Melancholia

September 17, 2009

Everyman, and The Road Drill Man drilling a hole in the street, despite the vibrations making thought rather impossible, may be stuck in Melancholia (Not a place in England, but a Country of the Mind) just as much as the over-rated poets whose genius is as The Voice of a Higher Being voiced through Earthly Beings.

Melancholia is that land out to sea being towed off into the mist, as you gaze from the white windswept cliffs of Velvet Beds next to the Mustard Paths.

These poets often dying young because they Know Too Much.

Pity those comfortable Ladies who can grow old and Make Do perhaps. The only salvation for poets and over sensitive souls whose mood takes a dive as the temperature drops is Deliverance*.

Cycle from Marsden to South Shields and gaze over to Tynemouth.

By October ‘These People’ will have left Melancholia being distracted by keeping warm.

* De`liv´er`ance
1. The act of delivering or freeing from restraint, captivity, peril.

2. Act of bringing forth children.

Here is the full text of Sculptor (1958) by Sylvia Plath
Sculptor (1958)

“To his house the bodiless
Come to barter endlessly
Vision, wisdom, for bodies
Palpable as his, and weighty.
Hands moving move priestlier
Than priest’s hands, invoke no vain
Images of light and air
But sure stations in bronze, wood, stone.
Obdurate, in dense-grained wood,
A bald angel blocks and shapes
The flimsy light; arms folded
Watches his cumbrous world eclipse
Inane worlds of wind and cloud.
Bronze dead dominate the floor,
Resistive, ruddy-bodied,
Dwarfing us. Our bodies flicker
Toward extinction in those eyes
Which, without him, were beggared
Of place, time, and their bodies.
Emulous spirits make discord,
Try entry, enter nightmares
Until his chisel bequeaths
Them life livelier than ours,
A solider repose than death’s.”


Leeds

September 17, 2009


‘Of dreamscapes and obscure lunar conundrums
Which seemed, when dreamed, to mean so profoundly much’

The Ghost’s Leavetaking : Sylvia Plath : (1958)

It would be odd to base a cycle tour of England on shopping centres or those large futuristic silver boxes in the landscape, distribution centres. The logic of distribution is based on, the huge task once started, the English Motorway Network.
Like The Great Wall of China the lettering on these Distribution Hubs is visible from space as in IKEA Team Valley and Junction 29 on the M1 before Ilkeston.

ASDA’s HQ is Leeds, also an Israeli Stützpunkt with a Prominent Cube among the Dereliction of Wakefield, South Yorkshire. Further, the logic Centralization in The Middle of the Country or Convenience Stores near The Port of Southampton.

If distribution though is the main mantra for shopping why not Edeka invite car drivers on to a container ship sailed into the Port of Tyne Authority at Willington Quay?©®™

People often refer to Blue Water or White City as having conquered that place by visiting it as tourists but they really are invading tribes.©®™

Such a tour although obscure and frankly slightly mad would lead the cycle tourist into Ordinary Everyday English Life.

Lika a Twilight Zone the gap between August and September is easy to get stuck in.


Bradmore

September 17, 2009

One of the best cycle rides in England is from Bradmore a village clinging on the edge Gotham Moor. From Edwalton suburb cycle out to Ruddington towards Plumtree.
At the back of Bradmore church is an invitation to cross Gotham Moor to Gotham Pastures and Clifton.

Like Ridley Scott’s Hovis Ad the track decends on to farmland along a grassed over disused waggonway crossing the Great Central Railway over an abandoned bridge to Gotham. Seeing a soul out there is reminiscent of Vincent Van Gogh’s early Dark Works of Agricultural Workers before he worked “an official servant of God” in Nuenen, in The Borinage coal mining district of Belgium of men manually sewing seeds before mechanization, or obscure 17th century dutch landscape painting.

Particularly I noticed the Dying of the Light as three trees aligned themselves for photography. There is no reason to disassemble the landscape so features, like a large rectangular pond, remain intact. Like the the use of materials (in architectural ironmongery) like bunker concrete and rusting metal the observer wonders how he will outlive these materials.

