i’ve been looking forward to this post for awhile.  Matt Ruff is an american author that has built up a cult following since his 1988 debut Fool on the Hill, a clever novel containing four intertwining stories that all come together in the end. one’s the story of a young writer falling in love, one’s of the magical world of sprites and their dark history, one’s of a naive dog and a skeptical cats’ search for heaven, and the last of a nonconformist fraternity called the Bohemians.  believe me, he makes it work.  he has since written three more books over the 20-ish year span.  the only one that i hadn’t read up until recently was his sophomore work Sewer, Gas & Electric: The Public Works Trilogy.

Sewer, Gas & Electric is an ambitious and dense story that, similar to his previous work, contains many intertwining stories.  written between early 1990 til late 1994, it takes place in a simply odd version of New York City in 2023.  in this future, an unknown pandemic has almost completely wiped out the african population. the story follows (to name a few) Harry Gant as a one-of-a-kind billionaire that has made name for himself with self-help androids and for his reputation as a pacifist despite being a CEO of his own company, his activist ex-wife who works in the sewers to fight of the mutated animals that have infested it and threaten the city above, ecoterrorist Philo Dusfresne that opperates out of a submarine called the Yabba-Dabba-Doo,  the 180-year-old Civil War veteran Kite Edmonds, and a mutant great white shark named Meisterbrau.  these people, along with many many more, get wrapped up in a conspiracy that goes back to Walt Disney himself.

as i said before, the story is very dense.  the first half of the book is more a set up of the characters than the actual story.  the key is to just enjoy the ride and get to know them all.  in a stephen king-like fashion, Ruff can give a lot of back story to seemingly insignificant characters and events.  in doing so, he achieves in letting the reader into the universe and it gives the smaller characters importance so that you care about their fates.  it may be hard to follow with all of the characters, but the final 100 pages serve as the climactic pay-off where literally everything comes together.

by Matt Ruff’s high standards, this is his weakest book.  but it’s still a great read.  i would not recommend this to someone that is reading Matt Ruff for the first time, but rather one that is an established fan of his work.  instead,  a first timer can read any of his other books which are all amazing in their own ways.  no two stories are the same but they still maintain his spirit and voice.  his other stories are Set This House in Order: A Romance of the Souls which is a story of a person with multiple personality disorder told from the point of view of the personalities and how they live together, and Bad Monkeys, a shot-of-adrenaline kind of story that literally doesn’t let up until the last sentence.  while some of them might be a challenge to find, all of them are worth the search.

you can follow his blog at http://matt-ruff.livejournal.com/.

I guess I have stopped allowing myself to be used by my insomnia rather than use it for something productive.  I always forced myself to toss and turn for hours at a time, like some sleeplessness montage from Darren Arronofsky Requiem for a Dream style, haunting my day dreading the hours I waste undoing my sheets because I roll around and move so much.  I’ve sort of stopped fighting it and I try to do something productive during the night.  A lot of the time this involves playing video games until I get bored, but I also get some writing and thinking done, which though it has yet to pay any bills, I think at some point my thought experiments during my incessant insomnia might get some attention.  I might just be seen as the fool on the hill, but I couldn’t give a damn anymore what the rest of the fools think.

With incredible insensitivity to the military families, and indeed to all the nation,

TEH ONE, the Obama gives a shout out to his peeps.

Then pretends to be sympathetic to the horrors that took place at Fort Hood.

Insensitive In Chief

It is clear that Teh One, the Obama, hates the military.  These people that swore an oath to protect this great nation are second class citizens to Teh One, the Obama.  The Obama BOOB would rather give a Shout Out To His Peeps.

But instead of a somber chief executive offering reassuring words and expressions of sympathy and compassion, viewers saw a wildly disconnected and inappropriately light president making introductory remarks. At the event, a Tribal Nations Conference hosted by the Department of Interior’s Bureau of Indian affairs, the president thanked various staffers and offered a “shout-out” to “Dr. Joe Medicine Crow — that Congressional Medal of Honor winner.”  Three minutes in, the president spoke about the shooting, in measured and appropriate terms. Who is advising him?

Who Was This Shooter

A member of the Religion Of Peace

Of Course

Yes, this is the same idiot that bows to the Saudi Prince.  The same idiot that dithers making decisions to help the military in combat in Afghanistan and Iraq.  The same idiot that refuses to go to Berlin to celebrate the fall of the Berlin Wall.  Apparently, anything that has to do with Freedom is not worth the effort.

US President Barack Obama has shelved his plans to attend festivities marking the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton will reportedly take his place at the Nov. 9 celebrations.

MASTER

As the economy continues to suffer and unemployment tops 10%, the first time in over 26 years.

Spending Trillions of Dollars that soon will become hyper-inflation.

Teh One, Teh Obama still does not have a clue.

Hows that Hope and Change Working For Yah

What’s For Dinner?

