Where it lacked one, it found one.

Ordinary jocks became gods –

Deified by your infatuation

That seemed to have been designed at birth for a god.

It was a god-seeker. A god-finder.

Your Daddy had been aiming you at God

When his death touched the trigger.

In that flash

You saw your whole life. You richocheted

The length of your Alpha career

With the fury

Of a high-velocity bullet

That cannot shed one foot-pound

Of kinetic energy. The elect

More or less died on impact –

They were too mortal to take it. They were mind-stuff,

Provisional, speculative, mere auras.

Sound-barrier events along your flightpath.

But inside your sob-sodden Kleenex

And your Saturday night panics,

Under your hair done this way and that way,

Behind what looked like rebounds

And the cascade of cries diminuendo,

You were undeflected.

You were gold-jacketed, solid silver,

Nickel-tipped. Trajectory perfect

As through ether. Even the cheek-scar,

Where you seemed to have side-swiped concrete,

Served as a rifling groove

To keep you true.

Till your real target

Hid behind me. Your Daddy,

The god with the smoking gun. For a long time

Vague as mist, I did not even know

I had been hit,

Or that you had gone clean through me –

To bury yourself at last in the heart of the god.

In my position, the right witchdoctor

Might have caught you in flight with his bare hands,

Tossed you, cooling, one hand to the other,

Godless, happy, quieted.

I managed

A wisp of your hair, your ring, your watch, your nightgown.

I hoped never to preface a post with a quotation like that, but given that it’s around quarter past six in the morning and I’m in a twenty-four-hour computer lab, having woken at around 4pm yesterday, it occurred to me that I should research sleeping pattern irregularities, and Wikipedia seemed able to sum it up better than I could (scientific lingo tends to make soup out of my brains).

I’ve never considered myself a hypochondriac, nor am I attempting to diagnose myself with the aforementioned disorder or anything like it. But over two months of a disrupted sleep cycle that has evaded all my attempts at correction has begun to spark concern. Not that it’s an entirely new phenomenon in my life.  For the past year at least, my body has expressed its stubborn desire to sleep wrongly in no uncertain terms. Occasionally, I will manage to force it into something resembling normality, but I always tend to relapse into weirdness. Statistically, I have no idea just how common or uncommon this is, but it doesn’t seem right to me.

Whenever I’m still up and doing at insane hours like this one, I feel like sleep is really just an evolutionary hitch that humanity will eventually grow out of. Honestly, we waste so much time sleeping, and while it’s lovely to get a good night’s (or day’s, in my case) sleep, if it weren’t for the in-flight entertainment of dreams, it’d just be a pain.

Maybe I should stop musing on this and really set about fixing it. Also, I must endeavour to remember that Wikipedia is not in fact a trained health professional. Wikipedia will not tell me how to run my life. Wikipedia does not love me. Wikipedia and I should really part ways before one of us ends up getting hurt. Wikipedia’s control over my everyday decision-making process must end. Much like this post.

– Chris

in certain female children:

the fear of death, taking as its form

dedication to hunger,

because a woman’s body

is a grave; it will accept

anything.  I remember

lying in a bed at night

touching the soft, digressive breasts,

touching, at fifteen,

the interfering flesh

that I would sacrifice

until the limbs were free

of blossom and subterfuge: I felt

what I feel now, aligning these words–

it is the same need to perfect,

of which death is the mere byproduct.

And there are many more delights. 

I want Jay-Jay to be my friend (although it’s doubtful he’d let me call him that)

Caroline

The Bachelor, Patrick Wolf’s fourth studio album, was written to relate the singer-songwriter’s darker experiences over the past two years or so. Originally intended as one half of a double album along with The Conqueror, an optimistic account of finding new love, The Bachelor is now to be released separately on 1st June 2009. Like 2005′s Wind in the Wires, this album sees Wolf return to a more naturalistic, folk style that suits the mood of the record well. His trademark experimentations with electronics retain a strong presence, but The Bachelor is a far cry from the machine-pop sensibilities of previous album The Magic Position.  

