I was in the bookshop a few weeks ago and spotted a book about Trotsky. On the cover was a photograph of Trotsky as a young man. Like so: I know next to nothing about Trotsky, but the photograph of him as a young man grabbed my attention. I suppose you could say that I got the female equivalent of a hard on. What I especially liked about his appearance was the pince nez glasses. I couldn’t get that photo out of my head. I bought the book and wrote a story about a young Trotsky impersonator. (You can read the story here.)
A week or so ago Mr Kite and I were in Shaftesbury and he spotted a couple of pairs of pince nez glasses in the window of a charity shop. They were beautiful objects. I really, really wanted them. So I bought them. And now I officially collect pince-nez glasses. Here are photos of the first two in my collection.
Marathon runner Doing well Loses the path Another strays too They're both confused But make friends A friendship that lasts Even better than Finishing a marathon
Last week I went to London to see David Murphy conducting three pieces, Shaker Loops (John Adams), Violin Concerto 1 (Philip Glass), Ravi Shankar’s Symphony world premiere.
It was incredible stuff. I can’t really put it into words. Listening to it live is very different from a recording. Firstly, it was quieter than I had thought it would be. When I listen to Philip Glass in my headphones it really drills into me (in a good way). But live it’s different, it is more distanced and therefore refined. The emotion of the piece is a lot more prevalent live. It’s like watching a film or reading a book where you really relate to the main character and that character is going through all sorts of stuff that really gets to you, so you can really feel how that character feels. The solo violinist was Robert McDuffie. The passion in his performance was intense. I can’t explain. I’d love to be his next door neighbour, listening to that every night as he practices. As I was listening to the concert I was thinking about life and humanity. Now, I really don’t think humans are all that. We’re a plague upon this earth. When I listen to music like this I think about how it could be performed three hundred years from now, when electricity is no longer feeding our collective habit. I can hear the beauty in humanity when I listen to this. I don’t often hear it. There is craft here. This music is the product of human hands and minds. I feel this is different from electric-fed music where the sound has been taken through wires and into machines that have not been built by people, but other machines. This sound comes through the musicians, the composer, the conductor, the instrument makers. No wires. Nothing but human hands and minds and hearts.
Ravi Shankar’s symphony was his first and a world premiere performance. It had never been listened to before. Anoushka Shankar played the Sitar. She spent the better part of an hour sat on the floor in what would have been an impossibly painful position for me. The sounds were a marriage of the east and west. I loved to hear such classical Western instruments making such a vibrant Eastern sound. The Sitar is an instrument that holds an intense power, far more powerful than western instruments. It’s like hearing the voice of the gods. To me the sound is a lot more refined and spiritual than western instruments, even western instruments making eastern sounds. The piece sounded like freedom, connected into a lighter sort of realm than Glass or Adams. Anoushka spent her time bopping to the rhythm, something that doesn’t really happen in other symphonies. There was clapping, the use of human voice (but not really singing) both of which really added a level to the music that broke through the mind/ body barrier that I think western composers have. By this I mean, you could feel a rhythm that makes your body feel connected, want to dance, want to move in time with the sound. That is not really present in Glass or Adam’s, at least not as obviously. I can’t really relate what I mean. This music moves beyond the realm of written language.
I think I am hooked. I think I will go again to see classical performances of this kind whenever possible. The tickets were a hell of a lot cheaper than any other music gig I have ever been to (£16 for a fairly good seat. You can get them as cheap as £9. Compare this with Audioslave, who I saw years ago at a cost in excess of £30 and it made me semi-deaf for a week). I love that what you hear at the concert is unique. It will never be played in that exact same way again. It is transient. Transience is beautiful because life is transient.
He had the appearance of a young Trotsky, the same square jaw, dimpled chin, piercing wolf eyes, thick lips. He wore his hair in a mess of waves above his forehead, an almost-bouffant. He even wore pince-nez glasses. It was the glasses and the hairstyle that I found attractive. I knew next to nothing of Trotsky, let alone his appearance as a young man.
It was my colleague, Ruben, who first approached him and commented upon the likeness. As we sauntered towards the counter at the back of the café, Ruben paused by the table, cocking his head and sliding his eyes down to meet the young man's . 'Is there much call for a Trotsky impersonator around these parts?
'Enough,' said Trotsky's likeness.
Ruben slipped his hands into the pockets of his brown corduroy trousers and arched his back. 'Well yes, I suppose this is a fairly likely place, you being in a pokey academic café in Cambridge and all that. I suppose the University employ you to add a certain realism to their lectures, or something like that?'
