renaissance man
We love this guy! Check out Jason, The Cloud Gardener, here. We discovered him via the BBC’s Gardener’s World.
Vid
His story is inspiring. I love the bit in his BBC slot where he talks about nurturing a ‘broken’ plant, and how that helps him with his own mental health.
We need to really green our domestic spaces. It’s a challenge, as ours are very dark gloomy indoor spaces, which tend to kill plants!
Closing Time, 50th Anniversary limited edition double vinyl release, 2 June, 2023.
Oh how I love this album! It captures Tom in a uniquely youthful and innocent mood, less gravelly, a bit more country, and utterly wonderful.
The closing title track would, on its own, make this album essential. But there are plenty of other great tunes; from the cosy bar-room sentimentality of I Hope That I Don’t Fall In Love With You, via the Tin Pan Alley balladry of Grapefruit Moon, to the ol’ timey vibes of Ol’ 55 and Rosie.
It’s an astonishingly mature and assured debut recording. And the musical team that made it help evoke a timeless beauty drawing on a whole smorgasbord of American popular music, to craft a classic recording that’s both gently obscure and disarmingly immediate and charming.
An essential album, reissued for über fans (like me!), in a couple of deluxe twin disc vinyl formats. I can’t justify the extravagance (although it’s not actually out for a bit!), but I’m very sorely tempted.
Overall I prefer the Tom of the ‘first phase’, ie the boho-beatnik barfly romantic and philosopher, of Closing Time through to Swordfishtrombones (and maybe even Frank’s Wild Years?) to the art house carnival freak he evolved into after that.
On Closing Time, whose moody cover art is be Zappa’s buddy Cal Schenkel, we have a sweeter, softer and smoother sounding Tom. He’s already the folksy troubadour, with a big dose of jazz and blues in the pockets of his rumpled yet earnest thrift store suit.
This album is unique in that after this awaits would produce a run of amazing recordings working with Bones Howe, a former jazz drummer turned producer, who helped craft the classic early Tom sound-world I so adore, by surrounding Waits with stellar jazz sidemen (like Jacky Sheldon, Jim Hughart and the incomparable Shelly Manne).
On Closing Time Jerry Yester produced, and the band – who are brilliantly sympathetic to awaits’ material – are less familiar names, gathered together from Yester’s musical orbit. Yester also did some superb string arrangements for Tom, on this and a few of his subsequent albums.
Yet more snooker therapy. And boy-oh-boy, does Ronnie deliver!? He’s pulled out some classic 147s, from his first awesome five minute jobbie (below), back in 1997, to this!
‘Absolutely sensational’ enthuses the affably avuncular John ‘JV‘ Virgo. And one cannot disagree!
I’m pretty sure all, or at least nearly all of us, have experienced the grim horror that is queuing on a call to a large organisation.
Currently I’m severely depressed, and I’m often required to call the NHS. I love and treasure the NHS. But under Tory and New Labour misrule, it’s being turned into an impersonal impenetrable block of granite.
I’ve just received a letter summarising a meeting I recently had with an NHS functionary. In this letter are numerous factual errors. Some trivial, some less so. They need correcting.
I’ve emailed about these concerns, and hope to hear back. But I’m not holding my breath.
What I would far prefer, and I’m sure I’m far from alone in this respect, is a brief conversation with an appropriate person, in a position to remedy the situation. What I most definitely DO NOT want is to waste precious time, energy, and – no doubt – money, listening to robots and Muzak. Only to get absolutely nowhere. Oh, except a little closer to my grave!
Ok, so I’ve spent all of today in bed.* In this day and age that’s like telling a C19th Mother Superior at the Convent you’ve just spent all day sucking Satan’s cock!
*so far…
My feelings on this must in part explain my out of character subscription (lapsed; now that’s in character!) to The Idler. A magazine whose title is more exciting than most of its content.
Anyway, I did actually do a few hours of horrid gruelling work. AKA trying to talk to people in the NHS system.
Now let me get this straight; I love the NHS. The fact it’s become a graveyard of impenetrable obsidian obelisks is entirely the fault of money-minded capitalists, be they Tory or even, alas, New Labour.
Off on one of my tanned-genitals, eh? Cannae be helped, Emma Freud.
But back on track: I estimate 3-4 hours of today was given over to fall-out from a letter, sent by the ‘proto-shrink’ (Clinical Nurse Specialist), who saw me in A&E at Peterborough hospital, on Monday.
Rather naively, as appears to be my way so often, I thought I was there for my own care. Reading the summary letter made me feel it was actually a Stasi fact-gathering exercise.
Depression can lead to paranoia. I know that. And maybe in part this is a case in point. But points are precisely my, er, point… here. And the notes the lady took during my venting confessional, which I’d imagined to be completely confidential, feel instead like exhibits A-Z of the prosecution!
What galls me most are two particular instances of miscommunication.
Once during the conversation she – Danielle Jenkins – ‘reiterated’ a point she thought I’d made, taking the polar opposite position to what I’d actually said. I corrected her ‘I thought you said… [the exact opposite of what I said!]’ statement during the interview. This is not mentioned in her summary.
Whilst by and large it’s a fairly complete rendering of the meeting, in which most of the mistakes (or just lack of clarity) are reasonably inconsequential, there is one particularly egregious error.
And so it is that she lists another thing she thinks I said, which once again is the absolute polar opposite of what I actually said. Once would be simply annoying. Twice points to crossed wires, Major Misunderstanding, etc.
All of this leads me to conclude that I need to record such verbal transactions for my own records, and later ‘proof’ of what really transpired, if needed.
