INSIGNIFICANT MOMENTS IN THE FOLDS OF TIME - Tricycle Tales

The outrageous pumping of his desperate little heart. The determined turning of his hips, knees and ankles joints, madly whirling round and round and round and round the wobbly shank and it's peddles. Breath more belaboured and heavier with the purposefulness of his youthful exertion. The sweat beading on his brow. Accompanied by the most cacophonous of noises, caused by the stones and various odd objects, gems he'd collected, thrown into the tin boot to tumble around in one immense aggregated rattle. All in imitation of those large empty dump trucks he loved, that hurtled by his home clanging, banging and explosively booming, like anarchic drummers announcing the pitted unevenness of the road on which he lived.

This activity felt too wonderful, fully exhilarating, the most alive any 'not yet a five year old boy' could ever experience. This young boy and his tricycle, had for a moment become furiously focused, one piece of united energy. Who could have known such short legs, with so little muscle, could generate this amount of momentum. But to his boyhood imagination the sense of propulsion and speed felt immense, utterly intoxicating. He wanted much more of racing along the pavements hell for leather. Then an adult hand caught him, and brought it all to an abrupt stop. 

It was always like this it seemed, some adult, usually a parent, spoiled the fun. To them it was all about stopping him, making him consider the effect of his actions upon other people, that he needed to be more respectful. It was, after all, early afternoon, and lovely kind Mrs Greenwood would be having her afternoon nap. They'd completely over rule his excuses. Downplaying the value of his enjoyment. For one moment he had been riding his tricycle without a care in the world. Now could that ever have been wrong? Adults were relentless spoilsports, trying to force him to feel guilty. And there were tears, but more out of a sense of loss. Grieving for this one blissful moment in his life, now trashed and sullied. Apparently the problem with him was he did not think. And so he'd cried, but did so with such an angry pout of disapproval on his face. They had ruined his entire day. He'd been, and still was to his mind, guilt free, enjoyably pedaling his tricycle around and around the block, along pavements, up and down cobbled snickets and back alleys, between the terraces. They'd obviously forgotten what that was like.

Going round the block, this was his race track, around which he was timing himself. But for some reason adults, they always wanted to get him to 'stop making that bloody racket' They always swore, and his Mum always said it wasn't clever to swear. Rude language, was vulgar, indicating a lack of intelligence. Poor vocabulary spoke volumes about who you were. He never understood a lot of that. Why was it adults could swear and he couldn't? This he could not comprehend. The racket, the noise, was what made this particular form of playfulness special. It was what adding all the stones and objects was all about. To see what difference they made to the overall sound. The stones were cargo, that needed delivering, and he was now behind with that delivery, thank you very much. He had to catch up, if he was ever to be on time. 

The metal tricycle had once been a spanking new red. Now it was seriously dented and scuffed, some of the battered pock marks were beginning to rust badly from being left out in the rain. His Mother was already firing warning shots about him out growing it, and the time to throw it away. He had not, at first, recognised the possibilities a tricycle gave him. Perhaps initially too young for it, his legs did not quite meet the pedals right. It had felt as though it required too much effort. But a mere few months later, suddenly it all clicked, exactly what a tricycle could do. At first he was endlessly cycling up and down the pavement in front of his home. It was only when he went up and down the echoing cobbled snicket for the first time, that it's acoustic possibilities became the decisive revelation of love. What an immensely pleasurable noise that was, as you were shaken and bounced up and down over every little minor cobble and rut. 

He ventured further afield, to discover what different surfaces and places looked and sounded like. One day he got so carried away with his peddling, he actually reached the very limit of his road. Never having ventured this far before, he started to feel uneasy, out of his depth and a teeny weeny bit scared. He scanned what was at the road's end, spotting a few things he'd like to explore later, on another day, when he was feeling braver. Aware, on this occasion, that it was probably nearing tea time, and he really ought to be heading for home.

His Mother took him with her on a shopping trip into town the following day, what a tedious waste of time that was to 'a not yet five year old boy" intent on adventure. Consequently he was only able to perform the return journey, a few days later, back to the road's end On his previous glance around, he'd spotted a row of semi-dilapidated garages on the corner opposite. He reached these easily, part pushing with his feet, part waddling across with the tricycle still placed between his legs. To the right of these garages was a lowish stone wall, one he knew he could easily climb. This turned out to look down onto the railway cutting and shunting yards, things he'd only heard before, never actually seen. They were incredibly close, so near he could wave to the drivers. And he spent many a subsequent idle afternoon, hanging around just watching these magnificent beasts, with massive engines moving back and forth. Occasionally older boys, ones he didn't know, turned up. They'd hassle and teased him too much, that he started to clear off home sharpish the moment he saw them heading in his direction. 

There were, of course, other places to explore. He could see them in the distance, over the other side of the wide road junction, where the main road out of town split off in two directions. Could he cycle over there? He'd give it a try. Setting a determined chin peddling his tricycle furiously across this main road. With such intensely that he hit the kerb opposite with great force, and was nearly thrown over the handle bars. Quickly heaving the tricycle off the road, he reviewed whether there was any lasting damage. Well, none that he could see. And having finally arrived there, he could take in the bank of allotments the other side of a shallow stone wall, the suggestion of a valley beyond them. These all were enticing. He couldn't possibly drag a tricycle all that way, so what was he going to do with it?  Improvising a hiding place behind a hedge, and hoped that that would be enough for it to remain secret. 

