Object Writing Poetry & Prose Blog

admin December 26th, 2007

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Started by Paul - Last post by Paul
The lampost is on the corner. It’s one of those ornate ones with a glass box arrangement at the top. The ‘lamplighter’ will come by soon to illumine it. The London fog has swirled in from the solent and it’s chilly edge wraps around bodies and carriages that are clip- clopping past. A pile of horse manure reeks honestly in the gutter. People are moving about on the street wearing top hats that could cut paper, so well defined and of deepest black. They could start there own universe in there!

The lamplighter comes along with his ever burning wick and lifts his rod to the top of the lampost. There’s a small aparatus that unhooks a catch . It’s a bit of a crabs claw of an arrangement, that mechanically attaches itself like a leach and swings out the door, allowing the lamplighter to get the wick inside the frosty glass compartment. The gas is turned on and the flame glows a muted yellow. Not exceptionally bright but adequate. The door to the lamp closes with a glassy ring and the lamplighter carries on his way. His Faithful horses trudge along uneven cobbles to the next lamp, where the procedure is replayed again.

The light from the lampost is sufficient to show the way, details are grainy, like the fog that has thickened. Just enough to let you know where you are. The gas burning in the lampost has a particularly sulphurous smell, not quite rotten egg gas, but close. The pipes carrying the gas are sunk in damp London earth and will last hundreds of years- until the blitz when they will becoime vicious infernos of flame.

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admin December 26th, 2007

It creaks and rumbles, a stomach moving, bone shaking rumble as it tracks to another position in the sky. Radio waves invisibly emanate, floating up through clouds, through the ionosphere into the cold vacuum of space and keep on traveling for days and years and months to other planets to other places, other worlds. Stars that are being born, stars that are dying , white dwarfs, super novas , black holes, rings of Saturn turning in a steady patient rotation ringing the slumbering giant.

In the control room the background hum of a hundred computers, a hundred hard drives turning on their axis, like the planets they are trying to find and explore. Data is reflected back as the radio waves bounce off objects and somehow pictures are made from them. Brilliant pictures of fractured nebulae in iridescent reds purples and orange. Perhaps that’s done for effect. Is there colour in space? What would our eyes see? It would be cold out there in the blackness in the vacuum. Exposure would mean instant death. The air sucked out of your body, the life sucked out by the blackness, the death that’s looking for life, any sort of life in the void.

In the future spaceships will hurtle towards Magelanic clouds seeking planets that could be compatible with human life, if we last that long. Would we do the same as we’ve done here, or will lessons have been learned? That the goal of capitalism - uninterrupted growth - is not possible because we live in a world of finite resources. We can’t see it now but one day, the last bit of iron ore will be excavated, the last drip of oil will be exhumed, our lifestyles will be far different from what they are now, but that’s a long way out. Perhaps we would have developed other energy sources by then, or transmuted into beings without bodies. Floating towards the distant cosmos in our ghost bodies aboard ghost ships, light and whispery as a weeping willow by the river. We’ll follow the river of the stars to new planets, new horizons new worlds. Perhaps we will have bodies, perhaps we will find a world that can be colonized, perhaps we’ll live in domes, bubbles, safe and secure from the hostile world we land on . People will live and die, babies will be born. They will kick and scream along with the birth of the new world, found once upon a time by a radio telescope.

Join the Object writing forum at ObjectWriting.com and write for ten minutes on ‘The word of the day’

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admin December 25th, 2007

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Started by Paul - Last post by Paul
As songwriters, when inspiration strikes, we need some way to snare our latest germ of an idea. We reach for the nearest piece of paper , or dictaphone to capture our moment of briliance. Sometimes I have been gifted with an idea while walking down the street and have resorted to ringing myself up and humming my idea onto my voice mail! [Yes you can have that one]

So how do we ensure we can capture and record our musical ideas at home quickly and without fuss?

