The day was soggy and grey, but I felt the need to bring you a few snaps.

The quintessential English parish church, with classic examples of communications equipment from a bygone era, a phone box that works (well there was someone in it I’m assuming they were making a call!) a post box and parish notice board.

Across the road the wonderful Priest House,  built circa 1448 it is now masquerading as a branch of the National West Bank (and it must be a bit of a nightmare for the estates dept of the the bank; how do you make a timber framed building with leaded lights and a grade one listed building status secure? Any how, it is a bank with character and you don’t see much of that theses days.

Apparently, during times of during times of ‘plague and sweating sickness’* the priest would deliver his sermons from the balcony, so as not to mix with the germ and flea infested throng. Services were also delivered from here during ‘The Commonwealth period’ as during this time the churches were closed. Now my historical knowledge is scant, at school we seemed to jump from colouring in pictures of Guy Fawkes, in what would now be known as the ‘reception class’ to learning about Operation PLUTO in year 12; I’m sure I must have been taught some other fascinating historical facts in between but I’m dammed if I can remember them. I’m ashamed to say I’d never heard of the Commonwealth period. So I asked the boys, all three of them, no joy, so having established it wasn’t on the time table at Mr Uhdd’s  grammar school circa 1960’s, nor is it on the current national curriculum. It even took a bit of finding mousing around the Internet, but here you are The Commonwealth 1649-53

I think it is amazing that buildings like this have survived the risky, vulnerable period where they went from being the most important place in the village (aside from the church) to being old fashioned, scruffy and not as useful as newer buildings to  becoming old enough and historic enough to be protected for prosperity, looking at the next shot you could imagine how it could have been consumed by the the later developments that surround it.

Today Prestbury is a very affluent village it is in the golden triangle, the area favoured by the Cheshire set, Prestbury princesses, professional footballers and their attendant WAGS, (actually overseas readers, if you are not familiar with the term WAGS, it is more of a visual thing than a Wiki thing) the main street is peppered with wine bars and restaurants and independent travel agents ( serving a customer base that has no need to scrat around on the Internet for the best deal.) That said, the current economic climate must have made a hit even here

The White House Prestbury was once a place to be seen to dine, if that’s what you were about.

The website is still up, so you can go and have a virtual dinner for two if you so wish.

*Sweating sickness, it must have been swine flu, ‘sweating like a pig’, gedit? oh never mind, I’ll go.

Sarah Palin book signing yesterday in Florida

Hundreds of people look on as Sarah Palin arrives for a book signing at the Barnes & Noble at Lake Sumter Landing in The Villages, Fla. on Tuesday, Nov. 24, 2009. Palin came to The Villages for a book signing to promote her new book “Sarah Palin Going Rogue An American Life”

Sarah Palin look-alike 

Reportedly greeted by a crowd of 1,500 to 2,000, Sarah Palin was at Barnes and Noble in The Villages, Florida yesterday.  If the paper gives that number, I imagine there were a lot more, because they always under estimate.  Fox News Gretchen Carlson was traveling with her to report.   Here’s Some excerpts from the article in the Ocala Star Banner.

Randy Highsmith drove roughly 80 miles, spent the night in a parking lot hunkered down in a sleeping bag and waited more than an hour with several hundred people as storm clouds gathered overhead…..

Kevin Kerbow and his wife were first in line to have their book autographed after making the trip from Citrus County almost 24 hours before Palin was set to hit town.

Near 3 p.m., Palin exited the bus along with her daughter Piper and son Trig.

She thanked the crowd for attending and noted that The Villages was one of the family’s favorite stops during the election campaign.

She also expressed her gratitude for people purchasing her book so they could read her story “unfiltered” by the media. She then took a seat next to Carlson on an impromptu stage and spent about 20 minutes conducting an interview that was to be aired on Fox News this morning.

The video below shows the crowd at 9:00 p.m. Monday night.  This young lady has started her video journal at 5:00 p.m. on Monday night showing how the crowd gathers throughout the night.

The video below shows her first video on Tuesday morning with about 7 hours  still remaining until Sarah Palin arrives.

When she appeared here during the campaign, we waited from about 8:00 in the morning until her arrival at 3:00 p.m.  But this is real dedication here!

See another account here.

Posted:  11.25.09

Each day this week I am recapping the Villages Suite.  This Friday, November 27, For a Day, the final album in the suite, releases.

If you haven’t heard Lonely Together, you can buy it here – Josh Rosenthal’s Lonely Tother on iTunes.

