What Makes a Good Piece of Writing?

| sophiekemsley

Like a disturbing volume of others my age, I’ve often felt a bit ‘priced out’ of modern life and have considered ways to make some extra cash.  I’ve sometimes wondered if my writing may be a useful vehicle for such.  It is, after all, something I massively enjoy doing, and I’m a huge advocate for the idea that the more passionate you feel about something, the greater the chance of doing something good with it.  At the very least, it becomes more important to try and see where it can lead to, cash motivations aside.

It sounds a bit cringe-worthy to admit, but very now and then, there’s a fleeting daydream of opening up – with fluttering fingers – a copy of my first book as it arrives to me fresh from the publisher, and breathing in a huge sense of pride and relief that the time and effort spent on those words turned out to be ‘worth it’ (in the sense of mass produced matte covers in bold colours that are nice to run my fingernails down, and fresh white pages.)

But for every daydream there’s a resounding countenance of realism and I know that the above only turns out true for a minority of writers, so it would probably be unwise for me to invest too much hope or need into the visual (but I’m still going to give it my best shot).  For the most part, the content of my writing is confined to this Blog, which I don’t tend to advertise overly often.  There’s something about having the product of your heart and soul be critiqued by strangers on the world-wide-web that makes me hesitant to share it too much, although every now and again I’ll find the courage to send it off to places. Sometimes,  somebody might publish it (a very proud day even though the ‘Comments’ section promptly turned into some unrelated gender-based debate on a post that was effectively trying to promote a positive message. Oh internets, you big ol’ misery guts).  But most of the time, they might reply with the standard, “sorry, not this time” e-mail. And that’s really okay, because success – generally – would render itself meaningless and yield less joy if it didn’t have to battle past it’s stubborn opposition along the way.

In my more recent quests to do more with my writing I’ve been looking online for possible outlets, and I must say it’s been pretty depressing; not for a lack of opportunity, but for the number of articles I’ve stumbled across about ‘what makes a good piece of creative writing.’  These articles all claim to offer tips and guidance on how to compose the kind of pieces that would apparently be any publisher or audience’s supposed wet dream, and they jar me immeasurably.  Like with most forms of art, who exactly determines what’s good and what’s not?  And since when was it ever suitable or okay to implement a definitive set of regulations like this?  That just can’t work; there is nothing out there that doesn’t divide opinion somewhere along the line, even the best-selling authors in the world are not without those who are indifferent to their work.

The whole point of creativity is that it comes from the heart and soul.  It shouldn’t just be a fabricated product of one too many (often contradictory) recipes for success published around the internet by people driven by formulas and a nauseous thirst for ‘likes’ and ‘hits’.  To tailor your writing to bay into the ideals of the self-appointed directorate when really the beauty of writing (or any other kind of creativity) has only ever been – and should only ever be – about one’s ability to express what they mean in a way that may just so happen to resonate with those who view it, just seems so inherently wrong.

I’ve been writing in this Blog each month for six years not because I’m trying to sell anything or look for acclaim, I just like to write, and wanted somewhere I can keep all my articles in one place as a personal portfolio.  And I would far rather keep it that way, than create pieces in which I can no longer recognise myself due to a pressure to amend it in line with the experts’ view.  To me, that’s tantamount to plagiarism.

Creativity should never be about trying to force your work to fit a particular model, and that isn’t just me being reticent to how much I would love to have my life totally ‘made’ from this hobby, because that would be amazing, and I’ll continue to look for opportunities to send off pieces that I think particular websites could be interested in.  Who wouldn’t love to be comfortable and financially secure from something which they’re happy to pump out twenty four seven?  Who wouldn’t love to have fans of their work? However, if that lifestyle meant having the products of my heart and soul prodded and poked with beyond all recognition, then I don’t think I would want to have it.

I’ll give an example.  When rejecting one of my pieces, one very famous host-site suggested that I could improve the likelihood of things being published if the topic was ‘more current’, on the basis that more people would have an interest in it.  It’s a sensible theory, of course, but what if I have nothing to say about those topics?  Enthusiasm is hard enough to feign in person, let alone in writing, despite having Caps Lock and exclamation marks to aid us (I’m SO excited about Pippa Middleton’s wedding I might need a glass of coconut water to contain myself!!!) It just doesn’t work, does it?

Nothing makes me happier (excluding crisps, gin and cured meats) than people telling me they like what I’ve written here, but I wouldn’t feel as content about it if I couldn’t feel like I ‘owned’ the words I posted, and any creative who does what they do out of love for doing it probably feels exactly the same.  A completed ‘Paint by Numbers’ can look worthy of the Louvre from a distance but you wouldn’t exactly be heralding the person who completed it as the next Edgar Degas once you found out that they had been told what colours to put where.  Plenty of people can follow a recipe or set of instructions but only one person can say what you want to say, so say it. Do it.  Colour it. Write it. Bend it. Send it. Pan-fry it and serve with curly kale, if that’s how you want to do it…

There’s every value in looking for guidance when you’re trying to build up confidence in your skills, in fact if I could have my dream job it would be to help people learn how to express themselves through creative writing.  It’s when you start going against your heart though, and start to make your painting or chapter more reflective of what you think people want to see, that you become in danger of losing the special relationship you have with your paintbrush or pen (or, well, keyboard).  The importance of that relationship should never be underestimated, particularly not in a society that can be superficial enough, because essentially that relationship is the key to making creativity enjoyable.  That’s what makes a creative piece of writing good.