The easiest thing to do is to have a permanent plug and play set up. This could be as simple as a good old cassette recorder [does anybody still use these? $10 from the opportunity shop. Other choices are an mp3 player with recording facility [around $200] or a more complex Flash card recorder [$500+].

If you have a dedicated digital recorder or computer based recording set-up at home, then a couple of mics plugged in and ready to go in the time it takes to boot-up the system is all that is required. Bear in mind that if you use a flash card recorder you have the capacity to transfer your ideas across to your computer workstation at a later time for further work.

In the past I have used recording gear from Fostex, always relaible and as simple as turning on the machine waiting about 45 seconds for the boot up procedure then selecting a folder to record to and go!

For computer based recording I use a program called Ableton Live to do most of my current projects. Within the boot template set-up I can save certain sets of parameters - in my case a vocal microphone and two acoustic guitar microphones which go to 2 tracks. Track one is for the stereo guitar and track two for the vocal microphone.I also have some compressors and equalisation set-up on the replay channels, giving my initial idea some extra sparkle.

I know that within a couple of minutes of hitting the on switch of the computer I can be capturing my latest idea for later reworking. I also run Steinberg s Cubase and it is just as easy to have a dedicated template to make this happen. The same holds true for other Multitrack programs such as Pro Tools, Sonar and Logic Audio.

Another thinjg I have been doing lately is using an omnidirectionbal microphone. As a guitarist/vocalist I can sit this between the guitar and my mouthto get a reasonable voice/guitar balance for my rough idea without having to balance any sound levels. For this I use a Rode NT2 microphone, similar microphones from Neumann, Akg can do the same job.

The advantage of having your template and recording system Ready to Go is that you should be able to stay on the right side of your brain! What do I mean by that?

You don t want to be doing left brain(Logical, Sequential, Rational, Analytical) activities in your creative moment. When we are in our creative space we are generally using the right side of our brain (Random, Intuitive, Subjective), which leads me to an interesting idea; As computer musicians we are often impeded from fulfilling our potential by the technology, I think it s because left brain and right brain activities are not mutually compatible! When you re trying to work out how to route a microphone through your sound card and onto a track you are using, well that s a left brain activity.

When you re connecting into the universal consciousness now moment inspiration flow then your in the right hemisphere of your brain . The last thing you want when you re in your creative space is to be lumped with a left brain task- inspiration and the muse fades like the sun dipping into the pacific ocean for the night if you don t have a fool-proof method for capturing your ideas.

Glug, glug, glug.

So, get yourself ready to roll at a moments notice to capture the latest passing idea from the muse.

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admin December 25th, 2007

The atmosphere is hazy in the deli, not much artificial light and not much natural either, like seeing through a fog to the farthest reaches. A large glass cabinet with architectural curves holds a variety of delicacies. Pies, pastries, all sorts of sticky sweets. Beside it the refrigerated version holds slices of meat in a rainbow of colours pink hams, deep red salamis, near white chicken breast cuts. Hanging from a rack above the counter is a vale of preserved meats, sausages, dangling in the gentle breeze, scents from a miscellany of herbs and spices join and mingle. The refrigerator is buzzing away as background noise, only noticed when the regulator clicks off and the silence of the dust motes falling becomes apparent.

The shop keeper is short and slightly overweight but with a slightly overweight and welcoming smile, one of those Southern European types; you know Italy or Greece or Spain or something. Always speaking with a foreign clip to their well practiced English.

“What canIdofoyutoday” he asks - translation- -What can I do for you today”. I ask for hot salami in a slightly nervous voice “6 Slices please”. The door of the refrigerated section squeals open, the rubber seals complaining like railway carriages meeting on a siding, like lovers lips parting. The slicing machine spins into a buzzsaw frenzy and he hypnotically moves the meat backwards and forwards. I anticipate the way the salami will make my taste buds jump up and complain and do a fire dance after their dormant numb sleep from the last few days of ‘normal’ food. I need this to kick me into life. I might get a cappucino to go too.

