Filming: Apostle’s Manoeuvre

_DSC3433Action. All is silent as the crowds surrounding the scene stare silently. They are still, allowing movement to transcend into the scene. The two leading characters begin the rhythm of action reaction, playing off each other’s fantasy. Rudy, playing the mature father, has a disarming charm that was once used more rebelliously. This rebellious nature now sits opposite incarnated in his son. Leo is a character of youthful trends just as most of us were, though has abilities yet unflourished. In his stare stirs a quiet stubbornness in opposition to the mellow laid back demeanour of his father. Cut.

_DSC3425The short film is titled ‘Apostle’s Manoeuvre’ which I found referred to the phrase ‘To rob Peter to pay Paul; that is, to borrow money off one man to pay another.’ Apostle refers to a missionary, an advocate of a certain cause. They are filming at the Rialto Bingo Club in Coventry which consists of an unusual yellow room with a few bingo tables and machines. Strangely most of the hall has been hollowed out, holes are craters where tables once fastened.

Noise resumes as the actors and crew discuss various perceptions. There are two cameraman, two lighting directors, two sound engineers and various other continuity and production staff to ensure smooth operation. “Ok lets go again” calls Brian the director, pursuing the cycle of re-enactment and repetitions of scenes that become hypnotic in a rhythmic dance of paradynamic shifts, creating memories of motion, sound and footprints.

Camera rolling, sound, clapper board, scene 3 take 4.. Action.

_DSC3478I stand back from the scene waiting for the decisive moment that a photographer encaptures.  I see a film set as three spheres, an isolated existence, surrounded by a fortress of crude machinery escalating high and covering the floor with cables of spaghetti, lights and lenses.  Surreal equipment with cameras with detached steering wheels and tentacle like apparatus reaching ceilings. Three point lighting, sound equipment with dead animal fur imitation covers. The first of the three spheres is the played scene with the actors, the new existence which is created by the filmmakers. The second sphere is the filmmakers with their machines. The third is the voyeurs, extras and assistants clouding the others watching how the scenes are orchestrated. Its almost like a organic cell of our body, each with a crucial role in a larger system of rules and function.

The clapper board snaps before every scene like a switch of existences, breaking one reality for another. The new scene, this new reality has the capability to re-enact each moment to become perfect. Each take pushes for a greater significance. Brian shouts ‘cut’ signalling the end of the shot, bringing us back to reality.

_DSC3509The actor is curious. The players hide their anxiety of performing a life not their own, clouded in desire and pretence one step closer to true escapism. Action and scenes roll one after another. Brian cuts the scene again, relaxed and confident, confides with the actors to refine nuances. The director is like a psychiatrist, working with people to get the most out of their persona. The director pursues a journey for our vision based on his own, in order to create a certain suspension of disbelief, a certain truth.

_DSC3453Beth and Amiee play characters distracted by the outside world, on mobiles and flirting yet perform their characters menial tasks with mouth and tongue in cheek. They are exuberant actors, bursting with admirable excess energy that only performers harbour. A condition that any artist desires and learns to live with.

_DSC3543Tired faces of concentration, repetition and performance allude in ore of a film set, breaking walls of reality, dancing with morals, extracting pinnacle moments.  Soon the final ‘it’s a rap’ will echo across all spheres. A sharp uncomfortable snap thrusting us back into our own realities like the transition from the cinema theatre to the sobering auditorium, or being awoken from a deep numbing dream. I am informed that this bingo club has already closed for business, possibly making this filming one of its last stories to tell. It will soon become yet another empty vessel of the economy, where memories echo in the hollow spaces, where noise once sung yet forever captured in film for the briefest of moments.


Prospero, Tempest – William Shakespeare

Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling
Of their afflictions, and shall not myself,
One of their kind, that relish all as sharply,
Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art?
Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick,
Yet with my nobler reason ‘gaitist my fury
Do I take part: the rarer action is
In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent,
The sole drift of my purpose doth extend
Not a frown further. Go release them, Ariel:
My charms I’ll break, their senses I’ll restore,
And they shall be themselves.

You do look, my son, in a moved sort,
As if you were dismay’d. Be cheerful, sir.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air,
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.


