You can tell a culture by the way they ride bicycles. Not on the right or
wrong side of the road. That's irrelevant to this particular case. Rather, the
riding is in where they go and how they stop. Especially in how they stop.
Remember when you first learned how to cycle? Getting started wasn't half so
hard as figuring out how to stop the wheels from turning and turning and
turning. Turning. It's like narrating a story. Once you start, you cannot stop
until you've figured out how to end it and so you ramble on and on and on.*
Hoping there exists a deity which might take pity on you and blast a lightning
storm of inspiration through your skull, without it having to hit concrete and
see the stars first, of course.
That's irrelevant.
Stopping, on the other hand, now that's where everything goes. Newton didn't
get hit by an apple for nothing. Even gravity requires a good ending and
nothing says a good ending like a solid concussion.
Humans like noise and injury tends to bring a lot of it. Starting with oww
and ending in the earth-shattering sound universally known as the eeeoooeeeooo. The ambulance. Except
it tends to be more of a hurdler than an ambulator. Even cyclists must
nose-dive in the face of that history. It's do or die.
That's today's lesson.
There's an either or to cycling. Nobody in the history of cycling has
managed to go slow and steady without falling up and dying and nobody in the
history of cycling has managed to go quick and heavy without crashing down and
dying.
So what culture is better? The one's who will ring their bells and barrel
you over anyway, or the ones who will ring their bells and beeline for the
between you regardless?
Considering the cave-men played tic-tac-toe and we still play it today. We
must consider cycling will be as incomprehensible as chalk on rock for as long
as humans bother to remember history.
Then again, even if humans forget history, like a bicycle wheel, the
question of who is better than who will probably come back 'round again.
That's called the circle of life. So, where are you next cycling to?
Moony.
*This is the point where I tell you to just imagine if I actually did ramble on and on. Imagine lots of "ons" to such a point where the word starts to sound incomprehensible. Unfortunately even though this is pixellated space, I would rather not force you to spend the rest of your portion of cycling** in the unfortunate situation of reading the same word over and over, just so the author can prove a point.
**Cycling: verb. The act of living a mundane life full of laundry and grocery shopping and jobs.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that Google can be a light in the dark. Or is it?
Don't know the answer?
Google that thing.
Sitting down on the curb, on the park bench, the bus stop. Phone out. Phone ready. Just in case.
Always.
A thought passes through. Passes by as the cars zip through roads made of concrete and yellow paint. Little green men walking and red lights talking. Stop. A thought passes through.
I wonder. I think. I'm not sure.
Don't know the answer?
Google that thing.
Wandering the wayside of a canal, side by side a friend. You wonder mid-words. What was that again?
Don't know the answer?
Google that thing.
Spending more time on Google than doodling on paper during classtime or drawing words with air or on bath-tubs.
Spending more time on Google than listening to the tales told tall and wide by friend, family and street-side story-spiders.
Words come in many forms. Not just text on Google.
Look it up.
The voices are a countless dozen. Trillion a two.
Not anything like you. But possibly so too.
Don't know the answer?
Just ask your best friend.
Or better yet.
Make it up.
Add your own story to the world. Maybe it will end up on Google, one day, too.
Being between two people in a discussion makes for a period of invisibility exposure.
You are a lighthouse beacon being stared at by a crisp's chomping lady on break and two desk bound employees in the position of question and answer for the current project in progress.
To make matters more icing than cake; being temporary makes a case of invisibility exposure between two people discussing overhead as if you were four years old and in the grocery store with your mother running into an old friend, or worse, a teenager trapped over a reunion dinner of family. Being then oggled at for how tall you've gotten but not folowing the debate over business and the nails on chalkboard crunch of more crisps. Again. And again. And again.
***
In my mind I had many impressions. I have many but most of the time, these tend not to pan out anywhere near as impressed on my mind.
Which leads to that self-doubt of "should I really do this?"
That's your self-confidence talking.
Or as I like to call it, your invisibility exposure.
It makes relunctant pop idols of us all as we sit on public transport, or tumble off, or walk in the wrong direction, twice. Passing the same old man knocking back a coffee. It makes obsessed fans of us all. Dreaming, desiring and wishing for the recognition of others.
See me. See me. See me.
