Monthly Archives: May 2012
Once upon I time, I followed racing closely: I read all the form, checked all the results, knew the going across the country, who was hot, who was not, and who might have a little bit in hand of the handicapper.
I could never imagine a day when I would no longer do any of the above, but it came, and my life is the poorer for it. On Saturdays, especially Saturdays such as today, I used to smell the expectation in the air. Not just for racing either, for events like West Ham -v- Blackpool and Bayern Munich -v- Chelsea. I even wrote a poem about the Champions League Final once…
Now, these things pass before my eyes and I don’t seem to care. And I want to get back to the place in me that does care, even if it’s only a little bit more than not at all, because that feels more like me. So, if Frankel in the Lockinge in the town of my birth can’t raise the heartbeat a little this afternoon, I may as well give myself the sporting last rites and take up wood turning, or something.
I’ve seen it so many times I don’t even stop short when I see it anymore.
It’s a gait with purpose, entwined with intent. It’s not altogether fast, but it’s not slow either.
If those eyes aren’t aleady dilated in anticipation, you might still catch sight of them: dark and empty, yet filled with want.
One thing, one thing on your mind; until the point, the point, when you can leave it all behind.
On the walk.
Rudimental, whose latest track I posted yesterday, are a four-piece outfit from my old stamping ground of Hackney. Interestingly, one of their older videos involves them running round North London in white rabbit suits. Their latest video to ‘Feel the Love’ left the rabbits behind and in the process intrigued me – featuring horses & riders in an über urban environment, so, I hopped on the Google, as you do.
Turns out, they shot it at the Fletcher Street Urban Riding Club in Philadelphia, an amazing project that tackles unemployment, drug culture and crime through mentoring young people as they become involved with the horses. Like every good grass roots project, they need to fundraise so you can click here for donations and here to buy photographer Martha Camarillo’s book.
It reminds me a little of Mudchute City Farm where I used to ride with a friend, on the Isle of Dogs, behind Asda. The Fletcher Street project looks edgier somehow. I think it’s riding in hoods, not helmets, that does it. I was in Philadelphia once, the ‘City of Brotherly Love’.
I wish I’d gone to Fletcher Street.
Perhaps next time…
My sister, closest in age to me, is now four times older than my eldest daughter.
In twenty years time, the age difference will have halved and my sister will only be twice as old as my eldest daughter. It’s made me wonder what the minimum age multiple would be between them.
Been living half a life lately. The drum and bass on this track were like a shock to the heart: suddenly, everything’s beating again.
Mega tune, anthemic, and I don’t think I’ve thought that since Chase & Status with Liam Bailey on Blind Faith…
The rain has bedraggled just about anything and everything recently, so much so, if there was any spring, I’ve missed it.
It was good to look up today and see these fellas in the park. Ok, they were a little wan and shy, as if they had no business being there but, I am sure, if the sun ever pitches itself into the sky again, they’ll soon be acting as if they own the place. I can’t wait. And, specifically, I can’t wait to the tune of ‘Reelin’ in the Years’ by Steely Dan.
Is beyond the likes of me, so sometimes, when I start to remind myself of a clanging bell, I try for some silence. I say try for, maybe I don’t even do that, maybe silence knows when it is time to come and visit and I am still learning to accept the wisdom in the still quiet; to sit with it, hear it and know it, without falling back to fill my world once again with the familiarity of noise and bustle. That world, the place where we do and think, with no real action or thought. Or maybe that’s just me.
On the other hand, perhaps it’s not just me. I found this poem via Twitter and whilst I cannot express the ineffable, I feel that Rumi, the 13th Century Persian mystic poet has done just that.
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I will meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about
language, ideas, even the phrase each other
doesn’t make any sense.