(Nächste Woche im neuen Fool on the Hill-Mag, heute schon im Blog:)

Rassismus war gerade jetzt, im Rahmen der Wahlen 2009, wieder ein Thema. Der Thüringer Zeca Schall, Schwarzes[1] CDU-Mitglied, wird von der dort ansässigen NPD bedroht, soll überzeugt werden „nach Hause“ zu fahren. Und die CDU? Die bittet Schall, sich aus dem Wahlkampf herauszuhalten. Rassismus soll kein Wahlkampfthema sein und wird gerade deswegen zu einem. In Deutschland ist dies öfter so, hat man den Eindruck. Rassismus wird nicht als relevant wahrgenommen. Und dann wundert man sich über 9% für die NPD bei den Sächsischen Landtagswahlen 2004, immer noch 5% 2009 und über „National-Befreite Zonen“ bei der Fußball-WM 2006.

Rassismus. Was ist das überhaupt? Wo beginnt Rassismus? Was macht ihn aus?

Ich treffe mich mit Georges. Ich habe ihn per Mail über mein Vorhaben, etwas über Rassismus zu schreiben, informiert und nachgefragt, ob er sich von mir interviewen lassen würde. „Klar“. Georges und ich setzen uns ins Bistro der Universität Siegen. Ich will ihm von meinen Vorbereitungen erzählen, meinen Ansatz darstellen: „Du kennst doch Tyron Ricketts, oder?“ „Nein!“. Fehler. Dass Georges Schwarz ist, heißt nicht, dass er mit HipHop firm ist. Wir lachen darüber.

Dennoch, der erste Denkfehler ist offenbart. Auch die DUMMY-Ausgabe „Schwarze“ und Noah Sows Buch „DEUTSCHLAND SCHWARZ WEIß“ versuchen den nicht-Schwarzen Leser auf diesem Fuß zu erwischen, ihm gleich klarzumachen, dass Rassismus nichts mit Gewalt und Ausländerfeindlichkeit zu tun haben muss. Noah Sow, die am 26. November ab 18 Uhr in der Mediathek gegen Rassismus und Diskriminierung (Kölner Str. 11) liest, eröffnet ihr Buch über den alltäglichen Rassismus mit einer Beschreibung ihres Herkunftslandes. Sie erzählt von lange undefinierten Grenzen, Stammeskriegen und primitiven Sitten. Noah Sow ist Schwarz. Man erwischt sich dabei, zu erwarten, dass sie am Ende Ihrer Aufzählung ein afrikanisches Land benennt, um dann verwundert zu lesen: „Dieses Land heißt natürlich – Deutschland.“ Die Autorin hat mich dort, wo sie ihre Leser haben will. Ihre Strategie ist durchschaubar. Berechnend. Trotzdem hat sie mich erwischt.

Auch DUMMY startet ähnlich, mit dem Test „Bin ich ein Rassist?“ und Fragen, wie zum Beispiel: „Sie finden, dass Schwarze super singen können?“, „und dass Schwarze besser tanzen können als Weiße?“ und „Sie behaupten, es gebe ‚gar nicht so viel’ Rassismus in Deutschland?“. Um nach den stillen Antworten des Lesers abschließend provokant „Und Sie halten sich wirklich für ‚nicht rassistisch’?“ in den Raum zu werfen.

Rassismus bezieht sich, laut Noah Sow, auf den sichtbar fremden ethnischen Hintergrund, unabhängig von Staatsbürgerschaft oder Geburtsort. Georges Lobé, mein Kommilitone, dagegen sagt „Rassismus fängt beim Denken an“, dies aber auf beiden Seiten, in beiden Köpfen. Er sagt, es sei leicht, zum Beispiel „komische Blicke auf die Hautfarbe zu beziehen“ und nicht etwa auf etwas, was auch an Weißen solche Blicke hervorrufen würde, eine hässliche Jacke oder einen Popel in der Nase beispielsweise. Im Bezug auf unseren Eingangsfauxpas spricht Georges lieber von einer „Begegnung mit Vorurteilen.“

Kinder sind generell nichts Beängstigendes. Niemand hat etwas gegen Kinder, egal welcher Hautfarbe. „[Ein Kind] nimmt den Menschen die Angst vor der Hautfarbe“ sagt Morris in der DUMMY. Morris ist Namibier und vor zwei Jahren seiner deutschen Freundin nach Deutschland gefolgt, als Gaststudent. Die beiden haben eine Familie gegründet, haben eine Tochter. Morris macht beinahe jeden Tag Erfahrungen mit Rassismus, auch mit zerstörerischem, gewalttätigem. Seine Fahrradreifen werden zerstochen, sein Sattel mit brennenden Zigaretten angebrannt, auch vom Rad wurde er schon getreten. Hoffnung gibt ihm sein Kind, seine Tochter, die interessiert beäugt wird, wenn die Familie zusammen einkaufen geht. Morris drückt den Neugierigen dann manchmal seine Tochter auf den Arm, das nehme die Angst. Wahrscheinlich wird dem Mädchen dann genauso neugierig durch die Haare gestrichen, wie anscheinend jedem Schwarzen Kind, oder auch wie Morris, vor 2 Jahren, auch wenn er damals schon ein paar Jahre älter war.

