Chris Ord's Blog, page 3

The trees came without warning

‘The trees came without warning. A forest of dense, impenetrable branches sweeping for miles across the battered coastland of the north. They swallowed everything in their path. Covering fields, meadows and hills as far as the eye could see, wrapping all before them in a blanket of limbs and leaves. They came at night. Some say they heard the creaks and groans in the darkness. Others spoke of singing, chanting, even screams. Then there were the twisted dreams. All told the same, each one feeling trapped, suffocating, smothered by some unseen presence. And there were the missing. Those never seen again. Villages and farmhouses swamped within the darkness of the woodland. Men, women, and children gone. There are those that still speak of the cries of the lost, of hearing their voices whispering at night, calling from beyond the trees. T’was a crisp, spring morning, as the first rays of sunlight seeped above the horizon, when people awoke to find them everywhere. A labyrinth of gnarled wooden limbs coated in a canopy of green, each leaf stained with the teardrops of fresh, silvery dew as they danced with the soft dawn breeze. At its most southerly point, this vast forest curved into the narrow tip of a horn. Here, at the edge of the trees, a cluster of village folk gathered. None would venture into the woods. None would dare get too near. Each stood in silence, mothers and children clutching hands while fathers stood alongside. The village watched and waited. Scouring the dark cracks between the twisted branches. Looking for a sign of something, a glimmer of life. They saw nothing, though each man, woman, and child had an overwhelming sense of being watched. There were eyes deep within the trees, the cold stare of something living. The elder folk knew this day would come, though none of them knew when. Tales of this night had haunted bedtime stories for generations. Tales passed down through families, stories as old as time itself. They told of an ancient woodland. Of elms, yews, and silver birch. Of ash, beech and English oak. A huge enchanted forest springing from the ground in the dead of night, the darkest of hours, on a night without moonlight. The tales spoke of the forest of the giant wooded horn, from which this village took its name. The trees were a sign. Heralding the return of the Wunderfolk. Ancient, mystical creatures for which the woodland was home. It was written that one day they would return to claim their land once more. This vast kingdom stretching from the point of the horn, to the coast of the East, and on up to the hills of the North. A kingdom once ruled by them, and them alone. Thousands of years before the Nordic invaders came from across the seas, and the armies of the Empire of Rome. The Wunderfolk give the forest its magic. They are its spirit and and its life. Often heard, seldom seen, many in the village have a tale of a chance encounter. All know someone with such a story to tell. And in the dark winter nights, when families huddle around the fire, wrapped in thick, leather blankets. When the children snuggle in tight, gazing into the heart of the fiery embers. This is when the elders tell the tales. Passing the stories down to the next generation, a thread stretched across time that binds us all. The stories of the Wunderfolk, and the night the trees came.’       

Music. Oof.

One of the pleasures of becoming a writer has been meeting so many talented and creative people. I have become aware of a whole network of local writers, scriptwriters, poets, artists, and musicians. There are a myriad of events, workshops and get togethers each offering support and encouragement. The local creative community is stronger than ever and supported by some passionate and selfless people.  I first became aware of the work of Allison Davies through my friends Vic Watson and Jason Thompson. I read a post about a bold and exciting new commission by a theatre company based on Teeside called Zen Gun. The piece, written by Alli is called 'Trade' and deals with the issues of young girls being forced into prostitution and slavery in the name of tradition and religion. Alli comes from the boldest pool of creativity and writing, the type of voice we need more of, someone who uses her considerable talent to challenge the difficult issues so often buried or overlooked by the mainstream. It's a pleasure to welcome Alli as a guest on my blog today to continue my series around the theme of music and its influence on local creatives. So enough of me, over to Alli now.   Music. Oof. I could talk for hours, no days, no, weeks. Well, OK. I could talk about it for a long time, about the influence it has on my life and writing, but I assume you all have far more interesting things to do than listen to me blether on, so I’ll keep it brief. My earliest musical memory is of driving my Mum bonkers by asking her to play ‘The Rosy record’ over and over again as the music made me feel like there were birds taking flight inside my chest. I still have the record, red and yellow roses on the sleeve, a little warped and battered, and with a few scratches, though it does play, a selection of Rachmaninoff piano concertos that still have the power to wake those birds and set them flying. As Delius said, ‘Music is an outburst of the soul.” and perhaps that’s true of any creative expression. It’s marvellous, powerful and I can’t imagine life without it, the literary Spanx that underpins everything I write. I even borrowed the title of an Elbow track for one of my plays, but that was less a considered decision and more a case of blind panic at a looming deadline. I still love it though. The track. And the play wasn’t too bad either. On which note…https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f724-IJc1wM A little Rachmaninoff:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rEGOihjqO9w And a current favourite:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2t9KHSaJ_GYAllison Davies is a writer from Northumberland, UK who writes scripts, prose and poetry. She’s worked with various theatre companies including OddManOut, Precious Cargo and Alphabetti Theatre and has published poetry in a number of zines. Alli also works with Danusha, a social enterprise helping Nepali women. She has the perfect arts CV. Having trained as a lawyer and then a nurse, she ran away to sea then came back to the UK stop study for an MA in Creative Writing. She loves travelling and is addicted to tea, preferably served with a hippy on the side.  To find out more about Zen Gun Theatre, 'Trade' and more of Alli's work check out:http://www.zengun.co.uk

