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Mexico City

23 Sep

Last year, I spent two wonderful weeks in Mexico City. It’s a unique and vibrant place. I recorded some of my impressions on this blog. Below is a montage from a multitude of colourful scenes. 

The building in the top right hand corner is Mexico’s oldest skyscraper, I believe, famed for surviving the 1985 earthquake undamaged. Which brings us to recent events… My wife spent a decade living in the city. Many of her friends live there still, all of whom have been touched by the terrible consequences of the latest earthquake in the city. Below is an appeal she has made on behalf of the country and its capital. 

Dear friends in the UK, Colombia and all over the world. LET’S HELP MEXICO AFTER THE EARTHQUAKE.

We can make our donations here:

UNICEF:
https://www.unicef.org.uk/donate/mexico-earthquake

JUSTGIVING:
https://www.justgiving.com/crowdfunding/letshelpmexicouk

 

MEXICAN RED CROSS
PAYPAL: https://www.paypal.com/mx/webapps/mpp/donar/institution…
AMAZON: You can also buy products of a selected wishlist that will be donated to the Red Cross: https://goo.gl/JKcYe8
TWITTER: https://twitter.com/CruzRoja_MX
WEBPAGE: https://www.cruzrojamexicana.org.mx/

HOW TO HELP: http://comoayudar.mx/

There’s a humanitarian crisis everywhere you look, even in our own countries, but today I would like to ask you to put your eyes on México. After the recent earthquakes, many people have died and many others are and will be suffering the consequences of the tragedy in short and long-term. Many people have lost their homes and jobs, and the emotional consequences are huge. But Mexican people are strong and resilient. I know it because I spent some of the most amazing years of my life there. Mexico is my home too and half of my friends live there. I’ve undertaken research into reliable institutions that are receiving monetary donations. Please be assured that your contribution will be in good hands and will serve its purposes. Any contribution will be of great help. If you can’t donate please spread the word or just let Mexican people know that your heart is with them. Any other ideas about how we can help from our homes would be welcome.

If these options don’t work for you, your closest Red Cross Centre can provide further information. Feel free to contact me if you need help related to information in English as some of the information is completely in Spanish, but please have in mind that we don’t belong to any organization, we’re just a small family trying to help the best way we can.

All images © PSR 2017

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Inspirational Holiday Reading

17 Sep

Apparently, we’re supposed to read ‘beach novels’ on our holidays. Well, I went swimming in the North Atlantic and read quite a lot over my summer break. But there the comparison  with such expectations ends, I think.

As a writer, there’s nothing more inspiring, I think, than reading a thoroughly researched and well written biography about one of your literary heroes. A few summers ago, I read David Bellos’s excellent biography of George Perec, ‘A Life in Words’. In Bellos’s book, the writer’s life becomes a fitting addition to his canon, a Rabelaisian tale about a unique individual. This summer, it was the turn of ‘Like a Fiery Elephant’, Jonathan Coe’s biography of another experimental writer, B S Johnson. Reading it, I was fired up again about fiction and its possibilities. Uncharacteristically, I even felt moved to thank the author on Twitter for spending eight years researching and writing the book… These days, the general reading public knows Johnson, if at all, as a writer of ‘difficult’ books who killed himself, in apparent despair, at the age of forty. In Coe’s words, Johnson comes across as a complex man, difficult but much loved by his friends. The insights into his creative processes and artistic aesthetic, and the barriers inherent in following such a path, are instructive for any writer seeking to work outside the mainstream. 

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My favourite beach… 

One work mentioned in the biography was a collection of short stories by Johnson and Zulfikar Ghose, ‘Statement Against Corpses’, in which the two writers were supposed to reinvigorate the form. By all accounts, they managed no such thing – not that I can comment as the collection is long out of print and I don’t feel like spending over £100 for an old copy, only to have this view confirmed. Instead, I finished reading ‘Difficult Loves’ and ‘Laughable Loves’, early collections by Italo Calvino and Milan Kundera, respectively, and was reminded of why I love the work of both writers. Calvino was already exploring worlds through minute and apparently mundane details, much as he would in his final, brilliant collection, ‘Mr Palomar’. Kundera’s comic stories expose the absurdities often found at the heart of human relationships. 