There were a few adults pottering around the allotments, so he'd need to behave like the Indian tracker he saw on TV. Keeping low, move slow and quietly. There'd obviously been children here before him, with a well flattened grass path to crawl around the back of the allotments. And then that path suddenly veered downhill. You could fully see the heather on the top moor opposite, and how the road curled in the valley beneath it. Having rapidly descended, the path curved horizontally across the slope until it came to a soot blackened granite shelf of rock that stuck out dramatically, what the boy instantly christened 'the cave'. He hung around entranced by his discovery for seemingly an age, looking out at the hills opposite, rapt in his imaginative reveries. Until again he started to feel on edge, nervous about it getting dark soon, of being here on his own, that maybe he hadn't hidden his tricycle well enough, what if he couldn't find it?  What time was it now? Suddenly hitting the panic button, he pelted as fast as his legs could carry him, passed the allotments, back to his tricycle hidey hole, back across the road junction. 

By the time he'd reached home, the panic attack had subsided and he was on full beam with the sheer joy of today's adventuring. His Mother was waiting for him, standing by the back door looking bad tempered and cross. He'd been seen by a neighbour cycling across that busy main road, what was he thinking? There was a hard slap across the thigh. He was to stay at home for the rest of the week. This one incident proved to be the death knell for the tricycle. But the young boy 'not yet five years old'  quickly got over mourning it's loss. He wasn't visibly angry or sulking, well, maybe invisibly he was, just a little. After all, he was now ready to move on to pastures new, he'd found himself a cave.

PROTEST & PROGRESS - The Pilgrimage of Grace

My purpose in writing this Protest & Progress blog post, is to explore for myself the history of English Protest Movements. What effect they had, and the changes they may ( or may not ) have instigated. Today, it's The Pilgrimage of Grace.

1536 - THE PILGRIMAGE OF GRACE

For the first twenty years of Henry 8th's reign he was the handsome youthful monarch who charmed his subjects. Though undoubtedly a cultured man, he ebulliently overindulged his extravagant tastes. His desire to divorce Katherine of Aragon and marry Anne Boylen entailed a split with Rome. His ambitions in France led to expensive wars which got him no where. The state of royal finances plummeted, and the country began to look on him less favourably. What turned all these factors into a people's rebellion was the dissolution of the monasteries. 

It's hard for us, in our more secular times, to realise quite what an upheaval to the social fabric of 16th century England the dissolution was. Though the people had there issues with the way the monasteries behaved in relation to the local economy, these were institutions deeply embedded in their spiritual and economic lives. Monasteries provided social support through distributing alms, it's infirmary dispensed medicines and cared for the sick, besides generally ministering to the spiritual needs of the local area. The economy of a village or town undoubtedly thrived through supplying monasteries with goods, and bought bread and ale from them in return. Monasteries often became the site for a local weekly market, usually in its outer courtyard. The dissolution happened incredibly swiftly, within the space of roughly five years all of the monasteries were brought into the state of being ruins. Some buildings were converted into barns, parish churches or cathedrals. It was as though a wrecking ball had been swung through the heart of English society and it's religious culture smashed.

The rebellion,The Pilgrimage of Grace, had hence a multiplicity of economic causes, aggravated by the removal of monasteries from the local economy, without a thought for what the knock on consequences of that would be. The Pilgrimage of Grace became widespread with a rag bag alliance of grievances riding under one spiritual banner. It tapped into a huge amount of suppressed discontent in the country. Thomas Cromwell, as the designer of the dissolution, was the focus of it's ire. But let's be clear here, Henry was no longer that popular, nor held in high esteem by his people. His divorce was widely disapproved of, as was the split with Rome. He was becoming increasingly tyrannical, so it maybe not be deference, but more likely fear that made the rebels resist not openly criticising him. 

What had started as a little local difficulty in Lincolnshire, easily suppressed in the October, then broke out in Yorkshire, Cumberland, Northumberland and Durham. Robert Aske a London lawyer from North Yorkshire was chosen to bring leadership to the incipient rebellion. Under his guidance 9,000 rebels marched south and occupied York with relative ease. By the time they'd reached Doncaster the number of rebels was approximately 40,000. This was by far the largest rebellion of the Tudor era. The Duke of Norfolk and Earl of Shrewsbury were despatched to negotiate at Pontefract Castle. Aske helped the rebels compose their requests to the King. A document called 'The Commons Petition'. This contained twenty four demands, and was given to the Duke of Norfolk in December 1536.