Music and poetry - guest post by Harry Gallagher

Today I welcome another guest on my site writing about the impact music has had on their lives, and in this case their writing. I’m delighted to welcome Harry Gallagher as my guest. Though I was well aware of his work and strong reputation as a local poet, I first met Harry only recently through a friend and fellow author Sue Miller. The three of us ran an event on the theme of dystopia at a cafe in Newcastle a couple of months ago. Harry entertained us all with his dazzling and thought provoking wordplay, as well as acting as a terrific compere.  Harry shares a few thoughts on music and a couple of his own poems on the theme. If you haven’t seen Harry perform or read any of his work I recommend you check it out. He is a rare talent and entertainer.  Enjoy!So how does music influence my writing? It’s difficult to say because without even thinking about it, music is central in my life. It’s everywhere, to the extent I never even think anymore about whether it influences what I write. I think – for me at least – the best poetry has a musicality that wafts through it and carries it along imperceptibly. It’s one of the key factors in differentiating it from prose. So rather than waffling on about it (the theory of something always kills the thing itself in my experience – ask children how dull they find Shakespeare when taught as a staid piece, rather than watched as a piece of theatre, as the man himself intended) I thought I’d share a couple of my own favourite ‘musical’ poems below.  Thanks for reading!StaggeringHe negotiates the tableslike a babe on trapeze -with easeFloats into his seat,landing cushioned by a chaserbig enough to drown inand it is quickly chaseddown.In one motion the fiddlelevitatesinto caressing handsand fingertips landon beloved strings.The bow swings and swaysthe remnants of the dayaway.Hearts burst from his fingersand pop in the airfor the boy who loves it alljust too much.Miss EllerbyMiss Ellerby briefly played pianobeneath fast flickering film.A life in black and white,her Henry having succumbedto the guns of Passchendaele,a crimson crocheton a swaying stave.And when the pictures started talkingthis redundant ivory charmerbecame piano teacher extraordinaire,day and night breathing lifeinto the bodies of workof long dead composers.Month after year stretching her patienceand her cardigan elbowson Mozart resistant childrenand sausage fingered hereticsuntil Evensong was played for herby a pianist she’d never heard of.And the kids-turned-adultswho had called her a witchand had sucked painfully onthe Benelyn flavoured bricksshe dished out as boiled sweetsgathered to share our stories.And the spine tinglerswhich flowed from heranytime we’d listenwere held like fragile lovers.And as we looked at our fingersdancing over invisible keysthe truth was revealed,scarier than any ghoul.That the old witch had seepedher magic through knuckles and skin,for all the time we had sniggered behind hands,the spell had been sinking in.Harry is a widely published poet, both in the UK and abroad. He performs nationally and his next book, 'Northen Lights' is due out in September. www.harrygallagherpoet.wordpress.com

