Dying Swan

So, avian flu has reached Britain. How symbolic that the first victime is that most romantic of birds - the swan. As I heard the report on the radio I imagined in my mind's eye a young female ballet dancer, lying prostate on the stony beach of the Scottish loch. Turning to my synthesizer I recorded a ten minute improvisation with a harp-like sound. I may use the 'off-air' recordings again over this piece, which I am beginning to feel is turning into some sort of concept album about current affairs. Oh well, all artists are inspired by their environment and their times and I am no different. I have also begun to play around with Paintshop a little more and am thinking of creating at least one new image for each blog entry. This first was montaged from images found with google's image search - a triumph of technology helping find the raw materials for the creative artist!

Katrina (extract)

The rotating green light from the radar screen intermittently lit Colin's pinched face as he sipped at his cappaccino. It was a slow night for weather watching, the glowing cloud formations comprised of pixels generated from streamed satellite data were laid out in meterologically uninteresting patterns and Colin took another sip of the hot coffee hoping it would wake his senses up. The problem was that the forecast was 'dull', just 'dull'. The same word Angie had used when she slammed the door for the final time. How had he become like this, Colin asked himself? When would the weather turn?

"How's it goin', Colin?"
"Ugh?" said Colin, spinning round at the question. His manager had a habit of suddenly appearing behind him with no sound, no reflection in the round glass of the radar screen.
"Oh, er, fine, thanks Bob." said Colin.
"Good." Bob frowned at the screen and jabbed a finger at a position out over the Atlantic Ocean. "That updated in the last three hours?" he asked.
Colin checked a printout. "Er, no. Should be due any minute."
"Well, keep an eye on it." said Bob as he wandered off, a troubled expression on his face.
"Okay." said Colin.

He stared back at the clouds and the clouds stared back at him. The point Bob had indicated was a little different than the usual mid-Atlantic flurries. If you looked closely you could just make out a small circle, surrounded by tiny finely drawn crescent shaped half moons. It reminded Colin of his wife's eye, the filligree patterns in her green irises that reflected his own distorted image when they made love. Had she thought he was dull even in these moments?

A beep from the computer told him new data was updating the image. Perhaps now he would be able to call Bob back and put his mind at rest. There would be no extreme weather forming there, Colin knew. He' been doing this for too many years. He waited as the image updated, the pixels changing colour and shape. The effect on Angie's eye was as if it blinked and then opened again, this time larger.

Colin put down his coffee and his own eyes grew larger. He snatched for the telephone and punched in a number, never taking his eyes off the screen.
"Hello, Bob?" said Colin.
"I think we may have a hurricane..."

More New Wor(l)ds

It's a new year and I am presenting some new wor(l)ds in the form of my annual fiction-fest compilation. It's a mere six months since the last issue but I've been busy over the second half of the year and have produced 5 short stories and 6 poems. Several of these poems have been presented to audiences at my local literary club, whilst at least two of the stories were submitted to writing competitions (although they failed to be chosen).

The collection includes 'Katrina' - a short story written from the perspective of a meteorological officer who watches the hurricane drama unfold on his radar screen whilst simultaneously considering his wife's recent affair. In an interactive crossover I have produced a piece of music and sound effects which could be listened to whilst reading the story. I have some software which I hope to use to be able to produce perhaps a clip for youtube or myspace, linking to the story text. This is the first time I have experimented with this sort of technique, and I hope to use it at some of my poetry readings.

Taking A Fall For The Second Time

David Blunkett has resigned for the second and probably final time. Politicians generally have just one professional life, how many do writers have? Is it possible to have literary success followed by a fallow period, being dropped by your publisher, your agent... And then make a startling comeback with a piece of writing so amazingly accomplished that soon critics are saying it is your "best thing since...", effectively joining up your 'old' writing life and your newfound one. Will that happen to me one day, I wonder?

Katrina

As a tribute to Hurricane Katrina I have recorded an experimental piece of 'musique concrete' that includes some 'off-air' news reports and processed white noise from my synthesizer imitating the sound of the storm. I could imagine that should the piece be staged a projector could show the news footage that has had all of us spellbound over the last 24 hours.

Piano Man

I have recorded a song based on the story of the Piano Man - the man who turned up at a hospital claiming complete loss of memory but who could play the piano to concert standard. The piece mimics the feeling of loss as individual notes are picked out tentatively on my keyboard before changing into a more structured song with a spoken lyric recounting the man's story and finally the return of his memory. I love conceptual songs like this.

Unintelligible Design

Inspired by 'Dubya' endorsing Intelligent Design to write a short story from the dinosaurs' perspective - being popped into existence and then popped out by a fickle God who cannot decide what he actually wants in his new Eden. I think a comedy like this might be developed into a series for Radio 4. I would call it Unintelligible Design and it could feature someone like Stephen Fry as God.

Terror.

A field day for the media and every other news outlet in Britain as the news slowly developed as to what actually happened this morning.

Feedback

Feedback to the latest issue of New Wor(l)ds has been mostly positive. I generally send out around 20 copies to friends and peers. I think the fact I am still so productive and am able to produce this amount of short stories and poetry silences the cynics I know who perhaps wonder why I continue to do this in spite of the fact that the publishing industry has so far ignored most of my efforts. Personally I believe my work to be at the very least much more interesting than so much contemporary mediocre fiction - on the bookshelves or the airwaves or television screens. Perhaps if I actually wrote something bland enough it would get published in a reputable lit-zine or short story collection... But I don't do mediocre - in my writing or my music. My work is too immediate for that, too dynamic. I am thinking about posting a sample from New Wor(l)ds here now that I've sorted out a new layout template that allows for more text.

Watch this space!

The JPEG above shows the cover of issue 7. I designed the cover with a strong yellow background the black ink ran when I printed them. I think it added to it actually, though further copies may only have a black and white cover to save on ink cartridges!

Live 8

Hype aside these huge concert spectacles are hugely enjoyable watching from the comfort of your armchair. As I predicted many musical genres were poorly represented last night, and those that were the usual suspects.

Shortly after Christmas 1985 when Sir Bob was introducing his idea of raising money to the world, myself and several other local bands and musicians did our own money-raising effort for Live Aid. We all played for free and raised about £150 which was no mean feat when we were only charging 75 p admission! These gigs with many bands of differing abilities were always interesting. With no one person in charge it was everyone for himself in terms of securing a decent position in the running order. We ended up somewhere near the start for some reason but I had written a one-off song to rival Do They Know It's Christmas called We Know It's Not Really Christmas.

Here is the lyric:

Kilamanjaro's snow has spread to the Serengeti
Reindeer grazing side by side with buffalo
The tribesmen hunt with spinning bolas
But we know it's not really Christmas

Frozen waterhole yields no moisture
Flamingoes land like ducks on ice
And the lions of hunger wait in the tall grass
But we know it's not really Christmas

copyright SJH 1986