Oder wie dem Adoptivkind aus einem anderen DUMMY Bericht, einem Erfahrungsbericht einer weißen Mutter mit einen durchweg positiven Grundtenor, wenn auch negative Erlebnisse diesen ein wenig einschränken können. Diese beruhen aber, so die Mutter, wohl weniger auf Rassismus, als auf mangelnder Sensibilität, z.B. wenn sie gefragt würde, ob die Mutter des Kleinen an AIDS gestorben sei, oder Leute auf dem Land auf „das süße Möhrle“ zeigten und diesem durch die Haare streichelten.

Tyron Ricketts, Moderator, Schauspieler und Rapper, stellt seine Kindheit in einem etwas dunkleren Bild dar. Die ersten beiden Strophen von des lyrisch untermalten Kurzfilms „Afrodeutsch“ lauten wie folgt:

„10 000 Seelendorf in Österreich – ich dort als Negerjunge,
10 000 Sprüche, dumme! Gut gemeint als Antwort meine Zunge,
Du findest es – nicht schlimm wenn man Dich auslacht? Meiner Meinung nach – ist es die Summe die es ausmacht. Ich erfahre absehbares grabschen nach der Haarpracht, die Wuschelhaare, hasste es all die Jahre – dass ich´s heute noch in mir bewahre, genau wie andre- großteils unsichtbaren Narben, die mir den Spaß verdarben an Bezeichnungen wie Schokofarben – zu viele Sklaven starben um drüber zu lachen, zu viele Leute sagen es scherzhaft um einen Spaß zu machen. Mutter und Freundeskreis sind farbenblind, beschimpft als Mohr und Kohlensack wird aus dem Sonnenkind das Sorgenkind.

Life vor Ort im Kinderhort, wo Kleinste vorgelesen kriegen,
Thema sind Negerlein die sterben wie die Fliegen.
Ein Kleiner weint, – am Ende sind’s ja wieder 10!
Spaß muss sein – schlaf schnell ein – wer brav war der darf früher heim gehn.
Führerlektüre neben den Kochbüchern von Oma
verderben das Aroma, like the whole world is Arrizona,
Wer hat Angst vorm schwarzen Mann? Niemand bis der sich wehren kann,
und wenn er kommt dann laufen wir! – wer mutig ist der spuckt ihn an!
Effekt ist Resistenz durch Intellekt wenn Du erst groß bist,
Verwirrung die Tendenz wenn Onkel Benz dein Vorbild ist
Wenn es nach manchen Leuten ginge würden Schwarze nackt im Zwinger schwingen,

Für Dich klingt´ s komisch? – ich singe von reellen Dingen.“

Tyron Ricketts zeigt in diesen Strophen Traumata seiner Kindheit auf, seine Einzigartigkeit in seinem Heimatdorf, die ihn zum Objekt der Begierde, aber auch zum Ausgestoßenen macht. Im Endeffekt macht aber der Hintergrund der Betonung seiner Fremdheit keinen Unterschied für ihn. Ob das stereotype „grabschen nach der Haarpracht“ oder die Bezeichnung als „Mohr und Kohlensack“. Für den Erzähler geht es nicht um das „was“, relevant ist das „wie oft“ – wohl auch das „wie penetrant“, wenn man sich vor Augen führt, dass Schwarze Kinder tatsächlich in der Grundschule oder dem „Kinderhort“ mit Liedern und Spielen à la „10 kleine Negerlein“ oder „Wer hat Angst vorm schwarzen Mann?“ konfrontiert sind. Die Frage nach dem Einfluss dieser Spiele auf weiße Kinder, deren Verhalten ihren Schwarzen Spielkameraden gegenüber und ihre späteren Einstellungen stellt sich natürlich auch.

Die Erfahrungen ähneln sich wohl bei vielen Schwarzen in Deutschland. Auch Georges kennt die älteren Damen, die einem durch die Haare streicheln wollen. „Schade“ sagt er dazu, klingt dabei nicht abwertend, aber irgendwie resigniert, wenn er sagt, dass man Menschen dieser Generation wohl nicht mehr ändern könne. Georges wurde in Frankfurt am Main groß, einer multikulturellen Stadt und besuchte eine internationale Klasse. Ihn in eine solche Klasse zu schicken, war das Beste, was seine Eltern machen konnten, sagt Georges, denn so konnte er früh die Erfahrung machen, dass Herkunft und Hautfarbe keine Bewertungsmaßstäbe für Menschen sind. Das negativ konnotierte Gefühl von Andersheit ist ihm jedenfalls im Klassenverband erspart geblieben. Mobbing, Diskriminierung hat er dann außerhalb des Klassenraums erfahren, wenn Ältere ihm und seinen Klassenkameraden nach der Schule auflauerten. Die Frage „Warum/Warum ich?“ stellte sich ihm erst im 6. Schuljahr im Bezug auf den Unterschied der Pigmentierung. Nicht, dass ihm seine Hautfarbe nicht vorher klar gewesen wäre, nur ignorierte er – bewusst oder unbewusst – vorher den rassistischen Hintergrund. „Erst wenn ich Überfalle, Prügeleien, oder die Bezeichnungen ‚Neger‘ und ‚Mohr‘ als rassistisch anerkenne, werden sie verletzend,“ so Georges, „vorher sind es nur leere Worte und einfache Körperverletzung und keine Verletzung meiner menschlichen Würde.“ Prügel, Mobbing oder einfach komische Blicke nur auf die Hautfarbe zu beziehen, meint Georges, mache ihn zu einem ebenso „rücksichtslosen, ignoranten, kompromisslosen Rassisten“ wie denjenigen, der dies ausübt.