Act IV Scene I.

Metamorphosis & Other Short Stories by Franz Kafka

While reading Kafka’s short stories I quickly understood how prestigious they have become to the significance of literature and society. His writing inspired the term ‘Kafkaesque’ which means unusually sinister; though I would suggest that his works reach much further into social senses with regard to a symbolic reflection into everyday life.

Metamorphosis is the most unusual story about a man who wakes up to find himself turned into a beetle. Usually my interest would wane at such a premise though it soon became apparent that symbolically, the theme represented that either Kafka saw the working man as an insect, a cog in the machine serving a higher power without value of life and worked without question for a low wage and status. His life was no more than a life of an insect. Further, it could be that the unfortunate victim Gregor Samsa had not in fact turned into a beetle and that actually he had gone insane.

On his deathbed, Kafka ordered his friend to destroy most of his works. Least not forget that Kafka was a successful insurance executive and writing was his hobby in his spare time. Only a few of his stories were published in his lifetime. Thankfully his friend Max Brod, failed his request and sent them for publication instead in hope that Kafka wasn’t in his right mind with that decision.

Some his short stories not over a page long, create a powerful insight into our existence in our society and humanity. ‘The Consideration of Amateur Jockeys’ reflects upon the unsatisfying position of winning and competition and how ridiculous it is to be surrounded by contempt and envy over such trivialities.

Some of his stories such as ‘The Rejection’ delve deeper into his and our psychology. ‘In The Penal Colony’ is a powerfully uncomfortable story of a torture machine which is sad to represent the sinister foreboding of looming war.

I would summarise that Kafka’s stories are an unusually menacing reflection upon society with use of surrealism and plays on the conflictions of decisions and paralysis of life. Even though I wouldn’t consider his works to be most treasured, I understand the necessity of his unique writing.

HG Wells: A Solitary World

A horrible feeling of desolation pinched my heart. I listened rigid but heard nothing but the creep of blood in my ears. Great and shadowy and strange was the world and I drifted solitary through its vast mysteries.

A remote faint question, where I might be, drifted and vanished again in my mind. I found myself standing astonished, my emotions penetrated by something I could not understand.

I felt naked. I felt as perhaps a bird may feel in the clear air knowing the hawk wings above and will swoop. I began to feel the need of fellowship. I wanted to question, wanted to speak, wanted to relate my experience. What is this spirit in man that urges him forever to depart from happiness, to toil and to place himself in danger?

It was this restlessness, this insecurity perhaps that drove me further and further afield in my exploring expedition. As the hush of the evening crept over the world, the sun touched the mountains and became very swiftly a blazing hemisphere of liquid flame, and sank. Then, slow and soft and wrapping the world in fold after fold of deepening blue, came the night. And then, the splendor of the sight — in the sky, one bright planet shone kindly and steadily like the face of an old friend. The full temerity of my voyage suddenly came upon me. At last I began to feel the pull of the earth upon my being, drawing me back again to the life that is real, for men.

Kibera, Kenya…

1052747_612896422062583_1605098060_oKibera, Kenya by Russell James Whitehead.

Peering through the small window of the plane, the eminent yellow sun is low as I arrive in Jomo Kenyatta, Nairobi airport. As this is my first time flying alone, I couldn’t sleep, with either excitement or sitting for nine hours. I’m a tall guy, not great for sleeping in seats. Apparently, the airport has a bad reputation, for corruption and bribery though fortunately, Billy, a friend of the head-teacher is waiting for me. He is a small man who always wears baggy shirts two sizes larger than needed. He is standing with a name board with a big smile. Billy is my driver for the week.

There is a distinct muggy dry heat with the red, orange dust that seems infused everywhere from roadsides to people. Billy and I exchange polite conversation as much as can be interpreted with our localised accents. My reason for being here is to create media for Global Care, a charity that supports children in extreme poverty, in order for them to be sponsored for a better quality of life.

