Wondermentalist

I did a gig with Drew Dellinger recently. I won’t say much about it except it was great, I really enjoyed his stuff – very different from mine. We were complementary, I like to think. So that’s what I’ll think.

What’s great is you can hear Drew’s performance that night on a podcast from Wonderful Radio www.wndfl.com and you can hear mine, too. Right…. here.

If you’re a glutton for nourishment then you can access the 10-minute interview I did with Drew just before the gig by clicking the word clickydrewspeakmattyview – an embarrassing word but quite effective as a linky web portal.

Finally, having listened to the interview as I’m convinced you almost possibly will, I expect you’ll be exactly half-intrigued to read the poem – The Dance of Dust – he inspired me to perform. It’s a poem I hardly ever, ever perform, one I only brought out once, I think, when I was asked to do something with a rock band. (Which was a fantastic experience by the way, like piloting a space shuttle with your voice, or wearing an incredibly loud rucksack.)

You’ll also have to admit that the way Drew rose to the occasion read The Thousand Stringed Instrument by Hafiz when asked right out of the blue, was just excellent. The biz.

This is the Dance of Dust – I said sheepishly at the time that I wasn’t sure if it was a rap. Afterwards Drew’s son Israel generously told me that it was. I was dead chuffed.

 

I was fretting I was fussing I was down I was out

I was saying to myself: What is it all about?

I was flatulent and miserable and very very quizzical

My misery was risible and slightly metaphysical

                        I was anxious…

 

I said: “Am I an Emanation of the Universal Essence

Or a futile drop of consciousness with built-in obsolescence?

            Am I a thought that thinks itself, or somebody’s dream?

            Am I accidental, am I more than I seem?

Am I a stitch in some enormous intricate design?

Am I destined to unravel – could you give me a sign?

            Is Life with a capital ‘L’ really real?

            Am I what I think I am or just what I feel?

Is my body just a channel, sort of like a windsock?

Do we go out of the frying pan into the wok?

                        Or what?

 

And then a voice came up from under a stone

It said, “Back off, boy, you leave these questions alone

            Your ideas lack thrust. They’re not life-enhancing

            What you are is dust, and what you’re doing is dancing

But I said: “Hold your horses, Invisible Voice

I know my rights. There’s got to be a choice.”

A dance of dust, that’s a bitter pill,

But I don’t have to swallow it – where’s my free will?

            It said, “Boy, there’s not much you can do,

            Either you’re dancing it, or it’s dancing you.

 

But a dance of dust? I said That’s a bit much

It said, “Boy, you’re a bit out of touch.

You’re a spiritual confection of the living earth’s crust

And what that makes you is a Dance of Dust

 

We can fix your smile, we can firm up your bust

We can cure your piles, we can treat you for rust

We can give you a certificate that says you’re One Of Us

But nothing can save you from the Dance of Dust

It’s a Dance of Dust, boy, don’t you doubt it.”

I said, “Sure. Tell me about it.”                     (So it did.)

 

You dance out of your mother and you dance before your dad

Then you all dance together and you go a little mad

You sleepdance in the night-time, wakedance in the day

You dance the sacred geometry of DNA

                        It’s in your genes!

You do it in the sunshine, you do it in the rain

You take your partner by the limbic brain

You moan with pleasure then you howl with pain

You break up your relationship – and start again

                        Anyone can do it!

When you’re first on the scene, bursting at the seams

You do the Dance better (‘cause you don’t care what it means)

You take a few chances, steal a few scenes

You eat food grown from the bones of has-beens

            Well you can say it’s obscene, you can tell me I’m cruel

            But this time next aeon you’ll be fossil fuel

 

You can dance like Rudolph Nureyev or Ginger Rogers

Gene Kelly, Wayne Sleep or the Artful Dodger

But when the spirit is thrilling and the flesh is sleek

Then it’s ashes to ashes and cheek to cheek

            I said, “What does that mean?” It said, “Shut your face.

            You can think you’re so clever, you can think you’re so sussed

            But you’re just another hoofer in the Dance of Dust

 

You do it first and last, last and first

From the day you’re born to the day your bubble bursts

You can’t sit on the fence, you can’t ever abstain

The Dust keeps Dancing in the back of your brain

 

            You can ‘phone your mother, you can change your name

            You can go bananas, you can go on the game

            You can hail a taxi, you can catch a bus

            But you can’t get away from the Dance of Dust

 

            But it’s a Dance of Dust –you might have to adjust

            It’s a Dance of dust – and you’ve just got to trust

            It’s a Dance of Dust – and there’s nothing to discuss

            It’s a Dance of Dust –

                                                What’s all the fuss?

 

 

This kind of follows on from the previous post (Magic memories, Tricks of the Mind). It’s another memory poem. One that I was reminded of. And feel nostalgic for. There was a feature about a woman who’d gone back to live in the place she’d grown up in, a place of which she had magical memories, only to find the real place and the place of magical memories were not the same. We could all have warned her, I’m sure.

Which isn’t to say we won’t need someone to warn us, too, when it comes to it.

This is the place. But not how I remember.