Der Erzähler von Afrodeutsch beschließt in der 3. Strophe, mit 16 Jahren, den Rassismus nicht mehr in negativer Form an sich ran zu lassen, ihn, im Gegenteil, nur noch für sich zu nutzen. Durch Positivrassismus, Positivdiskriminierung. Er will die Klischees, die seine Hautfarbe mit sich bringen, für sich nutzen:

„Der Positivrassimusmeister nutzt Klischees zu seinem Vorteil, macht sie zu seinem Style – jongliert mit Attributen.“ Tyron Ricketts hat Karriere gemacht, wobei seine Hautfarbe ihm sicher geholfen, jedenfalls nicht im Weg gestanden hat. Er war Moderator einer Fernsehsendung, die sich mit HipHop befasst hat – wer könnte diese Rolle glaubhafter, auch stereotyper, darstellen, als ein Schwarzer? Genau so waren die von ihm beschriebenen Rollen, zu Anfang seiner Schauspielkarriere: „mach den Carl Lewis Läufer, den Eddy Murphy Imitierer, mime den Drogendealer, spiele den Basketball- und Footballspieler“.

Außerhalb solcher Klischeewelten ist es sicherlich anders. Die einzige Assoziation, die Georges mit „Positivrassismus“ hat, ist „Affirmative Action“, ein US-Gesetz, dass eine Minderheitenquote in Firmen vorschreibt, so dass, bei gleicher Qualifikation, der Schwarze Bewerber den Job auf jeden Fall bekommt. Georges weiß Bescheid, er war längere Zeit in den USA. Allerdings will er nicht aufgrund seiner Hautfarbe übervorteilt werden, will nicht, dass dadurch ein Unterschied betont wird. So etwas hat er schon in Familien erlebt, die bei dem Versuch sich korrekt zu verhalten, zwanghaft und verkrampft wurden, und so sein Anderssein unterstrichen haben.

Auch Afrodeutsch befasst sich mit Beziehungen und Sexualität als Schwarzer, den Vorteilen bei Frauen, und den Nachteilen im familiären Rahmen:

 „Schwiegervater mag zwar – wie Du rennst und singst, droht trotzdem seiner Tochter das sie bloß kein Negerkind nach Hause bringt, der Tag für ihn ein schwarzer, sieht seine Tochter schwarzfahren,
der Afrikaner den er kennt ist Tarzan, mit blonden Haaren.
Schenk ihm ne Packung Dickmans, dazu noch schöne Grüsse,
kratz mir die Nüsse, weil seine Süße steht auf Negerküsse!“.

Auch Georges hat die Väter seiner Freundinnen distanziert erlebt, zunächst jedenfalls. Er sagt, er habe Probleme solcher Art immer durch seine offene Art gelöst und einfach mit den Vätern ein lockeres Gespräch gesucht, um so, auf lange Sicht, das Eis zu brechen. Die Mütter auf der anderen Seite, beschreibt er als quasi überempfänglich für den Schwarzen Freund, eher unsensibel. Sie meinten es gut mit ihm, aber stellten sich dämlich an: „Endlich mal ein bisschen Farbe in der Familie“, oder:  „wie gut du doch Deutsch kannst.“

Das Ausmaß von Rassismus im Kleinen ist einem als Nicht-betroffener gar nicht bewusst. Rassismus ist nicht unbedingt radikal in seiner Ausübung, nicht zwangsläufig NPD-wählen und Andersfarbige beschimpfen. Rassismus ist etwas Alltägliches, was man vielleicht auch deshalb nicht unbedingt als solchen wahrnimmt und gerade das macht Rassismus zu einem nach wie vor brisanten Thema. Die DUMMY schrieb, in Anlehnung an www.braunermob.de: „Keiner ist frei von Rassismus. Jeder Mensch kommt als Rassist auf die Welt. Man wird nicht zum Rassisten, sondern muss sein Leben lang hart arbeiten, keiner mehr zu sein.“. In diesem Sinne gehört das Abschlusswort Georges Lobé: „Änder’ dein Bild. Nicht mich!

God, I wish Taylor would have come back with this:

Kudos to Schuyler for envisioning this, and kudos to me for my Photoshop-ping skills. Maybe it will go viral…

I have said before that I love both Martin Millar and Douglas Coupland quite a lot.  Well, Matt Ruff’s Fool on the Hill is like if Martin Millar and Douglas Coupland had a love child, and Douglas Coupland  raised the kid because Martin Millar lived too far away, but the kid  grew up reading Martin Millar’s books obsessively, and then the kid  went to Cornell for college.  I feel like that sequence of events  could have produced Fool on the Hill.