My dad’s best friend growing up now plays harmonica for Willie Nelson.  Mickey Raphael joined me on “Leave”.  It’s amazing to have such a legend as Mickey play on my songs.

I hope to someday outdo Lonely Together, but it’s going to take a lot of work.  I bled on the pages for these lyrics, exposing the ugly crevices of my pain and healing hoping to have in impact on yours.

Unfortunately, by the time I got to Lonely Together’s release, I was exhausted.  Burn-out crept up on me.  The previous two albums – Even the Strongest Hero and Overture – sucked all the energy out of me, so when LT came around, I felt like I dropped the ball on it’s promotion.  I feel like each song deserves its own release and unique identity because each one is jammed with strong messages.

Thesis sentences for each song -

Amy, Please – My friend Amy drove home the day my parents told me they were getting a divorce.

Leave – Because I reconciled with my family in Lubbock, Texas, it no longer hurts to leave Lubbock after a visit.

No More Lies – Relationships are impossible if not for honesty.

You Followed Me – I ran from God for a long time only to look back and that he patiently pursued me the whole time.

Take it Away - My wounds need to heal before I can successfully move on and live my life.

Going Home – Physical distance from my wife makes reuniting filled with excitement.

Thanks to Josh Taylor (design), Mike Friberg (photography), Ben Robie (guitar), Josh Wilson (tons of stuff), David Askvig (drums), Casey Henderson (bass), Andy Osenga (guitar), Alli Rogers (vocals) and Mickey Raphael (harmonica).

Each day this week I am recapping the Villages Suite.  This Friday, November 27, For a Day, the final album in the suite, releases.

“Even the Strongest Hero” stretched me considerably.  If you haven’t heard it yet, buy it here – Josh Rosenthal’s Even the Strongest Hero on iTunes.

Brainstorming the design with my art director, Kevin Keller, and photography with Mike Friberg really pushed me, but I’m proud of the cover.  What do you think?

My long time friend, Josh Wilson, produced this album.  After he agreed to step in as producer, he promised to challenge my songwriting and help push it to the next level.  He did.

I really wanted a love song for this album.  The album is very stripped down, one vocal and one acoustic.  This opened the door for a very simple love song communicated through simple means.  After racking our brains in Josh’s studio – sitting on the ground, laying on the ground, balancing on our heads, taking Brian Regan breaks – we came up with Better Man.  Once we started it, it finished itself.

I also had the pleasure of writing with Jeff Pardo, a staff writer for Simpleville Music.  We sat down at 2pm on June 7, 2009 and wrote “Alone” in one hour.  I told him everything I needed this song to say and we dove in.  Alone captures the essence of the Villages Suite.  We need each other even though our culture fights like hell to tell us the opposite.  I can’t explain it any better than lyrics -

We praise the self made man / Riding off into the sunset / Bold and proud with no regrets / and a glow in his silhouette / He’s not afraid of anything / Never lost and never weak / He doesn’t seem to need / the same love as you and me

But when it gets dark at night / and there’s no one by that fireside / even the strongest hero can’t deny what everybody knows / That we weren’t meant to be alone

He doesn’t stay in one place long enough / For the first impression to wear off / He doesn’t know it’s ok to lose a fight / Real men, they get black eyes / He’s the king out on his own / No one to tell him when he’s wrong / No one to miss him when he’s gone / But that’s the same thing that tears him up

Our heart were made to fall in love / Our hands were made to hold / Hold each other’s tears / Hold each other’s fears / And share our own

Thanks to Josh Wilson, Jeff Pardo, Kevin Keller and Mike Friberg for making the entire presentation of this album beautiful.

First off, if you haven’t heard it, you can buy it here - Josh Rosenthal’s Overture release on iTunes

Leading up to the final release of the Villages Suite, For a Day, I want to remind you of where we’ve been.  Each day this week, I’ll highlight on of the albums in Suite and on Friday, the new album releases.

I’ve poured hours and hours of my heart into these four albums and it all started with Overture.

An overture is an introduction to something more substantial.  I wanted to release an album that would introduce the project but only in small glimpses.  ”Amy, Please (single version)” gave you a glimpse of the forthcoming “Lonely Together” album.  ”Amy, Please (acoustic version)” alluded to “Even the Strongest Hero” – the second album in the suite.  Each song carefully took its place to lay a foundation of sound and meaning.