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Which half-complete track to follow?

Unfortunately, though, since returning from continental Europe, the demands of my day job and other stresses and strains have sapped my creative energies and progress on my fiction has been slow. I’ve arrived at a time-consuming stage in my vast work-in-progress, tying up all of its loose ends and re-arranging sections within its complex architecture. I’ve also been thinking ahead to my next project, of which I’ll write more in a future post. I have to decide between three options that I’ve had kicking around for some years now: a part-finished novella, a half-completed sequel and an epistolary novel of which I’ve planned much but written  little. Whichever one I choose, though, the work of those who’ve gone before – Perec, Johnson, Calvino, Kundera – remains a guide and inspiration. 

All text and images © PSR 2017

Turning Saints to Stone

10 Sep

My wife and I spent a little time this summer at Brittany’s Valley of the Saints. And what a great concept it is. High on a domed hill, commanding views over the depopulated landscape all around it, the setting for the sculpture park is spectacular. The figures represent local saints, frequently concerning themselves with farming and fishing, reflecting life as it was lived in the region until comparatively recently. With submissions from such a wide pool of sculptors, it’s inevitable that the standard varies. In any case, it’s all subjective, I guess, so here are some of my favourites (and isn’t that the late Sir William Golding holding the fish?)… 

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All text and images © PSR 2017

Ten Sounds You Miss from Your Homeland, Part Three

14 Jun

Today’s auditory recollections come from PK Read, another fellow blogger and novelist. An American, Paula lives on the French-Swiss border these days. Her WordPress blog can be found here. A poetic writer, her ten sounds are deeply lyrical. And the place in which she grew up sounds as though it would inspire such lyricism. I read a recent manuscript of hers and it was beautifully written and gripped me from the start. Expect to see her novels on the shelf of a library or bookstore some time soon. 

What a good exercise this is! It’s been 30 years since I lived in my homeland – the northern coast of California. And even though I’ve lived other places I loved, when I think of ‘home’ my mind goes straight to that place, a small peninsula between the Pacific Ocean and Tomales Bay in West Marin county, just north of San Francisco. Most of the peninsula is national park land, with small inroads of humanity into an otherwise unlogged wilderness surrounded by water on three sides. So here are my sounds:

The rustling and slow song of tall bay trees in an approaching storm, their trunks rubbing against one another in long notes

My father whistling across the forest to get my attention, to call me to dinner

The quiet snick of a breaking twig as an unseen animal notes my presence on a narrow dirt path

The razor call of a red wing hawk from far above

The distant sound of the ocean on low roar on the opposite side of the ridge

 

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The foghorn from the lighthouse 

The crackle and spit of bay logs on a pit fire

The snap and bubble of meat on the grill

The first bars of a song played on my dad’s guitar

The sound of rain percussing on the wood shingles of the cabin roof above my head, late at night, fire out and belly full, the echoes of a song in my mind

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Thanks for inviting me!

And thank you for taking part, Paula. There’ll be more auditory memories appearing soon… 

All text © PSR and P.K. Read 2017. Images © PSR 2017. 

Ten Sounds You Miss from Your Homeland, Part Two

10 Jun

In a previous post, I wrote about the exiled narrator of my novel-in-progress and the ten sounds he misses from his homeland, “the chatter of the liitraavn in Rezistanzskvaar, the two-stroke clatter of Noorskii-SEATs…” and so on. My friend and fellow writer, Mari Biella, has very kindly taken the time to share the ten sounds she misses from home. Originally from the UK, Mari lives in Italy. You can find her blog here. Mari is the author of the excellent “Loving Imogen” and “The Quickening” And here are her auditory memories…

