and forth a bit – this question of books being available to buy online.  I really hadn’t given it any thought and, okay, I thought he was overreacting a bit.

I just don’t think children will be out there buying books for their Kindles in the first place by and large – they’d be getting their parents to spend the dosh, won’t they?  But, stop right there – James did order himself a copy of the Stig’s biography the other day.  Hmm.  Then again, even if a child did buy x-rated porn, the parents are going to get the email bill, right?  They’re going to see what little Bob or Kylie has downloaded and, unless Bob or Kylie is a speed reader, could nab it off them and lock them in their room to think about it before you could say ‘wildly inappropriate tits and arses’.  Anyhow, how is it an e-book any different from a paper book?  A lot of ‘normal’ adult books (I’m not talking erotica here) have scenes of sex and violence. Some have pretty ripe language.  If you have anything other than Barbara Cartland on your shelves (in which case we have a whole other conversation to have), surely your children could get a dose of adult material if they really wanted?

But then I thought again. It’s  not so much what they can buy but what’s already on there. And it is different because, with a paper book, you’re going to spot ‘em, aren’t you?  If James wanted, he could climb up on a chair and grab any number of explicit sex tomes (left over from my sex columnist days, of course). But I’d notice him thumbing through Extreme Tantra, wouldn't I?  Whereas Kindles are secretive little things.  Someone I know (I won't out her) says she loves her Kindle because she can be cruising the web, chatting on Twitter or Facebook while everyone thinks she is quietly reading Jane Austen.  Sneaky little baggage. 

Cos, think about it, there’s no cover to act as a giveaway, is there?  There’s no physical presence, no hard evidence. 

And I got to wondering.  Has James looked through the contents of my Kindle?  My tastes are pretty tame on the whole but a few of the authors I know from Authonomy write saucy stuff and I’ve got a couple of Poppet’s raunchy tales stashed away there.  And some of Jake Barton's crime stuff is pretty graphic in a blood and guts way. Not to mention Sessha Batto's intense homo-erotica!  We get so worried about children not reading that maybe we've lost sight that perhaps there are books they shouldn't read. Not yet anyway. 

Hmm, I said to Jobo.  Maybe books should have stickers – like they put on rap records – warning that they have adult content.  Absolutely, he replied, and went off to get Zoon reclassified.  ‘Amazon should categorise stuff,’ he said firmly. ‘I don’t want children reading it full stop.’ 

But that’s just looking at it from one end and I still don’t think it’s actually the major problem.  However, if you share a Kindle with your child, have you thought about what they could read?  Would it worry you?  Should it worry you? Ought e-readers come with some kind of parental lock that you could put on certain books?

Bottom line: do you know what your children are reading? 




btw, going back briefly to Jobo and Zoon - it's an interactive project and the music is pretty cool too (and, as far as I can hear, there's no filth there)... check it out here.  You can download tracks for a donation to charity- or see/hear the audio/visual on YouTube. 
  


PS: I'd like to point out that I do also know plenty of people who write nice books which aren't full of filth... :)

Limping



The Pact by deZane (http://www.dezane.com/)

Right. Now then. What was I going to say before I was so rudely interrupted by entities? Oh yes. The Journey. The Pact.

Where are we going? Well.... I have a rough idea of the final destination (Okay, let’s be honest here, I’ve been given my coordinates in no uncertain terms and in a very bossy voice) but I’ve set the cosmic SatNav to ‘interesting route’ rather than ‘most direct’. Let’s take that eh? Let’s see what happens and where we go along the way.

What I can tell you is this. There will be music. There will be art. There will be storytelling. There will be magic.

There will be joy and surprises. There may well be sadness and disappointment. Journeys, and life, rarely go exactly the way we plan, the way we desire.

We are gathering together a fine band of...what? Pilgrims? Way too dour. Let's say travelling troubadours, maybe. Some will fall by the wayside of course. Some already have and that is beyond sad. But, hey, we face choices every moment in life: yes? No? Whatever. Ego gets in the way of soul, so many times. I, I, I. Me, me, me.

I (yeah, I know!) was going to talk about other stuff today but me twisted me ankle last night. I know, I know (except of course I don't, really) – it sounds mad but I do feel there are messages in everything so I pay attention to this stuff. Ankles, apparently, are about mobility and direction. The affirmation to counter  this affliction is, apparently, ‘I move forward easily in life'. Ease? That would be good. Why does everything have to be so damn hard?  Maybe because we learn through the tough parts?  The swamplands of the soul.

Anyhow. So many ideas flying through my head right now. So much I want to show you; so much I want to ask you all. But, for now, I’m limping. So hey, today I was going to invite you to come plunging willingly down rabbit holes, landing with a bump in the gutter and bouncing up to the stars. Instead, how’s about you join me and the SP, as we go (slowly, carefully) on our morning walk?

Up into the woods...green on green with pinpoints of campion and bluebells and wild garlic.  Bracken unfurling, giving up secrets. May bursting out crazy like it couldn't give a toss.  No music in my ears for once, just birdsong - guttural croak of pheasant; pure poignancy of blackbird.  More honest sounds maybe.

We stop at my thinking spot, so high now, and look down at the river far below.  You can barely hear the babble/Babel from here.  I scribble furiously in my notebook.  Breathe. Scribble. Breathe.

Going uphill is alright but coming down is hard, so hard.  The SP watches me; he looks worried, my little dog angel.  'S'okay,' I tell him. 'I'll take it easy. Sometimes you have to take it one step at a time.'  Place each foot carefully; pick the path cautiously. 

 And we get down just fine.  And we walk through town, where everyone smiles and says 'hello' and yet I don't feel at home (but that's another post).  And come in and make coffee and a CD pokes its nose out, without a cover, begging to be played. Dido - Life for Rent.  Well, well.  I haven't listened to this for years.  So I do. 

 

And then I start thinking more about this limping thing.  And remember the wondrous Dr House (Hugh Laurie), the arch limper.  And so, let's leave this post with the good physician.

 

Dr. House: Nothing matters. We're all just cockroaches, wildebeests dying on the river bank. Nothing we do has any lasting meaning.

Evan Greer: And you think I'm miserable?
Dr. House: If you're unhappy on the plane, jump out of it.
Evan Greer: I want to, but I can't.
Dr. House: That's the problem with metaphors. They need interpretation. Jumping out of the plane is stupid.
Evan Greer: But what if I'm not in a plane? What if I'm just in a place I don't want to be?
Dr. House: That's the other problem with metaphors. Yes, what if you're actually in an ice cream truck, and outside are candy and flowers and virgins? You're on a plane! We're all on planes. Life is dangerous and complicated, and it's a long way down.

Ain't it just?  :)