Liminal

A thoughtful little angel scribed this instruction for walkers in a Bristol park recently. I found it surprisingly helpful as I strode home from the studio, pondering what to do about certain things, shifting sands and the like.

It's about perception. Are we sitting under clouds (Numbers 9), or standing at crossroads? Maybe both.

'Liminal space' is a threshold between history and future. In this space, we are disconnected from our old identity, have let go of things we once clung to, and yet to be reformed in a new guise. The liminal space describes us as indescribable, in a place of disconnection, covers stripped away, pillars crumbled, handholds removed, awaiting new forms. By definition, in the transition state nothing much is familiar.

If you find yourself in a prolonged state of transition, be brave and take heart. You are you, right there. You are waiting, but not for life - you already have that, right here. It's the fruit of that life that you're eager to discover, and fair enough, but it takes time to grow. Assume and apply the gardener's patience in liminal space. Standing at a crossroads, there is much to ponder, and it's all about you - you unsullied, not him, or her, or them and what they turn you into. All that has gone. This is a chance to take stock, weigh up your options, salute your dreams, gather your strength and make some onward moves. Just don't forget to breathe.

{Today's Soundtrack: Aaron Strumpel - Elephants/Vespers}

{Today's Soundtrack}

A bit more on the soundtrack of the day - {Aaron Strumpel} and his Elephants and Vespers.

Recently, totally mysteriously to me, I was invited to hook on to a social network based in the states, Love Is Concrete. I still don't know how, or through whom, or why on their part, but I'm really glad this happened because of today's music-maker.

I gather–but could be wrong (Aaron, correct me!)– that this man lives as hermit in the mountains of Colorado. If so, this is the best advert I have found amongst my contemporaries for choosing a life of solitude and contemplation, in order to ensure that what you do contribute is pure, unbound, captivating and wholly to the point.

'Vespers' is an EP just released, inspired by the Psalms, expressed by a human who seems to be utterly engaged with all that means. It is much softer than 'Elephants', as you may imagine evening prayers to be, but no less real for that. In fact, at times, this music is heartbreakingly vulnerable. It is truly devotional, without a trace of schmultz.

On 'Elephants', again many beautiful sounds weave lovely but vulnerable, heartfelt pining in and out of gentle contemplation, and you feel as though you can breathe again. If you are listening properly, this is quite empowering. Hold on to your hats at this stage, as the Elephants are about to throw out a throat-ripping scream into heaven! You may find–at the point you are most disarmed with their bassy gentleness–that something else kicks in helplessly: fists clenched, eyes tight shut, mouth open and...

It's like you've been welcomed into a spacious place, listened to, calmed, then encouraged to let out really what's going on. This music is very special, and is what prayer really is. If you want to pray, but don't know how, you could do a lot worse than pick up this music and let it play, but beware: this is not music to have on in the background. It demands your all, and rightly so if you care about anything on this planet.

Underfoot Poems

It's happened again, and again, and again. Scuffed sequins, strewn and trampled underfoot, crushed petals and rough stones, glinting, tiny treasures that I can't even pull into proper focus.

"Scuffed and grubby. She pointed out that hearts in that condition are even better to love because there's no pretending from the offset. Rough with smooth. What you see, you get. In a way that makes things easier, doesn't it? You're allowed to come with your story."

[from Feb 11th]

The story in these little underfoot poems reminds me–repeatedly–that we are to be loved for the quality of our hearts, not judged for the way we look. We can take on the disguise of 'looks right, so I approve', and go along with being judged for how our lives appear. However, real love, and therefore, life, is about getting down and dirty with all the grit, comfortable with a helpless, public playing out of our vulnerabilities. Don't get me wrong, this is really hard to let go to! But In the face of things done and said that are inherently judgemental and diminishing, it becomes even more important to remember this. The judge who throws you out on the basis of your looking a bit messy–colouring outside the lines–is actually behaving out of their own fears. Steer clear.

We have all been scuffed and strewn, all have moments of shining or being crushed. Are we brave enough to believe that in the honest state we will be honestly loved, and further, hold out for this?

{Today's Soundtrack: The xx}

Rejoice and Lament

Today I borrow words from Josh Garrels, a songwriter based in Portland, OR. A meandering, mistaken discovery (thanks to Love Is Concrete, Todd Fadel and genius Aaron Strumpel - check out his Elephants album), this treasure seems timely and appropriate given recent–and ongoing–musing. Accident?

There is a wealth of relevant sound across the water and I'd like to know why we over here in the UK never hear it. I'm as close as I get to 'righteous anger' at the moment. Just bit my lip and deleted a rant about naive, trite, slushy etc. etc... Those familiar with the world of faith music will know what I'm talking about. Those unfamiliar are in a stronger position. Simply, it can often feel like facing into a mist when confronting this subject.