1026255_612890698729822_1579092294_oI’m meeting Kenyanito the school leader in a cafe, which would sit well with the likes of the familiar coffee franchises in the UK. I had a lemon; ginger and honey drink for a cold I developed on the plane, great timing! Seems silly to have a cold in this heat. The drink is served in a large mug with thick natural honey on the side. The small shopping complex was like any other; apart from security everywhere casually cradling AK47′s as protection. In a way, I feel safer knowing they were there, even though I wouldn’t be in the same situation shopping in England. Kenyanito is a towering man with a determined yet kind manner, who welcomes me with humour, though is immersed in determination when discussing the plight of his work. He sometimes quotes Nelsen Mandela, “Education is the key to success, the key to life.” Kenyanito is a school leader, a priest and member of numerous boards, too many to recall.  “We build their self-esteem, and we build their capacities for life.” Kenyanito states. He’s a tall, busy positive man, neatly dressed often in bright shirts and is equally charismatic with his words. He is a successful result of a sponsored child, from abject poverty to community leader. Now and then he stumbles his words, coughs, apologies a few times with a difficult throat. “Sorry, I have a cold” he says.

The primary to secondary school, Spurgeons Academy, is in the heart of the Kibera slum, with endless seams of shanty constructions made from metal sheets fastened with numerous threads. As we drive through, the scenes are what I expected, with my only reference being from news or films. There is a voice repeating in my head, “I’m actually here”. I ask Kenyanito for some polite Swahili words to use. “Jambo” means hello, “Habari” means how are you? “Asanti” means thank you. I try and remember the words using some English association; I’ll just have to remember them.

The school first appears like any other, yet much smaller, though consists of several classroom size buildings with windows scattered along. A closer inspection reveals only sufficient construction with broken beams, holes in walls, no glass in windows, crumbling steps and the almost suffocating sand affiliated to everything including my trousers and shoes, camera and shirt. The urinal is a ditch by the building that attempts to stream out of the fence though often ventures into the playground. The other toilets are further away consisting of a sheltered hole in the ground, which you can smell potently from a distance with any slight breeze. I’m not sure where the waste leads. There is a well in the playground that is sealed off as Kenyanito explains they don’t need it anymore as they now have a water pipe. I cannot help think that a British school would never be allowed to open with deep severe steps, broken fences, numerous dangers on every corner. In contrast, the children are constantly upbeat as they burst out the classrooms, a smile on every face, especially seeing me, a new face in their midst.  1015686_612888018730090_1445464751_o

The children gather around in a pool of wondered faces peering up to me with fascination. “Jambo, Jambo”, they repeat with the constant greeting of “high five” with a clasp on hands, which I humbly repeat until the teachers tell them to give me space. The children all wear green jumpers with either a green tartan dress or black trousers respectively. Incredibly they manage to keep them relatively clean despite such a forbidding environment. Again on closer inspection most of the uniforms are tattered with holes and fading materials, though nothing seems to dampen their spirits or enthusiasm. At school they are provided with regular meals and have a great ordered self-hygiene even though it’s through a tap, which may have its own issues. The food is the same everyday which is dried corn and overcooked beans; neither have taste though they relish every bite. I am asked to eat with them, which I humbly accept, though cannot help think how tasteless, hard and almost inedible it is.

I perch in the corner taking video and pictures as the class stare inspiringly at the 965607_612888668730025_1848957076_oteacher who discusses disease awareness and prevention. They learn the national curriculum as any other school in Kenya, giving them a nationally recognised qualification when they graduate. Of course, the school where all these children are sponsored provides much more than education. The provisions of food, cleaner water, and a hope for a future, which they clearly appreciate with every moment. With so many children without this opportunity in Kibera, Kenyanito says “Every student is very lucky to be here”. I guess they know it.