Except, when they see you, they don't really. They mutter profanities when you accidently bump them because you are wearing your glasses and see less better than when wearing contacts. They snicker and mutter under their breaths, not realising your good hearing caught the words when you go the wrong direction thrice.
Except, when they don't actually see you. It is you just thinking they did and the gossip in the back of the bus is actually two teenagers obsessing over Justin Bieber, not snarking at how ridiculous you look. Or how they are totally not going to as worthless as you at the age of 25.
Except, when they do see you. You don't believe them. Because words don't hold weight from the mouth of the other, not matter how close the other may be. You're awesome. Fantastic. Brilliant. Wonderful. Talented. It's a sieve full of sand.
You can't see yourself either.
That's the human condition of invisibility exposure and there is no easy smear of super glue to fix it.
No, all you can do it keep trying. Keep asking. Keep walking. Into fog, flame, moonlight and rain. All the while, hold hands with someone, or many someone's. The journey is the point of life but no one ever said you had to make the journey alone.
What will you do this week to bring people into your quest?
Been going through the usual downturn of an artist.
"Am I wasting my time? Am I making the right choices? Shouldn't I be focusing on "x" or "y"? Time is running out! What am I doing with my life? Why am I bothering? Failure. Failure. Failure.
Sound familiar?
Whether you actively identify as an artist of some form. Or "imaginist" as I like to call myself. Or maybe you have another term entirely. Or you are just someone who daydreams and dreams under the stars and in moonlight on porches and on the hood of a car or the edge of your desk, you've probaby had a similar sort of running commentary of doubt.
I kicked myself over to England because I felt like I wasn't doing anything with my life. Now I am doing many things. Every day, every evening, every second I am experiencing so much I barely have time to process it all, let alone devote time to creating art.
Like the glorious month I had last February, house sitting for some relations in their nearly "middle-of-nowhere" house, in the middle of winter. I got some of the best writing done that I have ever managed.
Except life can't always be hiding away in seclusion. Certain life choices mean you need to make money to live. Certain life choices mean you have things you require to be sane, even if they aren't things that you need to survive. Though some people choose to just stick to flat survival in the name of The Art. Some people manage to balance everything. Some people flounder and flutter. Scared. Worried. Focused on practicality.
Some people just grab the milk carton. Stand on it and ask.
Recently I had the pleasure of not only meeting an individual who's music and art I have long admired but I also got around to reading her memoir (read over two days, it was that engaging).
Her name is Amanda Palmer.
I won't be surprised if you wonder: Who?
She's a bit of a cult figure. And yet she is one of the most human, human being I have ever met. Wise, honest, witty, and just wanting share the joy of music with other human beings.
This is one of her songs:
And this is her TED talk. The Art of Asking:
She draws on her eyebrows to make people unconsciously look her in the eye because it is through the eyes that people connect.
It is through the eyes that people see eachother.
And in a society that is far too open about looking, we don't really see anyone.
She endeavours to empathise and get into the perspectives of all individuals, whether they are on the right or wrong side of morality or law. Because we are all human at heart.
She is often critised as being too showy and trustworthy, as breaking all boundaries of what is "right" in the music industry by allowing fans to download for free.
She does this because the only way to build a connection is by making yourself vulnerable, by being 100% honest. When that connection is built you don't have to force anyone to do anything.
Most likely they will want to do it.
First though, you need to connect.
Second though, you need to ask.
That requires vulnerability.
And through it all you need the bravery to just do the Thing. Because you want to. Not because you have to or you should.
I've long been wanting to publish a novel. And I do. Want to publish a novel, that is. Except there is much more I also want to do.
After reading Amanda's book I sat back and thought. Why haven't I published the novel yet? I came up with this:
I am afraid no one will read it because no one has yet seemed to read what I do already.
Then again, I haven't shared much of my writing yet. I did have someone read part of my novel-in-progress recently and they laughed in many parts. Just as I had hoped as I wrote it.
That made me happy.
Art isn't about being able to live off of it. Yes that would be lovely but really, art is about sharing a moment with other people. It is about sharing stories around a campfire. Like humanity has done for millenia. Albeit in different formats.
I am going to start sharing more. I am going to keep writing and photographing more. Maybe one day people will laugh, smile, cry and cheer over this art from my heart. Until then...
