17.6.09 | Supermarket Songs and Stories
Some things never change, or change so slowly and subtly that we may live all our lives without seeing that our parents faces are not so radiant and joyful as they once were, but instead lined and careworn and tired from a lifetime of troubles, or the tiny seed we planted all of 30 summers ago, has grown proud and tall with many roots and branches, leaves and twigs. Swaying and bending to the masterful wind, it harbours a whole mini-ecosystem of it's own within the wider world. Often we only notice it when it is broken and thrown to the ground, usually by human vandals. Or disease takes it and withers. I suspect humanity has an inadvertent uncaring hand in that, too. Or you can blame God if you want, but i have it on good knowledge that God gave us free will and is probably wondering why we're wasting it all on shopping and indolence.
Some things never change. Take Harle Syke, where i was born and live. Perched on a tall hill overlooking the town of Burnley, on a clear day you can see halfway to Manchester. If you venture to the top of the hill and Haggate, you can see Nelson and perhaps Colne too, and stretching for mile upon mile eastwards, the bleak and beautiful moors that divide Lancashire and Yorkshire.
Every day, the sun rises from behind the hill and moorland, and sets far, far to the west beyond Crown Point. The milkman delivers at 5:30 in the morning, the postman a few hours later. The blackbird sings from the telegraph pole, the starling mimics from the rooftops and the hoary old rooks leave their roost in pairs on their long days of foraging to return as the sun sets. The road through the centre of Harle Syke has now been there for centuries and may well last for a couple more... except perhaps not. As i muse on this blog posting, i think how much my large cotton-mill village has changed over the past 30 years.
Some things never change. Take Harle Syke, where i was born and live. Perched on a tall hill overlooking the town of Burnley, on a clear day you can see halfway to Manchester. If you venture to the top of the hill and Haggate, you can see Nelson and perhaps Colne too, and stretching for mile upon mile eastwards, the bleak and beautiful moors that divide Lancashire and Yorkshire.
Every day, the sun rises from behind the hill and moorland, and sets far, far to the west beyond Crown Point. The milkman delivers at 5:30 in the morning, the postman a few hours later. The blackbird sings from the telegraph pole, the starling mimics from the rooftops and the hoary old rooks leave their roost in pairs on their long days of foraging to return as the sun sets. The road through the centre of Harle Syke has now been there for centuries and may well last for a couple more... except perhaps not. As i muse on this blog posting, i think how much my large cotton-mill village has changed over the past 30 years.
As a child, i watched the green fields between the village and Burnley be eaten up by twisting, turning mazes of housing. We're now to all intents and purposes, a suburb. The thrumming cotton mill's have grown silent with their many proud chimneys reduced to two. Neither of which are in use any more, save as memento's of the past. The things which make the place a community are dwindling fast. I remember at least two bakeries, 2 newsagents, 2 butchers, 2 chip shops, 3 grocers, 1 greengrocer, 1 off-license, a haberdashery, 2 hair-dressers, a post office, a bank, a bookmakers, an ironmongers, 2 butchers, a chemist and 3 very exciting sweet shops selling a variety of kayli (you know, the flavoured sugar/sherbert stuff) and goodness knows what else in glass jars, but it all seemed yummy to eat (and well, they seemed to be sweet shops... as a child you don't really look at the other stuff much.)
Then the super-markets came... and out of town shopping. Things designed to make lives convenient and easy. From the local Spar shop which tries to sell everything to the 3 great super-markets that have enclosed Burnley in a vice-like death-grip.
Harle Syke now has, 1 butcher, 2 hair-dressers, 1 newsagent, 1 chip shop, 1 chemist and a sandwich shop, oh and a kebab/curry shop which i never visit as i'm not a big fan of Indian cuisine alas, with everything else being hoovered up by The Spar. All the little shops with their bustling shoppers passing the time and getting to know one another have long since gone. There's no reason to walk down certain streets now, and no need to meet people. I don't know hardly any of the people on my street any more. They get out of their front door and jump into their cars and they're gone. If you're lucky, you might get a wave and a hello.
Harle Syke feels like a macrocosm of Burnley, which is suffering the same malady that blights the rest of my country.
Super-markets.