Fool on the Hill is a story about Cornell University (ever heard of it?), if Cornell University had fairies and sword-fighting rats.  There are oodles of characters, and they are all amusing, and the different sets of characters eventually come together – much like in Lonely Werewolf Girl, so in case you are thinking that I’m only making the Martin Millar comparison because of the  fairies I AM NOT.  There’s Stephen George, a writer; his muse,  Calliope, who comes and goes; the beautiful Aurora Borealis Smith and her revolutionary father; Luther and Blackjack, a dog and cat on a quest to find Heaven; Ragnarok and the Bohemians, with an unimpeachable sense of justice; a wicked fraternity that it took me an embarrassingly long time to realize didn’t actually exist; and Cornell fairies prepared to fight a war for Cornell against a foe they all thought to be dead.

I won this book from Nicki at Fyrefly’s Book Blog (thank you!), and she most brilliantly sent me along a map of Cornell to go with it, with relevant locations circled in aquamarine-colored pen.  Possibly the reason I read it so gradually is that I was constantly putting the book down and inspecting the map to orient myself on the campus.  That, and the fact that it was on my bedside table.  For some reason I never fetch books from my bedside table and curl up with them downstairs to finish them. Once they are on my bedside table they are only going to get read for about twenty minutes each night before I fall asleep.

But that is not to say that I didn’t enjoy it, because I really did.  I was making it last by reading it slowly.  It’s such a lark that it’s fun to make it last: how there’s a “writer” called Mr. Sunshine inventing the whole story as they go, and that makes it possible for Matt Ruff to toss in little remarks about antiheroes and dei ex machinis (oo, useful Latin there).  I loved Jinsei & Ragnarok – because Matt Ruff is right, you need a hero that’s not all sweetness and light sometimes – and the whole thing of Tolkien House and their Lothlorien.  Fun.  Read it!  (But you can’t have my copy.  I’m greedy and I’m keeping it.)

(Maybe the ending is a little rushed.  But it is so much fun that I don’t mind.)

Link me if you reviewed it too!

I’m just settling in to watch Magical Mystery Tour for about the dozenth time.  It just occurred to me that I had written a review of this oft-criticized film elsewhere.  This may seem cheap to re-hash my own work, but I like the review so I’m putting it here, on my music blog, where it belongs.

_____________________

In the Anthology series, Paul McCartney used this phrase to describe what the Beatles (Paul, mostly) were trying to create with Magical Mystery Tour. The resulting product, shown in black and white on TV in Britain, was widely panned. Some critics went so far as to say that the film was proof that the Fab Four had lost their shine.

Magical Mystery Tour was certainly no great cinematic work. In fact, it’s of virtually no consequence to anyone other than hard-core Beatles fans or stoners that like its psychadelic bent.

Whatever it lacks, it has a surreal, quirky charm that makes it worthwhile. Some scenes are just plain bizaare, like the dream sequence in which John Lennon, a mustachioed waiter in a posh restaurant, shovels a table full of spaghetti onto a fat lady’s plate. Not surprisingly, Neil Innes of Rutles fame (or infamy, if you prefer) is in the The Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band, who performs the song “Death Cab for Cutie” — recognize the name, kids? — while a dancer does a striptease. Only in trippy movies like Magical Mystery Tour, or its cousin, the Monkees’ Head, can you see stuff like that.

Most of the movie is nonsense but some scenes are quite funny. It’s the kind of thing you’d expect if you asked a pot smoking pop group to put together a Monty Python episode.

If nothing else, the movie is, more or less, like an hour show of Beatles videos. Nowhere else can you see videos of “Fool on the Hill,” “Your Mother Should Know,” and “I am the Walrus.” You know that can’t be bad!

Musical Myth Number 1: Being able to play an instrument is a unique, innate skill. You either have it, or you don’t.

I have to admit, this was a view I was forced to agree with during my formative years. This was partly due to the fact that many relatives would constantly remind me of this fact anytime I even thought about going near an instrument and also my early attempts didn’t really help to dispell the myth.

My first brush with musical destiny came in the form of that incredibly versatile ‘instrument’ – the Triangle. Hey – don’t mock. Those things are more difficult to master than you think. It was always going to be an ambitious undertaking – a primary school production of Tchaikovsky’s ‘Nutcracker Suite’. I was a precocious 7 year old with something to prove and a will to succeed. ‘Better to burn out than fade away’ I remember thinking, as I anxiously waited for my single note at the crescendo of the first movement. My eyes grew wide with expectancy and my little 7 year old heart quickened slightly as I heard the music rising majestically to it’s conclusion. Wait for it . . . wait for it . . . and . . . now!

However, the only sound I created in that performance was a dull thud, followed by a sharp intake of breath, as I missed the triangle and clobbered my thumb with the beater. My teacher was frantically ’stage whispering’ for me to try again, but to no avail. My remaining energy was spent on holding back my tears of shame and embarassment.