'What I've Been Waiting For' - guest post

Today I am hosting another in my series of guest blogs from local creative people who have been inspired by music. Graham Chambers is a good friend of mine. We go back a long way. Too long. We went to school together, and both benefited from teaching staff and a music curriculum that was supportive, encouraging, and inspiring. As a talented multi-instrumentalist Graham pursued his passion for drumming, playing guitar, and singing. While most of us were banging our heads to heavy metal, and a brave few dabbled with indie, Graham’s heart was in rock ’n roll. As Graham says,“I’ve always enjoyed the late 50’s Elvis sound, basic, raw, exciting, and at the time, very new. My love of music, and the Elvis influence came to the fore when Shakin’ Stevens arrived on the mainstream scene around 1980. This was when I really got into performing and writing.”Graham formed and played in a number of bands and has been a part of the North East music scene for over 25 years. His most recent outfit, the Cadillacs entertain audiences in bars, clubs and events across the region. All the while Graham was writing and recording material, never considering putting together an album. Then everything changed. This is Graham’s story. I hope you find it as inspirational as I have done. Graham’s message is a simple, but important one. It’s never too late to follow your heart and make your dreams happen. Just keep believing. Make it happen. Make it marvellous.‘What I’ve Been Waiting For - Graham’s story’ ‘Sometimes, you've just got take a chance. Sometimes you might fall flat on your face, but if you don't try, how do you find out? That was me for twenty five years. After an epiphany moment while speaking to a good musician friend about my music, I knew the time was right. The time had come to sort through my back catalogue of two hundred and fifty songs and filter the wheat from the chaff, and put out a self published, self released, self everything, album of ten of my songs. This was only meant to fulfil a personal wish. As the process went on however, it began to gain momentum, I was getting more excited by the day. Some of my lifelong friends helped out and all time musical heroes were actually speaking to me and agreeing to play a part in MY music! This was way above anything I had ever imagined for my little project. With the support of the magnificent producer Ally Lee at Mill Studios in Alnwick who pulled recordings from these luminaries from all over the world, the album was shaping into something special, more so than I had ever thought. Listening to the final process emotions were mixed. At times I was happy for all we had achieved. There was sadness too, for the memories these songs took me back to. That is the beauty of music. After fifteen months of hard work the album was complete, I held the finished disc in my hand. I released the album on iTunes and Spotify, sharing it with friends all over the world. I had no idea at the beginning that sitting flicking through my phone on the second day of its release I would see myself sandwiched between Johnny Cash and Shania Twain in the iTunes Country Chart at number sixteen. I can't even begin to explain the feeling of personal achievement. I thought that was it. I had done it all. But no. There was more. A year later I've begun another album. This time there are ten brand new tracks I'm currently writing in the hope of releasing another album in 2018 when I turn fifty. So, there's more to come and who knows what joy it will bring me.’You can find out more about Graham and his music at http://graham-chambers.co.ukYou can download a copy of his debut album, ‘What I’ve Been Waiting For’ on iTunes at http://itunes.apple.com/album/id1114267051?ls=1&app=itunes

Guest post by Oonah V Joslin

I have invited some Facebook friends to write guest posts on my blog. The theme is anything about their love of music, and/or how it has influenced their lives. I’m delighted to have my first guest blogger today. Oonah V Joslin is a local poet and writer who creates mesmerising and evocative poems that highlight her considerable gift as a wordsmith. Her latest publication is a beautiful collection of verse called ‘Three Pounds of Cells.’ It can be found on Amazon at the following link and is well worth checking out:http://amzn.eu/dTuYt3gOonah lives in Northumberland, but originates from Ballymena in Co Antrim. Her first love was poetry and telling stories, and early poems were published in Ballymena Academy's magazine. In 2006 she resigned from teaching, joined writewords.org.uk and became addicted to flash fiction. To her astonishment she won three Microhorror prizes. Oonah's stories and poems have been published in various print anthologies. The first part of her novella 'A Genie in a Jam', is serialised at 'Bewildering Stories'. She was managing editor at Every Day Poets for 5 years after which she became poetry editor at The Linnet's Wings. You can follow Oonah on Facebook or at her blog Parallel Oonahverse.It’ll come as no surprise that Oonah’s offering on the musical theme is a poem. It was just what I needed to lift my spirits on this wet and dreary Friday morning. Enjoy!Famous Dave’s -- Oonah V Joslin(with apologies to Kath and Jim Mickelson)It’s a top venuein Minneapolisthe hot-spot of Koolif you like that sort of thing.‘Popa Chubby’I thought he would sing.And some jazz instrumentalsreally swingbut this was just dinif anythingand it was so loudI couldn’t hear.It was so loudit hurt my ears.So I stuffed in tissuesto block the painand I tried to copebut it was in vain.And because Iwas in such distresswe had to leaveafter the first set.As we left he playedguitar so sweetOver the Rainbowgentle and lowsuch a performancereally hard to beat.That guy could makea guitar weep!Had it not beenfor the screamingguitars amplifiedto be heard on MarsI might have proveda better guest.My hosts had donetheir level bestbut progressive jazzis not for backward meno matter how famousFamous Dave’s may be.