It's estimated Norfolk and Shrewsbury's forces together totaled 12,000 men, so with a growing rebel force three times that, they faced being massacred if they were to try suppressing the rebellion. Norfolk attempted to placate the rebels by disingenuously stating the petition would be presented to the King, that there would be a general pardon, and the monastery closures would be halted til Parliament had met to discuss them. With these promises Aske was persuaded to disband the rebellion. Sir Francis Bigod, rightly as it turned out, was not convinced the King would honour Norfolk's promises. Without taking Aske's advice, he led his own minor rebellion in February 1537. This was the opportunity that Norfolk was looking for, brutally suppressing Bigod's rebellion, arresting both him and Robert Aske. Aske was hanged in chains in York. Bigod was hanged at Tyburn in London. A total of 216 rebel activists were executed, many if them nobility. Martial law was imposed across all the regions that had partaken in the Pilgrimage of Grace.

Historians argue about to what degree this was a popular revolt arising out of a genuine disquiet, and how much the involvement of significant nobility gave it more credence and hence popular backing from the common people. I would say choosing Robert Aske, a lawyer, to lead them had significance in this regard. That he was able to help in the formulating of 'The Commons Petition' a properly drawn up document from the people to their King, presenting their demands. It was more likely that Catholic minded nobility were piggy backing on the people's revolt. The more they were seen as instigating the people to rebel, the worse it would be for them. The rebels saw themselves as The Commons, the common people, with a common land, and a common faith, as a remnant of the medieval Catholic society that they saw the dissolution as casually defenestrating  A petition from common people to their King, was the only way  to present their views. 

Sure, this was not the first time rebels had proffered a petition to a King, but there was something distinctly intentional and formal about how this one was being presented as coming from 'the Commons'. What we see in the Pilgrimage of Grace, is that this was not primarily a revolt over unfair taxes, but the beginnings of common people demanding their views be heard and taken into account in how society developed. After all, their lives and belief system had been completely upended, with no thought given to their feelings, wishes or the effect upon their lives.The disquiet here in 1536 amongst ordinary common people, only becomes more frustrated, intemperate and demanding over the next century.

Next episode - 1549 The Kett's Rebellion 

ART N AB ART - Asteriodia - Salthouse Church Exhibtion

 

Having seen the promotional flyer for this I had my interest and expectations peeked. There are a lot of events happening alongside this installation which I can only describe as ritualistic, which seems an interesting idea. Basically there is a difficulty here for me. What the actual thing itself these events are based around. struck me as - not that impressive. Made from a huge number of dried out starfish, composed into a circular form. It hangs across the nave, but it does not dominate it, which it really should do, its size aught to overwhelm. There was a desire in me for this to be much much bigger in scale, and spherical, not a medallion shape. To be lit dramatically, to really wow me with awe and wonder.

Scale alone is not the fundamental problem. It simply feels a half baked concept, this stars above and stars below thing, the linking of the heavens with earth, the transcendent and the terrestrially grounded. Some how this feels far too light weight and the installation required much more imaginative effort to be brought to it. To dig a bit deeper than applying some basic imaginative associations to it. My overall impression was -  of being underwhelmed, and when informed what the artistic premise of the installation was, still more underwhelmed. Remind me again, what is this supposed to say to me, because I really am not feeling it in my mythic gut?

CARROT REVIEW - 2/8

FINISHED READING - Don't Forget We're Here Forever by Lamorna Ash

After completing reading a novel, I press the pause button on literary imaginative fiction, and deep dive into a book that is literal, about something current and vital, that I in someway care about. Lamorna Ash's, Don't Forget We're Here Forever was such a book. An investigative endeavour that takes the temperature of Christianity and researchs the reasons for young people's recent renewed interest in it. It is rare these days to pick up a book, that becomes so all consuming you need to read whilst the hunger for it is still raging.  This is an extremely honest, yet kind hearted book, written with great care and sensitivity towards it's subject matter. My interest  in Christianity has never quite gone to the extent that Lamorna pursues here. Obviously she was writing a book, so she has that as her driver, initially it's her desire to understand more fully the variety of forms of Christianity she encounters, underneath this is her own nascent faith seeking for a place it might rest. 

This book is not then another crude hatchet job on Christianity, that puts it one book nearer to obsolescence. You can tell she is open to the experience of whatever she finds is there. Yes, she has her doubts, even in situations and with people she loves, she has her own self interogating questionings. She meets everyone where they are with a degree of respect and a desire to understand where they are coming from. There are interviews with committed Christians, recent converts, people who left and then returned, people who have had visions, inexplicable encounters with God, those who run Alpha courses or lead Christian retreats. She covers the broadest gamut of approaches from Quaker, through Pentacostal, Anglican, Catholic, Orthodox, to newer worship phenomena like Soul Survivor, Youth With A Mission or One Church. And many of these organisations are, or were, far from perfect and she doesn't hide or excuse that. But they are all, whilst not exactly reviving, are receiving more interest these days from younger people of Lamorna's generation in their mid to late twenties. Open to Christianity as something that might fill a significant gap in their lives, that society has nothing substantial to fill it with, other than more distractions and analgesics.

The thoroughness in her writing, keeps digging for something one step deeper than a quickly dashed off sketch will provide. The process by which her task to document her own generations struggle with a world apparently going to pot, and the solutions it is trying to find  is a journey that is fluently and compellingly written. It is also full of humanity, with all the flaws, clumsy feelings, cackhanded efforts to engage with a new form of prayer or communal practice. We all recognise the self consciousness and awkwardness of being in unfamiliar contexts. Gradually as you progress through the book, you get a clearer sense of Lamorna as an individual seeking personal answers, as well as the eloquent descriptive writer. As she discovers the contexts she's been unknowingly searching for. She finds herself standing up in a silent Quaker meeting and 'ministers' for the first time. There are obviously those situations and people she has an instant rapport with and those she does not. But you the reader are always with her.