“Don’t worry,” said my Dad, “you tried your best. Some people just aren’t musical.”

Two years on and you find me now as a slightly over confident nine year old. My self belief had certainly taken a battering from the ‘Triangle Incident’ (as it became known), but I still loved music and felt that it was only a matter of time before my virtuosity would make itself apparent. Finally it would appear that the time was at hand, when our teacher produced a small corduroy bag that contained a musical instrument that we could all learn. I could barely contain my excitement as she theatrically pulled out . . . the Recorder! Wow! ‘What is it?’ I thought. I just knew it was going to be my passport to musical greatness and couldn’t wait to hand over my mum’s hard cash for that little baby. I can still remember my disappointment when I finally got hold of one, along with the book of tunes that we could learn.

“Er, Miss? There seems to be a printing error in my music book. It only seems to contain variations of the same 3 pieces of music – London’s Burning, Frere Jacques and Three Blind Mice.”

Come on. When was a rendition of London’s Burning ever going to stoke the fires of musical creativity (no pun intended)?

“Yes, but we can all do different parts and do a ’round’!” the teacher cried enthusiastically.

Grow up.

It has to be said, I have since realised the Recorder does hold a certain charm – The Beatles, Fool On The Hill anyone? But, such things were a far from my mind as my frustration and lack of patience lead to me ‘accidentally’ losing the instrument a few months after starting my lessons.

“Well, you’re not having another one if you don’t find it,” warned my mum.

Oh well. Never mind.

Which leads us to what, for many years, I considered to be my ’strike 3′. I was progressing gently from a Triangle to the Recorder to . . .the Violin – of course! It was the next logical choice. Everybody knows the old ‘Triangle-Recorder-Violin’ method. And I just knew that it would be easy. It was just a little wooden thing with 4 strings that you played with an old piece of horse hair – how hard could it be?!

Fortunately, the school had agreed to lend pupils an instrument to get them started and see how we would get on with it. We got to take our own violins home the night before our first lesson. I couldn’t wait to get it out of the box and start playing. I lasted about 15 minutes before the cat had a seizure and my parents began inadvertently teaching me some new swear words. I wasn’t perturbed though. I knew I’d be fine after my first lesson. Just needed to know ‘what the notes were’.

With hindsight I think the violin teacher probably recognized it was a mistake to try to teach eight 10 year old boys at the same time. We didn’t even make it to the end of the first half an hour lesson before he ‘asked us to leave’. The problem arose even before we had put the bow to the strings. The teacher would start at one end of the line correcting our posture and instrument position and no sooner had he moved to the next pupil, the previous kid would slightly lower his elbow or arch his back slightly. After about 20 minutes he was a nervous wreck, running up and down the line moving an arm here or adjusting a hunched shoulder there. It looked like some strange Japanese game show. Obviously we found this completely hilarious and could not contain our amusement, meaning we moved out of position even more. We had our instruments immediately confiscated and were told to get out before we’d even had a chance to play a note.

Typical state school. They give up on you so easily.

After some consideration I was forced to admit, it had to be true: You can either do it or you can’t. So although I toyed with playing keyboard when I was 12 (I got one for Christmas and spent the next few weeks trying out all the different sounds and pretending to play along with the demo track) I pretty much ditched the idea of ever being able to play an instrument.

I joined a band as a singer when I was 16 and although I was mercilessly teased for not being able to play an instrument I still didn’t have the courage to try to learn to play anything. I found this really frustrating as even before I played an instrument I was always keen to write song melodies and lyrics – but you try communicating with a guitarist when you don’t even know what a chord is. Most of them will just mock you and then play a Blues lick really loud just to compound your ineptitude.

That was until a few years later, I met my friend and co song writer, George. Here was a guy that was a great player, but had loads of patience and actively encouraged me to suggest where the melody should go. After a while of playing and writing together, he finally convinced me to pick up the guitar and have a go myself. His view was, and still is, if you are prepared to put enough time and enthusiasm in to it, then anyone can learn. So I got my first guitar, George showed me some stuff and I started to learn simple songs. I cannot tell you the thrill I got when I first managed to play Peggy Sue. Not long after that I started writing my first simple songs and from then on I fell in love with the guitar.

That was now over ten years ago, and I have to admit my playing ability did pretty much peak quite a few years ago. I got to a level where I could play most simple songs and write my own little tunes and pretty much left it at that. Which is fine. Some people want to be able to play to the level of Rock God. Some, like me, just want to play, sing and write stuff. I let George do all the complicated stuff.

So don’t let your doubts, or those of other people, dissuade you from having a go. Learning to play an instrument is one of the best things you can do. It’s great for improving mental focus and dexterity not to mention being great fun. If I can do it, with my terrible musical history, then anyone can. I would love to hear how you get on.