I don’t know if anything more tangible will come out of my love of writing, or if I’ll ever run fingernails down any matte covers, but I’ve had a nice couple of hours writing this, and that’s payment enough.

Song of the Day: Sondre Lerche – Violent Game (Ice Choir Remix)

Every now and then you discover a piece of music that stops you in your tracks in awe as you try and take it in for the first time, and for me, this is one of those pieces.  Sondre Lerche’s slow Norwegian indie-pop meets Ice Choir’s energetic synthesisers and comes together for four and a half minutes of absolute wow.

Hearing from my Great Uncle

| sophiekemsley

I can’t even really recall how we got on to the topic, but my mother and I were talking about a house in Ospringe that my grandfather had lived in, and before I knew it she had fetched this booklet and was placing it into my hands:

Len Poem 1

“Your great Uncle Len used to write poems about what it was like to grow up and live in Faversham, and in 1989 he sent a heap to The Faversham Society and they decided to issue a whole booklet out of them.  You’re probably old enough to understand them now, but you certainly weren’t back then!”

Until today, all I could have told you about my great Uncle Len was that he had a stubbly beard and smoked.  I think I only ever saw him twice.  Once was at a family party at the RC Church on Tanners Street, Faversham, in the late 1980’s (though my memories are fragmented on account of only being about four years old at the time), and once was in my grandfather’s hallway a few years later as he arrived just as we were leaving. Great Uncle Len died around twenty years ago and I know shockingly little about him, which is why reading through his carefully crafted words this evening felt like a huge gift.

Inside the booklet are dozens of his poems about growing up in Faversham: the Summers picking hops, watching for barges whilst stood in the mud on the Creek at Hollow Shore, and the night he and his nine siblings, including my grandfather, had to move house in the dark because they didn’t want anybody else to see how few possessions they owned.

I think what got to me the most whilst reading those poems was the remarkable sense of gaining posthumous familiarity with Uncle Len, and the realisation that a lot of what he had to say in poems written thirty years ago could still ring true today.  A lot of the buildings he refers to in the poems are still there.  Some have changed hands, but others haven’t.  In addition, all the land still remains, only it maybe has a few (or more) extra features now, like the ’70’s residential builds that now share occupancy with the meadows opposite his first family home.  The picture below, if you can make out the words, is a poem Len wrote specifically about these changes and developments:

Len Poem 2

For those unable to view the image, the bulk of the poem rues what he perceives as a loss of the town he grew up in to the town he later returned to, ending with a bittersweet account of passing a former acquaintance on the street, which unexpectedly then wed both past and present together for a moment of contentment.

And no doubt most people when they reach a certain age, or even before, will probably feel the same way that Len did when they look around ‘the place called home’.  To me, this poem, like the rest in the book, has served as a sobering reminder of the eternal nature of change generally, as well as in relation to the landscape.  If it’s not the land or the people around us changing, it’s us ourselves.  New buildings and new people viewed with new and enlightened eyes, leaving very little room for anything to stay the same.

But perhaps my favourite thing about coming across this booklet this evening was realising the magic of creativity and how, even long after they’ve gone, we can still find out so much more about people from acquainting ourselves with the things they left behind.  I feel like I’ve now had my third ever encounter with great Uncle Len, and now I know that he had a beard, smoked, and wrote damn good poems that I’ll think of, and consider, during any future visit to Faversham.  I’ll never see the place in the same way again…

Song of the Day: Bad Wave – 1955

The song is a pretty cool indie-synth pop number, but the song combined with the video is something especially amazing.

The Sea At Night

| sophiekemsley

I wanted to drive to the coast and I needed to be by the coast.   Reeling from a heavy cold and a couple of recent hard-hitting bits of negative news, I just wanted to be alone and clear my head for an hour or so, just the way us introverts like to do, and the sea air was the only thing I felt could fulfill that purpose here on this random Sunday night in March.

The sea at night is a bit like a secret party, one to which only you are invited, full of mysterious activity and wonder.  The whistling winds swirl in and out and along the tides of ear canals as seagulls squeak out at sea, still flying in their flocks, accustomed to a routine which only they know.

And on the horizon, some kind of vessel, probably a cargo ship, oozes by slowly.  You only know it’s there from the flashing red lights which, I assume, are its way of navigating through these seas.  I think about the people on that ship right now, hard-working labourers no doubt, who are probably looking at their watches and thinking about their families on the mainland tucking into bed.  Or maybe they’re just striving to connect to the Wi-Fi from a yellowing, intermittent dongle in order to resume their game of Candy Crush.   Or perhaps, pouring themselves oily instant coffee into a chipped mug and scrabbling around a battered biscuit tin for the last remaining Hobnob.  Who really knows.

