You don't get this in the supermarket!

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From Queens Market at Upton Park - the "one pound fish" song!






And to think that the idiots at Newham Council wanted to knock the place down! Philistines or what!

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Ars longa, vita brevis...(a thought about Amy Winehouse)

Much will be said about the death of Amy Winehouse. I think of her friends, her family and what we will miss of her genius – of her wonderful voice. Others will take the chance to lecture us on the evils of drugs – to wag fingers and make judgmental statements about Amy Winehouse’s values.

Instead let’s think of just one thing – in her short, painful life, Amy Winehouse left something behind. In thirty years time – maybe longer – people will still listen to her songs.

When I heard the news my first thoughts were of others who took the same path to immortality in death – Jimi Hendrix, Phil Lynott and the incomparable Charlie Parker. And, for all the tragedy of early death, I can turn to my music or visit YouTube and find these great artists’ legacy – captured for all time.

Just as James Dean left a legacy of film and image, as Van Gogh bequeathed the brightness of his painting – these musicians still inspire us with their music. And, as we get up to dance or lean back in our chair to let the sound wash over us, do we think about their tragic life? Or do we just enjoy the bounty they left behind?

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An Echo of Old Magic and Old Song

A good firm path - dry, with a good surface. Firm, secure fencing. Someone cares for this place - or cares enough to separate me from the woods. Perhaps the steepness of the slope and the looseness of the surface motivates that someone - he or she would rather those passing through didn't slide, tumble and crash into the river below. Or maybe there are beasts in the wood.

I hope there are beasts - or at least the memory of beasts. The wolves, bears and boars who once owned these woods - and the magic folk too. The trolls, the gnomes - and is that flash of white a glimpse of the unicorn. It can't be a wind blown supermarket carrier bag, can it!

On a wild night you must stay even more firmly on this path. Or else suffer the fate of Tam Lin - perhaps without a true love to save you from that mad ride into the gates of Hell.

gloomy was the night
and eerie was the way.
this lady in her green mantle
to miles cross she did go.

with the holy water in her hand
she cast the compass round.
at twelve o'clock the fairy court
came riding o'er the mound.

first came by the black steed
and then came by the brown.
then tam lin on the milk-white steed
with a gold star in his crown.

she's pulled him down into her arms
and let the bridle fall.
the queen of fairies she cried out
young Tam Lin is away.

The darkness is always close by - the legends are part of our heritage. The magic of these places - however safe they're made - is the deep magic of England. Step off the path and into the woods and listen carefully - you may hear the song of our ancestors. A song of woods, of trees and of the security that light and a clear view bring. It is a fine song.

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Wednesday Whimsy: A little Practical Magic

Let’s begin this with a disclaimer. If you think practical magic is something to do with spells, charms or incantations then you’ve come to the wrong place. Magic isn’t something we invoke; it’s something that’s there all around us waiting to be used.

So to practical magic and where better to begin than with Frazer:

“Regarded as a system of natural law, that is, as a statement of the rules which determine the sequence of events throughout the world, it may be called Theoretical Magic: regarded as a set of precepts which human beings observe in order to compass their ends, it may be called Practical Magic.”

So the practice of magic isn’t about spiritual salvation, doesn’t concern itself with god or gods and cannot provide a guide to living. But just as much the practice of magic isn’t about power as we tend to understand power in our frantic modern lives. To understand this you must understand what we mean when we say ‘magic’. In part an exclamation of joy, pleasure or excitement, magic also represents an expression of disbelief.

“How did he do that?” We exclaim, “Its magic!”

But magic is more an expression of synergy – yes, an awesome, magical sunset can be described prosaically by a scientist. But that does not explain why it is magical – the synergy between nature’s genius, our mood and our senses produces the magic. And we know we can use that magic for our ends – to further our desires. As Hoagy sang:

Ole buttermilk sky

Don'cha fail me when I'm needin' you most

Hang a moon above her hitchin' post

And hitch me to the one I love

The strength of practical magic lies not in compulsion but in mood. There is no magic to be found in rage, it is a thing of calm. Speed holds plenty of awe, masses of excitement but little magic. For magic we slow down, take a deep breath, sigh, look about us and say, “what a great place.” Then we see the magic that makes us love, the magic of contentment and the ultimate magic of shared experience.

People who look to magic for power, control or destruction are fools. The magician understands – as Himmagery in Sherri Tepper’s True Game – that people need only recognise his command of magic, there is not need to exercise that command. Practical magic does not need practice to be effective.

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Wednesday Whimsy: Your Place, My Town, The Land

Beckenham Road (a long time a go)


Listening to the poignant evocation of Cornwall, “Cousin Jack”, I had something of an epiphany – recognition of why the spirit of place is so important to us. And why its emotion so often trumps rationality. I’m not from Cornwall, have no Cornish heritage and no Cornish connection of note – but the emotion of the song gets to me just as do the feelings in Springsteen’s “My Hometown” or even Billy Bragg’s take on Essex in “A13”.

If you write, speak or sing with passion about your town, your country, your hills or even your street, you will bring out those emotions – the associations with place, with roots, with where we belong. These are some of the most powerful ties and we never lose them even when thousands of miles from that place. The ties that make tough old New York cops stream with tears at “Kathleen” or “Danny Boy”. The ties that make me stop, catch my breath and think a little about the things that really matter.

For me Kipling is the great poet of this feeling and in “The Land” he summed it up about his native Sussex. Here are the last couple of stanzas:

“His dead are in the churchyard--thirty generations laid.
Their names went down in Domesday Book when Domesday Book was made.
And the passion and the piety and prowess of his line
Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.

Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies,
Would I lose his large sound council, miss his keen amending eyes.
He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer,
And if flagrantly a poacher--'tain't for me to interfere.

'Hob, what about that River-bit?' I turn to him again
With Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.
'Hev it jest as you've a mind to, _but_'--and so he takes command.
For whoever pays the taxes old Mus' Hobden owns the land.”


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