All memories are made up (though I must add parenthetically
I’m not talking false memory - I mean made up cosmetically)
A little bit like ‘wash and go’ our double-action memory
will slap a ‘g’ on loss - add ‘gloss and glow’
‘It relishes and embellishes’

When we time travel to memory’s sites
It’s technical trespass - we’re caught bang to rights
We step into a cramped inverted tardis,
Like the grey-haired baby-boomer heard in Argos
saying ‘I remember when this when it was all Green Shields’

and yet, the grass back then was greener
the air was surely cleaner
and the thought of sex obscener…

our bodies were all bendier
the clothes we wore were trendier
the libraries were lendier
the germoline calendula
the good days were more buen día

the hanky then was pankier
small cotton squares were hankier
slices of wood… were plankier
[self-abuse was excellent]

down under was Australian
crop circles were more alien

pimples were more pustular
footballers’ thighs more muscular

the ecstacy was mescalin
the vicars were more masculine

and no-one had a barbell in their eyebrow
and radio 4 was still considered high-brow…

Nothing looks or sounds as luscious now as then
Except the opening chords of News at Ten…

I love the way it starts off vaguely reflective and half-way clever, then just goes off on one. I admit that I changed the last line because the original was too site-specific. And the line “the self-abuse was excellent” is in parentheses because it deserves to be. It’s an after-thought. Like this.

PS I admit the Argos link is misleading, but I oculdn’t bring myself to do a ‘proper’ one. Anyway it all becoomes clear if you click on the Green Shields link. If you only click on one link, however, make it the tardis link. Treat yourself to a true nostalgic frisson…

The mind can play strange tricks. It’s possible to go to sleep and dream of winning a raffle, then wake up in the morning next to the chairperson of the church fête committee. It’s possible to think of a person then later to meet them in a shop. Freaky.

Memory is particularly vulnerable to muddle and manipulation. Who among us hasn’t at some time been quite sure that something had happened, only to find, later, that it had just been a stick cartoon drawn by your uncle. A really vivid one.

Happens to the best of us. Who among us hasn’t forgotten something, sometime, and thought, Tch! I wish I had a better memory!!!

Anyway, this isn’t really to do with that. I wanted a nice intro, and I honestly think that was one. Weird, eh?

There was a memory man on Saturday Live, a really nice man called Ben Pridmore. Ben has won the World Memory Championship and is currently number two in the world in the memory sports ranking. Not bad for an unassuming man in a black felt hat with a surprisingly soft voice, a bit like Jon Ronson’s. I just googled him and it turns out he had his own blog. He doesn’t mention me, of course. He’s not that sort of memory man.

Anyway, I wrote a poem inspired by his presence. I thought I’d try to tease out the difference between the memory as a muscle and the tricks it can perform, alongside the kind of memories we tend to value and cherish. I did this with limited success, nevertheless I like the poem, though I say it as shouldn’t.

Magical Memories – a regrettably forgettable yet unforgetful love poem

I remember the dress that you wore when we met
The dress with the dots – how could I forget
Two hundred and four – none exactly the same
I counted them all as you came through the door
…I gave each one a name

We walked out together, beneath a lumpy grey sky
I see it so clearly now in my mind’s eye,
The pavement, the drizzle, the cars grumbling by…
Ford Mondeo, blue, N76 RBT
Toyota Corolla, white, C213 XPL
Citroen Picasso, red S79 YAE

You kissed me. I missed one. But I didn’t mind.
We were young. We had time.

The restaurant. We held hands. Once more we kissed.
And whispered sweet nothings - well, you did,
I whispered the whole set menu and wine list…
[And what’s really nice is:
I can still recite it, including the prices]

And then back to your place, your face stuck to my face
While my eyes memorised your cd’s
I noticed a book there beside the computer
The abridged Kama Sutra (for the hurried lover)
And took a quick look – in two minutes, I’d read it – from cover to cover

You said, Hey do you seriously think that kind of thing can impress me?
And I closed the book, and my eyes, and said, Test me.

There you have it. What do you reckon? I was glad/relieved/ that they all laughed at the end. [They being Ben, Muriel Gray (on stand-in duty for Fi Glover) and Bettany Hughes, historian, broadcaster, author of Helen of Troy: Goddess, Princess, Whore. I put this in because for some reason I feel we all have a duty to read it, and her next book, which is a biography of Socrates.]

But the highest praise came from Maria, executive producer, who told me the poem was timed at 1.01 mins. A record for Saturday Live poets, she said. There’s management skill for you. I’m bound to be in under the minute next time. (Next time is December 1st, thanks for wondering.)

I did Saturday Live yesterday. Two poems to write at short notice. It can seem difficult, but it used to be three. Everything’s relative. It’s not just time and space. Mainly time and space, though.

The first poem – no more than 30 seconds, please – can be about anything as long as it’s half-to-three-quarters-way topical. I always struggle to come up with something for this. I have to ask people: what’s topical? It’s another relativity issue. Anyway, I wrote about St Pancras. It’s exciting that St Pancras is thriving again, as an international travel portal. Well, I’m excited. I’ve not actually been there, although I’d like to, and I shall.

I toyed with writing about the Tutankhamun Exhibition that’s currently on tour. There’s a lot to be said about the mummified remains of the 12th ruler of ancient Egypt’s 18th dynasty, perpetually 19-years old in the public imagination, effortlessly glamorous, mysterious, still pulling in the punters. But no, I opted simply to praise St Pancras. It’s just over 100 words but it reads quickly.

We’ve all been where you’re standing, we’ve stood there, St Pancras
Stood empty and friendless, neglected and thankless

And you’ve stood forlorn as the powers-that-be scorned you
Both persons of rank and us ordinary punters
How you must have hungered and hankered, St Pancras

For the life you have now, for arrivals, departures
For lovers to linger beneath your grand arches

But now you’re emerging, refurbished, resurgent
Your platforms buffed up and washed down with detergent

And you welcome us all, from near and from far
To your cathedral grandeur, your new champagne bar

St Pancras – you know what you are
You’re a star.

I tried to make the pun of the last line a gettable option, but I’m not sure that I did. Nobody groaned. Not outwardly. If you read this and you know what I’m talking about, please tell me. I’d be grateful for any comment at all, frankly. I’m new to this. I’m not looking for praise, just human contact in the blogosphere…