Culture

Last night I performed at Hexham Abbey at the Journal Culture Awards. Our brass project ‘Reflection Connection’ composed and led by the uber talented Lucy Pankhurst was one of three finalists in the ‘Best Event in Northumberland’ category. I and others from Jayess Newbiggin joined our marras from Ashington, Ellington, and Bedlington brass bands to perform the Finale from the suite as the opening to the second half. It wasn’t our best performance, but we played with energy and passion, and entertained an appreciative audience. Above all we enjoyed it, and there were plenty of smiles as we left the stage. That is what matters most with music, the joy. Most pleasing to see was the many youngsters performing. The future of brass banding is in good hands.We didn't win the award which went to the Blyth Tall Ships Event. It is a worthy winner, though in many respects it was an event of Olympic proportions in the North. Our project was small in comparison, but every bit important. Our focus was inspiring young people, highlighting brass as a modern and exciting form of music. We celebrated our past, but also lit a flame for the future. The flame will grow.The awards were dazzling and diverse, celebrating all we have to be proud of here in the North. There were many finalists and, though only a few prizes, all were winners. I was delighted to see Mick Henry, the former leader of Gateshead Council win a special award for his outstanding contribution to the North. Under his leadership Gateshead put culture at the heart of its regeneration strategy commissioning the Angel, the Sage, the Baltic, and the Millennium Bridge. Iconic cultural assets built on strong partnerships now recognised and attracting artists, musicians and admirers from around the world.As a celebration of culture, the awards highlighted what we all know, but may have taken for granted. Culture is vital to us all. There is a well documented economic benefit that for every £1 spent on culture a further £4 is generated in the wider economy. Investment in arts and culture makes sound financial sense, but the true value is so much more than that. Our cultural assets are gifts to the local community. Our musicians, artists, poets, writers, dancers enrich our lives on every level. If we don’t act arts and culture could be damaged and destroyed forever.The Afghanistan war cost the UK £37billion, the banking bailout a staggering £850 billion. It would seem our politicians can find money for some priorities but they cannot give our kids the resources and support for art, culture and music. In my view this is shameful. Many will say that times are hard and there are more important things we could spend national resources on. I don’t believe this is true. There is nothing more important than we can invest in than culture and creativity. Winston Churchill was asked in the Second World War to cut arts funding in favour of the war effort. His response was, ‘then what are we fighting for?’ This is one of the few things we agree on.My passion is for words, but most of all music. No culture ever discovered in human history has not had music. It is the one universal language, the purest expression of feeling and emotion, the songs of our soul. Last night, we represented brass banding in Northumberland, a rich and proud movement with a long and successful past. The greatest cornet player ever, James Shepherd is from my home village of Newbiggin. Incidentally, Newbiggin is the only place in the world to have three winners of the prestigious John Iles Medal awarded each year by the Worshipful Company of Musicians. Brass bands are an integral part of our cultural heritage, but they are not a thing of the past. We are a living, breathing dynamic movement, proud of our traditions, but looking forward to an exciting future. The ‘Reflection Connection’ is just one of many projects highlighting our ambition to collaborate and innovate, our willingness to explore new approaches. The past was bright in banding, but the future will be brighter.Five hundred and twelve brass bands competed in Regional Finals in England, Scotland, and Wales in 2017. Over 13,000 musicians young and old. The many talented young musicians, playing alongside the older, and more experienced passing on their knowledge and skills to the new generation. Every single one of us is an amateur. We devote our time and energy to playing together, keeping a wonderful tradition and movement going. Some things are more than just a hobby, they're embedded in our culture, a key part of who we are. To steal and paraphrase, everyone in brass banding knows it is not a matter of life and death, it is far more important than that. We love to contest, but recognise that we can embrace the past and change as we move forward. We want to highlight the joy of brass music, we would love to get more young people interested. The past was ours, but the future is theirs. We need support.On average the brass band movement receives less than half a million pounds per year from the Arts Council, that is less than one hundred pounds per competing band. Opera receives around £70 million per year. We are a working class movement embedded in the post industrial heartlands, founded on volunteers, largely self taught and funded. Listen to Cory, Black Dyke, Grimethorpe or Brighouse and you will experience some of the greatest musicianship you will ever hear. We may be amateurs, but at our best our musicians are world class.Last night was a celebration of the culture and talent in the North, just a part of the rich and diverse culture that exists beyond the gentrified smog of London and the Home Counties. I came away from the awards with a sense of pride, in the area that I love so much, and the musical movement I am a part of. I also watched the proceedings with trepidation and fear. The small levels of funding directed towards culture are dwindling. Within this funding there are huge inequalities in distribution across regions and culture types. As with so much of our taxes funding flows from the many into the hands of the privileged few. Change is needed. Don’t let the flame die.