CARROT REVIEW - 7/8

ARTICLE - Malcolm Guite - Talking About The Imagination

Malcolm Guite is a poet, singer song writer, Anglican priest and academic. He is also one of humanity's natural enthusiasts, and even if you're unable to fully align with his religious perspective, you can find yourself being swept up in the sheer verve and lively momentum of his conversation. He has an unusual and engaging presence. Plus a phenomenal memory for poetry to boot.

In a hour long conversation available online (a link to which is at the bottom of this transcript)  he recounts the influence of his Mother reciting poetry at the drop of what, his own appreciation for Tolkien, C.S.Lewis, folk tales, and of his new ballad rendering of the Arthurian legend. He also talks beautifully, with great clarity about what the imaginations role in human creativity is. Here are a few salient extracts from that conversation on this subject matter, which I have judiciously edited where I felt necessary for improved comprehension.

"The world itself is a language."

"We have been so busy weighing and measuring (things) for the last three hundred years, we've forgotten what they mean."

" You could say your whole life could be seen as a slowly evolving poem.... You are God's poem."

"We live in a world where all kinds of analogies, parables, symbols and metaphors are naturally and richly available to us. But there is a reason why that rational analytical mind doesn't get how to do that, it can't make that leap. That is the imaginations business. The imagination is precisely to see the thing out there, and recognise that the visible thing out there, is more than itself. That it provides you with an image through which to think about what is in here ( in us)."

"The imagination is the faculty by which we apprehend meaning, not just information."

"How do we get from apprehension to comprehension, of things that are true, but not divisible or a weighable part of the material realm? We have been used to seeing the imagination as something that just makes stuff up. It's some airy fairy little whimsy of our own, that has no purchase on reality, as it really is.

And it is true we can make up things that have no purchase on reality. But it's also equally true that when we tell stories, when we paint pictures, when we write poems, we can create a verbal or visible form which embodies, which bodies forth things we need to know, and might not be able to know in any other way.

In fact, the idea that the poetic imagination enables a certain kind of knowledge, that it is a truth bearing faculty is clear when Shakespeare says 'imagination bodies forth things unknown.' They are there, they are real, but they are unknown to us, and we only faintly apprehend them."

"Essentially, when we read a great poem or look at a great painting, its as though things half known or reached after or faintly apprehended have suddenly come and made a home in this place. You walk through the door of the poem into the local habitation of the poem, and you meet them."

Malcolm Guite - Discovering Joy With The Imagination

FINISHED READING - The Emperor of Gladness

Hai is walking along the bridge over the river, he knows what he intends to do once he reaches the middle. However, just as he puts an uncertain foot towards its precipitous edge, a voice cries out from beneath him to come down this minute. It's an elderly woman living in a dilapidated house near the river bank. She is a Lithuanian refugee from the war, called Grazina, and she is about to save and turn Hai's life around. Hai's emotional resilience has reached rock bottom, his lover has died, only the UPS jacket he wears is a physical reminder. He's grown distant from his Mother, because he continues to perpetrate a lie to her, about being at university learning to be a doctor. Obtaining a job in the local Home Market takeaway through his cousin Sony, a whole bunch of characterful individuals become his oddball chosen family.

Ocean Vuong's second novel is notably more assured and steady in its tone, than his debut. The Emperor of Gladness has these astonishingly vivid runs of prose detail. Taking you on a compelling walk through the houses and businesses that constitute the town of East Gladness. Presenting you with a panoramic sense of the idiosyncratic and traditional nature of small town America. The ordinary straightforward people who live there, and their distinct ways of making the humdrum nature of their lives bearable. They may talk about leaving, but they belong here, they know who they are by living here. 

The emotional core of the book is constructed around Hai's relationship with Grazina. She is prone to incidences of dementia, becoming lost in reliving her own nightmarish memories. Hai builds a rapport and learns how to play act alongside these distressing recollections, to help her escape from them. Most of the deeply heartbreaking scenes in this novel are between these two, as Grazina struggles to maintain here sense of reality and independence. Capturing the mutual need that both of them have, to reconcile themselves to their past. 

Like his debut, The Emperor of Gladness casts an autobiographical shadow. In both novels the central character lives estranged from his Mother, with oblique foreshadowing references to him writing a book one day. Vuong has developed an easy satirical wit, that is kind but knowing, about the mildly eccentric absurdities of his characters lives. Painting a droll humourous picture of a downtown takeaway that has become slightly grubby and past it's best, with it's longstanding petty rivalries towards other fast food joints. The novel is a celebration of the plain ordinariness of these people's lives. In a place where few other options are available, they make the most out of whatever life serves them. 