On that platform I intend on sharing my photostories since it is more friendly to photography and here I will continue my life musings and travel blogging. The novel is going to be a work in progress for a while and who knows what I'll come out with next. The good thing about being an imaginist is that I always have ideas for new works. I'm going to be as busy as ever. I live in London. I'm going to build experiences the size of the Great Wall of China thank you very much. And hopefully you'll stick around for the ride. If you're a twitterer do check me out on @TheMoonyDreamer where shorter bits of inspiration, and links to much more creativity are generally found.
All that I ask is that you enjoy my work, comment when you have the time and share with others if you have a moment.
That is the point of art after all. It brings us together. It reminds us what being human is about; deep down, all we want is to be seen from the inside.
We are all bigger on the inside. Like the Tardis. So don't be afraid. Do the Things. Because you can. Not because anyone says you can or anyone watches. Dance like no one watches. Dance like the world is within you. Or in the words of Amanda Palmer's other brilliant half, Neil Gaiman: "Make good art."
To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
From Tennyson's Ulysses
In knowledge we live and die.
People retreated into distant corners and set up literal walls as the Romans had done many millenia prior. Caravans trekked the lands carrying loads of goods and people as they hurried to safety. Wary of each other of other things. Technology had brought much which was fantastic and forbidden to the forefront.
Among the chaos came the Druids. From the sky they came, riding upon bulbous clouds. They offered humanity their aid. Led by twin brothers these people from the sky beyond taught humans how to protect themselves from the shadows. They called it alchemy and it followed one sacred rule.
Equivalent exchange. So long as people put in something of equal value to what they wished to create or fix, anything was possible. With possibility in hand, humanity felt safe and in their safety they began to look further. Where did the Druids come from? What other worlds were beyond Earth? What other powers were possible?
The Druids would not tell and so suspicions grew. Just why did the Druids come when they did? Some said. Others stated they knew all along that the Druids were bad business. Technically the lot of insanity was down to a greedy human and a beautiful woman who too many people obssessed over, but that is another story for another day. Either way, what history came to call the Great War erupted and after, the Druids disappeared. Alchemy became outlawed as a new power sought to bring control to the lands. Remember, alchemy and love do not mix.
Under the Emperor Alexander the world prospered once more. Simply, albeit slowly and like life, this comfort was not truly comfort, was not truly felt, strongly and fully, until it was gone. Quickly. A short time it was. Only a hundred years and once again, shadows unknown whispered from the darkness. Alchemy trickled to the surface.
Humanities hunger for knowledge would not long sit starving and soon there was revitalisation of texts and tales. Those who were most hungry for knowledge; the ultimate quest for the truth of existence formed an organisation. The Rosicrucians.
Garbed in red they were. Trapped in gold chains about their wrists and foreheads, in symbol to their devotion to their quest and their duty; the seeking and protecting of all knowledge. As the Great War showed, lesser beings could not be trusted with such power. (Like kings. Or knights. Academics, whether they are alchemists or not, do spend their lives with their heads in towering castles so do try to understand their narrow stair perspective).
Which brings us to a covered wagon that rumbled along a Roman road. Still rutted, winding and narrow after countless millenia. It traveled to the village of Chesterfield, a haven caught between hills, river and forest and segregated from the world's wonders due to a great wall, put up to protect from nameless shadows, that was never felled.
But when the shadows come in human form, what is there to stop them? The human in question was a young man with a neat brown beard and twinkling eyes shaded by a cloth cap. A falcon was perched beside him and a barrel-chested horse pulled his home. Well, home it was to him. To you and me it was a sea of books, loose parchment, ancient scrolls, quill pens, broken clocks and an old gramophone. Caught between the past and the present this young man was admitted, albeit with the narrowed eyes of the gatesman watching him, to one of the last places on Earth to have not yet felt the fear of hungry knowledge.
Oh Chesterfield was full of intelligent people. They didn't lack knowledge. They just didn't have the tower-abiding sort. Or the sort which scrabbled and scrambled, pointing guns and and dropping traps on people for the bits generally belonging in museums. They were the sort who knew the land, knew the seasons and thanked the Earth for its generosity while whipping up in curious chatter when an itinerant tradesman huffed his way in, pushing a broken down lorry full of woven rugs from distant lands or the lady from over the hill came in her donkey cart piled with sweets.
