A man entered the room.  He looked tired.  His seat was taken so he leant against the wall, placing the book he carried in the inside pocket of his ill-fitting jacket.  I noticed he had a handkerchief hanging from his breast pocket.

He walked into the room with a practised weariness.  His uneasy gait was that of a man condemned, his head bowed in careful deference to all around him.  His usual seat was occupied, an irritation only betrayed by the slightest tightening of his fist, clenched as it was, around the red-bound book he proceeded to slide into the inside pocket of his jacket, as he leant, awkwardly against the far wall.  I remember the jacket.  It was ill-fitting, sagging over is angular shoulders and in a final mockery, a cotton handkerchief protruded from his breast pocket drooping in silent sympathy.

His slow steps were like the resigned, reluctant shuffle an inmate returning to his cell.  His entrance, far from an intrusion, was accompanied only by the soft exhausted sigh of the door closing behind him.  His stooped head shirked from the others with the wary countenance of a scolded child.  His usual berth, an unremarkable upholstered stool, was occupied by an equally unremarkable man.  Upon noticing this offence, his sinuous fingers, tensed around the book he brandished, his waxy knuckles  flashing white, then waning as he with a sharp adjustment of gangly limbs he concealed the book within the inside pocket of his jacket.  I recall the jacket now with a curious certainty as one has when confronted with a familiar scent.  It was plain enough, clearly well-worn and yet the cut ill-suited the man, seeming to pull his jagged frame toward the floor.  Spindly shoulders offered little for the jacket to cling to, the sleeves hanging apologetically over his cuffs.  His delicate frame propped against the wall, a sparse scaffold, dull and colourless save for the pure-white dash of his handkerchief, a seemingly unnoticed escapee from the confines of the jacket.

He walked into the room with the manner of one shopping in Iceland; a reluctant stride, the very environment draining, sucking the colour from his soul.  He had a face like a bag of spanners and posture that testified to a lack of enthusiasm for yoga.  His demeanour towards the others was like that of a pregnant nun walking through a convent.  I observed his regular perch was currently being perched upon by another.  He regarded this development with the enthusiasm one usually reserves for unanticipated surgical complications, and yet,  constrained his reaction to merest adjustment, tightening his vice like grip around the book-the solitary hint of any wit or breeding-held closely by his side.  I observed him then lower the book into the chasm between the breasts of his jacket; his careful motion was that of a man whom, when posting a letter, feels compelled to immerse his hand  far into the pillar box, as far his anatomy will allow, lest some unseen cavity or snare diverts his missive.  His next move was to lean against the far wall.  This was no relaxed slump; it was as if he doubted the walls capacity (or perhaps enthusiasm) for holding him and was braced accordingly, bristling with unease.  His limbs seemed to have been drawn by a child with a greater aptitude for science than art, crumpled and locked in equally unnatural measures.  I remember his jacket and dwell on it now.  Like a pylon on a hillside it was an ugly addition, bringing to mind images of tailor shops staffed by fools, bullies or animals.  Its sizing was unhelpfully generous like a gallon of cream on slice of pie.  His gaunt craggy shoulders looked to escape skyward from the jacket, whilst the sleeves had spotted something of note on the carpet and stretched towards it.  The tension between the room and the man drowning in his jacket cast a scene of savage blandness punctuated only by a white flag of surrender.  A handkerchief-an unwitting conspirator- cruelly hanging from his treacherous breast pocket.

Watch with the sound on and  never mention it to my face.

When I was  young I ran for miles,

Chasing footballs and pretty girl smiles.

Teens slope by, all swagger, no hurry,

Ugly cool strut and fearless worry.

Man: works and meets,

He rests then repeats.

Too slow, too fast.

The first, come last.

(My Technique: Left foot right foot left foot right left foot right foot [repeat] )

Moving, just keep moving,
Till I don’t know what’s sane,
I’ve been moving so long,
The days all feel the same,

Moving, just keep moving,
Well I don’t know why to stay,
No ties to bind me,
No reasons to remain,

Moving, keep on moving,
Where I feel I’m home again,
And when it’s over,
I’ll see you again.

-Supergrass

]]> http://outofroutine.wordpress.com/2009/10/30/born-to-run/feed/ 0 outofroutine running http://outofroutine.wordpress.com/2009/10/28/waiting/ http://outofroutine.wordpress.com/2009/10/28/waiting/#comments Wed, 28 Oct 2009 12:31:52 +0000 outofroutine http://outofroutine.wordpress.com/?p=273 ]]>

I made a big decision a little while ago.
I don’t remember what it was, which prob’ly goes to show
That many times a simple choice can prove to be essential
Even though it often might appear inconsequential.

I must have been distracted when I left my home because
Left or right I’m sure I went. (I wonder which it was!)
Anyway, I never veered: I walked in that direction
Utterly absorbed, it seems, in quiet introspection.

For no reason I can think of, I’ve wandered far astray.
And that is how I got to where I find myself today.

-Bill Waterstone

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flow’r.

-William Cowper, 1774

Bob Dylan is regarded in various quarters as a master of his craft.  At one time I would have vehemently argued to the contrary, but then again, at one time I argued that cats were female dogs.

I’ve grown up; I’ve relented; dogs are dogs, cats make me sneeze and Bob Dylan is-if anyone is-a master song-writer, story-teller and poet.

