Last night, after what proved to be a particularly productive band practice (for me at least, less so for Adam), I walked home from Ross’s house at around three. While it was admittedly a fairly late time to walk home, I’m not entirely unfamiliar with walking home late, and so hadn’t any reservations when I set out.
I left with a half consumed bag of M&Ms and was making good progress on the rest when I reached the main road leading back towards the Park (in which I live, for anyone who isn’t up on all the details of my life).
I’ve recently installed a playlisting app for my iPod that measures the pace of my footsteps and plays tracks deliberately such that the two are in sync. I’d been enjoying this as I walked home at a pace that could be best described as “sedate”. The rain of the previous day had cleared to leave the night air balmy and soporific.
In a sleepy daze I meandered back towards the house, the sodium-orange of street lamps providing that unwonderful monochrome light that seems universally to provide just enough vision for whatever surrounds you to be boring.
Suddenly, I found myself swept up by a tide of grey-orange children, mouths open with the exertion of running as quickly as possible, eyes wide enough to see the orange light reflected all around the irises. They flooded onto the road from housing estates on both sides, from alleyways between houses, and over walls all sprinting in the same direction, numbers swelled by the surprise of seeing so many at once and the low light, shadows and children being roughly indistinguishable when moving at speed.
All at once I experienced two things. The first was that the crisp-sugar shell of an M&M compliments the coppery taste of adrenaline in roughly the same way as apple juice does toothpaste. The second was that music chosen in an attempt to mimic a slow paced walk is near enough to the perfect tempo to slowly incite panic. It being so very late at night, the seemingly vast number of ten-to-fourteen year olds so determined to make haste in one direction gave me what can best be described as “an uncomfortableness”. I ran; I ran as fast I altogether can.
I remember a few details with unusual clarity, I remember the low pulse in my headphones as my walkman informed me it had judged that I’d changed pace dramatically enough to warrant a revision of what track was playing (it changed from Massive Attack’s Teardrop to The Faint’s Mirror Error for anyone inclined to look it up).
I remember too the sound of my own footsteps as I ran, high on the balls of my feet and leaned far forward, made somehow sharper by the thin layer of liquid still covering the paths from the rain earlier that day, reflecting, with equal vagueness, my feet as I ran and the glow of the streetlights above me.
And suddenly as they had appeared, the crowd of children with whom I’d been running were gone, left behind or hiding, and still it seemed tremendously early to stop running from anything that had so scared a group so big. I continued running until I reached the gate to the Park itself.
Still fearing pursuit (in the manner of accomplished cowards everywhere) as I passed through the gate, I let my feet drift out in front of me and slid, right foot forward and the left only slightly behind it. The ground was slick and wet, I slid so low and easily I planted the fingertips of my left hand on the ground to remain stable and, as I did so, turned my body so that I could plant my right hand on the ground and look behind me.
Sure enough there was a shadow, tall and thin, limned by the dull orange glow, running (though without the energy terror had lent me) some distance behind me. In my sudden and brief stillness I could hear that run. Where my footsteps had been a rapid tapping, light and sharp, these were thudding, loping strides. Fortunately enough, my slide had left me in the same position as a sprinter’s, ready to start a race.
Despite the speed and sense of urgency, the park struck me as being unexpectedly bright, the throbbing, artificial orange light having seeped in from the surrounding roads. Given the comparative lack of darkness, I ran for the concealment of the woods, rather than the narrow path that leads towards the house.
However bright the park might be, there are few ambient lights that will illuminate any decent woodland, and so it was that, with a disturbingly simian motion, I vaulted the wrought iron fence surrounding the woods and felt my feet bury themselves in the soft humus of the woodland.
Anyone who’s spent any significant amount of time in woodland as they grow up will tell you that running changes entirely on entering. The number of sticks and small plants waiting to claw a sprinter down is disconcerting during the daytime, but during the near absolute darkness of night you’d do best to run in long, high strides, keeping your feet as high from the ground as possible from the beginning of each step to the end. It adds the effort of having to extricate each foot from soft soil with every step, but it’s always worth it.
To cut this short enough that I leave out the uninteresting bits, I’m not sure if I was ever chased, but the combination of dreariness, music and a late night lent me just the right kind of effervescent paranoia to lead to a good sprint home.
