Hasta la Raíz by Natalia Lafourcade
Dear readers, It’s another song. A profound one. Hasta la Raíz. It was released almost 10 years ago by the majestic Natalia Lafourcade, a Mexican musician and songwriter. I have always known the song was there. The oh-uh-oh, uh-uh-oh, oh-oh bridge is a kind of harmonic earworm which I don’t mind swirls around my head for a good few hours. Then, in the last month or so, I was in a coffee shop named Varietal in Tegucigalpa that I frequent regularly to do remote work and just relax and scoff their cheesecakes with gastronomic lust. The baristas have a great music taste, and on this particular afternoon close before closing my laptop for the day, this song came along on the playlist. As stated, I’ve always known the song was there and it’s such a pleasant earworm, but I’d never paid much attention to the lyrics. Since then, they’ve haunted me, but in such a profound way. Hasta la Raíz I keep crossing rivers, walking jungles, loving the sunSigo cruzando ríos, andando selvas, amando el solEvery day I continue to get thorns from the depths of the heartCada día sigo sacando espinas de lo profundo del corazón At night I keep lighting dreams to clean with the sacred smoke, every memoryEn la noche sigo encendiendo sueños para limpiar con el humo sagrado, cada recuerdo When I write your name in the white sand, with a blue backgroundCuando escriba tu nombre en la arena blanca, con fondo azulWhen I look at the sky in the cruel way from a gray cloud, you appearCuando mire el cielo en la forma cruel de una nube gris, aparezcas túOne afternoon I climbed a high hill look at the past, you will know that I have not forgotten youUna tarde suba una alta loma mire el pasado, sabrás que no te he olvidado Chorus I carry you insideTe llevo dentroto the rootHasta la raízAnd, no matter how much I growY, por más que crezcaYou’re going to be hereVas a estar aquí Although I hide behind the mountain and find a field full of caneAunque yo me oculte tras la montaña y encuentre un campo lleno de cañaThere will be no way, my moonbeam, for you to leaveNo habrá manera, mi rayo de luna, que tú te vayas Bridge Oh-uh-oh-oh, oh-ohOh-uh-oh-oh, oh-ohOh-uh-oh-oh, oh-ohOh-uh-oh-oh, oh-oh I think that every moment survived while walking Pienso que cada instante sobrevivido al caminarAnd every second of uncertainty every moment of not knowingY cada segundo de incertidumbre cada momento de no saberThey are the exact key to this fabric what I am carrying under my skinSon la clave exacta de este tejido que ando cargando bajo la pielThis is how I protect you, here you are still inside, Así te protejo, aquí sigues dentro, Chorus Chorus repeated Bridge Chorus Like all forms of art, you can resonate with the words in different ways. For me, it makes me think of those who I love and cherish, but for one reason or another, aren’t physically close, but remain part of me, spiritually or metaphysically. An unbreakable bond, so to speak. It captures themes of love, heartbreak and resilience, reflecting a deep connection to her roots and identity. Lafourcade described the song as a journey through her emotions and experiences, which I certainly identify with, especially the heartbreak and resilience, as do many who enjoy the song, which I believe is key to the song’s huge popularity. It is a certainty in life that we will suffer loss at some point, yet the song gives a sense of comfort and healing to move on. It’s rare a song can have such a deep impact on me, both lyrically and through its soft folkloric melody, but it also has a wonderful feminine touch. Thoughts of my dad, family and friends across the world, former loves, partners or colleagues or children and youths I’ve worked with, wondering what they are doing with themselves when I hear the song. I then came across a version on YouTube, created by a number of artists throughout Latin America through a multimedia musical project called Playing for Change, a project to inspire, connect, and bring peace to the world through music. Usually, I’m a bit skeptical of projects like this for some reason, but this version blows me away, especially reading it is a tribute on International Day of the Disappeared (which falls on 30th August) to those who are missing or suffering the loss of someone who has disappeared, whether it be armed conflict, climatic reasons or missing en-route to the US. At the beginning of the video are some accounts of people who have loved ones missing. It hits me deeply. It reminds me of the dozens of people I have met in Honduras both through my line of work but also in everyday life, who have lost someone, but are also missing from loved ones themselves. I remember speaking to a neighbour when I lived in Miraflores in Tegucigalpa, who told me how her brother and nephew went missing one night. They were en-route to San Pedro Sula in the north of the country, but they never made it, and she never found out why. There was no sign of the car or their bodies. No one knew or understood, and it happened two years before she told me, back around 2017. She feared the worst, but she hadn’t given up hope of seeing them again. It also reminds me of speaking to youths when I worked at Casa Alianza, who were forced to leave their families for one reason or another, whose parents had gone to live in the US and they had no idea where they were, or themselves had tried to go to the US, been deported and were too ashamed to return home because their parents had spent their life-savings trying to go there. It struck me deeply. I’ve never forgotten those stories, which make me feel so tied and connected to
Discovering Jazz in Tegucigalpa: My Midweek Escape