One vividly described scene is a side hustle a group of them go on. The psychotic effect on them of repeatedly shooting hogs in the head in a butchers abbatoir, is genuinely disturbing. From its opening pages this is a masterly written novel, seeming to drift into moments of uncertainty in the middle, that then recovers it's sense of direction with a heartbreaking conclusion. This structural unevenness was present in his debut. On Earth We Are Briefly Gorgeous, Vuong appeared to suddenly discover the magical tone of his own authorial voice mid novel. 

I've thoroughly enjoyed reading both of his novels. I find I feel much fonder of them in retrospect, than I often do when I'm reading them. The colourfulness of the world he portrays, lingers in the back of my imaginative recall. The struggles we all go through to create something out of our prosaic short lives, is presented through them with such an appealing and good natured fondness.

CARROT REVIEW - 6/8

2026 PLAYLIST No 15 - Simply Are by Arto Lindsay

Simply Are - Arto Lindsay

Currently excitedly rattling through the back catalogue of Arto Lindsay's music. I first encountered Lindsay in his 1980's New York No Wave phase as the extremely freeform noise guitarist in DNA and Lounge Lizards. That sophisticated type of angular noise and art jazz that Lounge Lizards personified, has since led him to bossa nova and samba rhythms and a style of gently expressive jazz singing remeniscent of 1960's Brazil. Born and brought up in Brazil, Lindsay does have an instinctive feel for the form, which enables him to push the musical envelope a bit further than you might expect, And what's more make it work. Music reviewers struggle to place him, so basically compose a list of rag bag terms some of which might fit -art pop , bossa nova, tropicalia, jazz pop, experimental rock. Undoubtedly he brings all his art rock noise baggage with him, so it takes a few delightfully surprising turns. There is a sonic adventurousness here, unique to this style of easy on the ear Latin inflected jazz. And I am becoming quite deeply obsessed with it. Simply Are, is probably the most accessible song from this period of Arto Lindsay, taken from his third solo album Noon Chill released in 1997. I love his style of smoothly dead pan low key singing, it is so laid back and chilled.

RISING UP MY DUCK PILE - July 2026

As it has recently been my birthday, I have been gifted a fair number of books that were on my suggested list to buy me. So my book pile has suddenly zoomed up in height. At 46cm ( not including the duck) it is the highest it has ever been.

I'm already feeling torn what to pick up next. There are books that keep getting neglected, but this was ever so. Sometimes it gets to the point where, rather than going for what appeals most, one behaves counter intuitively and heads for what is least appealing to the momentary heart. Bearing in mind that once upon a time you did want to read this, and may still do, if you can put aside the sexy dalliance that the newbies are proffering a leg to. But, this is what the pile is currently composed of at present.

BERNARD McGINN - THE MYSTICAL THOUGHT OF MASTER ECKHART

In the realm of medieval Christian mysticism Master Eckhart is thought to be somewhat seminal. McGinn's book comes highly rated as an introduction to his controversial, but none the less influential writing. I am quite looking forward to getting round to reading this. But I suspect I will really have to be in the right headspace for it.

Christmas Present 

PHILIP GOFF - WHY? THE PURPOSE OF THE UNIVERSE

I've heard interviews with him and got the gist of some of his ideas. This book is in part an exploration of 'panpsychism' which is an idea I want to know more about. It is in essence that everything is conscious, and guides how everything in the world presents itself. It's present in absolutely everything, including in us. It sort of is and isn't God like.

Birthday Present 

BYUNG CHUL-HAN - NON THINGS

Jared Henderson recommends this author highly. So I'm dipping a toe into the world of Byung-Chul Han's philosophy.  We live in a constantly expanding realm of 'non-things'. The 'infosphere' is not really a tangible object we can touch and comprehend with our full sensory capacities. And this is affecting how we relate, not just to the world, butmost importantly to each other.

Birthday Present

WILLIAM DALRYMPLE - THE COMPANY QUARTET

These four volumes are Dalrymple's magnum opus on the British East India Company. In India it became the world's first Corporation to own and run a country. It had its own army, numbering upwards of 200,000 troops, almost double that of Great Britain's own army at the time. The quartet encompasses is rise, the scurrilous individuals who ran and made a fortune from it, who eventually were forced to hand India back for The Empire to run.

Birthday Present.

OCEAN VUONG - THE EMPEROR OF GLADNESS

Vuong's second novel, following on from his debut On Earth We Are Briefly Gorgeous, builds on further his capacity for wonderfully evocative prose writing. Here you get a vibrant sense of the town of East Gladness as a place, in which his central character Hai, lives in a ramshackle house with Grazina, an old lady who once prevented him taking his own life.

Library Book

Currently Reading

DIARMAID Mc CULLOCH - LOWER THAN THE ANGELS

McCulloch is always a really peachy historical read. This one has the theme of sexuality in Christian theology and how it's terribly oppressive response is not always supported by what you actually read in the biblical source material. McCullough is quite used to writing the epic overview. This is punctuated with his usual dry wit, and you can tell he has really enjoyed writing this one.

Christmas Present 
Currently Reading

YUVAL NOAH HARARI - SAPIANS

Another book which I'm looking forward to getting around to reading. I've been impressed with the clear headed nature of his mind when interviewed. So I'm hoping he writes in a similar vein.

