As it turned out, the first album I replaced was Paul Simon's Graceland. Although my own music is very different in style, this album has had an enormous influence on me in terms of songwriting. Simon's incredibly adept lyrical abilities still continue to inspire me.
This song has one of the best opening lines ever (Fat Charlie the archangel sloped into the room) and a line that kept haunting me in A&E…
…someone could walk into this room and say your life is on fire…
Monday, 17 May 2010
Thursday, 13 May 2010
Jim Henson To Tarantino In One Move
My lovely and thoughtful sister sent me some post-fire presents, including Labyrinth on DVD. It's my all-time favourite film and the first film I remember seeing. It also contains the first speech I ever learned:
Give me the child.
Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to castle beyond the Goblin City to take back the child that you have stolen.
For my will is as strong as yours and my kingdom is as great.
You have no power over me.
That speech still sends shivers up my spine. I've always found those last two lines empowering and they've given me strength though times of weakness.
The film made a huge impact on me, being an archetypal story of a hero's quest to get back something that has been lost. In my mind, it's the same story as that of another of my top films: Kill Bill (by which I mean both 1 and 2). I had lent the latter to Spanner and it is therefore the only film left from my original collection. Along with a scene in The Neverending Story (in which the horse sinks into the Swamps of Sadness) Kill Bill is one of the few films that makes me cry. Particularly this scene, which I find the most powerful representation of strength and courage in the face of adversity:
Labyrinth has Jim Henson puppets; Kill Bill has Samurai swords and gore aplenty. On the surface of things they seem diametrically opposed. But they're the two films guaranteed to lift my spirits and renew my energy, giving me the determination to succeed in my own personal quest.
So, thank you Freya for bringing Labyrinth back into my life.
Thank you Spanner for looking after Uma for me (and, while we're at it, thanks for the tango… xx)
Give me the child.
Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to castle beyond the Goblin City to take back the child that you have stolen.
For my will is as strong as yours and my kingdom is as great.
You have no power over me.
That speech still sends shivers up my spine. I've always found those last two lines empowering and they've given me strength though times of weakness.
The film made a huge impact on me, being an archetypal story of a hero's quest to get back something that has been lost. In my mind, it's the same story as that of another of my top films: Kill Bill (by which I mean both 1 and 2). I had lent the latter to Spanner and it is therefore the only film left from my original collection. Along with a scene in The Neverending Story (in which the horse sinks into the Swamps of Sadness) Kill Bill is one of the few films that makes me cry. Particularly this scene, which I find the most powerful representation of strength and courage in the face of adversity:
Labyrinth has Jim Henson puppets; Kill Bill has Samurai swords and gore aplenty. On the surface of things they seem diametrically opposed. But they're the two films guaranteed to lift my spirits and renew my energy, giving me the determination to succeed in my own personal quest.
So, thank you Freya for bringing Labyrinth back into my life.
Thank you Spanner for looking after Uma for me (and, while we're at it, thanks for the tango… xx)
Monday, 3 May 2010
Lost And Found
The mind is a sick and twisted thing.
Last night I dreamt about my house and my room, going through every single little burnt-to-a-crisp item, trying to find something worth saving. My friend Rachel was by my side, making a list of things to save (entitled "Ja") and things not to save (entitled "Nah")
Bastard mind. I had managed to stop thinking about that side of things for a while. You see, there are several strands to the whole business.
There's the medical side, which has had most of the attention - dealing with the burnt hand, now free from bandages and needing oily cream massaging into the tender pink skin every few hours. Although the pain has gone, leaving only a little stiffness in the morning, it's still a visual reminder.
There's the traumatic side, the memory of the experience; seeing and being in the midst of the flames and the smoke, hearing the crackling fire, smelling it as it burned through my possessions, and the physical memory of the panic in my stomach when I saw it and realised what was happening. Last weekend we went to my sister's house and they had a bonfire. I didn't join them out there, but I did catch a glimpse of it and it drove instant terror into me.
And finally there's the upset of losing pretty much all my stuff: things that can be easily replaced (with the funds, of course, which takes time with no insurance…) such as DVDs, CDs, books, iPod etc. The things that can only be replaced with a great deal of hassle: passport (my birth certificate, name change documents, and all other proof of ID are gone so I suspect this will be a trial), and the 60-odd short films I made for the Spanner Jazz Punks show…
And then there are things that can never be replaced: the stuffed rabbit I've had since childhood that my mum brought to me when I was in hospital. Doped up on morphine, I named him Bunny. He deserves his own post.
