Doodling is a wonderful source of relaxation. It’s escapism, therapeutic distraction, and a very instinctive time-killer. When it comes to drawing, my sense of depth or perspective is pretty limited, my aptitude for anatomic proportion is childlike at best, but when it comes to abstract, organic shapes and modular forms, I like to humour myself by entertaining the idea that I’m not that bad.

“Anyway”, I tell myself, “If I was any good, I’d call myself an Illustrator. I don’t lay claims to that level of greatness. Doodling isn’t even a real hobby, I don’t have to be good at it, I can just scribble away and hope it looks nice”

Whether it’s to kill a half-hour waiting for a train, to clear my mind of the busy busy to-do list at work, to zone out for ten minutes, or simply as a brainstorming aid, doodling needs little more than a pencil stub and any sort of paper…and even that’s not strictly necessary. Doodles are time-fillers, little visual panaceas, and the catalysts for countless unborn inspirations. (more…)

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I woke up at an indiscernable point in the night. My toe throbbed like a fleshy, vicious alarm clock, warning me into awakeness, waking me up with dull but unrelenting pain. I had inadvertantly created a tourniquet, a little cotton valve, and turned my toe into a minute bloodbank cul-de-sac,a little sacco di sangue. I unwrapped the thread gingerly, and at that moment I experienced something; then, it felt fresh and blunt, but now, while not common, is certainly not unusual.

It’s hard to describe the sensation I had; it was more a lack of sensation, combined with a huge awareness of self. I couldn’t hear anything at all apart from myself, I could only just make out shapes in the darkness, and only felt the cocoon of my bed and the duvet. I felt sensory deprivation as it should be; unexpected and brief, without immersion tanks and salinated water; without. Above all, I felt a sense of dread; a feeling of instant and unshakeable mortality. I understood, albeit for a short second, that I wasn’t unbreakable, that I wasn’t God, and that I was lacking in any sort of immortal superpowers. This intense realisation caught me unawares and sleepy, and I think at the time, I was more aware of the sensory deprivation that was felt than the realisation of my mortality. I went to sleep with wild thoughts and a toe that tingled with new oxygen.

The two distinct senses, one external, and one internal, continue to strike me from time to time, always independantly, but one often tinged with the insinuation of the other. The feeling that grabs me most, now that I understand it more, is the one that I cannot quantify. Sensory deprivation is easily acheived and explained; the sounds of your various biological systems keeping you alive can be repeated ad infinitum with a stethoscope, or even with the naked ear, if you reduce the background noise of the world around you (by the way, technological “noise reduction” systems can’t acheive the same effect). No, the feeling that stops me dead (har, har) is the one I can’t replicate, the one I can’t explain away; the feeling that, yes, my thoughts are bigger and grander than the fleshy vessel that contains them, and no, I won’t be having them thoughts forever. Yes, the casing of my abstract thought is temporary, and no, I can’t replace it. The marvelous wonder of evolution and biology that allows me to do so much, to acheive such magnificent acts as the use of tools, the creation and grasp of the abstract, (and fuck, the ability to create life) is also so cruelly restrictive. The simian shroud that I call “me” is seemingly so enabling, but god-fuck-a-monkey, it is also the swift and definite disabler. (more…)

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Na roda da capoeira
Grande e pequeno sou eu

(In the Capoeira circle, great and small am I)

Capoeira, é defesa, ataque
a ginga de corpo e a malandragem

(Capoeira is defence, attack, the motion of the body, and trickery)

Try as one might to classify Capoeira, it’s not really possible to stuff it into one category. Ask any Capoeirista who isn’t a Mestre (Master) to define it, and they’ll stumble over their words in an attempt to describe it’s essence. By the end of their description, they will have told you it’s pretty much everything, and leave you none the wiser. It’s manifestation depends on the agenda of the Capoerista; it depends on the practitioner, their teacher, and the context.

Some will tell you it’s a deadly Martial Art, an amalgamation of West African fighting techniques, transported across the sea in slave boats as seperate traditions, and fused by oppression in the Senzalas of Bahia, Brazil, with a kicking technique evolved to suit those who’s hands have been shackled.