Since a Tesco's opened near the bus station, the town centre has been trapped within a Bermuda Triangle of doom (Tesco's, Sainsbury's and Asda) for the small shop-keep. The recession and rules on smoking in bars plus the violence of the mememe youth generation will make it like a ghost town within the next decade i think. And everyone's too apathetic to try and stop it.
Everywhere i look ,there are To-Let signs up on shops, and the new ones are quickly fleeced into receivership or bankruptcy by landlords pushing rents through the roof, even in the midst of recession. Or by lack of customers... fine products won't save you here. The Super-Markets want to sell everything.
Even Woolworths, which is at the very centre of our town has died.
Late one evening in February, i had cause to be walking from here to there behind the back of the shopping precinct. There's a kind of underground car park there, that touches the back of Woolworths.
I stopped a moment and listened to the tannoy that plays music all night long, and it seemed to me as i stood there, that i heard the echoing ghost voices of all the dead shops and the once-mighty Woolworth's store, hearking back to happier days when people once bought their wares and filled the town with life and warmth. Hopeful and sad all at once. I'm not sure of the song... but i think i would have liked it to be the one i link below.
I turned away and for the first time in my life, wished that i lived anywhere else in the universe, than this town and this country that unravels and twists slowly into a parody of itself and feels like a prison. One we all entered willingly into.
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9.5.09 | Blue, Birthday, Bath. Spider, Sleeping and Sound. Blue and Fluffy
I celebrated my Nth birthday recently... gah!
It started nicely with a rescue of a tiny spider i found in my bath. Usually any insects venturing into my bathroom are taking their lives in their... um... Pincers? Claws? Leggy things? And indeed i did make a preliminary assault on it with a hopefully quick clean drowning... but alas it evaded the swirling waters in a mad panic... and seeing that, i paused and felt a twinge of guilt at my attempted murder. The guilt increased as the poor wee thing then sat seemingly resigned to it's fate in the centre of the killzone...
"No!" i suddenly decided in a Groundhog Day moment. "No! No creature shall die in my general vicinity on this day while i can help it! (although i reserve the right to genocide if anything lands on my food or disturbs me during those tender private moments of human life)"
Which was a bit of a pisser as i'd planned to go and kill loads of stuff today. Ah well...
So i got all anglic on its ass, threw it into a cup, gave it a free ride to the outdoors, threw it out of the cup and then tottered sleepily back indoors all beatific and smug with myself to await the milkman before zipping off to bed. It's a goood day!
But then the bastard milkman decided to be on holiday, leaving his milk-round in the hands of lesser mortals.... who then, deliberately -deliberately, i say!- and with great malice, then decided to leave the wrong kind of milk. I know what you're thinking. you're thinking "how dare they?!?! String them up! I shall write to my MP forthwith and have them hung on poor Mr The Saturnyne's behalf before the day is out!"
Gah!
Troubled with my now less-than-saintly thoughts, i still managed to start my cameras sky project before going miserably to bed with added thoughts of a quality-milk-free birthday.
Only to be awakened 2 hours later by some bastard on a fork-lift truck vrooming around and picking things up... all fucking day long! Which was very unsporting of him. I let him know the extent of my anger by waving my fist through the curtains at him while shoving the pillow over my head with the other hand.
Well, that's my day completely fucked. Was meant to go out to a friends in the evening, but such is my tiredness by 4pm, that i fall utterly asleep and don't wake up until 6pm the next day.
Double-Gah!!!
Anyway.... above is the birthday pic i took for my sky project (this one from my camera-phone)... am aiming for subtle, with the drama being in the viewers own eye.
but then again, skies have a way of showing you things. Below is a sky pic i sent to da Pumpkin, taken on the morning of her birthday. I think i shall do this with all my friends from now on.
but then again, skies have a way of showing you things. Below is a sky pic i sent to da Pumpkin, taken on the morning of her birthday. I think i shall do this with all my friends from now on.
1 comments :.
carlberry hollered thusly:
I'd write to my MP but she's too busy fiddling expenses (or paying back fiddled expenses, I forget which now).
Anyway what I wanted to say was that it was an EXTREMELY large value of N, wasn't it Satty Babes ?
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5.2.09 | 2 Dreams
Dream 1.
"There's no-one makes steak pie as good as your Mum"
And he smiled broadly and with pride.
My mum is an indifferent cook with most things. Took me years to cultivate her to the many culiniary delights of herbs, and even now she is practically a fascist in the kitchen with things like the poor garlic, exterminating it ruthlessly from any recipes that might benefit from a dash of its flavour.