Disjointed memories, partial recollections, fragments of stories… when I’m writing I frequently find myself using these things as a starting-point, and then embellishing them until, gradually, they begin to take on shape and substance. Many of those memories, now I come to think about it, are either aural in nature or coupled with sounds, like when you hear a song and are instantly transported back to a particular time or place. For instance, and in no particular chronological order…

One. I once lived in a fleapit in the inner city, in a crumbling old building next to a railway line. The trains rattled past day and night, with surprising punctuality, and the house frequently rattled with them. At first it was annoying. Gradually I got used to it, and over time it became a comforting sound: come what may, the railway timetable remained a constant. On summer nights I used to sit outside in the shoebox-sized garden and watch the lit carriages slip by in the darkness. Who were the people on that train? Where had they been, and where were they going? What were their stories? Did they guess that someone was sitting out there in the shadows watching them?

Two. Trains were just one of the many and varied sounds that accompanied my life in that place. Every quarter of an hour, day and night, a clock in the nearby civic centre chimed. When all was well and life was happy it sounded like the reassuring voice of a friend. On long, restless nights when I couldn’t sleep, however, it seemed to take on a mocking air, contrasting the relentless passage of time with the strange feeling of stasis that accompanies sleeplessness. I sometimes wondered how many other insomniacs were out there listening to it and feeling the same.

Three. It was an eccentric, colourful place, that area, inhabited by a rich blend of people. Waking early in the morning, I frequently heard a woman on the street below calling “Lena! Lena!” Peering out between the curtains, I would see her standing on the pavement, staring up at an upper window of the house next door. Sometimes Lena came to the window and whispered something back; sometimes she didn’t. I’ve always wondered about the purpose of these early morning visits. I’ve also wondered why, since mobile phones were ubiquitous by this time, the visitor in question didn’t just call or message the mysterious Lena.

Four. One of the advantages of the inner city is that everything you reasonably need is close by. I lived within a stone’s throw of a major sporting venue, and on Saturday afternoons when there was a match or game I would frequently lean out of my window and listen to the distant roar of the crowd. It was such a joyous sound, so full of excitement and exuberance, that it made me smile just to hear it.

Five. We were fans of silly accents in my family. We’d frequently put on exaggerated Welsh accents, or – when we contemplated life across the Severn river – lapse into a daft West Country drawl. We tried our hands at most British regional accents, as well as RP. References to romantic love were frequently made in an impassioned French accent. We attempted American, Mexican, German, Russian and Swedish accents, with varying levels of success.

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Six. There have been many times in my life when I haven’t owned a TV. In addition to an endless stream of letters from the TV licensing authority, this entailed relying on the radio for news. I frequently listened to Radio 4, and was enchanted by the Shipping Forecast. The repetition of the sea areas was almost hypnotic, and produced all kinds of images in my mind: fog, fishing vessels, gale force winds, immense waves crashing against rocks. Carol Ann Duffy commemorated the Shipping Forecast in her poem Prayer, and sometimes it really did sound like a strange liturgy.

Seven. I’m an unabashed landlubber, but the sea fascinates me. In Britain, of course, you’re surrounded by the stuff, and – like many British people – I never lived very far away from the coast. I used to go there quite often, sometimes for no other reason than to listen to the wind and the waves. I particularly loved the cry of the seagulls. Sometimes their call seemed to embody the intoxicating freedom of wild, wide open spaces; at other times, it sounded melancholy, almost heartbroken.

Eight. I miss the sound of the rain and wind lashing against the windowpane on stormy nights. I always thought it was very romantic, very Wuthering Heights-esque. Italian weather has a varied repertoire of its own, of course, but it doesn’t seem to extend to that particular combination of wind and rain – “horizontal rain”, as we used to call it.