The waste of the slum surrounds the perimeter like a chokehold, a waste fence. Kibera is made of small homes made from sheets of disused metal and stretches on for miles in winding dry muddy paths of litter and waste. In monsoon season the wet mud causes greater concern with disease. Kibera is said to dwell one million people, one of the most densely populated areas in the world, which is also one of the largest slums. Rainbow, my guide or should say bodyguard, sometimes holds my hand as we walk through repeatedly notorious areas of Kibera. Rainbow, who always wears a grey stout hat, may be small in stature, though I soon realise he’s the man about. He seems to know everyone. We walk for miles of mud walkways, mud fastened make shift homes with people in ragged clothes. I attempt to hide my feelings of persistent insecurity with other feelings of humble fascination. Collins carry’s my rucksack with camera inside as it is too dangerous for me to be seen with it. He is a teacher at the school. As a photographer I have desires to capture everything, especially things many people don’t see. Unfortunately, this time caution persists over curiosity. Halfway through is an abandoned rail line with unidentifiable abandoned buildings and discarded machines. Mostly I seem to be unnoticed. Maybe they are used to foreign charity workers coming through, or maybe no outsiders at all, as no one on the outside would want to go in.  Everyone seems busy on their market stalls or getting on with their day.

1048252_612886805396878_1182592367_oMary, one of the sponsored pupils, lives in a very small room, about the same size as my bedroom as a child, with a chair and a bed where she, and her mum reside.  I am given my bag so I can film. Rainbow suggests I don’t waste any time and keep the filming short not to promote my presence. We quickly move on passing hundreds of other homes as tight as beach huts with people selling whatever they can. There is an array of shoes, and often charcoal like substance in small buckets, which is for fuel. Before I came here, people would say how they wouldn’t be able to deal with the scenes of poverty, especially with children. I wondered this myself, though it could well be that I’m hiding these feelings behind my camera, acting professional, or is it that I’m overwhelmed into a state of despondency, I’m unsure.

In the evening I’m taken back to my guesthouse just outside of Kibera.  The guesthouse is guarded like most places with armed guards wearing uniform. The reception is very British regal with pillars and receptionists wearing bright red uniforms. I’m told it’s unsafe for me to wander or be out in the evening. Apparently at night-time the area is a different, dangerous place. Once I went by the pool, which was quite luxurious and had a few people swimming. There always seemed to be vultures or hawks circling overhead, around and around. I felt anxious, uncomfortable and I didn’t bring swimwear anyway. So I spent most of the evenings by my computer trying to stay in touch with the worried ones at home with intermittent Wi-Fi. I checked my footage, yet didn’t work on it too much.

Interviewing the children the next day at Spurgeons Academy was troubled by nearby construction work of new classrooms funded by the charity. I had no alternative but to put the camera and microphone much closer to them which I thought might hinder their natural response. Mary, a pleasant smiley ten year old whose home I visited previously, is a soft faced small girl, living with her widowed mother who has HIV and is struggling. Her father died during the troubled Kenyan elections in 2008. “When the election happened, he went to Mombasa and he’s never come back.” She speaks quite objectively, with elegance as she goes on to tell of her elder brother who also died three years ago, and now Mary and her mother are alone. “When my brother reached class seven, he became sick then died.” They sometimes live in a small shack made of corrugated iron sheets, but frequently get evicted because of rent arrears and have to live with anyone who will take them in. She often nurses her mother and does what she can to support a better lifestyle. As she speaks, her mature life experience is strong and confident though I can see this begins to trouble her, so I ask her questions about school and what is fun, does she like singing? Immediately a wonderful full faced smile shines through, she is a child again as she talks about how much she enjoys dancing and arts. When I ask the children about their future aspirations they seem determined to be supportive to their community. Everything to improve where they are by being doctors, businessmen and teachers. “What I want to do when I grow up is to be a nurse, to help people like my mother.” None of them say they want to leave or be an astronaut or pop star. The interviews continue as it becomes obvious that they are orphans, either through the parents going by choice or disease. Either way they speak quite coherently in English and almost objectively about life in Kibera. Is it that the camera is making them hide their emotions or is it a routine part of life here.

My cold seems to be departing, which seems apt in this forty plus heat, which is sometimes stifling. Yet again in the evenings I eat at the guesthouse then remain alone, dwelling on new thoughts and the sights of the day. The sight of children playing in waste, homes made like an unacceptable English garden shed, disease spreading as if intergraded with the gritty red mist that they all breathe. Everyone has red bloodshot eyes. From the teachers to the children. I am well aware that the western way of life is self-indulged. Though a different way of life does not mean a worse one in every respect. I find great strength, spirit and pride in the people I have met here. The children often remain behind after school, as it’s a safe place to be. 1026156_612890395396519_1074254254_oThere athleticism is incredible as they play with the skipping rope with jumps I’ve only dreamed about as a child.