“You Won’t Last” offers the best explanation from this album with the bridge lyrics -

You won’t last when you’re not at your best / if you don’t learn to love when you’re well / People in pain fight people away / Then don’t understand when they’re gone

When we are needy, we tend to suck the life out of our friends.  They only remain patient with us because we have built up currency with them.  Ideally, our neddiness is temporary and soon we’ll be back to the person they know and love. But if we don’t know how to love when we’re well and save up the currency, then we’ll never be able to spend it in our time of great need.  Without it, we enter into a downward spiral of guilt, shame and depression.  We can defend this if we have meaningful friendships.

Overture is a glimpse into both our need for and hope in friendships.

I intended for this album to set the tone for the remaining three albums of the Villages Suite.

Buy it here – Josh Rosenthal’s Overture release on iTunes

I’m a hoarder by nature, so my drawers and cupboards are full of all sorts of useless old tat – buttons for shirts I’ve long since got rid of, Top Trumps cards I haven’t used since I was 11, that sort of thing.

But when I go on holiday I can legitimately hoard things, and often what looks like nothing to other people has great significance to me: sat in front of me, for example, is a big stone which I am using as a paperweight to keep an unruly pile of receipts in check.  But it’s not just any old stone.  It was a stone I washed Bosante the elephant with in a crocodile-infested river in Nepal in the summer. 

Having a bath with an elephant - out of shot to the left is a crocodile...

I’m probably a bit sentimental with souvenirs, and I do tend to keep nigh-on anything as a reminder or keepsake.  But I love buying things which show the culture of the place I’ve been to, and Nepal was brilliant for that.

Ganesh painting

Above is a painting of the Hindu God Ganesh which I picked up in Pokhara for less than £5.  It is painted onto cloth and the colours and design are stunning.  Held up to the light or placed in a well-lit window, the colours glow and shimmer – it took somebody hours to make, and I feel privileged to own it and be blessed by its ‘good luck’ charm.

Hand-carved wooden face mask

Hanging beneath Ganesh on my wall is this slightly scary face mask which I picked up for the equivalent of about £3.50 in Pokhara.  I particularly like the third eye in the middle of the forehead, which I think is a nod to the wrath of the Hindu God Shiva whose third eye opens to see the evils of the world…

Buddhist prayer wheel

More religious iconography, this time recognising the influence of Tibetan culture into Nepal from the displaced refugees who have set up villages and monasteries throughout the country.  This prayer wheel opens up to reveal Buddhist scriptures and mantras which are chanted as the wheel is spun.

An Indian wall-hanging

To diverge away from Nepal, my greatest souvenir extravagance this summer was the above wall-hanging (£10.50) which I bought in Mandawa in the northwest of India.  According to the vendor, it was hand-stitched by “gypsy women” over a period of several weeks. 

I don’t doubt he was telling the truth, but maybe I do doubt his judgement (or his eyesight).  As I walked into his shop he beamed at me and shouted “James Bond!”

panniers

Now I know it’s not the best photo in the world and for those bikers amongst you I am sure you can see through the dust to see how useful these motorbike panniers would be – check out this ‘different’ 2good2tip stall – there’s some great stuff here, you just have to see through the dust – not much different to some of the local sales I have been to really !

La campagne d’écoute organisée par le Programme d’Appui à la Bonne Gouvernance PABEG dans les dix gros villages de la commune urbaine de Matameye s’est achévée sur une note de satisfaction totale. Focalisée sur les droits et devoirs des citoyens vis-à-vis de la commune et inversement, l’activité a pu mobiliser plus de trente pourcent des villageois et a suscité un réel engouement en atteste la centaine des questions posées. Cette campagne d’écoute a donné l’occasion aux citoyens de discuter avec leurs conseillers élus et l’autorité communale de leurs préoccupations majeures liées notamment au paiement d’impôts et taxes, au besoin des réalisations de la commune à leurs profits et à leurs besoins de s’informer de ce qui se passe dans la commune. L’activité s’est finalement revelée comme un véritable cadre et canal du donner et du recevoir entre les citoyens et leurs élus mais également entre l’autorité communale et les citoyens.

Frugality is not poverty. Modernity sees frugality as poverty ~ Mahatama Gandhi

Old Man, Orrisa (sorry! unable to vertically align; WordPress bug)

This observation by Mahatama Gandhi came alive during a recent visit to two villages in Orrisa (Odhisa, now), Nadakhanda and Kumarpada, 7km apart located in the better cultivated Puri district.

