Sun’s out today & spring is definitely in the scurrying step of Wooda’s hilarious gossiping chickens. They are like a crowd of autograph hunters; Gary seems to be the main focus of their admiration. He certainly knows how to sing their tune.
On the subject of tunes, yesterday I spent an hour or so hammering away at the upright piano trying to iron out a few melodic notions, which I’m glad to say are coming together, even though they smell a little of Michael Nyman, which in my book is not a good thing. I have always thought he’s over rated & certainly if an unschooled pianist like me can get quite close to his sound & technique then … either he’s a bit rubbish or I am a genius. The former seems more likely. I’ll admit that I can’t help but be something of an iconoclast. I respect the intellectual rigour behind structuralist experiments in music but, in the end, it lacks a sense of humour. Or rather, if humour is present, it’s the kind of ‘in joking’ that prompts individuals in concert audiences to laugh aloud in order to show that ‘they get it’. This is excruciating & unforgivable behaviour – such people should be ejected from the auditorium & sent off to learn something grounding, like tap dancing. (You know who you are).
Anyway, this fine & sunny morning I’m here to share with you my thoughts about Death. It’s an important subject & one that’s been, unsurprisingly, uppermost in my mind since I’ve been working on this film about my deceased Grandpa Eric. I’ve been going through some pretty dark times in my completely silent bedroom. I’ve not been scared, more awestruck. It feels as if Death has been lurking around a bit (hence my haiku triplet for Jade Goody). For many years I’ve had a kind of ‘standard’ dream in which I awake suddenly, pulling myself away from Death’s door – these feel like ‘near Death’ experiences but are probably more to do with snoring or having had a curry that night. The main thing with these experiences though is that I’m pulling myself back from some kind of brink. The difference now is that somewhere deep within my dreaming I’ve made a conscious decision to ‘take on’ the experience – you know, come on then Death, do your worst, let’s see what really happens.
Over the ages there have been wise sages & voyagers into the unknown. I can safely say that my name may now be added to those brave few who challenged Death to answer the question: Death, what are you? I got my answer the night before last – Death is a black slotted spoon.
Surely anyone can accept that? Fear mortality no more, all it amounts to is a kitchen utensil! Ok, so my dream also taught me that one needs ultimately to go through the slotted spoon, but I’ll figure that out when the time comes & I’ll let you know if I work it out before the alloted time. (Alloted? Slotted?).
Death Makes Noodles of Us All.
If the Wooda residency has led me to accept my own eventual & inevitable demise, then that’s worth it alone, isn’t it?