Waterstones

BELL HOOKS - THE WILL TO CHANGE
I've read a few books on the masculinity crisis written from a male perspective. I came across this book by the famous feminist Bell Hooks. So far I'm quite impressed with the depth of her understanding. Her central theme is that men do not understand, and are often running away from the full capacity of their ability to love. Afraid of discovering and hence allowing themselves to love being who they actually are.
The Book Hive - Norwich

Currently Reading

NEIL POSTMAN - AMUSING OURSELVES TO DEATH

First published in 1985, and subtitled Public Discourse in the Age of Showbusiness, Postman's book was reissued by his son in 2005, twenty years later and found itself a new audience. Though focused on the effect of TV on not just people's lives but their minds, his essential idea is that in the consumption of some technologies 'the form of it excludes content', rather than stimulating  us, it puts our minds to sleep, turns us into passive receptors of image and amusement. And in the age of the internet this struck a chord.

Birthday Present 

DAVID GRAEBER & DAVID WENGROW - THE DAWN OF HUMANITY

Graeber is an anthropologist and Wengrow an archeologist, in this book they examine how human society developed.  They critique of the traditional view of the linear progressive view of human evolution, and say this is more a philosophical view, unsupported by any evidence in anthropology or archaeology. I came across this through an interview with David Wengrow.

Birthday Present.

DAVID GRAEBER - THE ULTIMATE HIDDEN TRUTH OF THE WORLD
Came across David Graber through an interview with his frequent collaborator David Wengrow. Graber who died in 2020 was a social anthropologist and anarchistic thinker out of all the usual boxes. And I was intrigued enough to want to read something by him. This is a collection of essays on a variety of subject matters.
The Book Hive - Aylsham

LAMORNA ASH - DON'T FORGET WE'RE HERE FOREVER
I saw her being interviewed on The Sacred podcast, and thought she seemed really open and frank in her investigative writing. Here she is examining what a new generation of young people might be seeking from religion. That in the end became her own journey of discovery.
The Book Hove - Aylsham

KAZUO ISHIGURO - THE REMAINS OF THE DAY

I've not read any Ishiguro before. This is of course his most famous, and reputedly his best novel. I just saw it going for a pound in a Nottingham charity shop, so couldn't resist buying it.

Charity Shop

GEORGE ORWELL - NOTES ON NATIONALISM

I am interested to read this short book, just to see what Orwell has to offer by way of analysis of nationalism. As part of my own reading around this subject to see what value nationalism may or may not have, and what causes it to rise up in people's need of it.

Birthday Present

SHERINGHAM DIARY No 141 - Audible Battering

Bizarre Advert Tag Line - Imagine this feeling, but for your teeth.

I've been attempting to devote more time to my own art projects. But you'd think I lived the life of a busy social whirl, because time for such projects, appears to evaporate in my hands. I am getting better at blocking out time, but I do really have to guard that space. Everything otherwise seems to encroach and gobble it up. For years if I did decide to commit to doing artwork, it was to paint. But I realised recently I was not particularly interested in painting anymore. It's as though I've exhausted my current capacity for that medium. Working in relief, assembling pieces from found objects, is more where my aesthetic interest arises.

The revamped shrine backdrop

An old piece now painted

This all began with one piece I made for my shrine, that I recently revamped. It suddenly seemed to stand perfectly well on its own, and didn't require use in the shrine anymore. When I look back I have dabbled with working in this way on and off before, but never saw it as a thing outside of making a shrine or a decorative fence for our garden. So I have returned to some early experiments I did a few years ago, that were essentially made from framing offcuts, and started to apply colour on them. There are far too many ideas floating around in my mind at the moment. The actuality will prove which one's have got legs or staying power. But I can see them stepping out of being reliefs and off the walls, til they become more fully three dimensional.

A new piece of artworks 

I'm not thinking of this as anything more than art being a thing that I do. I have created  difficulties for myself in the past, with thinking art needed it's worth validating through the selling of it. But actually the making of art is validation enough. Seeing art as your personal legacy to the world is a bit of an ego conceit too. Exhibiting and selling your art is entirely another thing. I may indeed think about exhibiting later. But to do so now, would inhibit the tender shoots of what is a relatively new approach. I tend to take Quentin Crisp's view that it is in the process of making art where an artist's interest lives and thrives, the process of exhibiting it in a gallery, is ' where it hangs until it's dead' so far as an artist's engagement with it is concerned. It's not that I'm against selling my work, but I don't want that to become a primary aim. I don't want financial benefit to be all it is about.

Product Pitch - Mr Sheen Professional - with Dust Trap Technology 

( because it's wet I expect)

There are some garden tasks that are not to be relished, and trimming a pyracantha hedge is one of them. It is, to not put too fine a gloss on it, a vicious bitch of a bush. Every two to three years it requires a severe cut back, simply to stop it taking over. In the past, even though I've been quite modest in the amount I've cut it back, I can confidently say a pyracantha bush is the nearest thing to immortality, it cannot die. This year I've been planning a more drastic cut back than usual. 