This man (see picture on left), appears to be an extremely poor and helpless man, surely. Thin and starved body, little clothing, no footwear, old, alone. This is how the judgment on seeing this pic forms in our mind.

However, could it be that this is how it appears to ‘city eyes’ – of financially, relatively, well-off people living in cities, across the developing and developed world? See the picture on the right now.

Pratima and family

This is Pratima (on the right), with her parents. She is a teacher at one of the non-formal school run by Srijan Foundation in Kumarpada village. Her elder brother has completed his BA, MA, and has recently cleared the entrance tests for  the Indian Railways. This means that he would be earning a fairly decent middle-class salary soon. He is currently a lecturer at a private college in a small city near their village. Pratima’s younger brother is pursuing Masters degree in Commerce from a government college from the same city. The picture is taken in front of the newly constructed ‘pakka’ house they live in (which they double-up as the non-formal school where 60 odd children from Class I-VIII come to study in 3 batches morning and evening).

Notice the meager clothing her father (on the left) is clad with. Notice the structure of his body. Imagine him 15 years later. Would he not be looking similar to the old man in the top pic?

My submission is that we need ‘fresh perspectives’ to understand village life in India. We need new attitudes. It is our attitude of seeing ‘frugality’ as ‘poverty’ that drives city people on missions to ‘help’ villagers. In the process we risk messing up with their social fabric and have them question the ‘dignity’ they normally live with.In the “Rs.2/kg rice” mentality, the government has killed the enterprising spirit of these people. They have, in “thought and spirit”, been enslaved and made dependent on outside help to conduct their day to day lives.

And really, is it not better to die frail yet healthy, than add more years to our unhealthy city bodies which require medicine, and hospitals for even basic survival. We ‘modern’ and ‘civilized’ city people have developed such an unhealthy attitude to death, that often a lot of us go on suffering for years on end, living off life support systems, treatments, and medicines, which we cannot miss for a single day, else we ‘risk’ dying. This is not how life must be lived.

You will find that there is a sense of leisure in a farmer’s life. Lots of idle time. Time for friends and family. In cities we’re starved for time, for ourselves, our families, and even our young children, who grow up normally at day-care centers and with full-time house-maids (depending upon which part of the world you live in). The importance of idle time is suddenly getting importance around the rich world, with Nicolas Sarkozy suggesting that GDP is a poor indicator of  a country’s ‘richness’, which he says, must also reflect the ‘leisure time’ its people have. Hmm!

All this is not to say that villages in India should be kept away from ‘material things’, better nutrition, and better healthcare. Surely, they must have equal opportunity to have access to all these. However, perhaps, we need dent our world view, and see the fabric of village life from Mahatma Gandhi’s eyes. I do recommend that my readers grab a copy of ‘Hind Swaraj’, a discourse on villages and village life in India, captured into a book format from conversations and letters from Gandhi.

Having questioned our standard world view on villages, i must acknowledge that i’d like to see some things change – specifically the quality of their idle time.During my visits to these villages in Orrisa, i’ve found that far too much leisure time is wasted in ‘gossiping’. The ‘community feeling’ and ’social fabric’ central to a healthy village is tearing. If only this available energy could be spent in ‘community building events’ – sports, more festivals, daily group singing (they have evening ‘kirtan mandalis’ but the participation is abysmal).

We need to restore and reinstate the communal fabric in the villages of India. “India lives in its villages”, said Gandhi. We need to energise its soul again.

Back to the villages, with Gandhi’s eyes!

There I was, enjoying a quiet moment with my family, when my husband prods Miss Q, “Tell Mummy what we did on Warcraft yesterday.”  I hold my breath, waiting for a bloody fight scene to be recounted by our two-year-old.

Thus far, her Warcraft exposure has been, as previously stated, watching his toon jump, dance and blow kisses.  With Miss Q on his lap, they’ve taken his toon and his toon’s mount – usually the cat – exploring through the villages and along the countryside.

He’s always kept her far-far away from the real Warcraft, i.e. the fighting, monsters, trolls, whatever else lurks within the dungeons.  But as of yesterday, he’s one step closer to his dream of her playing alongside him.  (One day in the distant-distant future.)

For, yesterday, unbeknownst to me, he created a Warcraft character for her.  I tell you, in our house, prolonged silence is suspicious.

“She looks like me,” my animated child says proudly.

“And, tell Mummy what else you have.”

“A penguin.”

“For real?”  I try to glare and be excited at the same time.