Striding across the landscape, (sometimes the ground underfoot is too rough and you must dismount) you know you have to get back to your shelter like in an episode of The Twilight Zone.


Top Valley, Mapperley, Nottingham

September 16, 2009


‘How she longed for winter then!–
Scrupulously austere in its order
Of white and black
Ice and rock, each sentiment within border,
And heart’s frosty discipline
Exact as a snowflake.’

Sylvia Plath, 1956

Working in the glasshouse, on a terraced, cultivated allotment below Albert Road as Sorrow and Joy glide in. This Magpie Pair, one a repetition of the other: Black and White like they are cold winter birds. I felt this year was a repetition, a repetition of years past.

Repetion in poets is a sign of a Death Wish they say. How ‘they’ know is a mystery.
How quickly hot living turns to pale dying, though. What a shock the End of Summer is.

Summer changed to Autumn here on Hunger Hill. Storm clouds divided the whole sky once horizontally then vertically with a burning intense sun in between. I noticed on Hunger Hill the cloud banks temporarily hang over the town bellow and dash it with rain.

The Death of Joy was so quick. Unable to participate I looked on passive and watched the season change. Despite watching enjoying being in summer, a feeling of being in the red hot present, despite knowing the approaching colours were pale, I stayed still and witnessed the change from Summer to Autumn happen on a single day.

Art conceals art and underneath is the nitty gritty. Skin conceals and contains sometimes unpleasant reality. Passive Enjoyment of The Changing of the Season may leave you vulnerable to the full meaning of Autumn but it is better to feel than not to.

Life is transitory and ephemeral. If sensitised, souls feel this as they leave August and enter September.

Over there in Trent Bridge there is a family of fifteen Magpies. They apparently decorate their nests with jewels.

No Mayflies here but a Dragonfly repeatedly checks intrusion in to its territory.

Winds are now from the north. Time for a change.


Mansfield

September 13, 2009


‘As gruesome as Mansfield’s death was, at least it was quick. Mansfield probably never felt what happened to her, and because of the dark she likely had an instant of “We’re going to crash!” shock to cope with before the impact.’

Jane Mansfield dies by night, next a Luisianna swamp 29th June, 1967

In 1816 Nottingham slipped into a deep depression in the hosiery industry fortunately offset by a rise of lace. Nottingham was so overcrowded ( the degredation and helpless misery of the poor stockingers wandering gaunt and hunger-stricken through the streets) workers moved beyond the town boundaries thus accounting for the wierd geography and strange hautiness of the the outer suburbs of Nottingham. Making the move the nostalgic workers glued to their heritage called their towns New This and New That like New Baseford, New Radford, New Lenton and New Sneignton linked by minor rivers and streams to wash and dye the cloth. The mind boggles also at how arsenic and chromium in the drinking water of these streams has led to the mentality of the local corner enders who rap in a series of incomprehensible cliches heavily influenced by The West Indies, Innit?

On reflection a picture reveals itself as The City of Nottingham slowly appearing as rotten , rotting, ashamed of it’s past and hiding and blocking off it’s history.

Mansfield is an isolated town further out in northern Nottinghamshire accessible from Nottingham by rail. One of the hosiery towns the houses were however smaller. Mansfield persons are articulate and ‘In Your Face’, a happy few away from Nottingham.

Cycle to the town centre a double twin Arndale thoroughfare set on an incline, but don’t be there on a Saturday night meant to be lawless.


The Lincolnshire Wolds

September 13, 2009


Lincoln Wolds

Soham is a small market town, if Ely is a satellite of Cambridge then Soham is a satellite of Ely and beyond is a vast (almost) flat plain of Cambridgeshire and Lincolnshire.

Nearby is the Littleport far inland and Barway, a dead end where once there was a bridge over to the other side (of the River Cam).

That summer Jessica Chapman and Holly Wells wandered into Soham Village College, Cambridgeshire a sunny Sunday, August 4, 2002 to visit Maxine Carr a classroom assistant.