Nine. I miss the sound of the English language in general; I particularly miss it as spoken by the natives of the city where I lived. “Dark” was pronounced as “dairk”, “park” as “pairk”. “I live in Cardiff” became “I lives in Cardiff”. Expressions of opinion were often prefaced with “not gonna lie to you” (“Not gonna lie to you, but I don’t like coffee that much”) or softened with “not being funny” (“Not being funny, but you’ve put on some timber since I saw you last.”) It was customary, when getting off a bus, to take your leave with a cheery “Thanks, drive!”

Ten. The last, much-missed sound is not peculiar to Britain, still less South Wales. It is, simply, the sound of a city. I live on the edge of the countryside now and, though I like it here, I do sometimes miss the clamour of the urban environment. I began this post by writing about how many of my stories are born of other, incomplete stories. In a city, surrounded by humanity, you are surrounded by many such fragments, and I sometimes feel the lack of them.

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Thanks to Mari for sharing these with me. The first of her auditory memories turns out to be similar to one of my narrator’s.

My bedsitter is right at the top of the building on the third floor, where the rooms are smallest and the rents the lowest.  It’s accessed via a side door, leading to the servant’s staircase…  At night, I’m lulled to sleep by the sound of trains pulling into the central station about a kilometre away from here, their diesels thrumming and brakes screeching.  The din might keep another person awake.  I can’t sleep without it.  I often wonder if one of them might be mine.  And when I’m missing my home country, I burn the pine-scented incense cones to remind me…

There’ll be more from the sound archives of remembrance in a future post… 

Text © PSR and Mari Biella 2017, images © PSR 2017

Integration: its beauty, its ugliness

6 Jun

The world becomes ever more integrated. In many ways, to my mind, it’s a beautiful thing. I’ve been reminded of this phenomenon over the last week. My Colombian wife and I were in France, listening to Jose Gonzalez, a Swedish-Argentinian who sings in English. I read novels by an Austrian, a Frenchman and an American and began one by a Norwegian. We’d driven down via Belgium from the Netherlands where we’d been staying with my wife’s Colombian friend and her Dutch husband. Along the way we passed lorries coming from every corner of the EU – Romania, Lithuania, Portugal, Italy… How sad that Little England has begun to turn its back on the world. Ah, well… And as we travelled back to England, I began to hear news of the latest terror attack, one of the uglier aspects of our global society, perpetrated by individuals with their roots in Pakistan, Morocco and Libya. These events will only end when we’ve truly begun to understand one another and to embrace our differences. 

Below are some of the sights I encountered along the way. 

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All text and images © PSR 2017

Ten Sounds You Miss from Your Hometown, Part One

23 May

My vast work-in-progress moves ever nearer to completion. The narrator is living in exile. He has been thinking about the sounds he misses from his home country.

Here are the sounds I miss the most: the chatter of the liitraavn in Rezistanzskvaar, the two-stroke clatter of Noorskii-SEATs, the jingling of the signals at pedestrian crossings, the chiming of the bells in Klokksskvaar, the breaking of waves on the Valtikkzii shore, the clunking of the otiis-mekanismis in the Berkmanis department store, the whine of the locomotives’ electromechanical motors, the four-note fugue of the train’s public address system, Tiia’s voice and those of my family, Jovaa and Valeriia, the sound of my own language, its cadence and intonations… 

It got me thinking about the exiles I know – and there are quite a few of them – and which sounds they miss the most, or vice-versa, those they don’t. 

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So I asked my wife, the Colombian illustrator, Catalina Carvajal. It seemed the obvious place to start. And this is what she told me. 

Her grandmother’s voice

Aeroplanes flying low overhead on approach to the airport

The prerecorded voice of the tamales-vendor, advertising his wares

The whistle of a mobile sweet-potato oven

Comforting conversation coming from the TV downstairs at her mother’s house in Bogota

The marimbas of street musicians

The sound of departing underground trains on the Mexico City metro

Her friends babbling in the background at a dinner party

The noise of the crowds in downtown Mexico City

The clattering plates and chattering clientele of the cantinas 

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In the coming weeks, we’ll be hearing from other exiles about the sounds they miss.

All text and images © PSR 2017