Why be creative?

I presented an author talk the other day. It was in Ashington, the town I spent my early childhood. It was moving to return to where it all began, to recall my younger years. Sprinting to the library after school to replenish my supply of Doctor Who books. Sitting in those first English classes, young imaginations waiting to run wild. My rose tinted spectacles view those days with a deep fondness. Time bathes the past in the warmth of sunset. The audience were good, and kept me on my toes with some challenging questions. One asked why I felt the urge to write, and if I enjoyed being creative. It’s a question that has stayed with me in the days since.Humanity is at its greatest when we are being creative. Music and words are my struggle to find happiness, meaning, who I might be, and what I might become. As a species we possess the wonderful ability to look at the world around us, to analyse, interpret it, but more importantly change it. As Marx said creativity is our very essence, what separates us from all other creatures, what makes humanity special. Other creatures make things, but none have the vast creative power and potential to change the world as much as us. At our very best our creativity is astonishing, at our most destructive it is terrifying.It took me many years to figure this out, but I only ever feel at peace with myself when I’m creating. Once I realised this everything changed. My passions are music and words. They are my road. All I need to do is find an idea, and take the first step, then another, and another, and keep going. Where they lead to is not the point, the journey itself is all that is important. The journey and all that I learn along the way, the experience, and how it changes me.Many of you are the most creative people I know. You inspire me and many others. I see it daily. Some of you don’t even realise how creative you are, but we all have imagination. Creativity is simply having the courage and skill to turn your imagination into words, pictures, music, song. Nothing is forbidden, anything is possible. Every page is blank, every note unsung, each journey is waiting to be taken by you.Many of us wrestle with dark demons, questions about how to fill those pages, barriers of confidence, self doubt, even loathing. I have them. We all do. In those moments I tell myself life is fleeting, and though there may be many reasons not to do something, I know there is nothing more memorable or rewarding in life than coming together to sing, dance, tinkle or toot. By far the best moments in my life have been creative. Even my kids I helped create. Capturing new moments and making new memories is all that matters now. ‘He not busy being born is busy dying.’Today is my birthday, so please allow the indulgence of self-reflection. Today’s wish is a simple one. Whatever your gift, and we all have at least one, don’t waste your opportunity. The point of living is not only to experience the world, but to transform it, and through creativity you transform both the world and yourself.

Paradise

ParadiseFiery sunset on golden sandYoung romantics, an eastern landDecadent culture, freedom flowsNothing is sacred, anything goesUnder the moonlight, the party writhesLight is smothered, as darkness thrivesBackstreet pleasures, instant highAll you imagine, all you can buyFree from obligation, the land they have flownFree from morality, the land of their ownFree from conformity, commitment, and careFree to seek comfort in all that is thereOne day they return, the wanderlust fadedExhausted from freedom, battered, and jadedLonging for all that they once looked to fleeSearching for something, a place they can be