Dear readers, The past couple of Wednesdays, I have gone to a jazz night in Tegucigalpa at a place called Hibriduz, a place found on the recommendation from a drunk musician a few weeks ago. I must admit, jazz isn’t my go-to genre, nor am I an expert. It’s nice to listen to and unwind, do art or writing, and submerge in an ambience of improvised melodies, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you the difference between Duke Ellington and Miles Davis. My Uncle Patrick West, a jazz musician based in Glasgow, will be reading this shaking his head with extreme disappointment at his nephew’s ignorance of jazz. He believes that jazz music caused the Big Bang and created the universe, and God resides in his sax i.e. heaven. Yes, a true jazz spiritualist, Pat is. Hopefully, I redeem myself by continuing with this post. I go to jazz night to relax. Work can be tough so it is nice to have a glass of red and let the jazz musicians do their thang while my mind unwinds from its chaos. It feels wonderful, especially in the humidity of the rainy season in the tropics. Hondurans from the north of the country are probably frowning at these very words. “What humidity, chele? Come to Jan Pedro Jula! We’ll jhow you humidity.” [The swapping of the j for the s is a Honduran inside joke. Just speak to a Jampedrana/o: a person who originates from San Pedro Sula. You’ll find out why]. Jokes aside, it’s a nice midweek thing to do, and then get to meet the musicians afterwards. They are actually from a jazz school. The trombonist is the profe: the teacher, as you might have guessed, a Nicaraguan. Then there is a guitarist, who seems to be the spokesperson the group, sometimes, joined by a pianist and saxophonist. But what impresses me most is the bassist and the drummer, who I was informed they are 17 and 16 years old, respectively. They’re quite something. Not only am I in awe of their talent, but also their discipline and skill to improvise. They’re beyond their years in terms of maturity and seem blessed with quiet confidence and ease to perform with such jazz-like coolness. Yet they left me envious and a little regretful that I never really kept up with the piano from my youth (I can still play Ode to Joy, but there are only so many times I can repeatedly play it to impress the ladies), and I often too lazy and ill-disciplined to pick up the acoustic guitar, which sits half a metre away from my bed where I write these very words. I’d love to pick it up and strum like Noel Gallagher, but like I say: laziness. It sits there, staring at me, filling me with guilt. Bastard. Back to jazz band: I have enjoyed the evenings I have attended, but I have also enjoyed taking black and white photos while the band plays. Not to give myself a giant pat on the back, but I’m pleased with how they’ve turned out. While doing so, I felt inspired to write a poem, something I’ve not done in years. Just caught in the moment, I suppose, when the band performed a jazz version of the famous Mexican bolero, Bésame Mucho – Kiss Me A Lot. For those not in the know, it was written by Consuelo Velásquez in 1940 and first sung by Emilio Tuero a year later. It has since been performed by famous musicians around the world, including the Beatles, Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, Luis Miguel, Andrea Bocelli, Nat King Cole, Julio Iglesias, Natalia Lafourcade and Diana Krall, but one of my favourite versions was by Mexican band, Zoé, who originate from Cuernavaca, Mexico, a city I know very well through my work with Nuestros Pequeños Hermanos, which was also founded in the city. It was beautiful to hear this jazz version; especially as the melancholic melody reverberated into the humid night sky. Enjoy. Wednesday Night Cup of wine In my hand. A drop rain Moistens the stand. The band stroll out: No intro needed. Calm urgency, Shirts loosely fitted. A diaphragm expands, A serge follows through, Fingers pulse shiny buttons, The brass on cue. A mellow horn Penetrates the ambience, For the lust of seductive melodies, I pledge my affiance. Guitars and drums, Do your thing, The synergy starts, Night rises to sing. Wrapped in melancholy, Bonded with skill, Bless the souls, Their concoction swills. “Bésame mucho”: The lyrics silent, Yet the longing remains; Feelings still vibrant. I sit back, Tilt to the sky, I breathe in the sounds, And utter “oh my, oh my.”
JOH: End of a Chapter
Dear readers, So, he’s done for. Juan Orlando Hernandez Alvarado, President of the Republic of Honduras between 2014 and 2022, was convicted on three counts of drug trafficking and weaponry conspiracy on Friday 8th March 2024 by the US Justice Department. The drug trafficking we all kind of knew about; it was his and Honduras’s worst-kept secret. The guns, though, I was unaware of, although I suppose it goes with the territory. He’ll be sentenced on 26th June 2024 and is facing a minimum of 40 years imprisonment, according to what I’ve read. The post is belated and is something less of a talking point since the conviction. It’s taken time to gather all my thoughts on Juan Orlando Hernandez, who I’ll refer to now on by his infamous acronym, JOH. Quite a few people advised me not to write on the subject, especially as a foreigner. “Stick to doodles, musings and mourning: politics isn’t your brand [place].” Point taken: looking beneath the dirty sheets of another nation’s political affairs carries a risk, especially where opinions are heated and allegiances to political parties are fierce. Not that my country of origin’s politics is a model to follow: Brexit, Boris Johnson and cruel immigration policies come to mind. I could well be accused of punching down from a privileged position, poking my nose in as an elitist and feeling superior from colonist Europe. JOH has divided the country to a degree, and I’ve been more in the anti-JOH corner, banging my cacerola with a mettle spoon and teaching