CosmiKnot

There has been a recent surge of interest in empathy if my reading habits are anything to go by. I was struck by a link between two articles in this weeks observer magazine. This in itself is quite unusual as it is rare that I find one article that sets my synapses firing. The first of the two was about a man who lived as a hermit in a stone cottage without facilities on the Welsh hills miles from the nearest town. In this articles he describes how rather than become introspective as one might expect under these circumstances, he found his sense of self disolving into the nature he inhabited and eventually documented. This reminded me very strongly of Iain McGilchrist's description of the expansion of human awareness in greek culture. In the Master and His Emissary he describes how the narratives from the earlier part of this awakening make little use of the first person - there is no depiction of a seperate individual self. I would say that this is the goal of the reflective pro...

“Did you swallow it?” I hear my wife demanding form upstairs. This is not a phrase I have heard for a few years. Our sons are aged 8 and 10 and well beyond the experimental stage of placing objects in the mouth to see what they taste and feel like. ‘How much did you swallow? Rinse your mouth out now!” This all sounds very dramatic but the glowing hand held devise in my palm prevents me from acting more urgently. Not a hand warmer but a handheld diffidence inducer. Ralf (his real name) had earlier persuaded my wife that the purchase of a magic growing tree was essential to his present state of contentment. Due to the intervention of my wife’s laptop diffidence inducer the tree had yet to be triggered into magical growth. Ralf had, in his impatience to witness said magical growth, tracked down the sachet of chemicals required to instigate the miraculous blossoming. He had, however elected to open the sachet with his teeth and it seems a small part of this mysterious clear fluid had fou...

Yesterday I felt under the weather and with my eldest son who was also unwell securely installed in the back of the car I drove to collect my youngest son. This was a smash and grab mission – there was to be no eye contact just get in there and retrieve the boy. After a few circuits of the village I finally managed to get a parking space but not before an SUV driver had in an ironic parody of contemporary selfishness driven into a space I was indicating to go into a good two minutes before he drove up the other way. How we laughed (it was red nose day).  So Youngest son was in the usual spot by his teacher in the playground. So far so good I even semi smiled at the teachers festival hat (big and red). “Dad I’ve made a picture and it’s in the Griffin Hall,” he informs me. He takes me by the hand and leads me there. I love holding my son’s hand but I keep my eyes at 40 degrees – low enough to avoid eye contact but not so low that I look like a loony. We’re in the hall, which had...

Kimey Pekpo was inside his egg. Lately he had begun to feel very warm and happy indeed. “Momo has been hatching me very nicely,” he thought. “ I am all cosy-cosy but it is time for me to hatch out and show Momo just what I am.”  So Kimey Pekpo began to bash at the shell until he had made a little gap like an escape hatch at the top of the egg. He stuck his head out and looked around at the outside with a smile on his face. The landscape was very strange, being mainly pink with very few landmarks to speak of. “Its like a blancmange desert,” chuckled Kimey Pekpo to himself (he liked chuckling to himself). Still he couldn’t wait to explore and climbed out of the hatch he had bashed for himself and called out “Momo!” feeling certain she would come and lead him on his exploration of the world outside. “Momo!” he called again but no response came. He noticed he was still very warm and guessed that Momo was asleep and had forgotten to turn down her hatching heat. He looked up at...

The Lord is my oyster Such a card And efficient I concede Perhaps I need to submit To his order Of richly veiled burocratic Inky blackness Defined by binary ping pong The not knowingness Out of my handiness With a travelcard I knew where I was And I didn’t feel the icy chill Of his phantom hand Picking my pocket When I swipe to exit It’s etheric in all the wrong ways Orange ticket void Oyster shell quantum Soup soup I like the bleeping Perhaps I can let go But it’s hard to trust No one in particular

My friend and general musical  maestro Rhodri Marsden has just asked me to share some thoughts on song writing for an article he is writing. I couldn't wait to share the unexpurgated version. This is that. Song writing for me is like most things in life I rarely remember sitting down and making a concerted effort. This doesn’t mean I don’t make an effort its just that I don’t have a recollection of the effort. Upon hearing one of my songs I feel a similar satisfaction as I do when I look at the plinth I fitted under the kitchen sink or the allotment behind my house.  Writing a song is like thinking aloud and being able to see the thought from inside and out. I usually start with a phrase I’ve read or (mis)heard that seems to set off a chain of unbounded synapse connections and let this coagulate into a melody. I try hard to keep that initial melody pure and give it space to develop (not unlike watching the smoke waft up from the bong I customarily never use as part of ...