As this story was revealed to the nation the world changed from hot August Summer to Autumn of September.

For the Baby Boom Generation and the Rest of the Nation the loss of the two girls, the Wealth of the Nation, effectively dressed in national costume (Manchester United replica shirts) like the two Princes in the Tower, ‘The most replenished sweet work of nature’, (Act IV Richard III), was a tragedy where the nation symbolically suffered the worst loss of all: The Death of Children.

Out of vision from the Fens and woodland of East Anglia, The Lincoln Wolds rise to the River Humber continuing towards Northumbria as The Yorkshire Wolds.

From Lincoln cycle north to Market Rasen. Here in this truly innocuous country town is where Ian Huntley, The Soham Murderer, in a solicitor’s office first met Maxine Carr.

Cycle north east then north where the rise of the Lincoln Wolds is rather sudden where the feeling is one of one being elevated into a heavenly place floating somehow and remote from The Carnal Earth.

Like Skybase in Captain Scarlet.


Rannock Moor

September 11, 2009


The best place to be in The British Isles in late September is not England but north of Sandwood Bay, Scotland where by night you may see the Northern Lights (Sun reflecting off the North Pole) when a slight chill sets in and the World Begins to Die. This dying is imperceptible in Scotland because these autumnnal colours are the colours of Scotland along with the Royal Blue of the Scottish Flag.

Not un-noticed by Franco Zeffirelli (locatoin for Hamlet 1990 Dunnottar Castle, Stonehaven, and Dover Castle)(it is said he was struck by the light) the suns rays steeply inclined highlight these colours in particular.

Ask a professor of physics why the sky is blue and he may attempt to tell you.™©®

Interestingly the most beautiful sky blues and the colour of sand when reversed in Photoshop reveal the Most Beautiful Coulours of Night.™©®

Sandwood Bay is the Single Most Beautiful place in the United Kingdom being both remote and unspoilt.

Separate Cycling and Walking in your mind like the Right Side of Your Brain presuming you have one (The Gurdian) and The Left Side of Your Brain (The World Wide Web) ™©®. Sand is incomatible with cycle parts and on cliffs you shove your bike mostly.

So there is no point in cycling to Sandwood Bay. Drive from Dyce Airport and park in the car park.

N.B. Jump up and down just outside Rannock Moor Station the bog shakes.


Sandwood Bay

September 7, 2009

Deliverance:- Archery, Hillbillies, Appalacia and TVA (tba)

‘The Golden Eye shone, not with the practicality of breeding, so necessary to its survival , but the promise of it that promised other things, another life, deliverance’.

James Dickey

In 1970, he penned his best-selling novel, Deliverance. The book, which was later made into a major motion picture, exposed readers to scenes of violence and nightmarish horror, much as his poetry had done. Though the novel was well-received, Dickey remained devoted to poetry.

‘The act of delivering or freeing from restraint, captivity, peril, and the like; rescue; as, the deliverance of a captive.

Act of bringing forth children.

The state of being delivered, or freed from restraint.

Anything delivered or communicated; esp., an opinion or decision expressed publicly.

Any fact or truth which is decisively attested or intuitively known as a psychological or philosophical datum; as, the deliverance of consciousness.’

Deliverence: (Gernam)Befreiung


Bassingfield

September 7, 2009

Bassingfield

As dusk approaches a Tawny (Barn) Owl swoops over wild flower meadows at Bassingfield. The gamekeeper, leans on among foliage Tollerton Airstrip Pill Box discharging a double barrelled shotgun unable to allow the birds to live.

A hare concealed in a shawn wheat field darts off jinking.

Non Urban Foxes retire here to fox holes one of them in one of the larger Pill Boxes sentries round Tollerton Airfield.

It is possible to cycle here rambling from The Grantham Canal Towpath to Grantham and places in between (only occasionally crossing roads but under a viaduct of the Roan Road The A60 from Leicester to Newark and Lincoln) (tbc) to Cotgrave, Harby and Redmile.