my parrot to squawk “Fuera JOH” – “Get Out JOH”, when the moment’s called for it. Therefore, I’m most likely to hot poke a patriotic nerve or two, especially Nacionalistas and JOH supporters. Yes, there are good reasons to shut my mouth and go about my business. Saying that, I’ve lived in Honduras for 13 years, 8 of which JOH was president, accounting for approximately 61.56% of my time in the country. This, funnily enough, was longer than my former marriage. The temptation to voice my opinion is strong. As much as some Hondurans may raise their eyebrows at my next comment, Honduras is my adopted country, or more so, I feel adopted here. I pay taxes (and taxis) and I can be fiercely defensive of the country under unjust critique. Just don’t get me to quote me on all seven verses of the national anthem. It’d be massacre and I’d no doubt be lynched. I believe in free speech and freedom of thought. If it provokes or offends, there isn’t much I can do but invite you to comment below. I don’t intend to upset, although I write with a lot of tongue-in-cheek: just an attempt to charm and entertain. I admit I’m politically biased. I was raised in a left-leaning household in the UK, with a dislike of Thatcherism and mistrust of the right and capitalism. I don’t hold any political alliances to the left in Honduras, nor have I written any Spike Milligan-esque satirical novels such as “JOH: My Part in His Downfall”, but as you can tell from me merely bringing up the idea, I’ve often thought of it. The story has layers, as one expects. There’s something very telenovela about it. Some friends have joked it’s the perfect plot for a season of Narcos, the Netflix series. After all, JOH’s brother, Tony Hernandez, was given a life sentence in the US for similar offenses in 2021, and was accused of having links to the infamous Joaquín Archivaldo Guzmán, better known as, El Chapo. But when these things happen, it seems to open a can of worms and the population gets to see just how engulfed their political infrastructure is by the narco industry. We all seem to have a vague idea, but are unsure who and to what degree. It’s common to hear that the word on the street is that “this politician is connected to this narco family”, and “that politician is connected to that narco company”. It’s a labyrinth of narratives. The media publish names, but it’s difficult to distinguish the truth from heresy. Journalists are under constant threat of being attacked and murdered. Contracorriente, a Honduran media outlet that conducts investigative journalism, claims 93 journalists were murdered between 2001 and 2022, a tiny proportion of which are actually investigated or culprits found. InSight Crime published an interview with Lester Ramírez, a professor at the Central American Technological University (UNITEC) and researcher for the Global Initiative against Transnational Organized Crime (GI-TOC), in the aftermath of the trial with JOH. He says: “I define a narco-state as a situation where a country’s leadership is involved in drug trafficking and production, and top-down policies are implemented to support these activities. Honduras was a narco-state in the sense that the president and his inner circle were profiting from drug cartels. Government officials worked for cartels; providing protection, assassinating the competition, and winning elections, which required narco money. However, the prosperity generated was not shared with the population at large. It did not contribute to the country’s GDP or create sustainable jobs. The only spillovers went into real estate bubbles, laundering money through the financial sector, and paying for political campaigns.” The saddest part of this is, the population feels powerless to stop it, losing faith in their political system, unsurprised and apathetic when news like this appears, and suspicious and sarcastic when a politician does something positive: “Este maje tiene un hidden motive.” It causes foreign investors to venture to other countries due to a lack of confidence in the political infrastructure, and thousands of Hondurans feel forced to emigrate because of a lack of options in their beloved country. A patriotic nerve is hit; their nation’s reputation is dragged through the mud and it’s none of their fault. Hondurans don’t deserve that. They live in a beautiful country and they’re wonderful people, which I say honestly, and not just trying to blow smoke up you-know-what. Just don’t
Tegucigalpa: En la Ciudad de la Furia
Dear readers, Three or four months ago, I went to a nightclub named Noches Magicas, close to downtown Tegucigalpa, or Tegus, as it is more affectionately known. It’s an after party place, a haven for those who aren’t content on returning home after bars and clubs have kicked everyone out in the Godly hours. It’s a venue for the true nocturnals, also known as dirty stop-outs. And on that night, I was just that. It’s in a hotel. I was told it had been abandoned but the social media pages suggest otherwise. There is a swimming pool plonked in the middle and different rooms playing different genres of music, catering for all sorts, because that’s exactly the type of person Noches Magicas attracts: all sorts. There were folks of all ages, generations, social classes, backgrounds and walks of life, dancing, smiling, chatting, kissing, God can only tell you what else, along with the doormen, spotting sins of all sorts. But I like that: a blend of people of many orientations, tastes and spices of life, all under one roof, of varying states of inebriation, all enjoying themselves. It reminded me of a place I used to hang out in Birmingham in my youth called Moseley Dance Centre. A haunt, with a similar vibe. But for Tegus, there aren’t many places like this. I feel it’s quite unique, but all