Hannah Nicklin

The Dreaming City.

Image shared on flickr via CC by moriza

Simon Ralph Goff and I are working on an extra little addendum to the Umbrella Project at the moment; a 6-track EP, with 3 shorter versions of the instrumental music behind each soundwalk, and 3 re-workings of the stories I found in the city for a shorter form performed over that music – about 4-6 minutes max. I sat down to work on that tonight, and this came out. I’m not sure if it’s quite right for any of the specific walks (commute, nighttime, daytime). But it is sort of about all of them. Perhaps we’ll make it a 7th track? Maybe this will just rest here. Largely unedited, fresh draft stuff, but I wanted it to have a life beyond my harddrive because there’s some ideas I like here, so here it is.

//

The city is a dream. A dream that lingers long after sleep has passed.

The kind of dream that hangs on the edges of our visions, reminds us of loves we have lost, people who have slipped past our fingers, that makes the places we walk through seem like the childhood homes we revisit in the night; that we turn a corner in and somehow certain things just aren’t right.

The city is a dream. It is the happenings of a thousand people’s days – arguments, small glimmers of kindness, tired stumblings, forgotten tasks, lists lost, and cracks in the pavement skipped – shaken up together, working their way out. The city is not a thing, it is a state of being – empty cities are ghost towns; they die. All that’s left are the dusty walkways where you struggle to recollect what has gone before.

The city is dreaming, it dreams you as you dream it. The city caresses you as you move through it, it lifts you and reaches into you in the way of an ex-lover visiting in the night. Insidious. Something you cannot extract yourself from. You are in the city and the city is in you. When you leave you relish the escape, but quietly know you’ll feel the pull to return to the neon visions of the night before long.

The morning commute is where you see this state. Also, motorway service stations. Those places between the dream, and awake.

And the city slips like dreams do too, one moment a rushing street, another a palace to consumption, the next an empty place designed only for passing through, then those nooks and crannies where old refrigerators, crisp packets and fallen bricks build up. Tombs to broken buildings mount next to the back walls of places that throng with coffee and china and steam and laughter.

The city sees you. It sees you and forgets you and feels your footfalls. The city remembers that it has missed you. Can’t imagine how it forgot. You touch its walls and stoop to pick up a glove that someone has lost.

You look at the glove. Small, but adult, probably a woman’s. You see the ghost of her running for a bus and dragging her purse from her bag, the glove falling to the ground unnoticed.

You hold it for a little longer than you expect. Then place it on the wall next to the pavement.

You look at the glove. Small, a child’s perhaps, you see the ghost of a harassed parent, barely maintaining consciousness through a haze of caffeine. The child throws it off and the pushchair runs over it. You briefly feel the milky texture of an infant’s skin. You gently place the glove on a nearby post box, then move on.

You look at the glove. And suddenly tears are falling from your face. Tears for the place you were 2 hours ago. Tears for all you have been holding back, all you continue to have to. All of the learning to un love someone. All of the extricating yourself from something with which you fit so well. You hold the glove tighter. Then fold it into your pocket.

For months later, when you feel like you’re falling, you reach into your pocket and grasp the slightly coarse fabric of that grey lost glove. That gift from someone who didn’t know they would give it.

You are never lost. Your hands are held by ghosts. The city sees you, in its dreams. Greets you like a friend both long and never forgotten. Still there when you wake up.

//

image shared by Jeff Youngstrom on Flickr via a CC license.

On Love.

I haven’t really talked about comics much here, before – though I have music, games, dance and, obviously, theatre – but as comics are more and more a part of my life these days (film and TV; meh), it was pretty inevitable that one would drive my fingers to the keyboard at some point.

Ready yourself for some minor spoilers (nowt more than you’d get from the blurb on the back, and no major later ones, I hope).

I just finished reading a comic called ‘Aaron and Ahmed‘. It was recommended to me by my mate Andy whose judgement in comics (except for the men in tights kind) I trust implicitly. But, unusually, I struggled with this one. Andy said it had him in tears, and so I fully expected to be in pieces afterwards, but instead I just felt kind of… silent.

I think I want to talk about a flaw in the work, though I’m not sure. Like I said, I really struggled to read the comic; I just didn’t move past the first few pages.