My thoughts then turn to the cargo itself; what are the contents of those containers that are probably aboard, and will they one day eventuate into flotsam on a beach on the other side of the world, to be discovered by excited local children?  Just like the residents of Cornwall, who recently found pieces of Lego swept ashore from when a rogue wave had interfered with a vessel taking the toy from Rotterdam to New York in the late 1990’s.  I conclude, with no real rationale at all, that the containers on the vessel ahead of me host boxes of toothbrushes, and imagine an excited little Scandinavian child lifting one from the banks of a remote islet off the coast of Bergen, Norway, in the year 2026.

The distant ship then conjures thoughts of recent news articles which described how thirty years ago, just under two hundred people were killed when a popular passenger vessel capsized on its way back to Kent from the continent.  A crew-member of the Herald of Free Enterprise had made a huge yet human mistake and left a door open allowing water through.  As a family we had sailed with Townsend Thoresen many times, much like our relatives and neighbours had too.  My sole recollection had been picking up an M&M off the floor which my mother had swiftly snatched from me in fear that it was something more sinister than that.  News of the disaster hadn’t seemed real the first time I was old enough to comprehend it, and it certainly didn’t seem any more real now.  I look out over the mass of black water not a million miles from where the tragedy had taken place, and pay thought to the excessive number of those who perished upon their return from an innocent continental break on that night.  Life is so cruel at times.

On a well-timed brighter note, literally so, I spot the offshore Vattenfall wind-farms flicker red in the distance.  For a moment I am transported back to August 2014 when a friend of mine, Michelle,  who lived in Canterbury for a short period, joined us for a picnic here on Tankerton beach.  She had a friend who wanted to join us a little later into the afternoon, and strenuously tried to help her navigate her way over the phone, “You see those wind farms out in the distance?  We’re sat in the bay that’s directly opposite those.”

It’s a quote we laugh about anytime we’re driving along the Kent coast… because from Whitstable down to Thanet (16 miles)….those wind-farms, which stand some way out from the shore, always seem “directly opposite”!  Quite how Michelle managed to successfully guide her veterinarian friend to the exact groynes between which we were eating our lunch using that piece of advice, we’ll never quite know, but we’ll always be amused.

Then there’s the beach huts below.  We used to own one of those, a gift from my grandfather,  before vandals tore it apart for what was the last time my parents would stand for.  Many happy Summers had been spent sat inside that wooden solitude, eating fresh rotisserie chicken from the nearest corner shop (now popular fish-restaurant Jo-Jos), and dipping into the sea on boiling August afternoons.  I’d brought numerous school friends down to visit “the beach hut” , and how nice it had been in comparison to the suburban Greater London life we were otherwise used to.  Watford was a great place to grow up, but it didn’t have a beach, and that was the problem.  That was what used to make the journey home along a soulless and grey M25 reminiscent of the morning’s first opening of the eyes, prompting the sudden cessation to a dream.

The call of nature aroused me mid-daydream.  Or mid-sea-at-night-dream.  A day’s worth of coffee is difficult to contest even though I could’ve quite happily stayed outside, looking at the twinkling compressed freckles of gold in the distance denoting the next town, and wondering about the life going on beneath them.  I went into the nearest pub I could find and ordered a cup of tea, and then got my notebook out and started writing this against the backdrop of a middle-aged trio at the next table talking about Shepherds Pie.  Of all things.

I’m glad I live near to the sea.

Song of the Day: Lacrosse – Don’t Be Scared

This is a beautiful song from a beautiful Swedish band.

 

 

Das Dunia J’Adore pt.1

| sophiekemsley

.(“The World I Love”)

‘Indonesia’ – a name that will immediately evoke images of the exotic.  An archipelago characterised by colour: blue seas, white sands, lush green palms and dazzling yellows of Durian flesh alongside the ravishing reds of the ‘rambutan’ fruit (it means ‘hairy fruit’).  ‘Angkots’ painted in bright purples, blues and oranges that zip dozens of huddled passengers round dusty streets blaring out that same old  D’Bagindas album from 2010 through speakers that crackle under the pressure of the driver’s desired volume…

…And the ominous dark grey skies that hang over the nation’s capital, Jakarta, as I sit alone inside a fast-food outlet at Arion Mall in the east of the city.  Outside, the rain hammers down on traffic that will choke up the streets for hours to come, but the inevitable arrangement of horns thankfully cannot be heard from the refuge provided by this Mall.  Instead, I am heckled by a quartet of teenage girls who marvel at the colour of my skin.  Tourists don’t really come to these parts.  I am here visiting friends who grew up in neighbourhoods not far from here, and if it weren’t for them, I doubt I would have come here either.

The young girls ask me a series of questions and take it in turns to pose with me in a picture.  Picture after picture.  The forced smile slowly dwindling into complete lack of expression with each flash from the Blackberry.  I have humoured this contact for a while, but now I really just want to be finishing the half-eaten plate of fried chicken that sits before me.  The girls ask for my Instagram username and when I eventually return to a place with WiFi I’ll suddenly see that I have four new followers.  They’ll upload the photos from our meeting and decorate the captions with #foreigner.