cities and towns require such a place, for the dirty stop-outs of life. Sadly, I have no photos. A fool, I am. Or maybe not, because I too was in an intoxicated state. On that night, at some ghastly late hour, I decided to walk home. It’s about 4 or 5 miles from where I live, mostly flat, and it took me about 2 hours. I knew the route and my legs carried me on automatic pilot. I didn’t feel I was going through any particularly dangerous barrios, but I get it: it only takes one ghoul to put you to sleep. I don’t know what my rationale was at the time when I made the decision to walk, other than I just wanted fresh air and to spend some time alone with my thoughts. A strange hour and a place to stroll, I agree. Suffice to say, Tegus isn’t the safest place to walk alone at night, but no city is. “Especially for a white, gringo-looking dude like you,” a friend told me the next day, an echo of many other comments I received from friends and family. There were quite a few adjectives, actually: crazy, irresponsible, silly, selfish, daft, foolish, arrogant for thinking I was untouchable. Maybe it was just my flow of thought at that moment, as I’m usually more sensible (kind of). Then again, what they don’t know but will do now; I’ve walked home loads of times, and I love it. It’s not that I enjoy taking risks. But I don’t feel unsafe in Tegucigalpa. Hondurans look at me bizarrely when I say that. People are generally sweet, nice and have a good vibe here, with a bit of boisterousness to add to the spice. Don’t get me wrong, I know very well that the barrios marginales (marginal neighbourhoods (sorry, I really dislike the English term slum. I find something so outdated, undignified and disrespectful about the word)) can be very dangerous. I don’t want to underscore the violence in Honduras and paint the place as a safe haven, nor do I want to pinch a patriotic nerve, as I know many Hondurans are tired of having their country portrayed with “the most dangerous country in the world” narrative. One shouldn’t drop their guard, of course; it would be irresponsible to encourage folks to flaunt their valuables to the world walking down a street. However, I sometimes feel more unsafe walking the streets of Birmingham, London or even Preston, especially at night, than Tegus. I’ve been robbed and assaulted more times in Europe than I have in my 13 years in Honduras. One might point out that in Tegus I live in a gated community, true. Nor do I have not the faintest idea of what it’s like to live in a barrio run by gangs. But still, generally, I feel it is less likely that a drunk smashes a bottle over my head or a gang stabs me for no reason in Honduras, than the UK. I’ve seen less bar-room fights and had less people starting on me because I accidentally looked at them a little funny. That’s not to say these things don’t happen in Honduras. I acknowledge there are many variables to take into consideration. In Honduras, I enjoy an anonymous life where I don’t frequent the cantinas and bars in certain neighbourhoods, where as in my younger days in the UK, I was probably more carefree and enjoyed going out more. I might be painting my native country in negative colours, as well as crafting an image of Honduras that many feel might seem as unrealistic, but I’ve heard other Europeans in Honduras say similar things. It’s bizarre to say it, and maybe contrary to popular belief, but an honest observation, it is. En La Ciudad de la Furia Tegucigalpa has a certain melancholic charm, but it shines even more after the sun goes down, and I love to embrace it. Even with the energy, excitement and drama that comes with the nightlife in a Latin American city, Tegus possesses something magnetic that makes it hard to depart the place. Maje, as I mentioned above, I’ve been here for 13 years, and while I might moan about it now and then, it’s difficult to claw myself away. Please excuse my machista language, but for many years, many Capitalinos have given their city a colourful little tag: La puta: ugly by day, beautiful by night. And that’s the certain melancholic charm I was telling you about. On the walk home, I took a few photos. Despite the intoxicated state, my senses were
Playing with Watercolours: Postcards for Mum
Dear readers, There is a certain joy in finding something we thought we’d lost or had stolen, whether it be a watch or ring or CD or a book; something of great sentimental value and precious. We don’t know how or where we misplaced it, but it gives enormous guilt and grief and nerves. The relief in finding it is so intense that a smile wider than you thought your face could manage appears. Well, this is no such situation. I simply lifted some papers while doing some spring cleaning and I came across a little pad of postcards which I had been doing some watercolour paintings on in the mid months of 2023. It was a gift from my mother for the Christmas of 2022, a travel pack of watercolours, a wonderful tool for art therapy (see my blog post: Why Do I Doodle?). I knew it was there all along they were there, but I didn’t really know what to do with it. I don’t want to give myself a too loud pat on the back, but I’m kind of pleased with what came out of my rather inexperienced and primitive watercolour painting skills. They are of everything and nothing, some based on people I know, on the shades of night and Tegucigalpa, the smog created in 2023 by the forest fires which surround the city. The smog is still there in 2024. Some things never change, including the scattered papers in my room. One definite constant: my mother’s gift. Enjoy. I know that I enjoyed painting them, on the balcony of where I currently live, sometimes aided by a cup of rum, whiskey or beer, a social lubricant, as well as an artistic one. Intoxins: do your thing.