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t biased, but in simple terms, The Bachelor is a triumph. Moving without being morose, and boasting a scale that some have labelled as ‘overproduction’ but is in my opinion perfectly appropriate to Wolf’s immense talent as a songwriter. Far from being only a rendering of his battle with exhaustion and depression, this album endeavours toward the universal on a winding path that crosses many moods and styles. The frantic energy of songs such as Oblivion (which sees Wolf take up an electric guitar, heaven forfend) and Vulture is offset by the choral yearning of Who Will? and Damaris. Title track The Bachelor, a duet with modern folk legend Eliza Carthy is chaotic ballad that charts Wolf’s loneliness of late 2007 with a sound that can only be described as ‘post-folk’. Recorded when Carthy’s voice was lowered by her pregnancy (really), the joint vocal acieves a guttural ferocity that contrasts strikingly with its grassroots fiddle-and-piano arrangements.

Eliza Carthy is of course not the only artist to collaborate with Patrick on the album. Digital hardcore ingénieur Alec Empire produced Vulture and Battle, probably the most aggressive tracks on an album that largely relies on nuanced emotional gravity to relay its message. Most exciting of all the collaborations, however, is arguably the spoken-word contributions of Oscar-winning actress Tilda Swinton, who takes on a maternal, advisory voice. These spoken epithets serve to reinforce the message of hope that rests at the heart of  The Bachelor, guiding the lost Wolf through the mazes conjured by Thickets and Theseus.

Like his debut Lycanthropy, this album is an intensely personal one, but Wolf also takes time to increase his scope in a way rarely seen on his previous records. Blackdown is a frank and touching appraisal of his relationship with his father and his position within the familial space, while in Battle, Hard Times and Count of Casualty, Patrick takes an unprecedented dive into current affairs, attacking everything from homophobia and the war on terror to social networking websites. This addressing of modern social issues makes a refreshing change from Wolf’s world of unicorns and talking magpies. Nowhere is this more powerful than on The Sun is Often Out, a haunting elegy for Stephen Vickery, poet and friend of Wolf, who committed suicide in April 2008. In short, this song is beautiful. It showcases Patrick’s remarkable new maturity as a vocalist, set against ghostly, orchestral strings that reach a climax with an uplifting choral refrain that effectively sums up just how epic this album is. I cried. Twice.

– Chris

It’s almost the end of the academic year.

It’s the end of the 08/09 Inklight Committee (Congratulations to the 09/10 crew!)

It’s the end of my sister’s single life.

It’s almost the end of my youth, and Chris’ teenagedom.

Sometimes, that annoying American-ish aphorism ‘you just need some perspective’ does have some truth to it.

This baby mammoth was found by a Russian hunter, who initially thought it was a reindeer carcass sticking out of the snow. In fact, what he found was a perfectly preserved baby mammoth, encased in ice for 40,000 years.

This tiny, 6 month old mammoth calf was trotting along after mummy mammoth in the last Ice Age- between 1.8 million to 11,500 years ago. 

That vast expanse of time is simply incomprehensible. The fragile beauty of this infant, perhaps emphasised by the anthropomorphising of elephants, is both inherently sad and somehow affirmative.

How would it be, if i were perfectly preserved now? What would be encased in ice? Those marks I chase like poisonous butterflies to taunt others with, the perfect image crafted at the mirror? Even this, this body i carry around with me, would that be the ‘me’ that is perfectly preserved?

Despite the sadness of such child (yes yes i know it’s really an elephant) being taken away from its family and its potential so young… she’s never failed, she hasn’t even had the opportunity.

Yes. An Ice Age baby mammoth, found by someone who was roaming for food and not just going to Tesco for supernoodles, does stretch the perspective more than sufficiently.

After finally getting Vivian, my long-suffering car, back from the garage today, after she had broken down on a wee break away, I am finally ready to think about the trip. Until now, i’d refused to think about the disaster, but in reality, it was stunning. The people, the food and the scenery were all super-duper, and here’s a wee peak for you:

WORN is a fashion journal. Yep, that’s right, JOURNAL. An intellectual take on fashion? Let’s hope it’s not a trend.