Some will tell you that it’s a dance, a primal and ritualistic communication between two bodies, symbolic of one’s path in life, the circle of people that envelope them representing a duality; the physical world and the Ouroboros or maybe an invocation of the spirit Orixas (Gods) of Candomblé.

Some might tell you it’s an expression of liberty, the freedom of movement, the freedom of expression, free will triumphing against fate; or perhaps that it is the domination of others, the strategic attack and defence, a game rather than a fight.

None of these descriptions are wrong; all of them have their place in Capoeira. (more…)

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I have little time for socialising at the moment; My spare time is taken up with Capoeira, teaching myself webdesign, and getting ready for Brazil. So when I do get a chance to socialise, it’s great.
“Papa Vinyl” is the dj moniker of my girlfriend’s boss, Jim Willis. Apart from being one of the head honchos at the successful design/moving image business (gizza job Jim!) Bulb, and running the fantastic educational Arts non-profit Pedestrian, he finds the time to organise the exclusive “Papa Vinyl” evening, about once every four months.

The basis of the event is simple; you bring five songs with you, of your choosing. Your name gets chalked up on the board, and Jim plays one song per person, working his way down the list, and starting from the beginning (with a new song) each time. It’s an invite-only night, ensuring that there isn’t any gatecrashing by nu-rave cyber-crasher kids or black metal dervishes.

That said, the format is open and democratic; the song choice is entirely up to you, and the format can be anything from 7″ vinyl to an iphone streaming youtube (however cold and digital that might be!). A little Nancy Sinatra and Jesus and the Mary Chain, mingling with Sabrepulse and Hudson Mohawk, should be an indicator of the diversity that a night such as Papa Vinyl guarantees. The venue itself was perfect for the evening, too; a small tavern in Braunstone Gate, a back room no bigger than my bedroom, puke-pattern carpet, real ale and sweet fruity wine, and an outdoor pisser.

My inner-nerd wish for the evening would be; a group Last.fm playlist (or similar, Muxtape for example?) for the evening, for those too drunk or too far from the decks to enquire as to the name of the track or the artist. I’m sure there are a good few tracks I would love to get hold of, if only I knew the names!

You can listen to my choice of songs on Last.fm

Anyway, it was a fantastic night; props to Ski, Stu and Jim for the great tunes.

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(Me on my grandfather’s shoulders, my brother on my father’s shoulders, off on an adventure!)

No matter how well prepared you think you are, the unknown can be both exhilarating and overwhelming in equal parts. One finds comfort (and thus safety) in the familiar, whether it’s always visiting your favourite café, driving the same route to work every day, or more drastic manifestations such as never leaving your country of birth. “Better the devil you know, than the devil you don’t” is a phrase that sums this up entirely; it’s far easier to deal with a familiar problem than to have to figure out the solution to an unfamiliar one.

So is this the slow-burning knot in my stomach, that dormant sharp rush of breath, the brief quickening pulse that I feel in the weeks before I leave a country for an entirely new one? Is that really the cause of my tempered anxiety? Surely I should be filled with the curious expectation of sights unseen, relishing the unknown experiences that I have just bought the ticket for? (more…)

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I guess every blog must start off with it’s first post; it must be the most common topic. This is mine, and I’ll do my best to make it as painless as possible. I guess the best place to begin is to lay out my intentions, for my sake more than anyone elses.

wossat?

I have a bad track record with journals; my brother was always better than me at documenting his days; I was too busy using up every last drop of energy building a treehouse, chasing an animal, or passively destroying anything interesting that belonged to my father. I always liked the idea of documenting what I did, and as a photographer, I guess I have manged to, but in a visual rather than literal sense. I used to keep a journal on Deviantart, but within a few years I got fed up with the popularity contest/animé fanboy/myspace selfportrait crowd, and gradually switched off. The colour scheme is fuck-ugly too. So, it’s time to bite the bullet and dive into the brave (not-so) new world of blogging. (more…)

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