The Classic Car: The Savage Detectives
Dear readers, It’s funny the triggers we get. Things that make us remember or remind us of moments of joy or sadness. You’re not sure why and why that thing has some possessional mental hold over you. It just does. A week or so ago, I was standing outside a restaurant in Tegucigalpa with a couple of friends at some unGodly hour, 2 or 3 Paulaners to the good, when I came across a classic old car. I’m no petrol head, so I’ve no idea of what the brand or model was. I was too busy thinking of ways to steal it. Joke. No. It was the admiration for such a piece of machinery. It’s a work of art, the details and art-deco design. It’s just the aroma of the metal that engulfs the interior and the sheer heaviness of the doors; you know you would lose a finger or two if the door was to slam on them. I doubt they are comfortable for long journeys, or short, or speed bumps, or the many potholes found in 97% of the roads in Honduras that wreck cars that are supposed to and boast great suspensions. Also, the heat and humidity in Honduras; I’ve no idea if they have air con or any other modern gadgets you expect from today’s models. You can assume that these classics aren’t environmentally friendly, yet they are meant to last, especially compared to modern day cars, which seem to be used and consumed in a matter of weeks, rather than decades. Sorry. I sound like a boomer moaning about modern life rubbish. I don’t want to ruin the moment. I would have liked to have tried out the car, or even owned it, even with all its impracticalities to survive with modern life-rubbish way of life. But why am I writing this? What did it trigger? One item. A treasured item at that. Treasured read, I should say. The Savage Detectives, by Roberto Bolaño. There are a few books that changed my life. This is one of them. Probably more than any other, just for the unique narration and storytelling. It resonated and inspired my own writing in such a way, that I try to mimic and use the first person narration from different points of view. I know other writers do the same, and it is no way unique to just Bolaño; Irvine Welsh, another of my favourites, has a similar style of narrating. I don’t want to leave any spoilers, however, I wrote a review of the book 9 years ago on my previous blog which you can read here: The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño. I like to gift the book to people who are special to me, regardless if I think the book is a great fit for them. I love finding books that way, books that I was unsure I would like but I end up loving, giving me a happy wet-fish-slap of a surprise, not that a wet-fish-slap would ever make me happy, so f–k off if you’re thinking of doing it. I’ll slam the door of a classic car on your fingers if you do. So why the classic car? Again, I don’t want to spoil anything, especially if you’re intending to read the book. You should. Now. Right now. Go on. Stop whatever you’re doing, even if you’re saving someone from a bear attack, making love to your beloved (or Tinder date) or driving a car. Buy it. It’s better than anything on Netflix or HBO MAX. So I won’t mention anything about the classic car in the plot. However, what I will say is that the edition of the book I read did have a classic car on the cover. I doubt it’s the same car as I saw the other night. But I did once get the print of a car on a t-shirt and it became my favourite piece of clothing for years. Sadly, after many washes, the print started to fade until there was nothing left of the car, but just a few letters of the writer’s name remaining. It’s the loss of treasured possession that I mourn, but maybe it’s a sign I shouldn’t have too much emotional attachment to pieces of clothing. However, just the sight of classic old cars creates the wonderful nostalgia of reading that book. It put me in a flow state where I found true joy in a work of art. It was 500 or more pages, but I devoured it and deflowered it within a couple of weeks: quite extraordinary for a slow reader like myself. It really was a page-turner. I will neither confirm or deny that I read chunks of it when I should have been working. But I left that job a long time ago, so who cares? That’s my happy trigger, as opposed to being trigger happy, which I may possess as well, whenever I see a book I want to read or something I want to draw. Either way, that was my trigger. And that triggered me to share the moment with you. Do you have any such triggers? Mention them in the comments below.
Musings from the Coast: Drawings of the Sea
Dear readers, I’ve never lived close to the sea. Not for any length of time anyway. I’ve always found myself in cities and places landlocked and/or at some distance from the coast. I’m not sure why. 44 years on this planet. I’m almost obsessed with it, with a giant tattoo on my upper right arm, based loosely on The Great Wave off Kanagawa by Hokusai, which is also the cover of my current doodle book, a special gift from a special person. So what’s stopped me from moving to the coast? Life and career choices, I suppose. This personal goal hasn’t coincided with my career. It’s not a regret. There isn’t much point in that. It is what it is. But it is a goal I have. Bucket list stuff (as opposed to bucket and spade stuff: poor pun intended). To live by the sea. To have a home with sea breezes flowing through the windows, strolling on to the sand with the mass of blue before me. I see it there before me right now. I almost taste the salt in my mouth and feel the vibration of the crashing waves bounce up through me from my feet. I glare out in wonder and admiration at this big, beautiful force of nature before me, covering 71% of the Earth’s surface, 139 million miles2 or 361 million km2 of water, with a volume of approximately 1.37 billion km3. That’s a lot of H2O. It just has the added ingredient of dissolved salt, which accounts for 3.5% of the entire ocean mass. You do the maths if you want to know the total volume of salt in our seas. I’m just stealing these numbers from the web. In the morning, I would swim before work, then do the same in the evening. I then look up to the stars at night and lie mesmerised at the theatre before me: the universe. I would eat fresh fish at lunch and drink it down with coconut milk and/or pineapple juice. Quite a manifestation, isn’t it. It seems I have it all worked out. I plan on winning the lottery any day soon. See you in my beach house dreams. I know this isn’t an everyday reality for those who live by the coast, at least not for the majority. I’m not sure how people live their lives by the sea to be honest. I doubt it’s like the above. Hurricane and rip tide warnings. Sand flies that chomp through your flesh to the bone, jellyfish, sharks, snakes, sea crocodiles, pollution…the list goes on: all the cons of living by the sea. People I know who’ve moved to the coast from the city have told me that the novelty wears off pretty quickly. I’m crushing my own manifestation. I’m thinking