wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)
Oddly enough - and unexpectedly - i've nearly done scribbling a new quick fic;
a mock 1920's thing (so, yes, fresh from the pastichery but so it goes) that i owe in equal measures to (over-reading) Katherine Mansfield, the vintage bits and bobs in the shop and to my friend Sarah.

It's called 'Something Blue' and is about a station waiting room.
i hope to post it up here as soon i've finished the redraft.

It's supposed to be funny - but i can never tell about these things...
wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)


Since the world and his be my wife woke up to the Bowie new album happy joy news oh boy...
i thought i would celebrate with a song that is definitely a fave rave and deep and meaningful and what not.
Conversation Piece from the 'lost' album Toy and featuring Lisa Germano.
Much better than the version the Thin One cut back in the 1960s (or so). It's lovely.
And here tis:


all credit to the uploader etc.

i am crazy with the hectics just now and will do a proper catch up asap.
wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)
when people talk of plot bunnies, i often wonder; what are the other literary-labelled animals there might be roaming about or kept in jealously guarded hutches or to be spied from the corner of the mind's eye sneaking in through cat flaps and disappearing up trees or jumping onto the band wagon hitched to a rough riding train of thought and away across the hinterland and into the dusk..?

koff! carried away, there! um, lit-critters then, anyone know of any?
seems probable the topic has been thrashed out before somewhere, manywheres even.

i have a few fanciful notions. e.g. "i have an awesome character monkey to go with my plot bunny, will you read it and be my guinea pig?"

"Not bad old man, but i think your thematic kangaroo is punching below its weight."

"Ah! Narrative bats - i see narrative bats everywhere!"
- "Shhh! you'll scare off my plot bunny!"

"I'm not saying you're garrulous but you do let the dialogue dogs off the leash don't you? As for your ideas, wow, you certainly can't be accused of putting all your eggs in the one basket now can you? Some may find your notions confusing but i like to think of it as allowing the chickens of your imagination to roam free-range... before you farm them out to the all consuming reader."
- "That's nice but what the fuck are you actually talking about?"

Hmm.. maybe it's a flora and fauna issue; i mean people talk about editing as 'pruning' right?
so i guess that makes words and sentences the grass and carrots for plot bunnies to chomp on?

maybe so, but i prefer wildlife.
"The text flows like a herd of wild geese taking to the high heavens whilst the lemur of your prose relaxes in its... tree?"
- "You're saying it stinks, right?"

"Elephant shanks, my boy - elephant shanks."

and if a note to self goads me to scribble on, is this not a goading note or goat in fact?

it is important to think deeply about these things.
wytchcroft: heavent sent (aleen)
viddy well my brothers for it is real horror show and long, long, long, like the works of good uncle kubrick with the snots and the splots - and what with all this ongoing flurgy your hero of the hour is to be found abstaining from the usual happy routines to stay in bed and on sofa like a good citizen not a hip malchick
but annoying to friend and family alike anyway.

so that's something.

loz1
wytchcroft: Knife album detail distortion by me (bird man)
so i was thinking about dance and how it often strikes me as human language, body language, the body singing and shouting and stalling and squawking and expressing and refusing to express and all the wonderful and frustrating contradictions and frictions and fictions it can weave - and basically wondering why it is i don't respond to the contemporary work of la la la human steps in the way i used to.

the more recent work of Edouard Lock is undeniably beautiful (and exquisitely performed - in their way the soloists are as fierce on it as ever), and yet...
what has happened?

is it just me that sees a glassy kind of narcissism in the very introverted and tastefully rendered pieces?

is it just my fear of the bourgeois that causes me to regret the neo-classicist reworking of the Lou Reed piece Waiting for the Man, used in the film of Amelia? Music that strikes me as designed to impress documentary makers.

The use of traditional motifs such as the marionette v. svengali may after all be genuinely reflective and expressive of Lock's own experience...