Before I leave the Mall, I decide that it’s time to buy some Batik garments.  I have always liked Batik, with its bright, bold colours and patterns.  An assistant with a huge smile approaches me.  He is wearing a waistcoat and looks like he could be about to break into song, maybe an Indonesian version of Agadoo or something.  “Hello Miiiiss, can I help you?”.

(How did he guess I wasn’t Indonesian?)

I immediately reply in basic and broken yet better-than-nothing Bahasa Indonesian that, “I like Batik.  I look for Batik”

The assistant’s smile extends further and he begins to rifle through the collections passing me every damn item of Batik to try on.  He’s a natural salesman.  Having trialed each piece I eventually emerge from the changing rooms with the couple of dresses I have selected to go on and buy.  The assistant eagerly waits by the door, enthused to hear about how I got on.  He is pleased with the items I’ve chosen, but is also keen that I reconsider my decision not to buy a rather dreadful-looking black and red piece.  Whilst watching him redundantly point out all of its merits another dress catches my eye, and it looks like the size on display would fit me perfectly.  I go and take a further look.

“Errr maybe not this dress for you Miiiiiss as we only have this size, and errr you have fat”

For a second I take offence though it’s hard to continue to do so when it’s clear that none was meant.  What amuses me most is the way in which a steadily growing rapport could suddenly cease due to a moment of lingual naivety. I smile at my new friend – my new attentive stylist – as he goes on to initiate the payment process before we bid one another Selamat Tinggal forever.

I go out into the rain and join the traffic on the Transjakarta busway back to my friend’s house.  A five minute journey takes half an hour due to the clogged nature of the traffic.  Equatorial rule dictates that daylight is limited, and so it’s already dark outside.  It’s September 2015 and this is worlds away from the Indonesian experience of 2010 – which was much more reminiscent of the opening paragraph to this piece – but it doesn’t matter, because these real, rugged, unfiltered experiences are all just a part of Das Dunia J’adore…

Song of the Day: Jr Jr – Change My Mind

Detroit indie-pop.  This song, written and released only last month, has quite a powerful message behind it and I must admit to being somewhat awestruck upon the first listen, especially having read the artist’s personal description of what it means and where it came from.  I do wish songs like this had more prominence in the media, as this is exactly the kind of thing that people need to hear…

10 Easy Favours You Can Do for Your Soul

| sophiekemsley

Ten easy habits to develop that will have a positive impact on yourself.  A good way to begin a New Year.  Make 2017 yours.

1) Drink a glass of water

Whilst it’s often dismissed as being a “boring” choice of beverage and thus one that probably isn’t consumed enough (let’s face it, who goes to a restaurant and orders a glass of water without feeling entirely awkward about it), it’s common knowledge that drinking more water increases your energy, settles your emotions and helps with weight loss.  As well as many other benefits.

Imagine it as a spring-clean for your soul, and try and get into the routine of ‘washing yourself’ multiple times a day to the point where – much like brushing your teeth – it becomes a habit that feels uneasy if you skip it.

If you are reading this post, then I am going to ask that you get up and pour yourself a glass of water right now, and drink it.  Just do it, no excuses or unnecessary delays, and no giving in to the temptation of ‘more interesting’ things like Rooibos tea or anything else, particularly those that are brown in colour.

I’m certainly going to help myself to a glass of water right after I type this full-stop (.)

2) Send a message to a friend you’ve not spoken to in a while

See what’s new with them.  Find out how they’re feeling.  Perhaps it may turn out that you both have a plan to travel to a similar place in the not too distant future, and can arrange to meet.  If the friend lives nearby, arrange to go for a coffee.  Just talk.  Listen.  Re-engage.  Don’t let the ever-increasing velocity of time, or distance, swallow up a valued friend.  Add another chapter to your friendship by creating new memories together.

3) Read a book

What I like about books, is that they are escapism without the materialism; an escapism that you yourself have more control over.  No overpaid actors and actresses who have already played a billion roles before. No superfluous special effects and stupid noises.  Just some words, passionately pulled together by a writer, probably underneath the warm glow of a battered old desk-lamp and a plate of Rich Tea biscuits in a study that smells of dust and sweat.  That writer put their heart and soul into those words for you to enjoy.

Those words: just some words that you can interpret whichever way you want.  Characters who can be whoever you want them to be.  Settings that can look like the kind of places you may have always wanted to visit.  New words, like “recumbent”, that instantly roll off the tongue and then permanently fill a vacancy in your internal thesaurus.

Just five minutes of reading a day can have a beautiful impact.

4) Identify the people that make you feel negative, and crop them out like a Photoshop image

I know it’s not always possible, but a lot of the time it is.  Friendship is one of the most beautiful things about life, but unfortunately quantity will not always equate to quality.
In recent years I have truly realised how much I am done with expending my energies on people who seem to have a different face for each day of the week, or whose favourite topic of conversation is other people and their faults.  That kind of company doesn’t make anybody feel great, and doubtless if they’re being unkind about others, they’re probably being unkind about you, too, and that’s an anxiety and disservice to yourself you really don’t need.

Leave people like that to learn from their own mistakes and make sure that your time is spent only on people who are true.  Those are the only people who really matter, and those are the ones who will make your days positive.