The deli owner places the cuts onto some grease proof paper that rustles as he wraps it up “Anythingelsforutoday” [I’ll leave you to interpret ]he says in one word. “A cappuccino to go please…. Strong”. I’m not sure if it’ll help. How can I throw off this haze that’s getting in the way of my thoughts? It’s like there all stuck behind a prison wall today?

Join the Object writing forum at ObjectWriting.com and write for ten minutes on ‘The word of the day’

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admin December 25th, 2007

Its a small thing, at the end of a garden filled with welcoming plants that are all putting out their hands to shake yours saying “hello”. It feels very friendly. The gate creaks as I pass through and the latch catches back into place behind us as we walk up to the front door. The instructions say there’s a meter board at the side of the house. Vines cling to me like whispy fog as I sidle around. I’m starting to feel like these plants are more than alive! Spooky. Back at the front door she has made an entrance and is busy re-arranging the furniture. The air smells of a recent fire that has played itself out in the potbelly.

The kitchen is modest but functional. I go outside to turn on the gas so we can get the kettle on. As I fill the kettle she’s busy gathering twigs and small bits of wood from the flotsam and jetsam that crowns the garden. Something to get the fire crackling as soon as possible. It’s a bit nippy and the forecast is for showers and an overnight low of 9 degrees celsius.The kettle is hissing and cracking on the stove, it’s yawn from being awakened again. Once it gets used to us being here it’ll just get straight into the solid chug it needs to do.

Looking around the walls are boards of treated pine slotted together in a diagonal pattern then stained with a light varnish. The floors are polished boards that echo every footfall except in the lounge which has a large Indian rug, slightly frayed at the edges. As the night consumes the last of the sun I put the two steaming mugs on the kitchen table which affirms our presence with a solid knock as the mug hits the surface. A bit of hot water and a bag of tea can do wonders. The bedrooms are separated into two areas. The master bedroom with the view out to the ocean through the living garden and the two back bedrooms in a different wing. The beach is a short stroll across the road and down some steps.

Join the Object writing forum at ObjectWriting.com and write for ten minutes on ‘The word of the day’

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admin December 24th, 2007

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Started by Paul - Last post by Paul
As an author or songwriter, we should not just expect to sit down and be connected with our ‘now moment inspiration flow’ unless we have been exercising it! Object writing is the writers’ set of bar bells to get us in the zone, and keep us primed for when one of those muse moments comes along. After recently doing some songwriting classes with Berklee music ‘Professor’ of songwriting and poetry,Pat Pattison, I have become a great fan of object writing. What is it you might ask?

Essentially object writing involves picking a subject, usually a noun, and writing about it for a fixed period of time. This can be five minutes or ten minutes. Ten minutes usually gets you into some solid trains of thought , so I suggest you stick with that at first.

The key to successful object writing is to stay as sense bound as possible. For example I could state that “I drove over the bridge”. But if I really wanted to expand on that I need to draw the reader, or listener in the case of a song, into the scene. So you might write something like this;

“As I drove up the incline of the bridge I began to feel ball bearings running about in my stomach. I always get a little nervous being so high, it’s like being on top of a skyscraper. You feel yourself swaying in the breeze and get that sense that you could almost fall over the edge. There’s also the fear that the whole bridge could just drop away, like a plane dropping in turbulence”. There! That was a bit more engaging than “I drove over the bridge” wasn’t it!

The idea is that we dive into our sense memory bank to bring the picture alive. So what are our senses? There’s 5 we are familiar with of course, but there are two that aren’t spoken of so much. The first five are; Taste , touch, sight, sound, smell. But what are these other two senses you might ask?” Well, there’s the sensations that originate in the bodily organs. Notice in the example that “ball bearings are running about my stomach”. I think any of us can associate with what that’s like, it also gets us over the line instead of the tired old ‘butterflies’. So, think of your organs as a sense; heart [it was ticking like a grandfather clock], lungs [my lungs were a jackhammer in my chest] liver, stomach etc.