The BBC have a site which is a great place for info on how to get started and why it’s a good idea. http://www.bbc.co.uk/music/playitagain/

If you are thinking about guitar lessons and are local to Leicestershire in the UK, I wholeheartedly suggest checking out the aforementioned George’s site at:
http://www.gomusicservices.co.uk

Other interesting music/composing related articles can be found at Heather Fenoughty’s blog:
http://www.heather-fenoughty.com/blog/

Enjoy.

Please feel free to comment or get in touch with regards to this, or any other of my posts. Alternatively hit the Twithis button below or just ask your friends to check it out. Your feedback and support is appreciated.

Institutes 1.16.4 – 1.16.8

In 1967, the Beatles’ Paul McCartney wrote a song entitled “Fool On The Hill.” It was written after he had had a discussion with a friend about the existence of God. The song was recorded and released on the Magical Mystery Tour album.

There were, and are, many interpretations as to what the song is about. Many thought that McCartney was saying that after God had created the world and man that He simply sat back, like the gods of Greek mythology, and watched with amusement as the world spun in space and man lived out his life on earth. Only occasionally would God become involved in the lives and affairs of men.

Calvin begins this particular reading of the Institutes that deals with the general and special providence of God by saying that,

 … the providence we mean is not one by which the Deity, sitting idly in heaven, looks on at what is taking place in the world, but one by which he, as it were, holds the helms and overrules all events.” (1.16.4)

In other words, God is not an absentee God. He is a very involved and in- control God Who governs not only by power, but by decree. Calvin says that He disposes and directs “everything to its proper end by incomprehensible wisdom.” (1.16.4) Nothing is left to chance or fortune.

Rather than arguing points with people over the question of God’s providence, Calvin chooses rather to “let the authority of God suffice” in the matter. He provides many Scriptures from the Old Testament to prove the Lord’s providence over creation, all it contains, and man.

Calvin makes several statements in this reading, as always, that  grabbed my attention.

 … providence consists in action.” (1.16.4)

 … single events are so regulated by God, and all events so proceed from his determinate counsel, that nothing happens fortuitously.” (1.16.4)

Even those things that seem fortuitous to us, Calvin would say, are subject to Him.

After sharing Exodus 16:13, Numbers 11:31, and Jonah 1:4, Calvin infers

  … that no wind ever rises or rages without his special command. In no way could it be true that ‘he maketh the winds his messengers, and the flames of fire his ministers;’ that ‘he maketh the clouds his chariot, and walketh upon the wings of the wind,’ (Ps.104:3,4) did he not at pleasure drive the clouds and winds and therein manifest the special presence of his power.” (1.16.7)

 … we hold that God is the disposer and ruler of all thing, – that from the remotest eternity, according to his own wisdom, he decreed what he was to do, and now by his power executes what he decreed.” (1.16.8)

The final statement from this reading, one that speaks very profoundly to me about the LORD’s providence over all that He has created and sustains is,

 … that the will of God is the supreme and primary cause of all things, because nothing happens without his order or permission.”

**********************************

When Calvin said that the LORD disposes and directs “everything to its proper end by incomprehensible wisdom,” what does he mean by “proper end”?

I believe that “proper end” means  the “certain and special purpose” (1.16.7) that everything, every person and every event has in and for the working out of the LORD’s perfect will for His glory and eternal purposes.

…aber dürfen hab ich mich nicht getraut!    (Karl Valentin)

Über den Mut ein Narr zu sein

Alles zu wissen, aber nicht davon Gebrauch zu machen. Das Hirn auszuschalten und nur der Intuition zu folgen. Nicht zu urteilen, wieder offen zu sein wie ein Kind. Ohne großes Gepäck auf den Schultern, nur mit den notwendigsten Dingen im Beutel beginnt der Narr seine Reise ins Ungewisse. Für ihn gibt es keine Erfahrung auf die er sich berufen will, sein Herz kennt keine Ressentiments und das macht ihn mutig  und frei ohne daß er es merkt, geschweigedenn stolz darauf wäre.

Der Narr in uns drängt nach Lebendigkeit. Er treibt uns an den Abgrund. Er zwingt uns zu Springen – ins leere, unbekannte Nichts, mitten in den schwerelosen Zustand jenseits aller Gedanken und Vorstellungen, dort wo das Herz weiß, was geschieht ist richtig und gut.

Going back to a previous entry about how us Brits hate to concede anything to residents of the former part of the British Empire known as the US of A, last weekend I paid a visit to the British Library in London.

The Guinness Book of World Records lists the American Library of Congress as the World’s Largest Library. The five hundred and thirty miles of shelving in the American Library of Congress hold one hundred and thirty million items, twenty-nine million of which are books. The British Library however, despite having a somewhat shorter three hundred and eighty-eight miles of shelving, contains a far greater one hundred and fifty million items, including twenty-five million books. It appears that American books, not unlike their owners, take up more space.

The gate to Strawberry Fields.

Liverpool may have the Beatles Museum, Cavern Club, Strawberry Fields and Penny Lane, but on display the British Library has the original handwritten lyrics to The Fool on the Hill, I Wanna Hold Your Hand, Help!, Yesterday, Ticket to Ride, Michelle (written by Sir Paul McCartney on the back of an envelope) and A Hard Day’s Night, scribbled by John Lennon on the back of his son Julian’s first birthday card.