When the alchemist came to Chesterfield this all changed. With him he brought knowledge which the village folk called magic. It simplified things. After all, what else can see a cold cured with a quick mix of a drink, rather than a fortnight of Nan's tangy teas or the your dropped pocketwatch could be fixed with a quick sketch of some symbols and a pile of spare gears to replace the bent ones.
He also brought peeping eyes to his shaded windows, and when he bothered to venture out for a client a wake of gratitude tinged with fear and anger followed his way.
He wasn't particularly polite.
Then again, when one is an alchemist who delights in the puzzle of broken things and can fix them with a quick brow quirk and other necessary bits, who needs to.
He did appreciate Matty's cakes though.
And that is where things went wrong. Well, started too. When she died things when very wrong, but really, haven't humans learned that alchemy and love never mix?
Not my place to interfere. I'm just a spectator. What are you? What will you do? What do you know?
(A/N: Thanks for reading! Just a heads up I am delving more seriously than I yet have in a long time in terms of properly completely a full novel so my blog posts will be relegated to photostory-esque drabbles like what I have been doing on and off. I'll work on fitting in more article-based things but at the moment I am wanting all my focus to go toward writing for the novel directly or expanding the universe it sits within. Hopefully in some months time this will be less of a priority and I will certainly go back to detailing travel-related experiences and tips as usual).
Did you know that everyone has a unique tongueprint, as they do with fingerprints?
Did you know that the northern leopard frog swallows its prey using its eyes? (It uses them to help push food down its throat by retracting them into its head).
Did you know that Vladimir Nabokov nearly invented the smiley?
Did you know that there are 274 different types of dust?
Did you know that bacteria lives in hairspray and in 2008 a new one was discovered?
Did you know that there are around 60,000 miles of blood vessels in the human body? (If you took them all out and laid them end to end,
they’d stretch around the world more than twice).
Did you know that there are more stars in space than there are grains of sand on every beach in the world?
As the road stretched out ahead. Deep into the peat moss mire and moors of Connemara, twenty seven brains on a bus ramble down their own lanes.
Some of it was true. Some of it was not. Mostly though, the thoughts were much of nothing. Though that's just a limitation of the English language. Nothing is impossible to quantify. So what is all of this. Really?
I'm bored. When are we going to arrive. Is this even worth it? I'm hot. I can't sleep. I'm tired. This bus is rocky. Look a sheep! Those mountains are gorgeous. I have so much work to do. This is the middle of nowhere. I wonder what Jeremy is doing? Yellow car! What am I going to do tomorrow? I want a chocolate muffin. Should I have a muffin? This is a holiday. Nine-hundred and ninety-nine stars in the sky, the sun is burning. What do I have to do when I get back? Pretty stream. Where are my sunglasses? It's so hot.
On wanders the brains of the twenty seven passengers.
The brain belonging to the wire rimmed glasses and bohemian blue shirt chatters a Connemara stream's worth of gossip about the next door neighbours to the brain of the brown messy bun and sensible white shoes. They've been friends for thirty years.
Behind the two middle-aged brains sits the brain of the textbook version of freshmeat business. A twenty-something in a sharp jacket and jeans who holds the hand of a svelte model with a camera bigger than a swan's neck. Together they are caught in a duet of money and expectations of love.
Over to the left is the brain of a bouncy castle. Well, not literally, but the way the mind leaps from sheep to cloud to the curiousity of Connemara sunshine versus the mystery of mist blown moorlands, one wouldn't be wrong to deduce so.
The brain at the front of the bus is full of burden. Burden at bearing patience at the long journey ahead of which, despite the declared time of two hours before the bus began trekking, cannot see an end. And now the brain feels accute hunger and needs the toilet quite badly.
Which brain is the best? The most normal? The wisest? The smartest? But who are we to give definition? Brains are brains. Presently there is a total thirty-nine living in yellowed jars at the Victorian pathology museum of St Barthomew's hospital in London.
And that means, as far as anyone knows, we are all normal here.
Brains are brains.
So take the hands, take the stream, take the road that does not seem.
Far beyond the fallen skies, beyond the rolling hills. Find future sitting in the southern lands and fantasy through a lean-to.
Come count these brains of the twenty seven. All together come as one, many and none.
That is all.