The other missing sense we use in object writing is our kinesthetic awareness. That is a sense of movement or motion. Once again from the example ‘like a plane dropping in turbulence’. Think of that sensation when you go over a hump in the road or imagine what it is like to be a feather floating around on a hot wind.

Sometimes it’s hard getting the creative motor going but it is amazing what you can come up with if you regularly practice. Initially just try to stick with the word that you have picked and write anything. Starting is the most important thing! I suggest random picks from the dictionary.

Make your objects things you are familiar with, and as you grow in confidence, begin to broaden the scope. You might might start out with knife for example, and write about eating. The weight of the knife in your hand which could lead you to what it’s like to carve the food, then what it’s like to put the food in your mouth. Use as many sensations as you can gather. Ten minutes can dissolve away fairly quickly.

You might wind up after a few weeks of object writing moving into more abstract objects. The term , midnight, for example, which is a bit more challenging, but is still a noun. See where your imagination takes you on that one.You might come up with a line like “the sound of midnight is me waiting to hear her key in the lock”. This brings me a final point. When you are confident with getting your stuff out in ten minutes, give yourself another challenge and try to stay with just one sense. For example with midnight you might just focus on sound;

Ths sound of midnight is the roar of a thousand air conditioners in the city as I lie waiting to hear her key in the door, the sigh of relief when you hear that ka-chunk-a. She’s home.

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admin December 23rd, 2007

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Started by Paul - Last post by Paul
There s a man who has escaped from the prison for the criminally insane. He s walking along the path towards us. We are huddled behind some shrubs The fronds and leaves are brushing against our face like a paper towel with a fresh vegetation smell.

Earlier, the siren went off from Broadmoor prison, one of those classic World War 2 air raid sorts of wails, to alert us that someone had escaped. These are the genuinely insane people, who will kill you without thought. How do they escape though?

If you go up there the walls are 20 feet high and made of strident red bricks, topped with barbed wire. Certainly scaling the walls isn t an option , so they must be cleverer than that. What about hopping in a delivery van? I m sure they get checked. Either way, the man is coming down the path dressed in one of those white tank top shirts with a criss cross pattern and unattractive white bog catcher boxer shorts. He s looking from side to side like a savage as he approaches - will he see us? We hear him breathing heavily as he passes us directly. We are huddled together trembling like sheep, we are only 6 years old. He passes and we scatter from the bushes like frightened birds and run like gazelles all the way home.

The general rule is, when you hear the siren go - LOCK YOURSELF INDOORS- how much protection this really affords is another matter. The back door to our house is secured by a large lock that snips into place. one of those rectangualr ones about the size of the palm of your hand. The upper part of the door is glass - looking out onto the garden where my father is growing runner beans. He has a number of poles sunk into the ground that he hopes the runners will climb making the harvest a neat and orderly affair. At the end of the garden is a plumb tree. I think I have tried plums at one stage and decided that that the bitter taste did not suit.

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admin December 22nd, 2007

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Started by Paul - Last post by Paul
The stadium is huge, it s an amphitheater, a football stadium, an aircraft carrier, absolutely massive. Everyone is anicipating the arrival of the runners. A mountain stream of chatter flows over the crowd, fresh water voices. Excited.

The gangly runner in first place rounds a corner and looks up to the stadium in the distance, just another couple of miles, chug , chug, chug. His feet are pile-drivers, smashing into the road, pogo sticks, launching off again. The repetitive manouvre that s been going on for the previous 24 miles. The air is less polluted this week than at any other time. The government has banned all vehicular transport within a 20 kilometer radius, unless you have special permission. Normally the smog that hangs in the air makes you cough after a few hours exposure. One of those coughs that starts just under your lungs and feels like someone is pulling your insides out and over your head.