     Other cabinets display handwritten Jane Austen, Wordsworth, Oscar Wilde, Virginia Woolf, Charlotte Brontë’s ‘Jane Eyre’, Thomas Hardy’s ‘Tess of the D’urbevilles’, the Lindisfarne Gospels, Geoffrey Chaucer’s ‘Canterbury Tales’, Charles Dickens’ ‘Nicholas Nickleby’, the Beowulf poem, the Diamond Sutra (the world’s earliest dated book, printed in 868), a bible so old it could’ve been written by God himself, and the diaries of Captain Cook, Lewis Carroll and Captain R. F. Scott, open on 29 March 1912, the day of his last entry before he and the remainder of his camping trip met their end on the return from their epic journey to the South Pole.

You can't Handel the truth!

     Also on display are original musical score sheets for Handel’s Messiah!, Ravel’s Bolero, Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, Mozart, Haydn, Schubert, Elgar and Beethoven (along with his tuning fork).

     A separate room is dedicated to a copy of the Magna Carta, one of only four in existence; though sadly having unfortunately been burnt it’s about as readable as a copy of The Satanic Verses written in Arabic.

The British Library - the largest public building constructed in the UK in the 20th Century.

Hey hey little ones,

I was going to rant and rave like a crazy lunatic today about radios or spellcheckers but you’ll have to wait for those posts.  I was checking out some history stuff for my grade 12s when I happened upon these little tidbits that just go to show how great music really was.

First Up: I want to go with you on a…

The album came out on Nov 7 1967

And sticking with those wonderful mop tops…

Enjoy friends!

Peace,Love&GoodVibes
SnowDove,ArmsUp

A genuine, 19th century vampire killing kit:

This went for $15,000 at a recent auction in Mississippi. Maybe the bidder was a super-fan of the books but saw the movie and now wants to hunt down and destroy all those responsible?

Check out two reviews of Bad Monkeys by two Schuler Booksellers

Bad Monkeys, Matt Ruff’s fourth novel is out in paperback. Ruff is the author of the critically acclaimed Set This House in Order, Fool on the Hill and Sewer Gas and Electric: The Public Works Trilogy.

Bad Monkeys focuses on a patient in a jail’s psychiatric wing, “Jane”, and her statements made to a doctor about a certain under-the-radar Department for the Final Disposition of Irredeemable Persons or, “Bad Monkeys”.

Ruff manages to hook you in from the very beginning of his psychological thriller with quick wit and an interesting twist on character development. His style takes what might have been a tired and cliché formula with predictable twists and changes it into a scene by scene panorama that builds the complexities and facets of his characters. Yeah, certain characters will remain flat but appropriately so, as complicating them would muddle down the streamlined narrative. By the end you’ll find yourself in the place of the doctor examining her wondering just what, if anything, “Jane” says is true. The story reads quickly, perfect for an afternoon or evening when you are looking for something different.

Jason, Grand Rapids.

Take 2

Working within the book industry, or even just being a voracious reader, one eventually reaches a point where most stories fall within familiar, recognizable plot lines. The elements within stories and the ways in which they are combined to make a unique piece create an infinite, inexhaustible source of variety that  keeps me reading, reading, reading, but there is very little that surprises anymore.  One glorious exception is the work of Matt Ruff, whose latest quirky novel, Bad Monkeys, is now out in paperback.

This bizarre sci-fi mystery thriller (deciding where to shelve this book is a nightmare) unfolds through the confession of one Jane Charlotte, under arrest for suspicion of murder. The titular Bad Monkeys is both the name of her division within an obscure, unnamed evil-fighting organization, and the code name for the type of people Jane is supposed to rid the world of – those irredeemable persons who are determined to do more harm than good in their lifetimes.  Ruff keeps the story twisting and turning ‘til the very end, so hold on to your armrests and be prepared not to leave your chair for the duration. You won’t want to.

—Whitney Spotts, Eastwood Towne Center

Home

Comment at end

22nd June, 2008

It’s been a HARD DAY’S NIGHT, and I’m in MISERY, but though I’M A LOSER & a NOWHERE MAN & I was THE TAXMAN, WE CAN WORK IT OUT, despite the PAPERBACK WRITER in PENNY LANE. After all what’s A DAY IN THE LIFE of the FOOL ON THE HILL? So DON’T LET ME DOWN, cos ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE, after all …

HELLO, GOODBYE!

HELP!

Since it seems Gordon Brown likes the Beatles, I’ve put this YouTube video together with some of his story told in their great songs. Perhaps the Beatles, those great recorders of the human condition, can HELP! Then again, maybe not.

Help!, A Day In The Life, I’m A Loser, Don’t Let Me Down, Paperback Writer, Nowhere Man, Taxman, Misery, Penny Lane, Fool On The Hill, Hard Day’s Night, All You Need Is Love, Hello Goodbye, We Can Work It Out.