Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Saturday, 5 December 2009
The Maestro Speaks!
It had been a long journey, away from home and into the unknown. With his trusted old uke Jeni-Frank slung over his shoulder for company and rather more luggage than sensible for a man of his years the Maestro arrived in India. Where would he go and what would he do next?
After 24 hours in the hotel to sort out his sleep patterns (inadequate even for a Maestro) he headed to the North of Mumbai where he became a member of a birdwatching fraternity. What, you may well ask would a wandering mendicant musician know about birds? Well, not much more than the words to the Beatles' Blackbird and the condition of his now distant pet Parrot, Polygarkov! (Yes, I too wonder about this!)
The jungle contained many varieties of bird and he soon learned the way to excite his colleagues was to cry out "Brahimini Kite!" which usually resulted in lots of neck-craning and aerial searching for a bird he soon learned was almost as common as a Seagull. The Maestro reflected on how looking around the natural world was an agreeable pre-occupation only slightly interrupted by the discovery of a Scorpion quite close to his big toe! Of course there were also monkeys, spiders and the endless droning of mosquitos for company, but he didn't see the enormous Python that stretched across the road when he and his colleagues returned to their jungle hut to rest.
He and Jeni-Frank entertained his hosts with a variety of songs from their repertoire, although he couldn't say for sure whether the medley of George Formby tunes had ever been heard before in such a place as the jungle. Their rendition of Life on Mars was particularly well received however and the Maestro certainly felt some distance from his home on the farm in the wilds of Lincolnshire. His obsession with celestial bodies revealed a rather different skyscape to that which he had become familiar with in his northern hemisphere home but it was the sunrise over the hills and plains of Maharasthra the following dawn which left him, customarily, speechless!
He recalled the words to one of his compositions which said:-
When you're lost and alone, and so far away from home
And friends are so very hard to find
There's no cure for loneliness, at the bottom of that glass
But if you call out my name, I'll be there
Don't be afraid I won't let you down
I'll show you how much I really care
Let my arms hold you tight 'til the early morning light
Just call out my name and I'll be there
It's the end of the night, and you're giving up that fight
And courage is so very hard to find
There's no-one else to blame, or to take away the pain
But if you call out my name, I'll be there
Don't be afraid I won't let you down
I'll show you how much I really care
Let my arms hold you tight in the early morning light
Just call out my name and I'll be there
Yes, it would appear that the Maestro was feeling somewhat homesick. But for what, or whom? He reflected on what path had brought him to this moment and, for a few brief seconds at least, realised that the contentment he sought might possibly lay not in external things, such as places, people or things, but within his own, somewhat troubled heart. If he'd come here to forget then he was doing an altogether good job of remembering! 'If one can't forget then it is best to remember and then let go of troubled memories' he thought to himself. Yes, 'accept and move on by letting go' he concluded, rather hastily. But how exactly? This was to be his quest on his journey of self-discovery.
He put Jeni-Frank carefully away in its case and began musing on how one might achieve such lofty aims with a mind as disordered and prone to vacillation as his. Now, 'where was that pencil, and what to write on?' he thought, perplexed as usual. The longest journey may well begin with one small step but best to make sure you have shoes first!
After 24 hours in the hotel to sort out his sleep patterns (inadequate even for a Maestro) he headed to the North of Mumbai where he became a member of a birdwatching fraternity. What, you may well ask would a wandering mendicant musician know about birds? Well, not much more than the words to the Beatles' Blackbird and the condition of his now distant pet Parrot, Polygarkov! (Yes, I too wonder about this!)
The jungle contained many varieties of bird and he soon learned the way to excite his colleagues was to cry out "Brahimini Kite!" which usually resulted in lots of neck-craning and aerial searching for a bird he soon learned was almost as common as a Seagull. The Maestro reflected on how looking around the natural world was an agreeable pre-occupation only slightly interrupted by the discovery of a Scorpion quite close to his big toe! Of course there were also monkeys, spiders and the endless droning of mosquitos for company, but he didn't see the enormous Python that stretched across the road when he and his colleagues returned to their jungle hut to rest.
He and Jeni-Frank entertained his hosts with a variety of songs from their repertoire, although he couldn't say for sure whether the medley of George Formby tunes had ever been heard before in such a place as the jungle. Their rendition of Life on Mars was particularly well received however and the Maestro certainly felt some distance from his home on the farm in the wilds of Lincolnshire. His obsession with celestial bodies revealed a rather different skyscape to that which he had become familiar with in his northern hemisphere home but it was the sunrise over the hills and plains of Maharasthra the following dawn which left him, customarily, speechless!
He recalled the words to one of his compositions which said:-
When you're lost and alone, and so far away from home
And friends are so very hard to find
There's no cure for loneliness, at the bottom of that glass
But if you call out my name, I'll be there
Don't be afraid I won't let you down
I'll show you how much I really care
Let my arms hold you tight 'til the early morning light
Just call out my name and I'll be there
It's the end of the night, and you're giving up that fight
And courage is so very hard to find
There's no-one else to blame, or to take away the pain
But if you call out my name, I'll be there
Don't be afraid I won't let you down
I'll show you how much I really care
Let my arms hold you tight in the early morning light
Just call out my name and I'll be there
Yes, it would appear that the Maestro was feeling somewhat homesick. But for what, or whom? He reflected on what path had brought him to this moment and, for a few brief seconds at least, realised that the contentment he sought might possibly lay not in external things, such as places, people or things, but within his own, somewhat troubled heart. If he'd come here to forget then he was doing an altogether good job of remembering! 'If one can't forget then it is best to remember and then let go of troubled memories' he thought to himself. Yes, 'accept and move on by letting go' he concluded, rather hastily. But how exactly? This was to be his quest on his journey of self-discovery.