of Honduras though. Those Caribbean beaches in the north. It’s Easter week and a sizable chunk of the population is flocking there as I write. I’m stuck in Tegucigalpa, about 5 hours south. Looking on with envy. But I wouldn’t want to go this week. Too many people. My moment will come again. I grew up in Birmingham in England, located probably at the furthest point from the coast in the country, the closest beach being Weston-Super-Mare which is two hours away, famous for the tide spending the majority of the time in the horizon so you don’t actually see the sea, and the sickly sweet rock, which wrecks teeth and your budget with dental bills. Preston, where I studied at university, is 20 miles from the seaside town Lytham St Annes, but as a penniless student without a car and dependent on public transport, beach trips were rare. The icy cold waters made swimming in it near impossible. Memories, though. I also lived in Madrid and Seville. The former was like Birmingham, far from the sea. The latter was closer, but not close enough. I spent a summer working in Calella de Palafrugell on the Costa Brava, a sleepy, picturesque town that used to be a fishing village. It was a 10 minute walk to the beach from where I resided and consisted of tiny coves where one could paddle or dive deep.. Every morning I would take a dip, or disappear on my few days off to the many little beaches close by and read Hemingway books while basking in the sun. The weeks went by swimmingly, pun intended, but a little too fast for my liking. Just two years ago I found a print of Calella while on a work trip in Barcelona, floating through the streets and galleries in Barrio Gótico, or Barri Gòtic in Catalan, by an artist I can’t remember the name of. It sits on my bedside table today, and you can find it to the left of this text. A small treasure that reminds me of those days at the coves. In Honduras, I reside in Tegucigalpa. It’s been my home for 14 years, although I often ask myself how I find myself in a country blessed with pristine beaches yet I live in a city nowhere near to any of them. It grates me, why? Seriously, why? Tegucigalpa isn’t the worst place in the world, but once you sample the beaches around Tela, La Ceiba and Trujillo, you wonder, what fuck are you doing here? You live once. Go, go, go. Tegus, as it is commonly known, is closer to the Pacific, just two hours or so away. The sun scorches and the water is murky with volcanic ash. It’s nice, don’t get me wrong; nice shrimp and shellfish, and there are mangroves and history on the island of Amapala. Yet, it struggles to compare with the North; the Caribbean vibe and turquoise waters, which feel warm and spiced and makes you feel you’re treading water in a relaxing tumbler of rum. Beach for the Brummies During the summer months, Birmingham City Council would lay out a fabricated beach close to Victoria Square outside
Cloudbusting by Kate Bush
Dear readers, It hasn’t always been on my playlist. It has been a bit “out of ear, out of mind” over the years. It is now, though. According to Spotify, it was my third or fourth most listened to song in 2023. My mother would dance around the kitchen to it while preparing the Sunday roast, and I would sit at the kitchen table for mum to keep an eye on me, ensuring that I would, maybe, attempt to do my homework. I would hover around taking in the aromas of roast lamb, pork, beef or chicken with potatoes and veggies in the oven, but also in the hope mum would do my maths and business studies homework, because I didn’t have the spark or motivation for that nonsense, but I did for football, budgerigars, computer games and Oasis. Yes; regrettably, I was a lazy oik at school. English and PE were the subjects what I rolled out of bed for. Maths I hated, and it is still a weakness today. I miss crucial cognitive numerical problem-solving tools, mathematically dyslexic so to speak, meaning my calculator or Chat GPT to do the brain work, as it does for billions more humanoids these days. Robots are taking over. You’ve been warned. If my memory serves correct, the first time I heard the song was on a wintery afternoon. It was greyish and cold outside, and there was something on BBC Radio 4 with Kate Bush talking of her inspiration behind the song. I don’t remember if it was a Desert Island Discs episode, which I think usually aired on Sunday, but I remember mum being captivated by it and I was curious why. I can’t recall my age, but I guess I was still in junior school; anywhere between 7 and 11. But it was that afternoon I heard the song for the first time, and the looping orchestral rhythm of the “dum da da dum, da da dum, da da da da da dum…” which became a lifelong ear-worm that will happily echo in my mind until my death. The song comes and goes from my life, but it seems to return when I pass through a major life event. It certainly did so when my father passed away. The song certainly eased with the grieving process, as highlighted in one of my previous blog posts, A Game of Grief. There is something very harmonic about the song. It is rich and varied, using lush chord voicings and harmonic progressions that create depth and complexity. There are extended chords, which I researched are in major 7ths and suspended chords, adding colour and texture to the song’s palette. Bush uses strings and synthesisers and percussions, along with her voice, to give the song a melodic texture, something atmospheric. All these ingredients give Cloudbusting a strong emotional impact; it’s haunting. It is also storytelling, which I will come to shortly. The chorus and dramatic build-up convey a yearning, a connection, a transcendence, between the listener and the narrator. Kate Bush reminds me of David Bowie, a real musical artist, mixing elements of pop, rock and avant- garde genres, with inventive lyrics and innovative production techniques. She was 19-years-old when she burst onto the scene with Wuthering Heights in the late 1970s, and she has retained a certain esteem among the masses and the music industry. Cloudbusting was released in 1985, but it has a timeless quality. It’s relevant today and is an inspiration amongst contemporary artists, thanks to the unconventional and catchy rhythm. Only great artists can do that: produce music, novels or portraits that are relevant for many generations. Kate Bush’s music is just that: evergreen. One of her other songs, Running Up That Hill, returned to the public ears a couple of years ago thanks to the Netflix show, Stranger Things, becoming a hit with younger generations for similar reasons: its evergreen pull. When I first heard the song, I admit, it wasn’t the lyrics that caught my attention, which is odd as words and narratives often hook me more than the music itself. As stated, it was the looping tempo: a lifelong earworm that I often nod my head in rhythm to as it plays out in my mind while working or waiting in a supermarket queue. I guess I was too immature to grasp the lyrics at the time. They are based on Peter