We drive around the perimeter of the slum, which really shows the extensiveness of Kibera. I notice that Billy and the others use phones, which about 10-15 years ago most people in England were using. Same for the cars or anything for that matter. We stop repeatedly to film the best views. If I look one way I see a horizon of shanty homes with snake like paths of mud and squalor. Children playing covered in rags and dust. If I turn directly behind, there is an esteemed professional golf course with large spaces of trimmed bright green grass.

On the last day I travelled into Nairobi. I was immediately ambushed with beggars, sellers and crowding just as any visitor to the city. “You are an obvious target” Billy said. Thankfully I had him with me, who guided me through some tourist spots which were mainly British representations of settlement. Like that of Big Ben, Parliament, train stations, tall buildings etc. We went to the top of one of the city’s tallest building’s, The Kenyatta International Conference Centre, which has a helipad.  The guide tells us about how the city started and developed due to British involvement.  He doesn’t say if it’s a good thing or not. Compared to taller buildings I’ve ventured, including the Eiffel Tower, this isn’t very high, though Billy seems astonished by the scene. He constantly looks puzzled pensively putting his hand to his mouth trying to figure things out, where he comes from. For me, the city looked like most others and felt too hectic.

Everything in England is vividly green. I can taste the moisture, condensation, rain pattering on windows; everything looks new. After relaxing back into my home life, I wrote, “Its possibly stereotypical to announce such things, a distant traveller acquires a new wisdom, or a new perspective of life. Though as my mind wanders to images of my journey, my pre-journey personality, of anxieties, insecurities and self absorbed feelings seem to have departed, and the person I was, seems somewhat unrecognisable.” Then I soon come across crying children in supermarkets begging and screaming for toys or sweets, just as I did as a child. People were cleaning their cars with endless amounts of flowing water. I could no longer take selfies or neglect to be grateful for any home comfort. I was aware of injustice even more than I was prior to my journey and endeavoured for an empathetic perspective. I also believe that until you experience a different way of life, at least in some tangible way, I don’t think it can really affect you. I was thinking of ways to educate, either children or adults in sharing my perspective. I felt like I knew something and that everyone should know. I continued, “I seem to be standing taller, I have more… backbone. I feel like I could take on the world and nothing could stop me!”

Of course my photography desires these artistic educational aims and I was successful in my assignment for the charity, though I hope that media desensitisation isn’t too prominent. A few months later there was a terrorist massacre in the Westgate Mall shopping centre I visited in Nairobi. It was absurd seeing the place being violated in such a way. I also know a past university friend whose brother was killed in the incident.

The months pass, the perpetual struggle for photography work resumes with my regular part time retail job supporting. With each month, I feel my previous self, seep through the cracks in excesses. I find myself looking back at photos and videos attempting to reassert that confidence and appreciating perspective. When I talk about this career achievement to someone new, they often say “it must have been eye opening, incredible experience.” I agree. Though actually, those feelings and grand realisations have passed back into the labyrinthine routine of everyday.


Footprints of a Strike

Based on the documentary ‘Footprints of a strike’ (2011)

(Photography by Sai Kumar)

The lift door thuds shut into darkness. “Go on” the Wakefield miner shouts. Screen Shot 2014-02-25 at 20.46.46With a jolt and a thud, the wheel mechanisms turn descending us deep into the earth. Stephan Oxley, turns his hat light o piercing the darkness. 900 feet down we go. We turn our lights on in response. I’m operating the video camera for a friend and colleague Sai Kumar, who is also taking the photography for this documentary. The lift seems to be descending relatively quickly as we see the variable earth levels like one of those diagrams they use in school showing the progress of soil to the earth’s core. The ducking and diving begins as we reach the bottom through narrow and low archways in pitch black all apart from our headlights and the occasional wall light, which seems ominous in such blackness.

Screen Shot 2014-02-25 at 20.50.48

We are visiting the Wakefield Mining Museum to reflect on the infamous strikes, which began in 1984. The museum was an active mine and the employees were previously miners, who now provide the services of guide and experts mostly to school excursions.