The man neatly placed the book he was reading down upon the tabletop. He flicked his eyes from Ruben across to me. I was fascinated by his pince-nez glasses. Light grey pupils dilated a little behind the lenses. He prized his eyes from mine, slowly as if it took him great effort to do so. 'Something like that,' he confirmed to Ruben and then peered back at me.
The intensity of his stare quickly became oppressive. I blinked and stammered, 'I like your glasses.'
The pause was long enough to be obvious, but too short to enable a new line of conversation. 'Thanks,' he replied, totally deadpan.
'They're not a fashion statement, Julie,' Ruben scoffed. 'They are a tool of this man's trade.' He left no room for a comment. He swooped his attention back to the young man, chin raised. 'You do a good impression, even in your lunch hour.' He was using his patronising "I am very impressed" voice. 'The sobriety of your gestures, the cool indifference, the aura of intelligent vanity. Very good. ...I wonder... how much would it cost me to hire you for a lecture?'
His wolf eyes slipped between us, back and forth. Finally they rested on me. 'I will give you a discount,' he said. 'If you agree to go on a date with me.'
I dropped my gaze to the dark polished tabletop. There was a dog-eared copy of a Kurt Vonnegut novel placed in front of him. Breakfast of Champions. I thought this was someway off-kilter. It didn't seem to fit.
As I said, I found him attractive on the basis of his funky hairdo and those pince-nez glasses. Perhaps that was why I agreed. It certainly had nothing to do with wanting to hire a Trotsky impersonator.
We arranged a time and place, then exchanged numbers. Ruben teased me everyday between then and the arranged date.
As the date grew closer I became less confident that this was a good idea. The guy seemed totally dull, devoid of humour or soul. We probably had nothing at all in common. Agreeing to a date with a stranger purely on the basis of liking his hair and glasses (neither of which reflect a personal style) suddenly seemed like a rather stupid idea.
We met at a small eatery in central Cambridge. He was still wearing his pince-nez glasses and his hair was wild and wavy above his forehead, the same as before.
'Do you always dress as a young Trotsky?' I asked as I took my seat.
He answered with an immediate roughness, 'Yes.' He shuffled in his seat and cleared his throat. This time he spoke with a softer, less abrasive tone of voice. 'It's just a habit. I'll wear something more normal on our next date.'
I raised a single brow high. 'Assuming we have a next date.'
He shrugged and realigned his cutlery.
'So you must really love Trotsky then. I must admit, I don't know all that much about Trotsky. You'll have to fill me in.'
He seemed to sag in his chair. I assumed that I must have majorly disappointed him. The prospect of a second date slipped into obscurity, thank God.
At this point a waitress came to take our orders.
Selections made, the two of us sat in splintered silence, only background restaurant noises saving us from total awkwardness.
He gulped some table water, thumped the glass down and then leaned back nonchalantly. 'I too have a confession to make regarding Trotsky.'
I waited for him to go on, gliding the wetted tip of my index finger around the rim of an empty wine glass. I counted four rotations before he spoke.
'I am not a Trotsky impersonator. I am an English Lit postgrad student.'
I paused in trailing my finger around the glass, eyes flicking across the table.
He put his hands behind his head. 'I dress like this in order to impress professors and score with intelligent girls. So far so good as far as professors go.' He gave an impish cocked smile and put his thumb up, then returned his hand behind his head. 'As for scoring with clever chicks, they are only interested in Trotsky.' He rolled his eyes and turned up his lip. 'Soviet history absolutely bores me.'
I squinted at him, surveyed him for a moment, and then cracked a wide grin. 'Me too,' I said.
His lips curved into an echo of mine. 'But the pince-nez and the crazy hairdo get a double thumbs up. And death by ice-pick sounds like a spectacular way to go. It's not all boring.'
1.Shake the flowers free of insects. A few will probably remain, but don’t be too concerned.
2.Zest the fruits and then juice them. Put the juice in an airtight container in the fridge and leave until tomorrow.
3.Put the flowers into a large bowl along with the citrus zest
4.Boil 1.5 litres of water and then add it to the bowl
5.Cover the mixture and leave it overnight
Day 2
6.Pop some bottles into the oven at about 120oC or something. They stay there until the near end.
7.Strain the infusion through a jelly bag, bit of muslin or I guess a sieve would work if you don’t have the former. (Scald the bag/ muslin/ sieve to (sort of) sterilise.)
8.Pour the liquid into a preserving pan or large saucepan.