Reich’s memoir, A Book of Dreams, about his father Wilhelm Reich, evoking themes of imagination, longing and the power of human spirit. My sister bought me the book for Christmas in 2022, and I gobbled it up by New Year’s Eve. It is an emotive read with a kind of “us against the world” narrative that Bush cleverly discloses in her lyrics to her song. It also focuses on a cloudbusting machine invented by Wilhelm that produced cloud formations and rain to arid areas using orgone energy, something as new to me as it is to you. I enjoyed the book. As stated, I ate it up in a week. My mum and sister also gifted me with a print of the song which is currently in storage in Malvern as I sort my life out. I can’t go on without a bit more context of Wilhelm Reich, an Austrian psychiatrist and psychoanalyst known for his controversial theories and contributions to science. Initially associated with Sigmund Freud, Reich developed the concept of “orgone energy,” presenting it as a universal life force found in all living organisms. He founded orgonomy, a branch of psychotherapy focused on orgone energy’s role in emotional and physical well-being, and created orgone accumulators for therapeutic purposes. Despite initial prominence, Reich’s work faced widespread criticism for lacking empirical evidence, leading to legal troubles with the U.S. FDA, which ultimately resulted in his imprisonment and death in 1957, which his son focuses on in the memoir, as does Bush in her song. Back to the lyrics: it is storytelling. So colourful
The Phase of the Feline: Felis Catus
Dear readers, I’ve always loved cats. Those people who don’t like cats, I consider completely and utterly devoid of humour and personality. I struggle to comprehend someone who can’t appreciate a feline’s aloofness, nor love the way they fuck up from time-to-time, like misjudging a jump, but always gracefully landing on all fours. The way they swagger along fence tops with the arrogance of Eric Cantona, or stroll where they please over random pieces of furniture which to the humanoid thought is insane but to the cat brain is, “So the fuck what?”, a valuation the humanoid has to succumb to and accept because their inferiority and lower status in the hierarchy and food chain of life under the might of the fierce felis silvestris catus, also known as a “the common house cat”. One glare is enough to tell you that you’re just a worthless shit compared to their Lordship, and there’s nothing you can do about it except feed them and pet them – always only on their terms. They purr with such sensuality and smug charm, but you must always forget that this love is not a two way street: you may adore your moggy, but you are merely their humanoid slave. They police their territories with complete randomness: sometimes with a demonic prowl, other times complete and utter hueva – negligence. They sleep on window ledges, just centimetres away from a death drop, and they do so while sticking up a middle paw finger to the grim reaper, with the purred meows of “take your best shot. I’ve eight more lives.” Their fur balls give you allergic reactions and a sharp swipe of the claws at your toes first thing in the morning stings like a bitch, yet it’ll put a painful spring in your step for all. They catch rodents and gift their carcasses on a pillow in Godfather style, while decimating the local bird wildlife populations, “just because we want to”, then toying with the poor creature until its last breath, again, “just because we want to”. The randomness of their cruelty is slightly psychopathic by humanoid standards, yet it has been the muse and inspiration of many thousands of hours of video reels on social media. Have you ever asked yourself how many hours you have misspent going down cat video rabbit holes on YouTube? Or is it just me? Maybe it’s just a question for myself and my procrastinating tendencies. But fuck, I do love feline narcissism. I return to the point in the first paragraph, if you can’t appreciate a cat’s traits, you a really are a humourless eejit, aren’t you. And if you dislike them due to superstition, then I really think you don’t have the mental capacity to vote either. Cats are sinners and they don’t care, nor do they give a fuck about not going to heaven. They’re already living in one. I love dogs too. I love all animals. They talk more sense than most humanoids I know [note to reader: yes, I could well be talking about YOU], and they don’t even say a word. Well, apart from parrots. But let’s get back to felines. I used to have two cats. Not at the same time. They were family cats. Saying that, no humanoid truly owns a cat. As the cliché goes, they own you. So let me start again, my family and I were owned by two cats over two different periods. The first was named Oscar, with beautiful light brown, beige and black stripes to help camouflage himself in the foliages of Southam Road, sporting the genetics of a Welsh feral cat and a farm feline. Oscar had a wild glint in his eye, not a cat to be messed with, but beautiful to look at and admire. He attacked dogs and stalked foxes that entered his backyard, and sometimes came off worse when claws were thrown, but other cats in el barrio were petrified of him, which I must admit still today gives me an unhealthy feeling of pride. He was only with us for four years, before he perished after being hit by a car. The second cat was named Huey after the 80’s band Huey Lewis and the News in my mum’s eyes, but I tagged him after the lead singer and writer of the Fun Lovin’ Criminals, a band I was listening a lot to at the time. We adopted him just a few weeks old from a rescue centre, a black and white moggy with asymmetrical markings on his face which always made him look a bit confused or inquisitive. Mum insisted he just wasn’t very bright, but I believed he was just pondering shit a bit too much, just shilly shallying over whether to nap, nip at your toes or eat. I can see my mum’s point though; when running down the stairs, he seemed to refuse to use his legs for the bottom few steps and just roll down. He was less of a hunter than Oscar (i.e. without doubt, his success rate was much lower and less ambitious, but it is an unfair comparison: Oscar had wild hunting genetics from a feral cat father and had better instincts than most cats, making Huey look distinctly average, which like comparing a Ferrari to Hyundai [note to self: you’re thinking about this way too much. Your readers don’t give a shit]) and was less bothered about protecting his territory. Other cats could randomly walk into the house and he would just look on witb a chilled expression. Huey was amazing at eating. He was obese and struggled to get through the cat flap or even jump onto sofas, which was both funny and sad to watch. This is where my mum underestimated Huey’s intelligence, or maybe more so, his greed. For some time, he would have his breakfast at home every morning, and then go to our neighbour and eat her cat’s food as well. We cottoned
Why Do I Doodle?