The writer offers you a once-broken man; an army psychiatrist saved by the love of a good woman, only then to lose her in the attack on the Twin Towers; seeks out employment in Guantanamao Bay. That’s the opening premise, Aaron before we meet Ahmed. We watch him walk into the Guantanamo.

And that’s when I leave. Because my disbelief refused to be suspended the moment we traipse the halls and dusty grounds of that detention camp. Detention. Those little neat words like hospital corners. Place of torture; that’s what we see in Aaron and Ahmed. Aaron sleepwalking around rooms where different horrific tortures are inflicted on detainees. Victims? They’re certainly portrayed like that. Right then I’m lost to the main character, right then I can’t possibly walk by his side.

What stopped me at that first page I saw a man being tortured was like the feeling of a seeing punch to the stomach of someone I love further away than I could reach them. I wouldn’t walk by it, not even as narrative companion.

This story doesn’t fit in my head. My mind said. But it fits in my world, it’s one of the pieces; it fits together with the piece I am a part of. These acts or ones like them are committed by a culture I buy into. My government is implicit in tortures like these.

Here is what interests me about the work; it’s close, recent stuff, this. How could I possibly be asked to suspend myself? It doesn’t have the historical/generational distance of Maus or Ethel and Ernest, the ‘not-here-but-somewhere-like-here’ of something like Habibi, or the personal ‘true story’ nature of works like Fun Home or Persepolis. I felt rudely present throughout the whole. And maybe that’s right; that I feel my body – my mind – present. That I see how they might or might not be implicit in a story; this story. That I see both me, and story, and the places they both vanish, because that’s where things sometimes get dangerous. Like the kinds of stories, the memes which the story goes on to talk about (still, I felt, pretty heavy-handedly). The stories we (cultures, societies, religions) tell ourselves about the world. The stories which always have to rearrange the world to fit into our heads. Sometimes these stories should bear unfolding. Sometimes we should trace the creases.

It is the first few pages which cause me to trace the creases. I didn’t really rate the stuff in the middle, but then at the end, the main character’s final conclusions ring true; there, Aaron finds me again. It’s an idea (meme) often repeated, by many people. Here’s one from 403 years ago:

Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

Yeah, horrifically well known Shakespeare, I know. It’s been running through my mind, that, recently, though. No one is ever lost to the night sky; it is only ever obscured from view.

Sometimes love burns with disappointment, or regret, or too much weight, or it is obscured, lost. Sometimes you might fly on it, it might suddenly be in the face of a stranger, or stoop with you to pick someone up when they least expect. I couldn’t walk with Aaron past those people being tortured. And when I realised what this meant to me, several hours after finishing the comic, my eyes were wet.

If you want to buy the book, at all, I recommend getting it from the lovely guys at Page45, you can reserve stuff via Twitter and everything.

And as if my opinion mattered…

MUSIC. You know the drill. Music which I have enjoyed. In no particular order and all released this year apart from the first, which I only discovered this year, and is too ace to be missed out and AS IF YOU CARE ABOUT ME BREAKING THE RULES FOR IT. To be honest I think most of you come here for the theatre, so consider this an interlude. Where I will be way less articulate than usual, because this ain’t my form, man.

First up, FOLK PUNK AWESOME. ONSIND’s Dissatisfactions at first listen had me feeling it was a bit… I dunno, gaudy, but it properly, properly grew on me, and I always loved the first track, shouty righteous, and why the hell shouldn’t we shout about these things? Stand out track: Heterosexuality is a Construct

Next up, found – rather appropriately – on a late night stumbling through the internets. Biff from Crash of Rhinos morphs into Emphemetry (which I can never spell properly) with an album inspired by the streets of Derby. A Lullaby Hum for Tired Streets comes in a beautiful card/art booklet CD case. Sounds like orange streetlights and clammy streets and glimpses through the bright lit windows of strangers. Stand out track: Four Million Silhouettes.

Another Derby band, now, quite a new one, but full of awesome melodic energy and vocals with just the right amount of edge to them. Papayér’s EP (they also have a split with Nai Harvest on their bandcamp which you should definitely check out) is one of my favourite leaping-around-unnecessarily records. Stand out track: Dress for December

Last up from Derby, which I should really make an effort to get to more shows at in 2012, is the magnificent Crash of Rhinos with Distal. Physical copies put out by twitter mate Nick Moreton (@roundonefight). Tastily but not too thickly layered noise, bits of guitar feel nicely early-mid 2000s era Hundred Reasons/Reuben type stuff – but LOADS of well up to date vocals; feels like sheets of snow, crunchy, but you can sink into it really satisfactorily. Stand out track: Gold on Red.