A culvert drains from underneath the airfield. In this flat once undersea world there are no watersheds.

Down in Nottingham the dreary socialist from Uttoxeter intercepts The Null and Void on Station Street Corner End.

Like a watershed (The Danube, Rhine and Rhone all start within inches of each other but flow in Four Heavenly Directions) The English Mob are forced to decide between the BNP, UKIP, New Labour and Tories.

President Dwight D Eisenhower (tbc) worryingly presided over The United States of America through The Thirties leading to The Second World War sending in A Single Spy into IBM New York to discover IBM President Watson of Hollerith had an office in Kaddettenweg, Lichtefelde West, Berlin opposite the Gestapo Officer Training College. The Serial Number on Prisoners Uniform was a Hollerith device who traded with IBM throughout the Second World War via Hollerith GmbH.

The War Got Rid of The Unemployed.©®*

Like the Black and White of the Prussian Flag pragmatic Eisenhower had not chosen which side of the watershed America would come out on, only being swayed by The Attack on Pearl Harbour.

So although The English Mob are forced to decide between the BNP, UKIP, New Labour and Tories (Their colours are not Black and White but, Red, White and Blue, Purple and Green) it would foolish to vote BNP or UKIP unless you live in Heanor, Sutton in Ashfield, Bradford, Burnley, Dagenham, Stoke on Trent and Barking.

It would be Barking Mad to vote for BNP as trained by Rechtsradikalen affiliates from Berlin Brandenburg (A frightful group who mean business With Chilling Effects)
The BNP would quickly swap their cheap suits for Black Shirts and form a Paramilitary Wing.

As became clear from Operationsheft GB dissenters who didn’t meet Erewash Man’s standards would discretely be transported via The Channel Tunnel, slowly stripped of their identity and earthbound positions ending in the obscure sodden Birch Meadow to abstract boreal forests into the oblivion of eternal night.

Many of the BNP are of shallow substance being upper working class, who envy how English women of all classes are enthralled by black men whose loins were hewn on the Savannah for a million years and only survived the Slave Ships from Natural Selection whist the Weedy English degenerate on The Rotten Island.

Once a woman goes with a black man there’s no going back.


Swiss Cottage

September 7, 2009

West Heath, Hampstead Heath, London

Whitestone Pond is the apex of a high hill flattened by a triangular pond when The Blitz strikes the gold lightning conductor on the adjacent walled residence. Nearby on East Heath Hampstead Heath a pebble track (where the fairground stands on Spring Bank Holiday) leads to a grove affording the best view over London. The rusty cream outwash pebbles remind the lucky viewer on a late Sunny Sunday in Summer here on this ridge the glacier was held back.

Remains of a Saxon Dyke and The Heaped Losses of a Iron Age Fort appear as Pre-Raphaelite staged props further over towards Kite Hill.

Mark Almond assaults the north face via steep Haverstock Hill (or Roslyn Hill) from Swiss Cottage or Belsize Park.

“I saw you on Hampstead Heath in the car park behind The Spaniard’s Inn on Sunday” I said to the nice girl in Wandsworth Bridge Road.”

“Was I in the Lotus?”

“No you were just sitting there normally”.

Each year Hampstead Heath is given over to London and Home Counties Cross Country Runners where old fashioned juvenilia girls in their wholesome pursuit render a 1930s flashback in Running Club Colours.

Gay English Cyclists (and pedestrians) gather on a short lozenge of grass adjacent to East Heath or on the slope behind the Men’s Pond. Within the Real Tennis Courtyard of The Men’s Pond men adjoin in loin clothes chatting in perfect harmony: Gay, Normal, Actors, Runners, Lecturers, Ex-Boxers and Orthodox Jews from Stamford Hill attracted by the free entrance and of course Russian Bodyguards who may ask you while swimming in the cold Men’s Pond:
“Are you from UK?” meaning “Are You Gay?”

Be certain to lock your bicycle securely fixed to a fence!

This is Camden Town.