9.Add the citrus juice, citric acid and sugar. You don’t actually need the citric acid. I don’t know what difference it makes scientifically, but it seems to create a lighter taste and texture. That was the only difference I could tell.
10.Dissolve the sugar by heating the mix up slowly. It took me about 10-15 minutes to dissolve it.
11.Bring to a simmer, which for me took about 10 mins, but I’m sure you can do it faster if you are short on time.
12.Simmer for about 1-2 minutes.
13.Pour the cordial into sterilised bottles using a (sterilised/ scalded) funnel. Seal the bottles with sterilised lids/ corks/ swing tops/ whatever.
This batch is lighter and more subtle than ones I’ve made before. I think I prefer the lightness. It carries a bright taste of summer.
Technically it will keep for about a year. But this is not a winter drink. It’s too light, too gentle, too hazy a drink for the heavy full flavours of winter. I think it’s better to drink it all before the end of autumn, otherwise you might find that you’ll have some old fermenting bottles by the next season that you never got round to drinking. If you want the elderflower taste over winter, I’d say make some elderflower wine. It’s heavier texture and fuller taste is more suited to cold weather than the light haze of a summery cordial.
Uses include:
1.Dilute with some water/ fizzy water/ lemonade.
2.Dilute with water and pour into ice-lolly moulds. Freeze them. On a hot summers day lick ‘em.
3.Use to boost flavour to the elderflower biscuit recipe I will post up in the future.
This weekend we have a couple of project days scheduled at Mr Kite’s place. We’re going to be making an earth oven for our new outdoor kitchen area. Gabriel is making a yurt, so we’ll be doing some steambending for the lattice. We’ll be doing a charcoal burn with the help of our friend Adam who has recently switched from a messy career as a charcoal maker to the cleaner thatching trade. Gabriel and Mr Kite found a solar water heater at the local dump and promptly purchased it for all of £7. Perhaps we might see if anyone knows anything about how to get the thing working. At the moment it’s got a split pipe and one glass tube is smashed.
Mary and I will be making some Elderflower wine and I’ll make sure everyone is fed and watered. On Friday Mary and I plan to pick some of our own at Ansty PYO. Gooseberries are our target, and they will be turned into Elderflower and Gooseberry jam.
Here are some pictures of a project day preparation session that took place a couple of weekends ago. The boys got excited about how fast the solar panel managed to heat water, despite the smashed tube and leaking pipe. The three of us pondered about convection, efficiency, optimum angles etc. It was like a physics lesson at school, except relevant and exciting.
The guys experimented with steam bending some wood for the yurt in their ‘bespoke’ steamer.
I went around some of the Dorset Art Weeks studios. They were, on the most part, very inspiring. Here is a photo of Guy Mallinson’s woods. It was weird going there, seeing the similarities and differences between these woods and the woods that I often go to. I might talk about it some other time and put more photos of the place up. I might not. Wait and see, I guess.
I enjoyed Charlie Baird's paintings on display in Shaftesbury along with Peter Ursem's printmaking work. This image above was my favourite by Baird. The original was amazing to see. I liked Peter Ursem's work. The book of River Stour prints were especially interesting because there were two pages ripped out of it during a previous exhibition. Someone tried to steal these pages. They folded one of the pages up neatly so the image itself remained unspoilt. The pages were found and then put back into the book. I felt the art was in the story behind the imperfection of what had been a perfect book. This story became the art, because the story is more interesting than the art.
I have just been given the papers to sign for my new allotment. These are exciting times.
Ages ago I attended a basket weaving workshop in my local town. I wrote about it in my blog: here I sent an article about the workshop off to the excellent Living Woods Magazine. Now, 6 months or so later, it appears in the latest issue. You can subscribe to the magazine by going here or call 01285 850481. They cost something like £3.50 an issue or something and you can only buy them via a subscription.
Here is a scan of my article if you are not interested in subscribing:
Click on the picture and you should get a larger version to read.
In other news: I have started to write fiction for a prompt group over at Deviantart. The prompts are really great, but sometimes I wonder if I should really do this kind of stuff. I am so busy with real writing work, and then I go and distract myself with stuff I can't really send off to get published anywhere. Part of the problem with places like deviantart is that all the readers there are pretty much (young) writers. Writers read with an editing cap on, so you rarely get feedback from a real reader, from someone who wants to enjoy a story and is not looking out solely for a misplaced comma or a typo here and there. But feedback in any form is good and I don't get enough of it, which makes improving harder. To read one such story go here
The Klandestines is happening, slowly. Keep your specs peeled.
