Our Friends Appear Like the Dawn

I have been wrapped up heavily in a video project recently leaving me too depressed to actually do much else. I did though find the opportunity to buy a scanner. This means I can bring you the latest adventures of Claude that I have had sitting in my room.

I get shot in every film I'm in

I posted some time ago about David OReilly's "Please Say Something". He has finally finished it and has put it up for viewing. It's beautifully done despite it's somewhat disturbing portrayal of a cat and a mouse in an abusive relationship.


Please Say Something - Full Length from David OReilly on Vimeo.

The Bear Who Wasn't

"Your not a bear! Your a silly man who needs a shave and wears a fur coat!"

Even as the words were crossing my lips I had no idea why I said it. It didn't fit within the context of the situation nor have any connection to a recent event or discussion. It just birthed from my mouth as the physical manifestation of an unprovoked memory breaking the surface of my consciousness. And in that instant, I was a child again.

The words were from a story I would listen to as a kid about a bear who hibernates in a cave. When he wakes up he finds that a factory has been built around his cave. He is mistaken for a worker by everyone he meets having to explain to them in storybook repetition how he is a bear, not a man. Each person responds in the same storybook rhythm and repetition the line that popped into my head.

The story was on a cassette that was a copy of an LP my mother used to listen to herself as a child. I remembered the huge collection of story tapes that we had, and how I would spend hours lying on the carpet in front of the tape deck listening to stories I had heard many times before. For a moment I was there again in our livingroom in Britain curled up on the carpet beside the heater listening to the stories of Norse gods, daring Arabians and the small baker who made himself into a talking pie.

This was the happiest moment of my day.

Spoken Word

I love the art of verbal storytelling. There is a voice in writing, but the pacing, intonation and character of storytelling makes it a special experience when done right. Recently I have fallen in love with Stuart Mclean and his Vinyl Cafe, and blues artist Seasick Steve. Both have the ability to weave words and moments into a masterpiece as enrapturing as a net and as pleasant as a sunny afternoon.


Seasick Steve - A Take Away Show - Part 2 from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

The latest Seasick Steve album has some excellent stories of when he was a hobo jumping trains. This is just a taste of his tale prowess. (Plus a taste of his amazing blues)

And I couldn't find any Stuart Mclean, but do yourself a favour and subscribe to the Vinyl Cafe podcast.

Built then Burnt (Hurrah! Hurrah!) by Thee Silver Mount Zion

Dear brothers and sisters
Dear enemies and friends

Why are we all so alone here
All we need is a little more hope, a little more joy
All we need is a little more light, a little less weight, a little more freedom.
If we were an army, and if we believed that we were an army
And we believed that everyone was scared like little lost children in their grown up clothes and poses
So we ended up alone here floating through long wasted days, or great tribulations.
While everything felt wrong Good words, strong words, words that could've moved mountains
Words that no one ever said We were all waiting to hear those words and no one ever said them
And the tactics never hatched
And the plans were never mapped
And we all learned not to believe
And strange lonesome monsters loafed through the hills wondering why
And it is best to never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever wonder why
So tangle - oh tangle us up in bright red ribbons!
Let's have a parade
It's been so long since we had a parade, so let's have a parade!
Let's invite all our friends
And all our friends' friends!
Let's promenade down the boulevards with terrific pride and light in our eyes
Twelve feet tall and staggering
Sick with joy with the angels there and light in our eyes
Brothers and sisters, hope still waits in the wings like a bitter spinster
Impatient, lonely and shivering, waiting to build her glorious fires
It's because of our plans man; our beautiful ridiculous plans
Let's launch them like careening jetplanes
Let's crash all our planes in the river
Let's build strange and radiant machines at this jericho waiting to fall


Bayside #1 by Travis Nichols

There has been too much sadness, sickness and mourning lately. Let's have a parade and build the glorious fires of hope. Lets have a spring of the soul and renew our light hearts.

The Lost Waltz

Late late wednesday night I stagger lazily to my room and close the door. I turn off the lights and put on my headphones. I sit on the verge of sleepiness, not yet ready to succumb to the sheets, but lacking the will to really do anything worthwhile. The sterile light of the computer screen adds the slightest glow to the room as I lean back in my chair, close my eyes and melt into the sound of Godspeed!YouBlackEmperor. I exhale slowly as the notes start to dance through my mind, and I begin to think back over the past week.

I. "I'm sorry, but we don't have a position for you," she says. I'm equally crestfallen and relieved. "We went with someone with more experience." She speaks with a slight impediment that flavours her words with a child like kindness, and makes any response but one of warmth unthinkable. "That's OK," I say, "I understand." Not getting this job makes my life less complicated since I had no idea where I would have found a car, let alone pay for it. But the work opportunities, let alone the life experience, would have been irreplacable. Relief mixed with meloncholy. "Everyone was really impressed with you and really liked you," she continues, "So I'd like your permission to forward your resume to Buffalo Gals and Frantic Films." No is not even a concievable answer for an offer to recommend you to the two biggest film companies in the city. She apologizes again for the lack of a position and reiterates how much they were impressed with me before the call ends. Perhaps this will work out better than my hopes for the internship. Maybe God has bigger plans and better paths.

II. "We would like you to come on with us a little more," he says. I'm equally glad and internally restrained. "We are losing Adrienne soon and would have more shifts for you." He sounds hopeful that I will say yes, but there is hint in his voice that he senses a repressed no. More shifts means money which I have so little of, but what little heart I had inclined towards this stepping stone has dwindled down to barely a spark. "Sure, sounds great," I say with encouraged exuberance, though I may have taken a moment too long in responding to sell it. I have hardly felt like a valued employee at Ignite over the past month's absence of contact, not to mention having my opinions and ideas brushed off with a smile. If my vision for what a christian radio station should be is completely perpendicular to theirs, I don't think I can work there. I hope that another job works out soon so that I don't have to depend on the station for income. Maybe God has plans for me there, but he will need to move my heart or the mind and mouth will hardly be willing.

III. "You're an artist," he says. I feel pride tinged with doubt. If only everyone judged art by childlike standards we would all be Da Vinci. The twisted and gapped teeth of of his seven year old smile show his honesty and adoration before he turns his face to lean his head on my arm. I'm not sure whether he is Jordy or Davey. He and his twin brother are so similar and I can never tell them apart. "Draw me an orc fighting a horseman next," he says getting another piece of paper ready. I finish off the castle I was drawing for him, take the paper he offers me and attempt to draw an orc. I sit with them almost every sunday morning in church to help them behave. They get me to draw them pictures. Recently their Star Wars fascination has been replaced by Lord of the Rings. "That's not an orc," he speaks louder than he probably should, "he's too small." I wish I could listen to the pastor. I'm honoured that they want me to sit with them, but why every sunday? But maybe this is better. "Don't stop the little ones from coming to me," Jesus said. Maybe by showing them love here and now I am doing something more important than listening to the sermon. Maybe I'm learning more than the pastors point from the pulpit. This is living out my faith instead of acting it.

IV. "Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer," I speak in unison with the rest of the congregation. My heart feels and peace and yearns upward. There is something about St Benedict's Table that feels right, that feels authentic. The smokey sweet smell of the incense wafts past me as we sing worship songs that feel thick with substance, and resound with rejoicing despite their solemnity. There is a respect and fear of God that is found in ceremony. The building feels as warm as the fellow worshipers around me. Afterward I run into long unseen friends who have also come to the service. We talk of life, work, the lack there of, and God's plans while we sip dark roasted coffee and nibble dry brownies. I like this place. I will come again.

I listen through the entire album enveloped in the warm womb of my dark room. It's late. Sleep will come easily now.