5) Exercise

I write this as somebody who a year or so ago had no interest in exercise and – to be honest – was pretty fed up of people talking about it.  I’m not going to now proclaim to be an expert or a fitness fanatic (although I definitely think I’m heading well towards the latter, who would ever have thought…), but I will just say this:

A body that doesn’t exercise will never know just how much it’s capable of.

6)  Smile at a stranger

A genuine smile at a stranger will create a little lift in each of your days.

That cashier in the supermarket has spent 6.5 hours today scanning things through that till, not just your bag of potatoes-for-roasting and pot of Taramasalata.  An hour ago she had to listen to a customer snapping at her for accidentally giving the incorrect change, an embarrassing instance that took place in full view of the other customers, one of which she knew personally.  Two hours ago, a defunct bag of flour spilled over the conveyor belt, prompting the need of assistance from a grumpy colleague who had rolled into work late with a hangover; the severed smile of Mr Homepride so in-fitting with the atmosphere as she vehemently scrubbed at the rubber, cursing the fifth glass of wine from last night and what she has incorrectly perceived as the cashier’s carelessness.

The cashier has been finding ingrained patches of flour on the fabric of her branded fleece ever since.  Added to that, she’s been asked to do some last minute overtime due to sickness, and has had to cancel her plans for the evening.

But just a smile from a stranger.  It won’t solve everything, but it’s all that’s needed to add a valuable little lift to this day.

7)  Think of your favourite thing to watch as a child, and find it on YouTube

Who we are today is a result of all the days, months and years preceding it.  There’s nothing like a bit of nostalgia to remind you of that, and the combination of sound and imagery can so often instantly conjure up feelings or memories that have been locked away for so long.

When I have a bit of spare time, I love searching for old things on YouTube.  For example, here’s something that may have the above-described effect on anybody who went to Primary School in England in the 1990’s:

I watch this and instantly think of wet Marmite sandwiches from where the bottled water has leaked inside the lunchbox, the scent of HB pencils, and big square television sets contained in wooden cabinets on wheels.  There is something very soothing about this familiarity.

8)  Fit-It-In

What do you need to do?  What do you want to do?  What do you need to do in order to do what you want to do?  How much time do you have?  Write all of this stuff out.  Make lists. Pop the cork on your brain where all of these thoughts fly around manically without a start or finish and put them all down on paper using a pen.  A physical one.

Then pull out a calendar.  A physical one.  Be hands on.  Write down when you need to do all the things you need to do and watch as they develop into you doing not only what you need to do but what you want to do.  And do you know what? Life can be an awkward little shit and maybe on occasion – or maybe on multiple occasions – things won’t work out, but there’s energy to be gained from any forward movement or proactivity.  Just enjoy the ride.

9) Throw Them Boomerangs

Give everything you have.  Try everything you have an opportunity to try.  Go everywhere you have an opportunity to go.  Silence that internal vocal that whimpers, “…there’s always tomorrow” or “I wonder if…” and just do it now.

There’s a popular saying in life that you have to make your own luck by putting in your best efforts, but I don’t believe it’s just about luck.  I think it’s also about experience, and learning.  If you want to experience more and learn more, then you have to do more.

10) Start and finish your day with a song that makes you smile

Music has so much influence on our emotions.  For me personally, when I discover a new song I really like, I obtain so much in the way of new, refreshing energy, and much more so than listening to something that I’ve already heard a million times over.

Similarly, songs that make you smile can put you in the mood to make the most of the day ahead or to sleep soundly overnight.

And with that, I’m finishing this post with my song of the day, a little tune that has had me dancing around at various points this past week.  And if you – the reader – would prefer not to listen and are therefore done with this post, then all I have to say to you is:

Go and have another glass of water.

Song of the Day: Part Time – Honey Lips

Lo-Fi Synth Pop performed by some guy with long hair who wears sunglasses often.  An impossibly difficult artist to Google to ascertain any other information, but a damn tune all the same.  This has been on my MP3 player virtually non-stop for a week.

Some of the Little Things I Love…

| sophiekemsley

There is just something so inherently wonderful about some of the things that add colour to our daily experiences without necessarily being the most prominent part.  Here are a few examples of my favourite ‘little things’ – what are yours? 

…when you hear a song you absolutely love for that very first time, and it illuminates your next couple of days by adding a rhythm you’ve never experienced before, against the backdrop of something which you have…

…motion: the first sip of coffee whilst sat on a moving train, looking out the windows as you pass through all the different towns, watching an entire collection of stories being performed live by strangers…

…when you make a passing interaction with somebody in the street, and they come out with some typically old-fashioned joke that’s safe for any audience, usually a pun, and it just ends up making your day…

…when elderly relatives regale the kind of random, hilarious, questionable opinion-infused story that you would just not hear being told with the same vigour by anyone else, ever…

…that first occasion each Spring when you suddenly spot the prevalence of rape fields, as though somebody has gone out and coloured in the landscape with a giant highlighter pen overnight…

rapefield

…that instant when two souls connect having only just met, and you quickly feel that you’re speaking with somebody you’ve known for years, who you instantly feel comfortable around…