He put Jeni-Frank carefully away in its case and began musing on how one might achieve such lofty aims with a mind as disordered and prone to vacillation as his. Now, 'where was that pencil, and what to write on?' he thought, perplexed as usual. The longest journey may well begin with one small step but best to make sure you have shoes first!
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
The Adventure Begins
It's hard to tell whether the auspices are good, or not. I received an email from my one Indian contact to say his plans are now in considerable disarray due to an unexpected illness for which he may have to retreat to the UK for treatment, but there still remains a possibility of meeting up in Mumbai, so fingers crossed for that!
The weather in Caythorpe was dreadful as I packed my belongings into the two, now rather heavy bags, and emptied my room. It seems a considerable time has now passed since I began laying my plans for my journey and there has been some vacillation on my part about when and exactly where to go. The dissipated weekend in a wildlife reserve seemed like a temptation that had been snatched away, and seemed therefore all the more desirable, but I began to think of my next destination. Flights to Goa are fairly cheap and as that had been my first inclination I decided to investigate further. Not knowing one end of Goa from another I decided to follow up a number of leads but found I was unable to contact those in the know at relatively short notice. No doubt they will materialise with many helpful suggestions after I have made my reservations, but I did have one stroke of luck.
On arrival in London it was decided that myself and my friends Emrys and Marcus would attend the Stockwell 'jazz-jam' at the Grosvenor Arms. Almost the first new person I was introduced to was a Swedish lady, a singer with a fine voice, called Katriona. Inevitably the subject of my own recent disillusion came up and we enjoyed an interesting exchange about the vicissitudes of loving a scandinavian. She introduced me to her friend Louise, another fine singer, who had recently returned to the UK from a lengthy sojourn in Goa. Her suggestions were most welcome and extensive, so I have spent today making intelligent enquiries and seem bound for Anjuna in the north of Goa. Christmas and New Year on the beach beckons, and I deserve it!
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
Send me a signal, show me a sign
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I have done a fair bit of procrastinating lately. Waiting for a sign or some change to occur. I have avoided work for some time now, since my last experience ended somewhat abruptly, but cushioned fortuitously, by a payment to compensate me for the ordeal it had certainly become.
Consequently I have not been in a rush to resume the experience of honest toil, and have eschewed all opportunities to respond to the imperative of making a living, preferring instead to make elaborate plans for both its avoidance and, in order to distract myself from the inevitability of it, a somewhat romantic spiritual adventure in India. But I have avoided booking the flight awaiting the moment I deem favourable whilst the omens are taken and the auspices considered and mused upon.
Today, out-of-the-blue, I saw a job I am interested in! A rare enough event. Tomorrow is the closing date for applications and interviews take place on the day I was planning my departure! I suppose I could wait for a buzzard to drop a rabbit on me, but that might never happen!
Consequently I have not been in a rush to resume the experience of honest toil, and have eschewed all opportunities to respond to the imperative of making a living, preferring instead to make elaborate plans for both its avoidance and, in order to distract myself from the inevitability of it, a somewhat romantic spiritual adventure in India. But I have avoided booking the flight awaiting the moment I deem favourable whilst the omens are taken and the auspices considered and mused upon.
Today, out-of-the-blue, I saw a job I am interested in! A rare enough event. Tomorrow is the closing date for applications and interviews take place on the day I was planning my departure! I suppose I could wait for a buzzard to drop a rabbit on me, but that might never happen!
Saturday, 7 November 2009
Winter
I drove into Lincoln last night through the familiar mist of 'mizzle' (mist/drizzle) which for me characterises the onset of winter. Walking around Bailgate, with its shiny pavements reflecting the diminishing moonlight I thought of how, in a few short weeks, it will be thronged with expectant visitors to the annual Christmas market.
The consumerfest is upon us and I am mercifully grateful that I stand a chance of avoiding it this year due to absence. No doubt I will feel also the pangs of homesickness but it won't be for longing to be at another Christmas day's overindulgence and ruinous spending on unneccessary items of clothing or gadgets. I have pretty much disposed of everything given to me last Christmas, it being a reminder of an experience I wish to forget, or if not erase, relegate to a part of my unconscious along with crowded supermarkets and indigestion.
Humbug? Not really, there were good Christmases too, but I genuinely dislike the commercial and quasi-religious hipocrisy that breaks out once a year and renders even the sensible mawkishly insane and financially foolish. So no presents from me this year dear, I'm buying myself a big escape package and if I can be located chanting Jai Guru Deva Om on some remote hillside in Poona, so much the better.
But I wish everyone else a good winter and that the festive season isn't too much of a disappointment to you all.
The consumerfest is upon us and I am mercifully grateful that I stand a chance of avoiding it this year due to absence. No doubt I will feel also the pangs of homesickness but it won't be for longing to be at another Christmas day's overindulgence and ruinous spending on unneccessary items of clothing or gadgets. I have pretty much disposed of everything given to me last Christmas, it being a reminder of an experience I wish to forget, or if not erase, relegate to a part of my unconscious along with crowded supermarkets and indigestion.
Humbug? Not really, there were good Christmases too, but I genuinely dislike the commercial and quasi-religious hipocrisy that breaks out once a year and renders even the sensible mawkishly insane and financially foolish. So no presents from me this year dear, I'm buying myself a big escape package and if I can be located chanting Jai Guru Deva Om on some remote hillside in Poona, so much the better.
But I wish everyone else a good winter and that the festive season isn't too much of a disappointment to you all.
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