Stay

StayIt was the day his father died that he first appeared. Owen felt as though he had known him all his life, but only through his music. They had never met, not until that first time. He always came when least expected, when they were alone. At first it disturbed Owen, but he got used to it, found it comforting. Owen never told anyone, not even Anna. He was sure they would have thought it strange. After all it isn’t every day you are visited by a dead rock star.Owen gazed over the edge of the cliff and out to sea. Cruel winds churned the water and the waves battered the shore below. He looked at the clock on the car, struggled to recall how long he had been here. Owen realised he was there, in the passenger seat next to him. His hero was dressed in a blue tailored suit and yellow shirt with a long pointed collar. The unmistakable face was white, skeletal, skin translucent. The star’s hair was a fiery red and swept back behind his ears. Then there were the eyes, distinctive, mesmerising, one blue, the other brown, the same, but different. Bowie stared out of the window, and took out a packet of cigarettes. They were French, Gitanes, his favourites. Bowie chain smoked, and Owen hated smoking, but didn’t mind in this case. This was Bowie, his hero. You don’t tell your hero to quit anything.Bowie sucked on the clean, fresh white cigarette and blew smoke rings into the car. Smiling at Owen he spoke, his voice soft and delicate, almost a whisper. Owen would know that voice anywhere, had heard it a million times, both spoken and in song. It was the voice of his youth, the soundtrack to countless milestones, the voice that had been with him all his life. It had comforted and scared him, thrilled and wooed him. The voice of a thousand faces, always changing yet still the same, with a characteristic hint of home. The London boy.‘How are you today?’Owen was transfixed by his beauty. Bowie never looked anything less than a perfect picture. Owen had never seen a bad photo of him. If only life could be that beautiful.‘I’ve felt better.’There was a silence, then the fizz of the cigarette as Bowie took a long drag.‘You came here with your dad, didn’t you?’‘I did. The whole family used to come here. We came quite a lot actually. We’d pick my mum up from work at night, get some fish and chips and then he’d drive us here. My grandad was from this village. Well, they say it’s a village, but it’s nothing more than a few houses. We’d sit here, stare at the sea, and he’d tell us stories. The same ones over and over again. I think he missed my grandad. He never said it, but I know he did. My grandad died young and I think there were things left unsaid.’Owen’s voice cracked and tailed off. Bowie touched his shoulder and smiled, warm, gentle.‘It’s a beautiful part of the world. But maybe not this place.’They both laughed. Bowie ran his fingers through his longish, wispy hair, and finished the cigarette. He wound the window down and flicked the remains through the gap, as a blast of cold wind pushed through into the car.‘It’s strange. I’ve been all round the world, yet I don’t know this place at all. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the space between Newcastle and Edinburgh. Then again maybe I have. On a bus or a train when I was touring. Maybe I was too tired or out of it to notice. What a waste. I’ve travelled so far and there’s so much I missed. Only later I realised, when it was too late. There’s so much I don’t remember about the early days. You’re lucky to live here, to be alive to see this.’There was a long pause, with only the sound of the howling wind and crashing waves. Owen replied.‘I guess I am. I don’t really appreciate it enough.’‘None of us appreciate what we have, what’s around us. We see what we want. It’s so easy to see the dirt and grime, but look beyond that. I always had to look beyond, the space between reality.’Bowie took a moment, then continued.‘You don’t see me do you? Not the real me. You see a character. Ziggy, or the Thin White Duke, or the Man Who Fell to Earth. I mean that’s who I am to you, aren’t I?’Bowie stared at Owen whose eyes remained transfixed on the sea.‘Who am I now? Thomas Newton. Not David Bowie, or David Jones. Who am I to you? Who am I to anyone?’Owen lowered his head, gazing into his lap, still averting the glare of his hero. Owen spoke.‘I suppose you’re right. I’ve only ever known you through the characters.’‘I know, and that’s all you ever will.’Bowie reached for another cigarette.‘Why do you always see me as Thomas Newton? Why only that one character?’Owen shuffled in his seat, and began to play with the key ring dangling from the ignition.‘It’s my favourite period. Diamond Dogs, Young Americans, Station to Station. I love all the 70s stuff, but whenever I wanted to be like you, whenever I imagined myself up on stage and performing that’s how I always saw myself.’‘Interesting. That was a very dark and painful time for me. I was pretty fucked up.’‘I know. Maybe that’s the appeal.’Bowie frowned and took another long drag. He played with the cigarette, rolling it between his fingers, studying it.‘Things will get better you know. It might not feel like it now, but it gets easier believe me.’Owen continued to play with the key ring, a figure made of Lego. It was a character from Harry Potter, he wasn’t sure who. Owen spoke.‘Part of me knows you’re right, but then there’s this black cloud, and a voice inside my head that keeps nagging me. Sometimes I can’t see a way out of this, sometimes I think it would be better if I wasn’t around.’Bowie threw the cigarette out of the window. This time leaving the window ajar, as the smoke crept out through the opening and disappeared into the wind.‘Is that why we’re here?’Owen twirled the plastic figure between his fingertips. They were silent, as the wind and the waves played on. After a while Owen pulled the door handle and stepped out of the car. Bowie remained, puffing on yet another cigarette, lost in a fresh thick fog of smoke. The star gazed out of the window, eyes locked on Owen. Those eyes, those gorgeous eyes, those strange alien eyes. Owen stared out at the waves, heard them calling him. The waves and the voice inside his head. The whispering voice within, urging him to reach out, and embrace the thunderous, rolling water. Owen took a few steps forward, stopped, looked back into the car. Bowie stared back at him, frowning, alien eyes still locked and glistening. Owen lowered his head and wept. The whisper in his head faded, the waves dissolved in silence. All that remained was darkness. Silent tears and darkness.