…those interesting facts about the night sky – as well as the extent of the unknown which surrounds it – that make just staring up at the stars a unique experience each and every time…

…taking off on an aircraft at night, and how when you look down at the lights below the motorway traffic looks like a limitless red and white striped toothpaste that’s been squeezed out of its tube to break up an otherwise black landscape…

…when you land overseas at a similar time of day to the above, and how as you exit the little tin-can that’s been airborne for the past few hours you’re suddenly confronted by the unknown, your initial experience of it being that standard parade along the shiny floors and bright lights of the airport, reality only smacking you once you take that first inhalation of the outdoors, strange voices emanating from taxis, pining for your custom…

…a deep night’s sleep in a foreign bedroom on the first night of an overseas trip…

…running your fingers along paper that has gradually gone crinkled over time…

p1000478

…just standing and watching the sea, especially on an overcast day.  The way the waves just carry on, relentlessly, no matter what.  The sensation of knowing they’ve been doing the exact same thing in the exact same way since the beginning of time…

…the first sip of a glass of wine from a bottle shared with friends – a symbol of your permit to relax and take a break from all life’s other responsibilities for a few hours…

…climbing into a freshly made bed on a dark Winter’s evening as the opening credits to a favourite film roll by, the television screen beaming a warm, soft glow around the room…

…And many, many more… why not leave a comment sharing some of your favourite little things?

Song of the Day: Derevolutions – Take it to the Hoop

This is such a bizarre sounding song, I don’t even know how to describe what’s going on in it.  That’s probably why I love it.  It’s also great fun to exercise to, and is definitely one of the best musical discoveries I’ve made in 2016.

 

The Natural Reverse

| sophiekemsley

It was my birthday the other day.  I had a lovely time, but did receive one rather unwelcome present in the form of a kidney infection that has seen me do quite the unfathomable and lose my appetite.  For the first time – possibly ever – the thought of food makes me feel quite sick.  This is a deeply unfamiliar territory, and suffice to say I hope it doesn’t last.  I have ingredients in the fridge for a mean peanut curry which I’m longing to make, not to mention a half-eaten birthday cake…

…Anyway, on a brighter note and ultimately the point of this post, is that I also received a tent as a gift.  And this excites me no end.

I have only ever camped out in a tent once in my life, a few years ago at a friend’s birthday at the Kent County Show.  We all got hammered off toffee vodka, ate burnt barbecue grub, and passed out on the grass.  I lost a sock and, the next morning, couldn’t wait to get home and into a proper bed.

I won’t claim to have ever been a big lover of camping and right now I probably wouldn’t have the first clue on how to do it properly, but what excites me are the kind of travel options my new piece of apparatus will arouse.  As soon as I have the opportunity to, I plan to spend a couple of weeks just driving around the UK, sleeping out underneath the stars in various areas of natural beauty.  How much more free can you be?  Not bound by boarding times. Nor a fixed itinerary.  Able to travel to the villages that maybe wouldn’t make the guidebooks but still have plenty to offer.  Saving the pennies by foregoing the mattress, hairdryer, bog-standard bar menu and unnecessary daily changing of sheets.  Just you, and nature.  The simple things.  The way life should be.

The older I get, the more I realise how much more flavour you can taste in life by using fewer ingredients.  Wanting less, feeling more.  Filtering out the experiences and acquaintances that cause us concerns and anxieties we can manage without.  An inextricable desire to devote time only to what and who are real and transparent. Shedding the unhealthy, blubbery layers of a need to please everyone and the personal objectives we let society write for us when we were younger, hungrier and more impressionable.  Stripping nude in front of everybody in the peaceful knowledge that those who still stand with you are the only people you want and need in your life.

It’s funny, when I was younger, say up until the early/mid-20’s, I didn’t really care much for nature.  I wanted to be in cinemas, bars or shopping malls.  I wanted a lot of things – a new stereo, a new jacket, new CDs, hundreds of friends.  I hated the idea of sleeping outside in the cold and dirt, and would only have done so if a centrally heated building was within close range so that I could make an emergency retreat if I needed to.  And I probably would need to.

Now, at the age of 31, I just want more feelings as opposed to more things, and that’s probably why the recent ideas for a kind of travel I would never have been interested in before, appeal.  I haven’t learned to love the cold, it’s just that the priorities surrounding it have shifted in size over the past few years.

To feel, to be, and to appreciate, rather than to want and to rue.

Thank goodness for the natural reverse.

Song of the Day:  The Divine Comedy – A Lady of a Certain Age

Saw these guys in Folkestone the other night with a friend.  One of the best concerts I’ve ever been to.  Theatrical, engaging, plenty of dimension.  Neil Hannon with the audience captivated by his every word.
This song was one of the many highlights.

Short Stories from Barcelona

| sophiekemsley

One of the best things about loving to write is that it’s an inexpensive hobby which can be undertaken anywhere at any time.  Just stick me on a seat somewhere with a notebook and a pen in some place where I can inhale the situation around me and exhale script, and I’m a satisfied woman.