Marc “Craven” Mac
P.S. I finished the M&Ms as I wrote this blog, they were more delectable for the warmth and comfort in which I relished them.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Monday, August 4, 2008
There is a Piano in my House
In the sitting room of the house in which I grew up there is an old, brown piano. It’s an intimidating instrument, big as any piano is without being a grand, with a rich, robust sound. I’ve never known enough about music to be able to confidently say that it’s a particularly good piano, but it sounds enough like a good piano that I’ve never had any reason to believe it’s not.
There is a series of stories surrounding the piano that seem to accompany our family as we grew up. I’ve only recently heard the first of them (of how the piano came to live in our house) from my father; it’s the story of how the piano was acquired.
My godfather is man who, by various means, tends to end up with a tremendous number of things he neither needs nor (I suspect) really wants more than a little bit. His name is John. Once upon a time, he called my brother’s godfather and asked him to meet a truck in town. His name is Eanna. I remember, as a child, imagining Eanna to be a little unhealthy; he seemed to be just a little bit fat. It would later turn out that he was in relatively good condition, swimming the channel twice without his physical appearance noticeably changing.
So, after whatever minor conversation the two had, Eanna then proceeded to meet a truck in town, which will take him from there to a house, where he is to inform those present that he’d “come for the piano”. For a man built as he was, this probably seemed like a relatively minor task.
On his arrival at the door he was greeted by a young eastern European girl, who he immediately informed, “I’ve come for the piano.” In response, the girl burst into floods of tears. Her mother, doubtless querying the source of the girl’s upset, asked something (I’m not clear on this, but it seemed when I was told that the mother didn’t speak very much English). The girl replied with, “He’s come for the piano.” At this, the mother too broke down.
During this commotion, Eanna, in his infinite wisdom, managed to retrieve the piano. Despite the drama, I would come to suspect that John never really wanted a piano, at least, no more so than you or I might want a bowl of Rice Krispies. He had fancied learning to play, but ultimately his want for it was a transient thing.
The fact that best illustrates this point is that John would later ask my dad if he had space to store a piano for a few weeks. It’s still here, more than fifteen years later.
Essentially, that Piano has been in our house for as much of my life as I remember. The stories that surround it, as I said above, pretty much chart the family’s growth, or development, or whatever you want to call it.
I’m going to write a short series of stories/blog entries about the piano and the family, as they roughly relate to one another.
Marc “I don’t play the Piano” Mac
There is a series of stories surrounding the piano that seem to accompany our family as we grew up. I’ve only recently heard the first of them (of how the piano came to live in our house) from my father; it’s the story of how the piano was acquired.
My godfather is man who, by various means, tends to end up with a tremendous number of things he neither needs nor (I suspect) really wants more than a little bit. His name is John. Once upon a time, he called my brother’s godfather and asked him to meet a truck in town. His name is Eanna. I remember, as a child, imagining Eanna to be a little unhealthy; he seemed to be just a little bit fat. It would later turn out that he was in relatively good condition, swimming the channel twice without his physical appearance noticeably changing.
So, after whatever minor conversation the two had, Eanna then proceeded to meet a truck in town, which will take him from there to a house, where he is to inform those present that he’d “come for the piano”. For a man built as he was, this probably seemed like a relatively minor task.
On his arrival at the door he was greeted by a young eastern European girl, who he immediately informed, “I’ve come for the piano.” In response, the girl burst into floods of tears. Her mother, doubtless querying the source of the girl’s upset, asked something (I’m not clear on this, but it seemed when I was told that the mother didn’t speak very much English). The girl replied with, “He’s come for the piano.” At this, the mother too broke down.
During this commotion, Eanna, in his infinite wisdom, managed to retrieve the piano. Despite the drama, I would come to suspect that John never really wanted a piano, at least, no more so than you or I might want a bowl of Rice Krispies. He had fancied learning to play, but ultimately his want for it was a transient thing.
The fact that best illustrates this point is that John would later ask my dad if he had space to store a piano for a few weeks. It’s still here, more than fifteen years later.
Essentially, that Piano has been in our house for as much of my life as I remember. The stories that surround it, as I said above, pretty much chart the family’s growth, or development, or whatever you want to call it.
I’m going to write a short series of stories/blog entries about the piano and the family, as they roughly relate to one another.