Two travellers

My mind drifts back to my first time living in Istanbul in 1993. It seems a lifetime ago. It was. After graduating from University I was high on post-graduate euphoria, the feeling that the world was at my mercy, and at any moment employer after employer would come hammering down my door begging me to work for them. It didn’t happen. The realities of the recession and the graduate employment vacuum soon immersed me in the sobriety of life on the dole, and a string of temporary jobs in retail.For a while it appeared that the taxpayer had spent thousands on another overqualified salesperson. Like many graduates at the beginning of post-graduate life I was torn between committing myself to a career I wasn’t in the slightest bit interested in, or a short-term job which was way below my qualifications and expectations. I opted for neither and took a ‘year-out’ of self-absorption, melancholic reflection, and discovering the delights of Dylan’s back catalogue.I had a masterplan, an escape route. I was going to teach abroad, travel, see the world, broaden my mind, my waistline and, if I was lucky, my bank-balance. I pumped out my chest and told myself with pride that if England could not see what it was wasting I would go somewhere else where I would be appreciated. The Guardian and TES were packed with colleges and language schools offering four week intensive courses in Teaching English as a Foreign Language, or TEFL when I later came into the know. The average price of £800 was a major stumbling block to a sporadically employed graduate with a string of assorted debts. However, determination was my ally as I knew this certificate was the only thing lying between me and the freedom of life on the road.1992 was a terrible year for me, the first of my numerous existential crises. It culminated in a melodramatic breakdown on New Year’s Eve, the psychiatric equivalent of man-flu. It was useful though, cathartic, as I decided that I would no longer hang around in a country that did not want me. I didn’t want to commit to the mainstream expectations of career and mortgage and wait for the vice of consumer security to tighten its grip. 1993 began with an appointment to see my bank manager who, in a moment of what appeared to be inexplicable madness, agreed to lend me £1,000 to fund a course. From that moment on everything seemed to snowball. After passing the course with flying colours, I began a three month stint at BT. This was to be my last flirtation with the world of temping in retail, or so I told myself. It wasn’t, but that’s another story. By August Jools and I were in Istanbul, safe in the knowledge we both had jobs, plus a free flat courtesy of Jools’ employer.I was nervous with the excitement of starting my first ‘real’ job, coupled with the fact that I now lived in another country. This was a stark contrast with the previous twelve months of inertia, self-doubt, and misery. I had made a change, made something dramatic happen. I had fulfilled this dream and life abroad was now a reality. My senses came alive and burned with a potency I had never experienced before. Everything seemed to be in overdrive. Even the most mundane tasks took on an uncharacteristic buzz.Buying fruit and vegetables in the local market I would be overwhelmed with the aromatic waves of spices washing over me as vendors cackled out a sales pitch to passers-by. I would drift around the market, lost in a sea of vivid reds, greens and yellows, jostling with the old ladies lumbering huge shopping bags through the packed crowd. I would marvel at the eerie tranquillity of the call to prayer which five times daily beckoned the Muslim faithful to the sanctuary of the local mosque. On the holiest day of Friday streams of menfolk would shut up shop and shuffle to pay their respects to Allah, their Great One.Everything took on a new meaning and was seen in the newest light. Even daily travel took on a whole new dimension. A thirty minute minibus journey into the local main town centre of Kadikoy became a cultural awakening as I observed the quirky norms and customs. Men would give up their seats to women, children, and elders while everyone passed their fare money across a sea of hands to the driver. There were no tickets or conductors, simply an implicit trust in everyone. All would pay what was necessary, and if not it wasn’t worth the hassle of an argument.My favourite journey of all was the ferry trip across the Bosphorus. Even the most dampened spirits could not fail to be invigorated by the crisp, fresh sea-air and the brisk chill wind nipping at your cheeks. I would gaze out over the waves beyond the Golden Horn and the silhouette of the Topkapi Palace and Aya Sofia, each set against the fiery sky of a spring sunset. The ferryboats were built on the Tyne and the Wear giving me a strange connection to home, adding another