Remember then, when people come, kicking the sky down from overhead, normal is not a destination, it is a stream of thought, trapped between grocery lists and restaurant recipes. It is the brain chirping "yellow car" for the umteenth time, just because it can. Especially if present in a country known to have a regular dose of yellow vehicles for reasons still unknown.
What thoughts pass by on the rocky roads, rolling, won't fit into the cutout squares where peat moss sat for billions of years. No, its more likely these thoughts will wash downstream with the pins and coins, the bones and toys of days long past which melted deep into the earth as it grew and died, grew and died, over and over. Cementing the brains of humanity into the very earth itself.
Alright, so translating music into onomatopoeic words doesn't work well so here's an idea of what's got me humming today.
If you clicked the link and listened, you'll noticed it's from the 25th Anniversary Symphony from 5 years ago and the event which got me humming this epic theme tune again was the more recent run called the Symphony of the Goddesses which is basically a slightly updated version since the original run was so popular.
A view from in between during some pre-concert videos.
The lights dim, the cacophany of strings, brass and woodwinds tuning fills the air, smelling of anticipation. Murmurs and mutterings grow and then fall, suddenly as cymbals crash and the violins throw us into the world with a series of sixteenth notes.
We gallop through the plains of Hyrule on the back of Epona, we leap over rivers, walls and cliffs, we face down enemies and dark lords, traverse deadly dungeons and face puzzling trials.
A cheer rises around me. Audience appreciation was encouraged, this, may I remind you, is not a regular orchestral concert. This is a celebration.
A celebration of a series of stories in a complex world which we, the audience, have all connected to in some form or fashion.
The Legend of Zelda: Symphony of the Goddesses at SSE Wembley in London, United Kingdom, has begun.
For 2 full hours I sit in rapt attention. Squeaking, cheering, whispering "yes!" or "love this bit!" or "I remember that!" as the music flies and a projector screen plays scenes from the games which match with the music. All in all, I am the epitome of the exciteable and adorable fan (according to my companion who has had the tragic misfortune, in my mind, of never playing a single Zelda game...yet).
Said companion has been used as a experimental subject in regards to why everyone should attend a fan-related concert.
As someone who has played nearly every Zelda game in existence, apart from any spin-offs, anniversary editions or remakes, I am with Link (the main character) for every flute twirl and trumpet salute; for every slash, dodge and dive that brings back the intense memories of the hours it took to conquer a particular dungeon or the frustration at a particular boss or the terror as the scenery turned to a shadowy underworld with an equally disturbing soundtrack (a particular dungeon I was never able complete unless the light was on and I knew someone else was nearby).
This experience is a unique one. Though they are growing in popularity thanks to the ever-closing gap between "mainstream" and "geek" (in terms of overall acceptance of the validity to celebrate, and be passionate about, such things).
So, why should you go to a concert for film, game, or tv music?
1. It's live music.
No matter whether you know the significance behind the following tune, did you have an emotional reaction? Get goosebumps? Imagine something?
That is the goal and purpose of music.
2. It'll take you back to childhood.
Okay, so you aren't going to recall the sweat, tears and cheers that go with finally getting through a difficult dungeon or a testy puzzle. Nor will you feel the nostalgia for entering the main town after a long trek, or laugh at the antics and snark of a particular character. No, you'll, at minimum, you might get caught tapping your feet to a tune or humming along.
You might even experience your own imaginings to match the music and perhaps even start to catch the particular themes which hearld the hero, or gasp when the music creeps toward the moment Princess Zelda is snatched or the big bad appears. You're imagine will fire up and take you back to the days you knew you could be anything and were. You were a dragon one day. A pirate the next. And then pirate-dragon-detective on the third day.
That's the power of music.
That's why you need to check your calendars to the next themed concert you can find. They are everywhere these days and cover most everything, so who knows, maybe you will find one which plays tunes from childhood, favourite films or a top composer like Hans Zimmer.
Either way, go, listen and revel in the magic with fellow fans, friends and lovers of music.
You don't need to dress up in costumes, or have a heated debated about what game is the best, or critique the representation of the game via the music and clips used. No, all you need is to enjoy the feeling of imagination washing over and through you via the medium of music.
Relax. Let the music transport you and leave you with a satisfaction and smile achieved by one thing only. A connection to possibility.