 The further we ventured, the further it felt like an abolition from earth though really we were getting further into it. Stephan guides us through and says how the mine used to operate with various great drilling machines left abandoned, obsolete, yet formidable enough and are still able to break through anything in its path. The absence of light seems to be replaced by tremendous noise as he turns on the generator. In a bleak narrow path we almost have to crawl through he states, “there were 3 union boards, The NUM (National Union of Miners) was the biggest, but the problems started when some went back to work.” His words slightly echo in the narrow tunnel blindness, giving us a focus of sound barely without any vision.  “If we went for consultation, compromise with other unions, rather than conflict, I think we would have saved something of the industry.” “We burn about a million tons of coal per week, vast majority we now get in from abroad. It would only take 20-30 collieries to make that up. Of course supporting industries would also be kept employed.”


As we arrived that early morning the staffroom is full or numerous walls of Screen Shot 2014-02-25 at 20.51.23keys, safety hats and a budgie. The budgie dying is an historical warning of escaping gas. Mick Green sits on the side of desk with his tea ready to put his point across.  “As for the strikes, our principles were that we were fighting for this country and when she dies, when Margret Thatcher dies, I’ve got a bottle whiskey here, and I’m going to have one good drink to celebrate that she’ll be burning somewhere. Evil horrible woman.” All the miners we interview seem to harbour strong feelings against Thatcher, though differ quite considerably when it comes to the unions of the strikes, and in particular Arthur Scargill. Mick continues, “Arthur Scargill is a fantastic brilliant bloke, the only thing wrong was that he didn’t have enough tact to deal with the Government. That’s why people didn’t like him.” This is in direct conflict with Davey Gerndt, a miner we later interview in a museum machine gallery. “There was too big a gulf between Scargill and Thatcher, but we’ve learnt after the unions members seems to have done alright after it all.”

Mick continues, “Thatcher taken out all our natural resources in export until it was gone, then we have to buy it from somewhere else. If we don’t buy locally it’s like taking the plug out. She ought to be done for treason.”  There did seem to be an intention to reduce the unions, which the Government perceived as too powerful. There were previous coal miner’s strikes though this time reserves were accumulated and a lot of home supplies were turning to gas and electric. Unions insisted that media slur campaigns were swaying public opinion. “People were persuaded it was also bad for the environment even though clean coal technology was invented yet brushed under the carpet. It was next to Grimethorpe colliery, it contained all the impurities then could recycle them for further use. Thatcher closed that just before we went on strike. 

Screen Shot 2014-02-25 at 20.52.47Davey argues, “Looking back we shouldn’t have gone on strike. We got led into it quite falsely. I picketed as long as I could until I got banned from leaving my home due a police curfew, 12 hours per day I had to stay home… The unions didn’t do much for us either. We lost our houses, we got food hampers from the Russian Miners.” Part of the media slur campaign aligned Scargill with Russian and Libyan terrorist groups. Davey continues, “I got married just before the crisis, then my brother went back to work, I haven’t spoken to him since.” As they think back to memories of that time they talk sombrely in decreasing tones as if in mourning for the things that have passed. My colleague Sai asks him what should they have done looking back? “We should have had a work to rule. But Scargill has done all right hasn’t he. He got paid throughout the strike and now lives in a rich area of London. Bitter pill to swallow.” The division between the miners of what happened and what should have happened is still evident though it is obvious that it was a bleak time of hardship. “I once got arrested 23 times in a week, charged with nothing… What would I change? Well, it’s easy to look back, I know.” Davey finishes.  

Screen Shot 2014-02-25 at 20.28.26With Stephan leading, we reach the end of the tunnels when the miners stopped digging all those years ago. We can see the coal in front and the wooden supports in place ready to venture forward. He gives me a piece of coal to take home. I found it strangely fascinating even though I’ve touched coal on the surface before. I said to Stephan that I was already forgetting about sunlight. “Yeah, its kind of peaceful isn’t it.” After a while it did feel like the sun was never going to be seen again, or down here you would never have known that it existed. A strange peace.






