On discourse and debate

When I was at school, aged 12 I guess, I was in a kind of “sponsored” fight. There was a bully named Dave. He was bigger than everyone else, like a scarecrow in a field of overgrown wheat. He was picky with his friends. He decided he didn’t like me because of the shoes. His way of bullying was not to beat me up, but to force me to beat up another kid, whose name was Geoffrey. Geoffrey was kind of small and wimpy, and a bit annoying, according to a Dave the school bully. I was told if I didn’t fight him I would be beaten up, and then the rest of my year group were told to get to the orchard at break time, where they could watch me beating this guy up. It was a fight, a real bout, and it was sponsored by Dave the school bully, who would have sold tickets if he’d had the brains to organise it.

We are familiar, I’m sure, with the concept of going down and staying down. They hit you, you go down, you don’t get up until everyone leaves. I was planning this in reverse, that I would throw a left hook (gentle, made to look heavy) and this kid would go down, my contractual obligation would be over and I could get on with practising Scott Joplin in my fucking lunch hour.

Anyway, I did it, and he surely caught the strange brand of apologetic panic in my face as I landed the blow. His glasses fell off. I was then required to get on top of him and give him a stagey pasting.

The next day Geoffrey comes in and he’s black and blue down one side of his face. I felt pretty bad. I wished I hadn’t done it. He was simply an annoying kid in the wrong place at the wrong time. The look in his eyes, straining through broken glasses at me. The look. The eyes. If I hadn’t seen these things, I might have forgotten about it, wiped it from the mind and moved on. I couldn’t.

For some reason this is all coming back to me today, and it’s because of Facebook. There are a good few pastings dished out there these days. A few pompous claims and pointed barbs. When was the last time anyone looked into the eyes of a human being whilst sticking the boot in against people and groups, good or bad. That look that reminds us we are all human, the flicker of common humanity, that feeling reminds me I am part of a larger group of things much like myself. When that is gone, we are just a loose fitting sack of opinions, upbringings and fixed term prejudices which we let off from time to time. There’s rarely any change to the status quo. When was your mind last changed online?

Don’t get me wrong, I thought all this was a godsend at first. I am quite a shy person and happy to retreat into a cave and hurl rocks out of its entrance at whoever was passing. Eye contact is a major project at the best of times. But I would rather be reminded of that fact for every second that goes by than get sucked any further in to this blank, blinkered, rabble-rousing trend any further.

Go to the pub and talk it over. We are all doing our best. Whatever you may think. Change your mind, or see a new opinion and keep yours anyway. But see it at least, whoever you are.

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“Q” is for…

“Q Samba” : Arto Lindsay, from “Mundo Civilizado”

https://youtu.be/JkEMwcm4vbM

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Arto Lindsay.  The geeky, skinny kid at school, scribbling in his notebook when he thinks no one’s looking, or when he thinks that people think he thinks no one’s looking.  Probably just schoolboy crush scribbles, arrows through hearts, epigrams.  Eyes almost upstaged by his owl-like lenses, which are looking straight at you, and it’s a hard stare to look back at.  People don’t.  Prom Queens, though, might take him home in one of those High School movies, people would learn to look beyond appearances, towards new experiences, everyone would learn things and nothing would change.  Music, credits, thank yous, etcetera.

But he’s an eccentric.  A real one, not a muscle boy they put in glasses to indicate intelligence, reticence and hostility to games lessons.  He is thin, thin like he lives on some unknown energy, some ambiguous pulse.  He plays guitar, but no real notes, just a noise, and only when it’s called for. Mostly it just hangs around his neck, as it does on this song.  The weight of it might kill him.

Through the gate, now the path winds to the door, you pass sculptures, perpendicular pagan gods staring down suburban sidewalks, old amplifiers, guitar strings wound around slow growing creepers. Carnival melting into darkness and out again.   It’s taking forever to get to the door.

Shall we listen to some music?  He reaches for a cd, the cover a photo of a woman’s face, or maybe a girl’s, her expression masked by the blood red smear of a rose.  Smiling eyes though; maybe.  A strange, disjointed guitar, Brazilian, lurches into a kind of beat that doesn’t belong where it is, as a voice, half-spoken, half sung, asks:

How do you do that?  

Did you just make it up?  

Is there a special need for that?

Now don’t just make it up”

Not exactly poetry, this is like a kid asking questions at school.  But he grows up fast;

“How do you shake just that and not shake all the rest

Breaking all those beats apart you careless hypnotist”

A careless hypnotist, still thinking about what that implies.  The lyrics feel like they are meaning something, but they sometimes fold in on themselves, like…

You dance like you’re not alone

You dance like I’m not here

Often they seem like a study in a single sound…

Your supple cheekiness

Supreme funkiness

Your sure footedness

And you pelvic finesse.”

But that last line,”pelvic finesse”, what the hell is that?  Animal sexuality crossed with featherlight delicacy?  The music echoes the words, mismatched but familiar sounds, somehow stitched together, a brash and buzzy keyboard flooding the light and sunny samba like chilli sauce in Angel Delight, its line left jagged and raw like the edges of an awkward conversation.  Samba school drums sucked into a lop-sided sample, another piece in the jigsaw of disorder, of musical and verbal memories, those memories that for each person are their own.

Except for the Prom Queen. Tradition dictates that her head must be empty, as she trots home to recount, perhaps reluctantly, some other version of these few short minutes.

 

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