Dear readers, Doodles. Drawing. Art. Why do I do it, or attempt to do it? What is the point of it all? Why do any of us do anything? Why even breathe? Where are we? Point of life? Who knows. Seeing that I’ve diverged into pretentious, philosophical nonsense, I will now attempt to get back to the point (if there is one?), addressing the question of this blog post. I doodle. I love it. I do it all the time. Drawing. Or writing. If I have a pen, pencil, brush or mobile app in or at my fingertips, something to draw on, and an idle mind full of ludicrous inspiration, I am at my happiest. Letting the world and hours fly by and switching off my phone to all distractions. A coffee or tea close by is a nice luxury. The location of where I’m vomiting my imagination on paper isn’t much of a worry, unless I’m in an environment provoking motion sickness, and then I’m vomiting my last meal on the paper. Not a good thing. Unless you like vomit art. And if you are, please stop reading now and visit the dark web or wherever sedates your needs. You know who you are, even if we don’t. Spoiler alert: I don’t practise that kind of art. I also love the absurd. In art, novels and movies. The tens of thousands of thoughts we have every day. The vast majority of them are useless; we don’t practise upon them because of just that: they are absurd. But art enables us to do that: spew our thoughts out on paper [note to self: enough of the vomit analogies. I don’t know what’s got into you. It’s tiring your dear readers and beginning to sound like verbal diarrhoea. (Pun intended.)]. I have always enjoyed drawing or doodling, or painting. I don’t think I’ve ever been that great at it. I struggled to colour within the lines at school, causing much disdain among teachers (I justify it now by telling myself that art shouldn’t be kept within the lines…I wish I’d had the wit at the time to tell the teachers just that, not that I hold any [much] resentment). Through constant practice, and I don’t want to bore you with the ‘practice makes perfect’ line, I’m proud of my improvement. Maybe it’s the Malcolm Gladwell 10,000-hour rule to master an activity. Fuck knows which hour I’ve reached. I’m not counting. Who does when one’s enjoying themself? Just recently, I feel I’ve turned a corner. Not to blow my own trumpet. I’m not winning any prizes (yet!), and when I look at doodles and drawings in galleries or social media or Pinterest or by friends, I am astonished and inspired by the thought process and technique and style of the artist. It’s a constant learning process, like everything in life, but in a more profound way. Sometimes it is just a stream of consciousness and improvisation, being inspired by something I see and trying out styles and/or putting my own touch or narrative around it. Just finding out what I like, and fucking up with no pressure or remorse and succeeding now and then and being proud with what I produce, taking my foot of the pedal, so to speak. Self-teaching and finding a voice for everything. I love to see what comes out from an intangible idea created in a millisecond, to create a tangible work of art. The spark of it all. The burst of activity. This comes through all acts of creativity. But still, I love it. I guess I started something of an artistic journey two weeks after my father passed away. To the day, actually. Sunday 23rd October 2022. I found myself walking down the high street in Great Malvern with a fiver in my pocket. Not in note form, though; just coins and shrapnel. And if anyone knows anything about the UK or even spent 5 minutes there, they love change, and to make matters worse, the coins weigh a ton, even if it doesn’t come to that greater value. You need a belt to save your trousers or skirt dropping to your ankles. And don’t think that baggy trousers trend in the early 90s had anything to do with aesthetics or style; fuck no, the eejits just had too much change in their pockets. Which is where I found myself that morning, no doubt a grey morning considering the time of year. To be honest, I can’t remember if it was grey or even a morning. I just remember walking down the high street, trying to adjust to the death of my father and a cashless society. I felt the coins in my pocket and had a burning desire to part with them as quickly as possible, with an adequate rush of consumer thrill (more like dull thudding), while also trying to keep my jeans at waist height. I was toying with the idea of a sausage roll and/or Cadburys Chocolate. But then the book and craft shop, The Works, stood before me, so I stepped in to see what nonsense of a book I could buy and probably not bother to read. But, amongst all the Christmas shite that Santa had no doubt barfed up, there sat with halo around it was a little black sketch book; the colour pretty much reflecting how I was feeling around those days. I needed to fill it with whatever storm was brewing in my head. I picked it with some colour pencils and went to the till. The irony was, the two items came to over five pounds so I had to use my card anyway, and I was still left with the hunger to part with the fiver. Luckily my hunger for a sausage roll and Cadbury’s Chocolate had not departed, so I walked home with the thought of being slightly fatter and the potential urge to do something artistic. And it all sparked off