Dear friends over there, I'm so sorry, please send us more of yourselves! You are inspiring and encouraging, and we need this. We really need this.

*

Learn this lesson well my friend,

There's a time to rejoice and Lament,

And every season will come to an end,

All will fade and be made new again.

{Today's soundtrack: Josh Garrels - Jacaranda}

Portland Sounds Me Out

Sifting through the archive yesterday, this became clear - if some kind of song can't be made after looking at these orange men then hope does not exist and I'm making everything up, and furthermore, there are songs to be written just so they can be be nailed up on telegraph poles. What are we waiting for?

{Today's Soundtrack: Biffy Clyro - Many of Horror}

Sound

On Saturday I was interviewed for an hour on the radio (which you can read about on NEWS tomorrow), and one of the things that we discussed was the influence of music in our work – a topic close to my (scuffed, sequin) heart. This morning I am, once again, having an explore through some sounds and find myself lingering with Beach House, and inexplicably fighting a big urge to get on a plane to Portland in Oregon, run fast as I can down the wide river, stand in the middle of this fountain, then catch a tram to Ken's Artisan Bakery on 338 NW 21st which is the best place I have found for writing down forests full of ideas and desires.

After that, depending on what comes out, I might get in a car and drive, anywhere - Timberline, Seattle, Hood River, maybe Cannon Beach to look for sand dollars.

Is this just late winter talking, or is this because I'm listening to a compelling track about being shocked into a new thing?

Where would you go?

{track: Real Love}

Altered Sounds

Changing the soundtrack. Massive Attack have got way darker, and I'm not sure how this is helping. It's good to acknowledge the darkness so you can move through it, but I'm getting that 'walking around Saatchi's Gallery' feeling again.

{Today's NEW Soundtrack: Beach House - Teen Dream}

And Again

You see? I wasn't making this up – one week later, different city, more hearts. (Crap phone shot but that's what you get for being caught off guard.) I saved this one too.

{Today's Soundtrack: Massive Attack - Heligoland}

Strewn

Please tell me, does this just happen to me or do other people find hearts strewn under their feet on a regular basis? I keep finding these scuffed little shapes everywhere I go. Last spring there was a patch of time where I found loads, and saved some – on my dashboard, in my purse, as a bookmark. These things happen and–for the reflective character–they do make you wonder, is someone trying to tell you something?

I was with a lovely, wise lady when I found the first little heart, which was dead shiny one side, then I turned it over and saw it was scuffed and grubby. She pointed out that hearts in that condition are even better to love because there's no pretending from the offset. Rough with smooth. What you see, you get. In a way that makes things easier, doesn't it? You're allowed to come with your story.

{Today's Soundtrack: Aqualung}

Struggle

So there I was strolling down fancy old Kings Road fighting a not-very-Chelsea-urge for MacDonalds, wondering which gallery to head for as I was in town and felt like learning something. Then, right there before me was the new Saatchi Gallery. Gulp.

Now, I really, really struggle with modern art, but don't feel I can make a meaningful comment unless I at least try to engage with it. This was the moment. I went in.

The work was horrible–so ugly and distressed. I might have completely misinterpreted it, but it didn't make me want to look at it long enough to find out - the key problem I have with work which rejects beautifully crafted aesthetics. Each comment was about being shackled, mocked and bruised. That makes me really sad. We know life is tough, we all have battles and hear about many of these in headlines every day, but something makes us keep going. It's that I want to see on the walls – the thing that keeps us moving, refusing to take 'no' for an answer.

I felt injustice that artists occupying this significant wall space are granted license to pick us up in our struggles, put us in a deeply hopeless space and leave us there. I read on these walls a massive scorn for beauty, and hope. It appears to be unfashionable to believe in anything. I wished for a playmate who could have distracted me with some inappropriate Carry On gags when nausea kicked in.

One extraordinary exhibit was in the basement – an oil slick that caused a disorientating and intriguing reflection which, in context, was quite thought provoking.

Clever, but the fumes of burnt engine oil clung to my nostrils and increased my nausea. And the warden tried to chat me up. Difficult. I had to leave.

Anyone know any good jokes?

{Today's Soundtrack: Radio 4 - just a minute}

(exception)

I will just say, all Londoners are not weird, such as the lovely people I went to visit. They make it all ok. You know who you are! x

Mind The Gap

Mind what gap?! The only gaps to be found in much of London are those between the ears of commuters. (Or is that right? Maybe it's the reverse - heads too full to give anyone else the time of day?)

Personal Space. I still maintain it's a bit weird sharing armpits with complete strangers on the tube, or sitting opposite a sleeping stranger – feels as though you've broken in to their bedroom. It's very intimate, watching someone sleep. Should this be allowed in a public place?

Ahem... moving on. Mind the doors...

{Today's Soundtrack: Cara Dillon}