In another version of this year I probably would have included Tellison here, I was going to SHOUT about them being STOLEN by associations with an evil* ex, but if it could be taken away I guess the music was only really loaned to me anyway. FEAR NOT, noble reader, it does not matter, for it made room for another ace Big Scary Monsters Recs band; the Sheffield-based Algiers. Their debut Four Priests EP has gloriously poppy vocals, ace driving drums, and nice chunky lyrics which I actually can’t resist singing along to. Stream one of their songs here. Better lyrics than Tellison, actually, I reckon. SO WHO WINS NOW, EX. Ahem. Stand out track: These January Versions.

*not actually evil, a nice chap, really.

Now this one, I actually could understand some people not liking, mostly because it relies so heavily on the lead’s quite distinct vocals. But I find them proper beguiling, so I love it – Winter Forever by Seahaven. Some really good storytelling in the lyrics, too, makes up for occasionally unimaginative guitar-ing. Which is definitely a word. Standout track: Black and White.

Birmingham-based &U&I are formed of most of Blakfish, who apparently you should know if you like your math rock, which no doubt you all do. Anyway, &u&i are a bit more palatable and driving than Blakfish, which I find all kinds of ace. The Chancer’s Paradise EP is another must, but linking to a part-stream of their Light Bearer album release here. All the tasty changes in timings you’d expect from math rock (this is where I pretend I know about genres), with soaring proper firery sounding vocals. Stand out track: Belly Full of Fire and a Heart Full of Blood; mostly for its ability to injure me if I run to it.

This next one is probably at least top 3 for me, Brighton trio Tall Ships’ EP There is Nothing But Chemistry Here. Samples, synths, guitars, really foot tapping drums; half instrumental but with a fucking gorgeous array of vocals and clever lyrics at just the right moments. Feels like floating in the sea, balanced, sometimes serene but unpredictable, prepared to proper hurt you*. Stand out track: Vessels. Just listen to it. And also buy it. Big Scary Monster Recs again. Might just head over to Oxford so they can put a face to who’s buying all of their stock.

*can you tell I was a rubbish surfer? Waves hurt.

“PETER FUCKING WYETH”, once you listen to him (which you must) you will see why this excited shout (from me) was frowned upon by most of the audience. Humming New Time is full of quiet, delicate, soaring, exquisite, sampled, looped sounds all made by one man and an array of instruments/pedals. I loved it so much I cornered him after the gig and tried to convince him he should be making sound installations for theatre. Which he should. And he actually looked more interested in the idea than frightened by me, so if you’re a) in a position to do so, b) actually still reading, and c) interested in commissioning quiet immersive, transporting sound from him, DO. Would fit ace into a small airy room of BAC for the one-on-one fest, for example. Anyway, here’s the record. Hand lithographed hard copies a must-buy, too. Stand out track: ALL OF THEM. But if I had to choose, Sing to Me.

And finally, from Worcester, Watch Commander’s Closer to Home EP. The opening of the first track totally makes me feel 17 again; full of hubris and energy and fucking joy. Classic punky guitars and a good grate-y vocal (I mean that as a quality not a complaint). The kind of thing to leap around to with mates. Which is always a good note to end things on. Stand out track: Places.

et la fin.

Have an ace Christmas, and if you like these tracks, give the bands/labels money for them. Bandcamp makes that uber easy.

City/Network

No, these people don’t know what they want, but they’ve grown used to virtual spaces where that can be discovered; where a manifesto is on a wiki, and where consensus building allows populism, complexity and ambiguity to coexist. They are trying to forge these spaces in the city; simply come by the occupation, talk to some people, be Kanye West and stride silently through, be a banker who cannot help but face the perception of bankers, or be a police officer who is genuinely torn about what to do. The Occupy movement forces us to question the city in, weirdly, almost the same way that a facebook redesign manages to cause so much dissatisfaction; it throws a space we take for granted in our face and demands to know if this is what you expected. (read more)

Skateboarding, networks and the occupy movement. A brief flit through some ace thinking from Felix Cohen