The vintage jewellery my ex-boyfriend Robbie gave me during our 3-and-a-half-year-relationship (these two being the only ones I can find pictures of):
The originals of childhood photos, including this favourite of mine (thank goodness I scanned most of them in):
My wonderful hat collection including the hats my very talented friend Fisher had made and kindly given me, such as this delight:
An antique muffler my parents gave me only last Christmas - I hadn't even worn it yet because I wanted to find just the right coat. No picture of it, but it was white fur and reminded me with bitter-sweetness of my childhood cat, Cleo, who sadly died last April:
Of course, things are irrelevant in the long run. Things come and things go.
In the immediate aftermath of the event, people kept telling me, "The most important thing is that you're alright, that you got out alive." The lovely Australian nurse looking after me, on hearing my upset at losing all my gorgeous vintage clothes, said "That's the problem mate, they were all vintage - time you got yourself a new wardrobe. And a new haircut…" (I'd burnt half my hair off…)
At the time I didn't entirely believe all these people when they said that my welfare was the important thing. With no home, no possessions, and no-one at my side for the first few hours (until Robbie came and was wonderful), I occasionally wondered why on earth the Universe had been so cruel as to get me out of that house.
The one thought that got me through that morbid mentality was that I would see my parents and a friend again. Gradually the memory of all my friends started to seep in, along with gratitude for knowing them. I haven't seen them all yet, having been at my parents' in Wales since it happened, but the messages of love and support I've had from my friends (and people who really didn't need to bother, such as Robbie's lovely sister) have been very moving.
So, corny as it may sound, the love and friendship of the wonderful people I have in my life is worth more than all those dresses and necklaces and trinkets that went up in smoke.
Thank you, gorgeous people - I love you all xxx
Last night I dreamt about my house and my room, going through every single little burnt-to-a-crisp item, trying to find something worth saving. My friend Rachel was by my side, making a list of things to save (entitled "Ja") and things not to save (entitled "Nah")
Bastard mind. I had managed to stop thinking about that side of things for a while. You see, there are several strands to the whole business.
There's the medical side, which has had most of the attention - dealing with the burnt hand, now free from bandages and needing oily cream massaging into the tender pink skin every few hours. Although the pain has gone, leaving only a little stiffness in the morning, it's still a visual reminder.
There's the traumatic side, the memory of the experience; seeing and being in the midst of the flames and the smoke, hearing the crackling fire, smelling it as it burned through my possessions, and the physical memory of the panic in my stomach when I saw it and realised what was happening. Last weekend we went to my sister's house and they had a bonfire. I didn't join them out there, but I did catch a glimpse of it and it drove instant terror into me.
And finally there's the upset of losing pretty much all my stuff: things that can be easily replaced (with the funds, of course, which takes time with no insurance…) such as DVDs, CDs, books, iPod etc. The things that can only be replaced with a great deal of hassle: passport (my birth certificate, name change documents, and all other proof of ID are gone so I suspect this will be a trial), and the 60-odd short films I made for the Spanner Jazz Punks show…
And then there are things that can never be replaced: the stuffed rabbit I've had since childhood that my mum brought to me when I was in hospital. Doped up on morphine, I named him Bunny. He deserves his own post.
The vintage jewellery my ex-boyfriend Robbie gave me during our 3-and-a-half-year-relationship (these two being the only ones I can find pictures of):
The originals of childhood photos, including this favourite of mine (thank goodness I scanned most of them in):
My wonderful hat collection including the hats my very talented friend Fisher had made and kindly given me, such as this delight:
An antique muffler my parents gave me only last Christmas - I hadn't even worn it yet because I wanted to find just the right coat. No picture of it, but it was white fur and reminded me with bitter-sweetness of my childhood cat, Cleo, who sadly died last April:
Of course, things are irrelevant in the long run. Things come and things go.
In the immediate aftermath of the event, people kept telling me, "The most important thing is that you're alright, that you got out alive." The lovely Australian nurse looking after me, on hearing my upset at losing all my gorgeous vintage clothes, said "That's the problem mate, they were all vintage - time you got yourself a new wardrobe. And a new haircut…" (I'd burnt half my hair off…)
At the time I didn't entirely believe all these people when they said that my welfare was the important thing. With no home, no possessions, and no-one at my side for the first few hours (until Robbie came and was wonderful), I occasionally wondered why on earth the Universe had been so cruel as to get me out of that house.
The one thought that got me through that morbid mentality was that I would see my parents and a friend again. Gradually the memory of all my friends started to seep in, along with gratitude for knowing them. I haven't seen them all yet, having been at my parents' in Wales since it happened, but the messages of love and support I've had from my friends (and people who really didn't need to bother, such as Robbie's lovely sister) have been very moving.
So, corny as it may sound, the love and friendship of the wonderful people I have in my life is worth more than all those dresses and necklaces and trinkets that went up in smoke.
Thank you, gorgeous people - I love you all xxx
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