Blogging with Bloggie in Chester

Sunny Chester

Divine Right's Trip

Divine Right's Trip is a book which finally seemed to give me a career plan! It was about a drug addled freak (there weren’t hippies or people who’d label there self that even then. Would you call yourself a wristie?) travelling around America in a VW split screen. He ended up living what would now be called ‘eco life-style’ in the country with the love of his life (a woman not the van – concentrate!). Now children strange as it seems colour telly had not turned the world on to ‘getting it together in the country’ a la life-swap programmes and such. Most people wanted to dress like George and Carter in Minder. Sensibly I saved that split-screen thought, though and got a beetle until the revolution broke out.
 

In a nutshell each of us young and old VW freaks have a tale to tell in response to the next door neighbours half-concerned question “ yes, but don’t you want to get a car that just goes when you get in it?” Beyond saying “no” what story do you tell about why you like (sorry love and give a pet name to) your van.

Do we come upfront and say because it represents a way we want to live? 

Do you simply wryly smile and say “because it’s cool”?  

Deprecating say “we all need a hobby”? 

It’s usually not a problem because those interested enough to overcome their shyness will express their interest in doing something similar…….if only they had the time, the money, less wives and children, a month of Sundays. No, I’m more interested in what we used to call, quite rudely really, 'straights'. 

What do they see in the van, people who are just different, a threat, worse a quaint vintage style hobby? I'd like to develop this thread further so so 'straight' or 'freak' I'd love to hear from you

But is it Art, then?

It is futile for an artist to try to create an environment because you have an environment around you all the time. Any living organism has an environment.
Carl Andre

Bricks

 

React, please.

Then read this

Story - Jackanory - Journey

Short journey, short story

“Screee…..eeech”, we all lurched forward grabbing the seat in front to stop us all piling up next to the driver at the front of the bus. ‘All’ consisted of me and three others and the driver after the bus had passed through the first of it’s three urban, densely populated centres it’s back and forth journey linked. Rhythmically the bus filled and emptied near the busy town centres. On the short rural parts between towns the bus driver is often your private chauffeur in a utilitarian 60-seat limo.

Before a long journey on public transport it’s always making sure your bladders empty. Even trains don’t always have toilets on, particularly on relatively ‘short-haul’ journeys. Especially in the winter when you are over 50 and male urinating and the need for it becomes more of an issue. I missed the first bus, a double decker where I could have sat upstairs above the driver, imagining in some mad moments what it would be like steering from 20 feet up in the air; gaining sight of bits of peoples lives and gardens not seen from a single decker. He avoided my eye as I ran across the road behind his revving diesel. I gave him a sarcastic ‘thumbs-up’ in appreciation.

An old man had stepped out one, two tentatively three and froze in the path of the bus. As the driver swerved and braked around him I saw his lips moving silently, like a fish on a quayside as he held a hand to his chest as his heart desperately tried to catch up with the near death of it’s owner.

“That was close”

“Is he alright?”

“He’s just standing there in the middle of the road” already he was receding from our memory and vision.

I failed to recognise the limits of conversation had been reached and made a couple more jocular comments before realising my error and shutting up. Embarrassed for me the others on the bus took a greater interest in the goings on through the windows. I was beginning to think I might need a wee soon. Why is it you need to pee more in the mornings?

Opposite me the tired little Asian lady took pity on me and said

“He never saw a thing did he?”

“It’s the poor bus-driver I feel sorry for”

She smiled like she meant what she said but I felt she had learnt the smile to put people at ease. Being the only Asian in an all white crowd had to make you feel more self-conscious. It was obvious she was very tired, probably from working all night and as the bus settled into a gentler rhythm, stopping less often in the rural section of the journey she fell deeply asleep.

Maybe she worked in a hospital or nursing home. It looked like a uniform collar showing above her coat. A nose-stud and her skin colour the only exotic notes she stirred only a little as the bus stopped to pick up someone who didn’t seem to be at all at ease catching a bus.

Regular bus riders tend to know the general etiquette and form for the bus and on their regular route detail like knowing the right fare and when to get up marks them as in familiar territory. Clues: firstly he wanted to go somewhere the bus didn’t, the bus driver explained how far he could take him on his quest and the long walk he’d have when he got off; he tried to pay with a £10 note and had to dig in various pockets to find the change needed; finally having struggled getting his words and money through the armoured plastic screen he staggered to one of the funny little drop-down sideways seats meant for the elderly and those burdened with little children, buggies or baggage. Not somewhere you’d sit normally. He was a quick learner though and by the next stop had moved to the more spacious seats further back.

Where was he going? He was nearly 60 and had sandy coloured hair. He looked powerfully built and used to hard labour by his demeanour and the way he moved purposefully but without grace. Had he been banned from driving? Why was he walking down to an isolated beach, alone early on a Tuesday morning? He double-checked with the driver the instructions for his mysterious rendezvous as he got off and strode purposefully away. Was he late? How could I know? Anyway now I really could do with a pee. Change position and stretch out a bit more that will help. If I get off to use those isolated bushes I’ll have to wait 30’ for another bus and I’ll be late!

Nearer the dense city the bus fills up proportionately. Students late for college in the loud isolated bubble of their mobile phone conversations come and go for a few stops. Two well-dressed and permed ladies in their 60’s get on in the up-market, green belt defended satellite town. They are differently isolated in the babble of their conversation. Do they know each other well and arrange to meet on the bus each week or does their easy conversation represent many years spent together on the same bus at the same time. How many years would I have to ride this bus until I could join in their chat? Did they realise how lucky they were not to have an ageing prostate and a full bladder?

When I was younger and never worried about the distance and time between toilets, as a student I caught a similar ‘town-to-town’ bus to college. On that bus I had fellow students to talk to but even then I preferred to watch the people, making up stories about their lives or just enjoy the moving, constantly changing landscape picture outside the window. I never realised then how lucky I was to grow up in Shropshire, riding a vermilion Midland red bus through a hilly, green patchwork. 35 years later minor road accidents and incidents and requests still provide the memorable points on these journeys.

There is sure to be a toilet on the way into this place isn’t there? Time to get up and get off. Actually now I’m standing I don’t need the toilet so bad. The bus roars off and I’m forgotten, the short stories of short journeys we all make every day


September 2009

Wh.. wh.. where.. what.. why ... when is this place?

Blog. The first. Just a way of putting what's in my head down........ or.......... just a way of putting down what's in my head in other people's heads?..... or both. And what else? Well surely that's the whole point, fun and excitement? Otherwise why am I here, in a cold dining room in Sheffield on a January morning at 5.30?
'Speedy Spells" we call them in my family. Times when I can't sleep, I'm full of ideas and or worries and if I don't use some well worn strategies I inflict my Speedy Spell on everyone. Since I've stopped teaching I don't seem to get them, at least this is the first I can remember since finishing at 'the Joy Division' as school was unaffectionately known.
I'm going to control what energy and time I've gained by retiring at 56 is the key to all I want to do: this blog is about all the art (or Art) I've put off to live the 'straight' life I have for the last 32 years. Am I equal to the task? Well that always been my problem - plenty of good, even great ideas but for whatever reasons not following things through or at least further.
So here's the first theme further.

And what could be further than the view off the walls of the medieval cite de Thouars?