WORN is an unfunded, independent, self-published journal interested in fashion, the history of clothing and just about any interesting apparel related stuff.

Brilliant.

After reading the website I immediately subscribed. What better way to spend the new loans?

Unfortunately it’s in Toronto, and the delightful offers of internships aren’t really a possibility for me. (Maybe next year?)

Take a look. Especially at their linked Etsy shops- Norwegian Wood is fast becoming my new addiction.

Caroline.

The summer before I started university my best friends took a month-long trip around Europe. I stayed at home. 

I choose going to work at Port Eliot LitFest instead, and it was worth it.

Port Eliot is not your usual literary festival, nor does it aim to be. Famously described by the Guardian as ‘Glastonbury with less focus on the music’, Port Eliot is indeed a magical land, complete with castle. Well, actually it’s a stately home, but it’s pretty damn impressive. You can wonder around and stumble into a seance, an out door disco, art installations or a michelin starred restaurant. And that doesn’t even cover the official line-up.

The line-up this year is outstanding in its quality and diversity, coveri ng music, art, comedy and of course, literature. It also has plenty for kids with the house of fairy tales, and various games and workshops throughout the weekend. Whether you’re there for contemporary fiction writers of extraordinary talent (Hanif Kureishi, Marcel Theroux), performance poetry (Mucking about with words), cultural icons (Micheal Eavis) or fashion greats (Barbara Hulanicki, of Biba) Port Eliot has it covered.

Camping is great, I mean look at it:

I honestly can’t recommend it highly enough, especially for those people who’ve been attending big gun festivals (Reading and Leeds, V, Glastonbury, T in the Park etc) for a while now and want to branch out. Don’t be put off if you don’t immediately recognise acts on the line-up. In a magical place like this, all the fun is in the exploring.

Port Eliot Lit Fest will be held in Port Eliot, Cornwall on the 27th-29th of July.

The website can be found here : http://www.porteliotfestival.com/

And tickets can be bought here: http://www.crbo.co.uk/eventDetail.php?evGrp=47&evId=2522

Caroline.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs: It’s Blitz

(Polydor)

After a heart-wrenching absence (well, for me at least) YYY’s are back, YAY! Their third studio length album, It’s Blitz, marks another progression for a band renowned for pushing out of the comfort zone and continual into unknown ground. Except, the synth-driven, pulsing throb of ‘It’s Blitz’ isn’t unknown. This is ripped up retro 90′s dance music, but chewed up by Karen O’s schizophrenic vocal and passive-aggressive guitar riffs.

In a good way.

Fans who proclaim ‘Fever to Tell’ as the band’s finest hour might not be impressed, but whilst ‘It’s Blitz’ shares more in common with the slow-burner that was ‘Show Your Bones’, the more subtle and crafted sounds of this third outing does not mean the album lacks danceability.

The lead single ‘Zero’ opens the album and is a delightfully sleazy wee tune that showcases Karen O’s new, tightly controlled vocal prowess. Not the roars or screeches of ‘Fever to Tell’ but these honed vocals perfectly give way to waves of synth and just a damn sexy beat.  ’Heads will roll’ continues this glam-sleaze vibe, starting pretty low key before O’s trademark moaning (although slightly less ‘organic’ this time around’ leads it into a full on disco stomp. This track simply demands disco balls. And sequins… MANY sequins.

Of course, we all know that the New York trio can bash out some great 3am cider/gin/WIIIIINE moment tunes, but often they are at their most interesting, and innovative, when they reign themselves in and explore their delicate side. ‘Hysteric’ has O barely whispering ‘you suddenly complete me’ over such a beautiful soundscape that no other band could pull off; and I’ve not even begun to blabber about the weird, etheral celtic-vibe of Skeleton.

Navigating somewhere between trip-hop, shoegaze, disco, dance and pop, the luscious sounds of this album are great ear fodder for new fans and old. But beware, leave your preconceptions at the door. YYY’s are always going to challenge the listener, and this tightly crafted songs, may not seem to have the explosion of ‘Fever to Tell’, but they WILL get you.

Caroline.