The hedge grows in front of the house, it is one of two plants that survive from the garden we inherited eight years ago. But as the spring arrived this year the hedge was reaching the point where it half obliterated our front window. So I planned to take out one entire corner of the hedge, simply to give our living room more light. As I started executing this intent, I instantly fell into regretting it. A pyracantha is the most incredibly entangled interlocking mesh of branches I've ever encountered. And what makes it worse is that it bristles with barbed thorns along ever bleeding inch of them. In the past, I've emerged from trimming this hedge with lacerations up my arms as though a wildly rabid cat has mauled me. And in the midst of a high humidity heatwave adequately protecting oneself from being maimed, well that can be stifling.

As things currently stand I've only removed approximately half of what I intend. And it does look really bad, as if some ravenous hedge monster has taken a huge bite out of it. Hubby, a bit shocked when he saw it, gave me the sort of look that says, do you know what you are doing? Characteristically asking - did you research this properly before you started? And of course I hadn't, that's the sort of thing he would do, me? very rarely. And even though I am fairly confident, from previous experience, that the pyracantha will not let me down, I've had my moment of doubt. It will recover. I just couldn't say how long that will take. If I did by chance accidentally slaughter this hedge out of all existence, then we will have a new garden bed to play with. I have my back up contingencies, yes I do. 

There is also the tricky thing of what to do with the briary hedge off cuts. Yesterday I sat with a lopper and pruning sheers, patiently chopping them into tinier bits. All so I could put them into our shared compost bin, without instantly filling it to the brim and overflowing. This morning, after a restless night's sleep because hands, hips and shoulders were too tenderly throbbing to sleep soundly, I am realising maybe I'll need to spread this job out - by quite a bit. My completist nature, does not remotely like this dragging out of a task . It's already been delayed by wind, rain and now a heatwave. But, I'll keep plugging away - but slowly I guess

Bizarre Ad Tag Line -  Protects against main blonde aggressors 

Hubby and I went one Wednesday morning to one of our favourite cafes. And as we were standing at the counter waiting to be served, you could not help but notice their was a truly horrendous level of cacophony going on in this cafe. At one table, eight women, seated and standing, all in leotard leggings were engaging in lively and very loud conversation. All of them speaking over each other at the same time, and trying to make themselves heard over others in the group. The volume level was constantly rising to the level of them all bellowing. Hubby looked at me, as though to say, must we going into that room? 

Well, we did go into that room. We took out our hearing aids, and we still could barely think, let alone speak. Every other customer there, was either suffering in silence, focused rather too intently on reading their e.mails, or attempted to engage in making themselves heard above this racket. Now, I have to say this is not an isolated rare incident. We have encountered similar loud conversational competitiveness in other groups of women. A female friend of ours tells us this sort of loudly talking over each other, is now very common when women get together. It appears to be all about being heard in the group. It doesn't require much reciprocal listening, just the use of increasing volume to assert yourself as being at the fore. 

I feel old-fashioned in saying this. I was brought up by my Mother, to not talk over someone when they were speaking, that this was considered the height of rudeness and showed a lack of respect. And even though you undoubtedly may be gagging to say something, you were to hold those thoughts till an appropriate pause appeared. Though I must to say, in my Mother's case, appropriate pauses were exceedingly rare in her conversation. Just saying. And, if I'm honest, I've not become expert at inserting myself into conversations, or judging when a pause is appropriate or not. I generally ere towards being overly self conscious, probably to the point of inhibition. Of not positioning myself as the dominant male authority in the room. I have been subjected to this from various Alpha Males I've encountered, far far too many times. Likewise the boorishly loud banter of a group of blokes on a pub crawl.  These are  not a pleasant experience either.

The group of women in the cafe, seemed to me to be qualitatively different. Demonstrating how conversation can become a generalised competition for audible dominance within a gathering. All eight of them were raising their voices to be heard over the top of everyone else's, and every single one of them dismally failing to be really heard. Is this due to too many interactions taking place on social media? A general decline in the quality of conversations? A manifestation of rampant individualism over the collective group? Or the egalitarian female group equivalent of the lone Alpha Male.? I am still a bit baffled, if not to say audibly battered, by the experience.

Strange overheard remark - 'Is it easy, or can you run it over?'

JUNE BLOG VIEWING FIGURES UPDATE

In June views of this Cornucopia blog went really berserk on one of its final few days.  I had in one day 257,716 views, the highest daily viewing total so far. The total for the whole of June was hence another first, 388,955 views. There was also another milestone in that during June, total views since I began the blog in 2005, reached one million.

ART N AB ART - On Balance - Anglia Textile Works - Handa Gallery Wells Maltings

These much loved collective of textile artists, are one of my favourite exhibitions to visit in any year. They are so full of innovative inspiring work. Usually at Salthouse Church, this year they are relocated to the more municipal gallery space in Wells Maltings. This conventional hanging space, does bring to it a more coherent feeling for an artist's approach and working method. Also, having seen an artist's work one year, you can see by the following year where they have taken ideas only in early germination the last time you saw them. For example, Hannah Rae last year had just started covering small blocks in layers of coloured stitching. This year this technique has been applied to wall hangings and more amorphous padded shapes. 