...but it is shuttered, and there's a certain kind of preciousness that is suffocating.

the steps go under here )
wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)
anty 

The Shamant, on listening to the latest Bond theme is curious...
What is all this stuff about crumble? Crumble - odd.

But then Anty remembers - Ah yes, of course, the famous Agent was a noted gourmand;
after all, was not an entire third of Thunderball occupied with a single meal at Bond's Bahamas seafood restaurant?
More than that, Bond could cook - he could make scrambled eggs - and in New York no less!

Crumble though, how reassuringly British.

But what flavour?

And more sinisterly - why does the new title-song so clearly reference Mr Sir Paul McCartney's cartoon hit
'We all Stand Together' aka 'The Frog Chorus Song'? (!!!)

The Shamant could not say. Perhaps it was a nod back to Wings and Live and Let Die

Hmm... so Mr Bond, a genuine mystery eh?

Better than the last song at least, the Shamant thought with relief, and he - a self professed Jack White fan!
whatever.
wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)


Since last week, well; last Saturday i was sent home because of the high water but it was funny as a family hunkered down in the shop and scowled at the traffic warden (who had just nabbed them for a ticket) and were hoping he’d get hit by lightning. Luminous yellow jacket flaring under the cobalt blue/grey sky.

Similar thing on the Wednesday as the heavens poured thunder and i was helping on a stall and the mum of one the girls there started carrying away a metal clothes rail and it was a total “Nooooooo!!!...” slo-mo moment for everyone – well except for a certain Ms R. un-fussed as ever. Called me “You elusive man, you.” though and i really am a sucker for such retro-sounding compliments.


Read more... )
wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)
plum3a

Elsewise and detailing the absolutely elsewhere, when, why and who done it...
I find it recorded in my notebook, thus;

Sunday 19th – curse that wretched corpse, for floating as it was and picked up lightheartedly by me, in an attack of the (lord peter) whimsical, I find it now quite impossible to put down. I note that Simon Brett is now president of the detection club and indeed a place of queer trades it must be if the society’s head cannot even solve GK Chesterton’s dubious prologue.

Well Watson, as to that, if you are familiar with the details of the case then allow me to draw your attention to two distinct clues; the first a set of rules govering the writing of detection fiction, the other being my own patented method for measuring the difficulty involved in solving a mystery.

The game is a foot or a book as the case may be.
For the rest, trivial as this entry may be; it is not, I hope, without points of interest.
wytchcroft: bearded lady (beard)
Reconstruction, Reconstruction, Reconstruction!
The three R’s – as Peter Cook would have said it.

A Phase two production whereby the Valley shifts from a budget version of D.H. Lawrence’s The Rainbow (or possibly Dagobah for any Yodalings out there, we don’t go much for yodelling round here though) to a be-splattered building site or quarry... of the sort found in mid 1970s Dr Who.

The good side being the sense of repair, the stubborn bloody mindedness of the luminous jacketed workforce has become a welcome trait rather than... whatever - and the general sense of looking for the next phase, Recovery. More R’s.
Read more... )
wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)
Weird dream last night (well a swift one anyway) amalgam of elements; subways, metro cars, a sword wielding Amélie Nothomb (le sigh) and some stuff about finding Joan of Arc (who looked suspiciously like Élodie Bouchez (sans Bangalter ala Clubbed to Death not Alias, well maybe a bit...) and mistaking the phrase Jean d'Arc for Gendarme and some hokey supernatural action run-around supposedly only happening in the lost hour when clocks change.

It was so very dumb, trashy and - fun actually.

i remember being oh so British and waving a long receipt at an unimpressed Ms Nothomb and explaining that it was a tally of all the hours swiped from me by British Summer Time so that when i get to the pearly gates i can demand they reimburse me or give me an extension. 

Apart from spotting all the scenery swiped from Buffy, Bulletproof Monk, Nightwatch, Jacob's Ladder, Un Lun Dun, Neverwhere, Uncle Tom Cobblers and all - it was a clear case of riffing from conversations online... which is rare in what passes for wytchdreaming. 