Marc “I don’t play the Piano” Mac
Sunday, August 3, 2008
The Dreamtime
In the summertime there are often nights where I’m too warm to sleep. I suppose that’s true of everyone, but for a very long time it would frustrate me that, where clearly other people can snatch enough sleep to operate, I would lie awake worry that I’m missing out on something.
I used often to lie awake, staring at the slightly rusted springs of the bed above mine, and wonder how other people deal with the same situation. By some awkward confluence of books, the vaguest readings of yoga and an abundance of video games I came to construct the beginnings of a dream that would relax me into sleep.
Where guided meditation recommends a slow staircase approach (counting down from ten, slowly into a trancelike state and other such half-sense I’m not entirely sure I believe in), I’ve always found it doesn’t quite suit the maddening rush of colours that fills my subconscious. As I lay in bed, clammy with sweat and feverish with the balmy heat of a fetid midsummer’s night, I unwittingly pioneered what I would later term "turbo-meditation".
Beginning with the realisation that, if lying still for long enough the human body begins to feel like it’s in motion, I began to construct various dreamscapes with which that feeling of motion wouldn’t interfere.
Despite a vague feeling of uneasiness I tend to get around any body of water deep enough that I might be entirely immersed, I’ve begun more and more to imagine myself lying in a small open canoe (as opposed to a kayak, which I believe implies a canopy or covering). This canoe drifts lazily downstream on a broad river, the banks of which are lined with an assortment of unspecified greenery; trees forming a canopy that roofs the lapping river below just thinly enough that the occasional glints of sunlight that do filter through are soft highlights on the crests of the water’s wavelets, rather than a blinding glare.
The river itself is deep, clear, and with the slightest hint of blue, entirely artificial, running over a bed of small brown-grey rocks, each softened and rounded by the flow around it. I’ve often wondered if, in my half-dreaming state I might swim in it and breathe comfortably… sadly though, I’ve never tried.
I’d imagine there’s no sadder place to asphyxiate than in your own dreams.
That’s too sad a note to end a blog about so happy a place on though. I truly love that calm place where I end up so often before I find sleep.
Marc “Silly sentimental blog” Mac
Today there are coffee beans in my pockets. I stole them from a display in a chocolatier’s; I’d hoped they might make the change in my pockets smell less sour, but I guess there was only so much my meagre stolen goods could manage. My change smells as though someone spilled coffee on it once, but still powerfully of metal.
I used often to lie awake, staring at the slightly rusted springs of the bed above mine, and wonder how other people deal with the same situation. By some awkward confluence of books, the vaguest readings of yoga and an abundance of video games I came to construct the beginnings of a dream that would relax me into sleep.
Where guided meditation recommends a slow staircase approach (counting down from ten, slowly into a trancelike state and other such half-sense I’m not entirely sure I believe in), I’ve always found it doesn’t quite suit the maddening rush of colours that fills my subconscious. As I lay in bed, clammy with sweat and feverish with the balmy heat of a fetid midsummer’s night, I unwittingly pioneered what I would later term "turbo-meditation".
Beginning with the realisation that, if lying still for long enough the human body begins to feel like it’s in motion, I began to construct various dreamscapes with which that feeling of motion wouldn’t interfere.
Despite a vague feeling of uneasiness I tend to get around any body of water deep enough that I might be entirely immersed, I’ve begun more and more to imagine myself lying in a small open canoe (as opposed to a kayak, which I believe implies a canopy or covering). This canoe drifts lazily downstream on a broad river, the banks of which are lined with an assortment of unspecified greenery; trees forming a canopy that roofs the lapping river below just thinly enough that the occasional glints of sunlight that do filter through are soft highlights on the crests of the water’s wavelets, rather than a blinding glare.
The river itself is deep, clear, and with the slightest hint of blue, entirely artificial, running over a bed of small brown-grey rocks, each softened and rounded by the flow around it. I’ve often wondered if, in my half-dreaming state I might swim in it and breathe comfortably… sadly though, I’ve never tried.
I’d imagine there’s no sadder place to asphyxiate than in your own dreams.
That’s too sad a note to end a blog about so happy a place on though. I truly love that calm place where I end up so often before I find sleep.
Marc “Silly sentimental blog” Mac
Today there are coffee beans in my pockets. I stole them from a display in a chocolatier’s; I’d hoped they might make the change in my pockets smell less sour, but I guess there was only so much my meagre stolen goods could manage. My change smells as though someone spilled coffee on it once, but still powerfully of metal.
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