Hannah Rae

Hannah Rae

Annette Morgan

Annette Morgan

Claire Spender

Claire Spender

Claire Spender

This type of art display favours some artists work more than others. So rectilinear artworks by Annette Morgan's panels and hangings, Niki Chandler's precise geometric abstracts and Cherry Vernon- Harcourt's dyed cloth with embroidered horizon detailing, Irena Willmott's subtle abstract grids, zing in the Handa Gallery space. Hannah Rae's sculptural forms, Clarke Spender's hand embellished found objects and natural forms and Heidi McEvoy-Swift's unfolding natural forms, shift from wall reliefs to sculpture on plinths, in a multiplicity of forms, these can feel less striking, even when they most certainly are. 

Niki Chandler

Heidi McEvoy-Swift

Heidi McEvoy-Swift

Heidi McEvoy-Swift

Cherry Vernon-Harcourt

Cherry Vernon Harcourt

All these artist's work have something that rewards closer inspection and reflection. I have once again come away with lots of my own ideas arising from the different techniques on display here, that can be added to my own bag of artistic bag of tricks to draw from. Anglia Textile Works

CARROT REVIEW - 7/8

FEATURE - Jared Henderson - The New Luddites

Jared Henderson -The New Luddites

As ever, I find Jared Henderson's mind and way of approaching a topic very refreshing. Here in this video he is exploring the whole idea of The New Luddites, what the original Luddites were fighting against, what is good and bad about this resurgent approach now. And trying to tease out a way of assessing technology, what makes a technology good or bad? Is it unhelpful to present only black and white solutions? He also gives his sceptical review of Paul Kingsnorth's book Against The Machine. Describing some of his ideas as so unclear and vague about their limitations and consequences, to the point of being dangerous. He leaves us with a check list of questions that he asks himself before adopting any technology into his life. And I guess the answers to these will be different for everyone, and we may find we have other things to consider than these four. But they are a great place to start the enquiry.

1) Does this technology expand or contract the realm of human freedom? (because I only want to use technology that help us live freer lives)

2) Does this technology contribute to human flourishing?

3) Does it make it easier to pursue human projects and live in accordance with your values?

4) Is this piece of technology primarily a way for other people to get rich or powerful off your attention?

ART 'N' AB ART - Phyllida Barlow & Daisy Parris - Wolterton Hall Exhibition

Phyllida Barlow's sculptures appear to be forming a precarious and temporary balancing act. All the elements whether wood, metal, scraps of paper, plastic, slathered in plaster, dust and paint, sometimes are held together with duck tape, or rooted in a tin full of cement. They possess an improvisatory feel. That this is only one way these elements could be assembled, turn your back and they might reconfigure completely their current form and emphasis. 

In the magnificent lofty heights of a Georgian mansion, with it's grand self concept, built to impress, Barlow's sculptures feel even more like rough and uncouth rebels, coarsely protesting, refusing to submit to the language of classical proportions, its implied refinement and sense of self importance. This chaotic intervention, anarchic even, confronts us in the gallery spaces at Wolterton. Sculptures cluster together, these like minded figures in a three or four-way conversation on plinths. Some are freestanding, with an unbearable weight perched atop precariously pointy stick legs, elements stacked in layers or clustered together as dildos moulded in plaster. 

There is always a wildly pagan earthiness, from the grounded humdrum ordinariness of Barlow's material choices. These disrupt any expectations of grand statements, or monumentally elevated perspectives. The rattling argument of wood chairs in the stairwell are a case in point, they are a riot of imprecision and informality, their surfaces skimmed with plaster and paint, as though marked out for destruction, not to prettify them. Something monstrous could emerge out of this mess of disabled angles and planes crawling out from underneath this elegantly executed staircase. Other rooms are filled with Barlow's sketches, similarly they look dashed off, rough suggestions, preparatory sketches for future sculptures. These drawings are an explorations in her imagination flying free of the limitations of actual three dimensional material. Barlow's work extends whilst working within the German expressionist tradition of Joseph Beuys, Dada assemblages and Art Povera. These are not comfortable works to find an easy relationship with.

Daisy Parris confronts the exhibition space in a different manner. Her exhibition's title work Fist Full of Dreams, is a series of textile carpet panels lashed together, made to Parris's design that they have embellished further afterwards, with their rough free hand embroidery of the surface or affixing slogan bearing cloth panels to them. Words, cloth and form sit in an uneasy juxtaposition as a partnership. The lurid quality of the paint colours, and slashy handling of it resist being called beautiful or delicate. Sometimes the slogans repeat till they fragment, or even become partially absorbed into the paint surface. All the works on display here were created in response to her visiting the hall and the room where they were to be exhibited. Some of the paintings fit neatly into the wall panels, others like Fist Full of Dreams defy such an easy incorporation into the appointed space, hung across a framework of pink painted scaffolding poles of its own making.  Hanging free of convention and stereotypical interpretation.

Both these exhibitions are well worth a visit, you don't get a chance to see modern work of this range and quality in Norfolk very often. Viewing is by appointment only, you can't just rock up expecting to be allowed entrance. Details are on their website.  https://wolterton.co.uk/art-and-culture/

CARROT REVIEW - 6/8