layer of romance to the trip.Such was the magic of my first year abroad. I was in love with Jools and fell in love with Turkey. It breaks my heart to see this beautiful, fascinating country being torn apart. My time there was special, the people warm, welcoming, incredible. I was convinced I would never return to England and that my future lay in the careless freedom of living abroad. My life would be an annual ritual of spontaneity, a lucky dip existence where my only boundaries were the world itself and my own mind.Something changed though. After spending most of my twenties living and working abroad, taking in over twenty countries I returned to Istanbul for one more year. This time it was with the knowledge that my backpack existence was drawing to a close. Within a year I would be married, back at University and about to embark on a seventeen year career in education. The mainstream got me, as it invariably does.Istanbul seemed different. The trips to the market lost their magic and became the same old weekly chore they were back home. I no longer wandered with wonder, but rushed with a dogged determination to get where I wanted without delay. I fought my way through the hoards of old women, haggled with the screaming vendors. The vivid colours lost their sparkle and the sweet, overpowering smell of spices was now mingled with the stench of overflowing drains. The call to prayer disturbed my precious slumber. I mocked the scurrying of the masses on Friday as they craved the opiate of their oppression.I saw the minibus journeys as the life-threatening experiences they always were, as the drivers muscled their way through overcrowded, chaotic traffic. The two pack-a-day fumes suffocated me, the cacophony of car horns became a daily headache. The glorious trip across the Bosphorus still uplifted the soul, yet I only made it two or three times a month as my enthusiasm waned and I feared it might spoil my morbid cynicism.There is an old Chinese story of two travellers, walking along a road between two villages. Each is travelling to the village the other has just come from. They meet in the centre of the long road and the first traveller says to the other,‘Greetings, my friend, I believe you have come from the village to which I travel. Perhaps you can tell me how you found it?’The other traveller nods and replies, a grave expression on his face,‘Certainly. I have to say that I didn’t enjoy the place one bit. I found the people cold, unfriendly and their manners very uncivilised. The culture was backward and the food was terrible. I didn’t find the place pleasurable in the least and find nothing to recommend of it.’He continues,‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this. I believe you have come from the village to which I travel. Perhaps you can tell me how I will find it?’To this the other traveller smiles and answers,‘I think you will find the village exactly as you found the last one.’I was those two travellers meeting myself on that long road between the  two villages. However, the villages for me were the Istanbul I found at the start and end of my travels abroad. I began as the first traveller still fresh with a childlike curiosity and excitement for the village he is about to discover. I became the second traveller who found his village so unappealing. Istanbul had changed little, but I had changed a lot. In truth, I longed for home.Travel is often cited as a metaphor for self-discovery and there is no doubt with the right frame of mind it can be. Caught up in the humdrum existence of everyday life we seldom find the time or the inclination to dig deep and ask questions. It’s those important question we sometimes need to ask of ourselves. They are there, lingering in the background, postponed or ignored, but the dulling of the senses which normality brings stifles any hope they will ever get asked.Travel puts you into situations where you have no choice but to ask them. The strait-jacket security of all we take for granted is gone. We have no choice but to look at ourselves and face up to the things we were perhaps too afraid to face. Travel was a huge learning experience for me. It provided me with a wonder, a new vision through which to view the world, a wide-eyed naked curiosity I needed at that time in my life. My travels weren’t just a personal journey, but a shared experience with the woman I have always loved. Yet it ended, and the time came when together we felt ready to ask a whole new set of questions. These questions we needed to ask back home, with family and friends. In an England which now seems such an important part of me, somewhere I never thought I would grow to love again. I miss my travels, though I still go on brief adventures from time to time. One day I will return. There’ll be new questions to ask, and new things to discover, in the world and within me.