Following a conversation last night I’ve decided to list my personal favourite Dylan songs.  I am no expert, just a fan; of his 34 studio albums I have listened to fewer than 10 and I only know he has 34 studio albums because I checked on Wikipaedia…

Top five songs by Bob Dylan:-

1. Don’t Think Twice, it’s All Right

It ain’t no use in turnin’ on your light, babe
That light I never knowed
An’ it ain’t no use in turnin’ on your light, babe
I’m on the dark side of the road
Still I wish there was somethin’ you would do or say
To try and make me change my mind and stay
We never did too much talkin’ anyway
So don’t think twice, it’s all right

2. Idiot Wind

Idiot wind blowing through the buttons of our coats
Blowing through the letters that we wrote
Idiot wind blowing through the dust upon our shelves
We’re idiots babe
It’s a wonder we can even feed ourselves.

3. Its all over baby blue

You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last.
But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast.
Yonder stands your orphan with his gun,
Crying like a fire in the sun.
Look out the saints are comin’ through
And it’s all over now, Baby Blue.

4. Girl From The North Country

I’m a-wonderin’ if she remembers me at all.
Many times I’ve often prayed
In the darkness of my night,
In the brightness of my day.

5. All Along The Watchtower

Outside in the distance a wildcat did growl,
Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl.

Runners up: Love Sick, Not Dark Yet, Ain’t Talkin’, Blowin’ In The Wind…

What would you choose?

(sub-question: best lyricist ever?)

High School: A thousand adolescents held captive, divided up by age and achievement scentenced to up to six years of moulding.  Some will be reformed and will leave equiped and capable for life outside the institution.  Some will be broken.  A few escape or simply disappear.

My school was conspicuous by the things it did not have…  No uniform.  No prizes. No houses.  No rugby.  No hockey.  No prefects.

It remained respectable because of what it did have… History.  Diversity.  Achievement.  A certain sort of Guardian-reading-post-modern-bookish-new-age-space-age-liberalism.  A brilliant jazz band.

I didn’t get bullied, I stayed out of trouble, had a few laughs and got on with almost everyone.  It was alright.

I also hung out with a guy called Thomas  who embraced high school for seven years (sixth year x2!).  Thomas sticks the odd video on youtube.

At the very least, one of these is better than the original.

I recently watched Little Miss Sunshine. An odd-ball film about a family falling apart.

The three generations of the Hoover family are distinctly dysfunctional, living lives ill-shaped for the world around them.  Like the keys of a piano slammed down all at once, the early dialogue between family members is ugly and brash; the discord is unsettling.  A frustrated, seething unhappiness colours the chaos that constitutes normality in the Hoover household.

We have a picture of failure, both collective and individual.  Out of this mess comes a desperate effort-‘everybody pretend to be normal’-to rally around the unspoilt, innocent young Olive as she strives to win, of all things, the Little Miss Sunshine beauty pageant.  The comedic episodes that follow are awkward, painful and touching.

At the crux of the film is the reminder that, “A real loser is someone who’s so afraid of not winning he doesn’t even try.”

The Hoovers are failures in every field but boy do they try; every malfunctioning member straining towards something of no consequence that means everything.

‘Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on towards the goal to win the prize…’, Phillipians 3: 13-14

“You no longer need a good book, which he really likes, to keep him from his prayers or his work or his sleep; a column of advertisements in yesterday’s paper will do.  You can make him waste his time not only in conversation he enjoys with people whom he likes, but in conversations with those he cares nothing about on subjects that bore him.  You can make him do nothing at all for long periods.  You can keep him up late at night, not roistering, but staring at a dead fire in a cold room…

…steal away a man’s best years not in sweet sins but in a dreary flickering of the mind over it knows not what and knows not why, in the gratification of curiosities so feeble that the man is only half aware of them, in drumming of fingers and kicking of heels, in whistling tunes he does not like, or in the long, dim labyrinth of reveries that have not even lust or ambition to give them a relish…

…the safest road to Hell is the gradual one-the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.”

-C. S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters

Go and see Up.  It’s not just for kids.

I would love to be a balloonist.  Phileas Fogg, Lee Scoresby, Roverboat Bill and Pazu have seen to that.  Who is with me?

Can anybody fly this thing?
Before my head explodes.
Or my head starts to ring.

We’ve been living life inside a bubble.
We’ve been living life inside a bubble.
.
Confidence in you,
Is confidence in me?
Is confidence in high speed?

“Stay Strong No Time To Feel Weak,
Wake Up it’s Time To look deep”

I listen to the radio too much; fortunately I have developed a highly developed nonsense filter.  This allows me to conveniently divert advert breaks, Jo Whiley and Tiao Cruz etc. from actually penetrating my conscious thoughts.

This morning I sat ensconced within the comfort of my room with the radio prattling away while I endeavoured to apply my brain to something of substance.  Very little was getting through the filter.  Fearne Cotton was doing whatever she does.  I was getting on with what I wanted done.

Until, that is, in a moment of self-awareness I acknowledged that my defence had been breached.  I was not thinking and not working.  I was listening.

The source of this invasion: The latest pop-rap-‘grime’ offering from Tinchy Stryder.

Subsequent investigations revealed that this precocious young chap has blog of his very own.

From today’s entry: “I just realised a blog is supposed to be like a online diary thing lol….but i hardly ever blog about what I’m actually up to, so from now I’m gonna try and let you lot know what I’m doing!!”

Well done Tinch’.

However this previous entry was perhaps my favourite, mainly for the skilled employment of the Nations favourite abbreviation.  It is safe to say that the Mr Stryder has reaffirmed my belief in the power of the internet, spoken word and British arts and culture.  Maybe he’ll make the Queen’s Honours List.  Sir Tinchy?

Here for your own perusal is the track in question.