And the moral?
Clearly i need to go read Nothomb's latest novel - yes, yes, i have literary groupie guilt!

and sorry Alicia!
wytchcroft: heavent sent (princess)
ok, so far so fluked;
looks like i got another regular storytelling thing lined up -
(something i have been missing for a while now)
- the crazy fools, don't they know i just make 'em up???!
which is a YAY! in this wytch's book, see? "YAY!" go me!

flash cut to sometime ago,
an annoyed child crouched on the pavement groaning at maths homework.
enter the wytch...
wait, what? da wytch? and making with the numbers?!?! dear merciful mahatma that can't be good!
what about the allergy, man!?!?!


whilst it is true that i do indeed have a hefty numerical aversion - and that calculus gives me mumps  - nonetheless my inner clark kent could not help but rush to offer mumbled assistance (well... i say clark kent but i do vaguely remember doing very bad david tennant impressions. still, either way...) and it can be cheerfully (if gob-smackingly) reported, that, yesterday, confirmation was received from said previously irritated child that the homework got graded and a good one at that.
lemme hear you say "Phew!"

thirds; PUPPETS!
Puppets are love and it's a big love and this was a full length shadow puppet show that i got to watch -
and which by wacky coincidence was of a faery tale much loved by Jung (see previous).
good fun it was too, and nicely done.

on the other hand; sleep fail (oh the surprise just isn't) and though widely awake i still missed* the much touted 'meteor'.
touted by the bbc at any rate.
*no triffids for this wytch! and i'm blind enough already, ta.

and here the report concludes.

Next Up - the strange new craze for Extreme Lolling as Loitering bids for Olympic status.
or...
well...
um...


*sneaks off among the dots before the T gets crossed*
wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)


And a farewell to Francais, Franglais, Denglish - call it what you will...

i have been stumbling onto some interesting material recently, just following my interest in language and music.

Anyone that knows me well will be aware of my fascination with language (i have a profound love/hate relationship with Semiology*!) and also with the work of Wittgenstein (blows kiss to Melissa) who posited that there could be no such thing as a private language.

Private language? Think Tina Turner singing; "I'm your Private -"

wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)


Today was... well actually it still is....

Yes dear friends, this excited and exciteable reporter can inform you that our hero Wytchcroft
survived the floods outside to travel for one final mental dental appointment...
(remember the dentist's tower of fun?)
which, the weird part, turned out to be the high point of the day...!

Oh indeed, since elsewhere there was 24 bug lurgy fun (not swine flu, don't get carried away people!) but it did cramp my bohemian style (snort!) somewhat but not as much as having my house flooded.
Read more... )
wytchcroft: heavent sent (Default)



i meant to include these for space week but if space is my friend then time is my nemesis!

anyhow - here are the lyrics for two songs written exactly ten years apart...
 

the first song became something of a mill-stone even after i gave it away...
which is probably why it took 10 years to do a sequel!

this aint poetry - in fact they aint much of anything, they're not even representative of my songwriting (coughs self-consciouslly) but i do enjoy listing things... so these are almost memes...  

strange but true, but this at least gives me an excuse for the gross self-indulgence of the post...

oh, right, the excuse - well, i love glam-rock, space and all things interstellar soul (as Bolan once sang), so these songs list some of those elements - and in  turn bring to mind all the casual elements of Glam-life and memory...
Read more... )
wytchcroft: heavent sent (cook)
[Error: unknown template qotd]

It's a very interesting thing language - when exactly did we start using the phrase power outage?
Common enough now of course and the question above correctly notes that power outages are what cause blackouts but still, i can't help wonder if it's a shift in terminology - i've come across this many times in the press and so forth.
Read more... )
wytchcroft: heavent sent (cushing)

There are several problems with time travel which any of you interested in the subject should be wary of.

Having received - that is to say, intercepted, a message from young(ish) Wytchcroft, these points have been driven home to me once again.

I shall quote liberally.

"Behold the darkening majesty of the Carpathians at dusk!" Read more... )

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