It was a dream, but it's exactly the kind of thing my dad says in real life, and as i reflect on his words, the love shines forth from them. There is truth however, in what my dad says, even though he would say it with fanatical loyalty about most of her cooking. You don't stay married for 50 years and more without some kind of fanaticism.
Anyway, she was fine, indeed awesome, with buns and pastries, although she sadly no longer has the inclination to make such things. I do miss her pancakes, too.
And her steak pies are good. Very good!
Dream 2:
On the main road that runs through Harle Syke. I walked. My peace was disturbed by the blast of two fighter jets flying overhead. Something urgent about them made me keep my eyes to the sky.
Then the rather large passenger jet flew over. It had a broken back and squeezed fuselage, like a giant hand had been gripping it tightly. It was obviously in trouble. Like a great bird in pain trying to get back to roost before nightfall.
The plane vanished above the rooftops, fate unknown, and swiftly followed by one of those twin bladed military choppers flying at incredible speed.
As i watched the chinook, i started to become aware of a scream like a howling wind, and turning once more in the direction from where all the other aircraft had come i was shocked to see another large passenger jet flying less that a hundred feet above the rooftops.
"Christ, that's low!"
And then i am silent. My jaw dropping. The plane has no wings- they've been torn off! It's dying. I don't even register the possibility of people inside, it's just a great beast falling to death.
One second later, it has crashed in a scream of tortured metal against stone and glass into a row of houses on the main road. Fiery red shrapnel hurtles in all directions. It's loud and hot and terrifying. I dive behind a wall and pray.
And then i wake up. A look of horror on my face- Bastard dreams, i wish they'd eff off for a bit. It's like bloody kids hanging around on the corner, waiting until you turn your back, before throwing god-knows-what at you. I once had an egg chucked at me from a speeding car one late night after carousing round the local bars. Nowadays, they probably throw grenades or rotting foetuses. maan, they really upped the ante!
Discerning readers of this blog will automatically make (probably) astute guesses as to what these dreams mean. If indeed, they mean anything at all. For those of a less Sherlock inclination or just a bit lazy, i will relate a brief conversation i had with Da Pumpkin about the second one.
"What do you think it signifies, Plebby?"
"The 2 planes are metaphors for the worries i feel about my mum and dad and their impending deaths."
"Oh.
Do you ever ask a question, and then quickly wish you hadn't?"
"All the time, my Shining Sun of Gourdness. All the time."
S.x
5 comments :.
Ginger Doll hollered thusly:
What is it with gourds? First Livewire and now you!
Last night I dreamt about carrying a large jar of pickled eggs about whilst offering the to random strangers. Hmmmm.....! Your dreams may be slightly more profound.
dr.v (Not a narcotic Pez dispenser) hollered thusly:
steak pie was excellent :)
Quarley hollered thusly:
Hey, thanks for checking out my blog! I like Martin Millar if that's what you're thinking of. He's my favorite author and he often writes about magical creatures but in a more modern setting, like New York City for instance. He likes to mix the supernatural with subculture, so you get punk rocker fairies and transvestite werewolves. Obviously his writing has had a major influence on my artwork. I've always been big into fairies and I can say I'm definitely jealous of all the fairies you seem to have in England. I have been to England once and I can kind of see why the would like it there; it's so beautiful out in the country. Where I live is so urban and populated it's a lot harder to imagine any supernatural creatures wanting to live here, so I like to just make them up. I guess that's why a lot of my fairies are gritty and modern as well.
my sun sets to rise again hollered thusly:
Last night I dreamt I was wandering around a wood with Jeremy Clarkson holding a set of his trousers.
If I'm honest, I enjoyed it ;)
Quarley hollered thusly:
No I haven't read that book, but thanks for the suggestion, I'll have to pick that one up. I still need to read Millar's other books as well. So far I've just Good Fairies and Lonely Werewolf Girl. He's great.
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that was beautiful and eloquent and real. i love it.
Thanks!
I should send you prezzies for being so awesome!
S.xxx
You have the power to fly....so....why don't you
why don't you
helveticapfaff.tumblr.com
this is my blog. It's Sian, btw. x
I come to say hi and no one seems to be able to come out and play. Such is my crappy timing. Hope all is well! xoxo
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