The runners lungs are getting to the point of explosion, but he s been at this point a few times, knows what to expect. Along the road people, are lined up behind water filled barriers, hands wave at him like branches on a windy day, people are colourful flags flapping in the breeze. He can only see the end, he s in a tunnel, so focused. Finally through the arch of the stadium. It is a reminiscent of the arch-de-Triumph in Paris , and this is his personal triumph as he enters. The olympic marathon champion, just another 400 meters now. The crowd has erupted like a volcano and are on their feet and cheering like a bunch of exited chimpanzees. The red track is solid underfoot as he traverses the last lap and lunges for the finishing line. There was no-one to beat he s a good thirty seconds ahead.

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admin December 22nd, 2007

Long thin strands of plastic stretch out, the synthetic product of the black gold, the legacy of DuPont. Nylon, garbage bags, see through containers, windows into world of junk. Packaging; hard, soft, flimsy, rigid. It comes in all shapes and sizes and it’s all synthetic.

When you get something new from the local office depot it’s usually blanketed in a protective swathe of plastic. There is no way in the world that you can open the packet unaided. The other day I bought a mini 2 Gigabyte USB drive. The packaging monstered the thing by at least 10 times. At home fingernails skirted along barbed plastic edges of the packaging seeking a way into the colourful display under the surface, but the way was barred. Teeth sank into the solid shell, the armour that was protecting the device, teeth slid off the neutral plastic tasting, new smelling diamond surface, so normally synthetic.

The kitchen draw contains scissors. It rumbles out of its niche on tired wheels, hands skirt over various implements in search of the scissors, smooth, rough , jagged angular shapes move aside and the scissors are found. They are a glove, a shadow, an appendage at the end of the arm as they cut a gouge of destruction through the resistant plastic, but, it’s enough. The lid separates and fingers slide between the constrictive jaws of the packaging, snapping, still not wanting to relent, but the dogs quiet long enough for the memory stick to be extracted. Another piece of electronic wizardry cleverly bundled in a synthetic overcoat.

The thing is, all these synthectic products, packaging etc are doomed. Unless we find an alternative to the black stuff underground. The world will change for-ever. It’s all so taken for granted, that tomorrow there WILL be another shopping bag, there WILL be another car tyre manufactured in some stinking factory in China, There WILL be more product , always available.

Join the Object writing forum at ObjectWriting.com and write for ten minutes on ‘The word of the day’

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admin December 21st, 2007

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Started by Paul - Last post by Paul
Infant, I was once an infant, a child, young, and saw the world through eyes of wonder. In Britain the entry level to primary school was called infants. The first day I was placed into Mrs Macbaerry s class. But it was too advanced for me. I think I lasted a week. They finally realised I was one year to high. This was evidenced by my capacity to read, but not write. Perhaps the beginning of a life long struggle with language? Any way I remember her writing something about King David on the blackboard. In my minds eye, this black board is more like a billboard, it seemed to strech all the way across the room like the Golden Gate Bridge, and, maybe it did. The other thing I recall from that week in the wrong class was Edelwiess [that s Ay-Del-Vise phonetically!]. It must have been 1969 or 70 and the Sound of Music was still a fresh thing. Julie Andrews in her prime. I see her dancing and twirling on the hills like a Russian peasant dancer.

One thing I could do, apart from read, was to sing. So when the whole class lifted into song, I was right there with them. It s funny thinking about it, and how the sounds came out. I really don t know how I learned to sing, just believed I could. My mouth just seemed to form the right shape and the air pushed up from my diaphragm to make it happen in tune!

At an earlier point in my life I had been watching a sports program on the BBC, which was followed by a music program featuring Tom Jones; Why, Why Why - Delilah stuck in my head like chewing gum and I rushed out to the park next door running up and down, up and down, a cheetah let loose from the zoo chasing after the notes singing Why why why Delilah - I WAS Tom Jones!.

I could sing. Not surprising given my father would take us to various performances of the Sandhurst silver band. Brass was being pumped into me from the womb and was probably genetically coded. Melody and harmony all combining inside of me to make me what I am musically.

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