All At Sea

All at Sea – by Russell Whitehead

The archboard with fading words ‘Felicia’ adrift in the darkening sea without a notice of land. The small fishing vessel has seen its age in all waters with weathered encrusted barnacles smothering it’s bow. Faded red paint flaking with each voyage as the stern takes beatings against forbidding sea pressures. The crashing of the waves repeatedly thunder under familiar ears. Crushing sways in strenuous motions wherehence the tide drifts.

A great figure, stern at the afore draped in a strong dark green coat, twice his size. His wide over aged eyes, light blue, stare towards the infinite ceasless horizon. His face has the strength of a sea bearer. the spray embraces his tough skin though welcomes it. Nothing can faze this deeply carved barrier which has fought long seasons untamed, hardened indestructible. The apparent wind whirls through the vessel calling it’s ghostly continuous chant knocking his white long hair against his whiter beard. Yet his coat hood remains in place. Only does it stay in place through years of attempt made rigid, unmovable until tide over. His hands are as large as sandpapered clubs, stronger than the helm it keeps steady. He’s fought these moments throughout life, searching hard and fast. Never has he searched for aslyum harbour or yeilded much time among land for seeds to be sown. “Hold avast” Breathing shallow, sighing wearily as he does on land following as the crows fly. Land is to him is too much, unforboding, ceaselessly still, unpredictable.

In the helm there are others remaining in shadows shilloetted against dim lights. Fishing nets hang empty, planks lie worn trodden. Compasses swoon, radars flicker. Some peer back from where they came as if in secret between the devil and the deep blue sea.

There is a younger weathered face further at the fore peering over into the dark black blue. Excesses of white ferocious froth. Innocent eyes that are lighter than the other giant figure that almost over shadows anything fore. His slight hands grasp the edge of the ship less securely, often slipping with wet trepidation. His facial stubble is the dark of his hindesight, his hood often falling revealing his full brown wavey head of hair. The younger constantly forbodes the mal del mer* which is not only from rough tides thrown. He is helpless, eyes staring into the infinitely weighted existence caressing it’s power with tides fluttered, tsunamis thrown.

The stars are breaking through the clearing. Constellations that sea bearers live and desist by, pin holes in black, mirrored by melting erratic reflections below.

*mal de mer – seasickness

The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini – Review

‘The Kite Runner’ is a culturally rich emotive story, despite its weaknesses, has an important insight of an undiscovered perspective.

After reading classic literature by James Joyce or Guestve Flaubert, The Kite Runner had a lot to live up to.  I found the book culturally and emotionally rich with reference to the troubled history of Afghanistan though found the prose a little matter of fact.  Hosseini provides us with a very brutal heartfelt story though relies on great coincidence and symbolism to resolve the coward that the main character becomes at the beginning of the story.

The novel redeems itself with great descriptive prose towards the end though for me, the resounding meaning I take from this book is the horrific corruption and history or Afghanistan. The Kite Runner allows us an insight and emotive story of life in a place we actually know little about.


A Kite for Michael and Christopher by Seamus Heaney


All through that Sunday afternoon
a kite flew above Sunday,
a tightened drumhead, an armful of blown chaff.

I’d seen it grey and slippy in the making,
I’d tapped it when it dried out white and stiff,
I’d tied the bows of newspaper
along its six-foot tail.

But now it was far up like a small black lark
and now it dragged as if the bellied string
were a wet rope hauled upon
to lift a shoal.

My friend says that the human soul
is about the weight of a snipe,
yet the soul at anchor there,
the string that sags and ascends,
weigh like a furrow assumed into the heavens.

Before the kite plunges down into the wood
and this line goes useless
take in your two hands, boys, and feel
the strumming, rooted, long-tailed pull of grief.
You were born fit for it.
Stand in here in front of me
and take the strain.

“..a declaration of war should be a kind of popular festival with entrance-tickets and bands, like a bull fight. Then in the arena the ministers and generals of the two countries, dressed in bathing-drawers and armed with clubs, can have it out on themselves. Whoever survives the country wins. That would be much simpler and more than just this arrangement, where the wrong people do the fighting”
― Erich Maria RemarqueAll Quiet on the Western Front