My husband and daughter both hold the same dopey grins.  I can’t believe he suckered her into his gaming world.  But then again, this is the same child who showed her grandpa how to get to the pod-casts on Daddy’s iTouch over Thanksgiving weekend.  She’s two-and-a-half.

Naturally, she’s growing up in a different world, technology wise than her dear ol’ mum, whom herself remembers panic, during first year of college, when teachers expected you to own a computer.

We don’t want to deny her experiences.  Miss Q soaks in everything the world offers.  She loves running, but sits for hours being read to; she creates interesting artwork and the most disgusting mud-pies.  So why do I feel a ping when I hear that she has added a toon and pet penguin to her repertoire?

Maybe it’s a ping of jealousy: she and my husband now share a bond to a world that I don’t want to be privy to.  Maybe it’s a ping that she’s growing up too fast.  How could it be that only 2.5 years ago she was a babe in arms?  Or maybe it’s a ping of  bemusement: he finally did it.

“He follows me wherever I go.”  Miss Q says of her new virtual pet.

At least we won’t have to stockpile fish in the  deep-freeze.

Fog rises from the subway grill, rolls across the face of the icebound midnight moon. Smells of old socks, mildew and burnt chestnuts from the lone vendor a few blocks away on the corner singe his nose hairs as he traverses the lonely streets of the old financial district near Gold and Liberty streets. Spotty lights shoot forth from the silhouettes of the sordid emblems of capitalistic endeavor where the legal crimes take place: the Nordic pillaging of villages unseen, the trades of people’s livelihoods, the desire for more continually unsated. He tips his fedora back, lifts his head upwards towards that chilled night sky and watches through the windows of the first few floors as the immigrant workers clean the cubicles and conference rooms, hallways and offices of those that have much. He shakes his head, looks down at the soiled concrete sidewalks below, the gum and trash, the homeless people bundled up and sleeping in the recesses of the wealthy’s playground, the layer after layer of dirt and grime in the shadows of the pristine corporate headquarters, lifts his head back up to see the workers still toiling away and walks away slowly, subdued by the numbing indifference of it all.

A dusty yellow cab pulls up, “On Duty” shines golden through the mossy air. “You need a lift, mister?” The cabbie looks at him with a sideways grin, pulls his hat back towards his neck to open us his face. He shakes his head, tells the cabbie there’s no time for joy rides. “There’s too much work to be done,” he adds and continues traversing the bowels of New York City.

Right on Liberty and up to William street, he turns left, heads towards Pine and Wall Street, Exchange Place, the belly of the beast. All is quiet. He can hear the scuffle of rats in the black bags of garbage left out for collection in the morning, smells the always-pervasive smell of shit that seeps through the darkened cracks of the city and settles down for a good, long stay. Sees the security guards sleeping at the New York Stock Exchange, the ghostly figure of Washington lit up like a Christmas tree watching over the center of capital trading. The wind rips through the cobblestone streets, lifts the giant American flag on the face of the Exchange and yanks at its ropes, bends it to its will, threatens to snap it off and send it flying into the dirtied Hudson. He pauses for a second, takes in the filtered light of the lampposts, the recognizable hums of vacuum cleaners, the violent whispers of the icy wind. Looks down and sees that here at the junction of Wall street and William street that the sidewalks are spotless, knows that the filth here has moved fully inwards to the weaknesses of man encased in stony structures. A couple approaches, the man in a navy blue suit, slicked back hair, a silk pink tie and a clean, pressed white shirt. His loafers click in step with his companion’s six-inch stilettos, shiny ebony lost in the shadows of the capital-rich calluses. Her flowing watermelon dress, her white sash, her soft blond hair and thick, catty carvings of makeup on her baby blue eyes. They move in sync, robotic marching at a midnight hour, pay no attention to him and walks right past, pauses at the door of the latest luxury apartments around the corner. With a twist of the key, the woman enters. The man pauses, looks back at him and scowls. “You are trash,” he transmits and enters. And they are gone.

The light from the nearest lamppost begins to flicker. He turns to face it, looks upwards. Smoke curls upwards from the subways in droves. The light expands, blinding rays shoot outwards to the murky intricacies of that baleful junction. A high-pitched emission and the light explodes. Shadowed curtains fall, he hears the menacing whispers of those all around him, sits on the soiled corner and pulls his coat in tight around his shoulders, flips up the collar to protect his neck from the increasing winds.

The dimly-lit carcass of the American flag on the Exchange looks on, bemused.