At this point I feel drawn towards another apparent (it’s actually very connected) deviation. There have been times – not at the moment thankfully – when ‘conversations’ with my father have actually really just found me listening to an open-valved high-pressure torrent of depressive effluence.
Dad thinks, or thought at the time (at least so he would profess) that we’d had a conversation. I sometimes got to the end of my tether, and would draw his attention to this. Only to be told my recall was obviously faulty. This has been a theme over my whole life. Differing recollections in which mine is always de facto wrong.
This has not been helpful to the development of trust, in either myself or others. Nor indeed, in plain ol’ mental fortitude. When doubting your own mind is drummed into you over a lifetime. It has a debilitating effect.
Anyway, I’m absolutely adamant that in times past I’ve sat through very depressing monologues from a very depressed dad, in in almost complete silence. Sonny hbsinged occasionally notice, and ask if I was still there!
And, rather tragically, I now sometimes find myself playing out similar routines, in certain scenarios, such as this recent interview at A&E. As much as I love and admire my father, there are also less appealing sides to him – we’re all only human, after all – which I don’t wish to copy.
POSTSCRIPT
Well, I ran out of steam on this post. Much earlier in the day. It’s now much later. I did get up, numerous times, to do stuff; go to the loo, eat/drink, etc. The real basics! But in essence today was a day of bed-bound R&R, rest and recuperation. And boy have I needed it.
After two very good nights sleep at my sister’s (the second un-planned, at her suggestion), I wound up using a single zopiclone tablet last night, as prescribed by Dr Joyce, earlier in the week. I was only prescribed the one, on account of the danger of my ‘misusing’ them, if I had more!
Fortunately my mood has lifted considerably over the day. And esp’ so since my darling wife came home, and both ministered to me, and gave me a kick right square up in my ass! She insisted I complete several minor chores before I could have dinner.
I doubt I’d be here now, if it weren’t for Teresa. Thank you, sweet-heart, for standing by me and being a rock, and a source of consolation and common sense. Who loves ya, baby!
On the way home from Hannah’s we stopped in at Season’s Garden Centre. A new business that’s recently appeared (after years of watching construction and wondering what was coming!), between Chatteris and Somersham.
I bought five daffodil bulb sets. Every year as the daffodils come out I long for more at home, in our garden. And slowly I’ve been adding to our meagre stock. But it seems to be taking forever!
My attempts with umbellifers, or cow parsley type plants, are faring even worse! Only the stuff nature plants flourishes. The two seed sets I’ve bought have yielded naught, alas.
I got four sets of cheaper generic narcissi, and one of a larger more expensive King Alfred variety. There are probably a similar quantity of pre-established daff’s in this particular border.
We don’t know what the little purple multi-flowers are. We’ll have to Google image search ‘em, I guess. Which Teresa has just done… grape hyacinths, apparently! Or muscari armeniacum!
Believe it or not this long thin flower bed has actually already been weeded a couple of times since xmas! Still haven’t mowed any lawn. Reckon I’ll wait till it gets a bit warmer first. Mind, it’s warmer outside right now than it is inside our home!
Looking after Hannah’s daughters, my nieces, Ali and Sofi, is a regular and very welcome routine that we have going on at present. It may not last long, as I know Hannah needs to change her work situation. So we’re enjoying it whilst it lasts.
I’m lending Ali a drum kit. It’s an old Premier, in pretty poor nick. it used to be my busking kit, when I did that, in days of yore! I think I need to upgrade the cymbals I’m loaning, as the ones on this kit are awful!
It’s nice teaching Ali. She’s a great kid, and a good drum student. Both Ali and Sofi are musical. Ali favours guitar and drums; Sofi, clarinet, piano, and now sax as well!
It’s pleasant to get out of our own environment. And it’s not too demanding. In fact it’s fun. I slept superbly last night, as well. Which is, at present, rather unusual.
We do breakfast lunch and dinner for everyone. Or rather Teresa does. I help out a bit sometimes (I even cooked a whole meal on the first visit!). But it’s mostly my terrific mrs.
Today I’ve been tinkering with a guitar. I used to do that quite a lot. But I’ve lost touch with ye olde axe in the last year or two. So much so, it’s initially frustrating, discovering how much I’ve forgotten!
But it comes back relatively quickly. Not that I’m great, on guitar. I was pretty competent at one point. But that was when I played daily, which I haven’t done now for aeons. Well, whatever, as folk say nowadays. I’d just like to get back into it a bit, and hopefully enjoy doing so!
[vid!]
I’m currently watching snooker obsessively. Why? Because I’m undergoing the most hardcore bout of depression I’ve experienced in about six or more years.
Can snooker save my life? I don’t know, to be honest. But I’m just glad it exists. Why does it provide such succour? I really don’t know. Again, I’m just glad it does.
Today I’ve been bingeing on several mammoth snooker fests. One was the absolute classic, Higgins vs. Williams, at the 2018 World Championship. That was a real belter, no mistake. And watching it silenced the incessant self-destructive mental monologue that plagues me.
Depression and insomnia are an unhappily married couple. And the fuckers are visiting me daily and nightly. Snooker somehow helps screen out their incessant chatter.
The above thumb (also a link on the FB ‘feed’) cropped up in my FB account today. I didn’t click on the link. And I’m not going to.
My immediate thought/riposte, to ‘Why Ginger Baker HATED John Bonham’? Because he (Ginger) was a dick.
Baker fancied himself as a jazzer, and held that Bonham didn’t or couldn’t swing. Complete and utter bollocks. In terms of technique and smooth execution Bonham is way better than Baker (or Moon The Loon, for that matter).
Why figures like Baker get, or got, so catty about it all is, if not a mystery, at least a shame. Why not just admit that they’re different, but both great, in their own ways?