This post is about my recent trip to Barcelona; and on this occasion I’ve strayed away from writing a general piece about the place.  Rather, I’m going to describe a couple of moments from those jotted down in my notebook.

I didn’t really know anything of Barcelona before visiting.  Many people I know had had much more familiarity with the city, and had told me various interesting snippets about it, but for me the relationship between the capital of Catalonia and I had never been personal.  Until I landed there a couple of weeks ago.

Prior to this I had only ever been able to associate it with the 1992 Olympics, and the fragmented and probably inaccurate memories of being six years old and watching a lady in a brown dress singing the famous musical namesake alongside the vocals of Freddie Mercury upon a global stage, before throwing up on a packet of Quavers (me, not the singing lady). What a legacy for a city to have held for 24 years.  I am almost ashamed…

Nonetheless, I liked what I saw of the place.  I’m not normally a big fan of cities, but the blend of different landscapes won me over:  the cobbles and the history and the beaches and the art.  Something new to see on every corner.  No rushing (having to wait for a Green Man every five seconds makes sure of that), and having time to write…

So herewith, a few short stories from my trip…

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A Trip to El Carmel

With a train ticket for which I can claim ten individual journeys for 10 Euros, and with time on my hands, I look at a map of the Metro and select the most random name as somewhere to go to.  ‘El Carmel’, to the North West of Linea 5, is my station of choice.  To me, it just sounds a bit nobby.  Like ‘caramel‘.  I immediately envision a bunch of happy commuters heading to El Carmel for some molten toffee related joy.  It won’t be anything like that, I know, but to me it looks out the way enough to host something that may be interesting.

It takes a fair few attempts to get to El Carmel.  Three, to be blunt.  The curse of not understanding Spanish instruction mean that I go back on myself three times before reaching my destination.  El Carmel is pretty nothingey to be honest, just a steep street of very little beyond a couple of quiet taverns that don’t seem to have had their exteriors refurbished since the 1980’s.  But this is far from a wasted journey.  For me, it’s just nice to get away from the tourists, especially your stereotypical group of loud Brits that you always encounter abroad – the ones who you so often overhear swearing about this, moaning about that, always expecting something for nothing and wondering why nobody understands them when they reel off complex English to natives.  That’s one of the reasons I like to get off the beaten track; the other is that these random places – whilst not being aesthetically amazing – are the ones that feel more real.  They serve as authentic vignettes into the lives of what it really means to be a resident of Barcelona.  This is the cultural impression you won’t always find in the guidebooks, and it’s nice to take a moment to soak it up, even if I don’t stay long.  At all.

I’m not sure there’s a single word that may be able to define those sudden moments in which you feel at one with your surroundings… those fleeting experiences where you feel locked entirely in the present.  It’s not necessarily about being anywhere special, it’s just about being somewhere at some time where the sensations around you hit you all at once.  For me it’s on the Metro ride back from El Carmel:  The sight of the lady opposite me with a kitten on her lap.  The sound of the chirpy quintet of musical notes that inform us that we’re approaching the next station.  A passing scent of marshmallows and shower gel.  Other peoples’ legs brushing past mine as we travel during rush hour.  Just the sensation of being somewhere different.

Notes from a Cafe con Leche in Parc Montjuic

“You stupid, clumsy idiot!” I think to myself as I sit at the cafe which neighbours the Metro station for the infamous parc Montjuic, home of the Olympic stadium and Palau Nacional amongst others.

I’ve had to take an immediate pit-stop upon arrival after a carbonated drink leaked it’s entirety into my rucksack somewhere on the walk between here and Paral-lel station.
The bag is soaked so I’m hoping to air it out a little first rather than continue carrying it around on my back.

It’s the most recent in a succession of clumsy episodes I’ve perpetrated recently.  The other was failing to see the massive signage in the hostel dormitory which clearly explained which bed was which.  I slept in one which was allocated to somebody else, and didn’t realise it until the middle of the night when I was stirred by a US accent commenting that somebody was sleeping in her bed.  I felt a bit like Goldilocks (minus the decent hair and free grub, which would have been pretty welcome on my budget!)  The girl was asleep this morning so I left her a note which was embarrassing to write.  It went something like,

“Oh hi, I have realised I am completely ditzy for shit and can’t read generously sized signage, sorry for stealing your bed”

(Okay, I was a little more polite and less self-depreciating than that, but that’s what I wanted to write).

But then, holidays aren’t for deploying brain cells, I guess, even though I do feel bad for inadvertently betraying hostel etiquette.

Nevermind that, or anything else though.  I suddenly become grateful for my leaking bag, because it’s prompted me to sit and take the time to take in a pretty awesome view of the city.  An old guy who reminds me of a Spanish version of my late Uncle Ken has served me up a couple of the most delicious cafe con Leche and after an overcast morning the sun is lighting up Barcelona, and it’s time to explore.

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Rooftop Yoga Under the Light of the Moon

On the crest of a whimsical wave I decided to sign up to the free rooftop yoga session which was being offered by the hostel on a Friday evening.

It had been 5 years since I’d last tried yoga back home in Canterbury, and though I’d struggled with the art back then, I deemed it worthy of a second chance, particularly out here in Spain.

At 8:30pm a group of us assembled in the hostel foyer before a staff member reminiscent of Cher helped to bundle us into the elevator up to the ‘secret floor’ from which we could access the rooftop pavilion, an act which was usually forbidden.

It was a platform which boasted some amazing views of the city at night.  To the left, we could see the Torre Agbar lit up in bright blues and pinks.  Straight ahead lay the crane-clad figure of the Sagrada Familia.  Palau Nacional beamed its blue rays across the city, and the surface of the ocean glistened under the glow of the full moon.  Not that you’d be able to tell from the photo below, which unfortunately is the best shot I got:

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I picked up a yoga mat and placed it on one of the few remaining patches of floor. Somewhat typically, I had managed to find the only bit above which a leaking valve was intermittently dripping an oily, pungent liquid onto the floor (and later on, my arm).

The teacher – a beanpole shaped shadow at the front – began the session:

“Wiz thiz zhezhion, we hope zhat you will feel zhe fool moon.  Breazh in zhe moon.  Exhale zhe moon!”

(As seemingly the sole Brit, I was probably the only participant thinking about Jaffa Cakes at this point)

And so began an hour of stretches and breathing which I was grateful to have been able to try for free, but couldn’t really get into.  For starters, half the classmates were a bunch of excruciatingly loud professionals on tour from the US, a couple of whom I was convinced I could hear mocking my choice of trousers at one point.  The notion was compounded by spotting myself in the epicentre of what appeared to be a sneaky selfie as they took it.

Internal ouch.

I cheered up by reminding myself that they were on a yoga holiday; and had traveled all this way just to basically stretch and breathe in a different setting.

I just don’t get yoga.  Well, that’s not quite true – I understand it –  I just find it exceptionally boring.  What’s more, for an exercise which oscillates round the key concepts of nature and mindfulness, there was something that just felt so inherently wrong about practicing it a mere couple of blocks away from the Passeig de Gracia, a big fat modern street that itself oscillates round the concept of commercialism and overpriced designer goods.

It’s safe to say that for a taster session, for me it had all the flavour of boiled rice, but it was certainly an experience, and so I don’t regret it.  I think it’s awesome that the opportunity was even there, because it didn’t have to be, and it’s one I certainly won’t forget…

Parc Ciutadella

What a pleasure,
visiting Parc Ciutadella,
as rowing boats drift in the sun.

Bright warm weather,
climbing the fountain at leisure,
and tightropes between trees for fun.

Cerveza in hand,
an Indian dance in the bandstand,
it’s a nice afternoon for one…

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End of Summer Shorts

| sophiekemsley

Erm.

Exactly how are we almost at the end of August, already?  I could’ve sworn it was just a minute or two ago I was clinking ceremonious glasses of punch with friends in recognition of the new year that had just arrived, and now we’re two thirds of the way through it…

In the absence of a burning main topic to write about this month, here are a couple of bits and pieces…

Something to Consider…

This week I came across an article on Social Media about a Chinese couple who realised that – unbeknownst many years earlier – they had both been in the same place at the same time, within just a few feet of each other, having their pictures taken.  They had only realised this by looking through old photographs later on…

In lives where we are meeting new people all the time I often marvel about the scope for similar instances of this.  Every day we are encountering other people in passing wherever we go; in years from now, will any of them ever become anything more to us than that?  Who’s to know whether those we know and are close with now weren’t once people we just passed by on the street?  People we moved into single file for (perhaps grudgingly!) on the pavement?  People we beeped our car horns at in moments of frustration?  People with whom we bemoaned the speed of the queue in the bank?

It fascinates me no end and I do believe that it happens more often than we realise… so, maybe pay close attention to the next person you pass…and those ‘moody people in the background’ which invariably feature in every photograph… as perhaps one day, they will one day turn out to mean much, much more to you…!

The Joy of Random Memory Recall

I love those moments when memories of incidents that made you laugh come flashing back into mind through no real logic at all, and have that same impact all over again.

There’s absolutely no reason why yesterday, whilst sat on a motionless Tube train, I suddenly remembered a lunchtime from way back in year 7 when an 11 year old I had clocked that the form tutor had accidentally typed ‘Jucy’ instead of ‘Lucy’ on the birthday list which was pinned to the class notice board.  That’s a memory from almost 20 years ago which in the large scheme of life had the significance of even less than a small plop in world’s oceans, but that had friends and I in tears of laughter for what was literally days when we first saw it, and which still raises a smile so many years later, brightening up an otherwise uneventful Tube journey.

Nothing quite cost-effective like a recycled giggle!

You Know You’re in Your ’30s When…

…An evening out with your mates consists of taking your KFC to a local lake and singing Michael Jackson’s ‘Earth Song’ at the top of your voices whilst looking out over the water as the sun sets.  Who needs bars and clubs anymore, hey?!

Song of the Day:  Socratic – Curtain Call

Good ol’ New Jersey indie-rock.  Really like this one.

And as the plows drive by,
Oh I can hear a hum in the night,
past the lights on city hall,
loneliness takes its curtain call.
I’m left with me and my need to believe,
It’s a wonderful life, afterall…