Sunday, 20 January 2008
Interesting fact alert
DID you know... that John Lennons 'Jealous Guy' was originally written as a song called 'On the road to Marrakesh'? Hmmm? No? Well neither did I. Well it was and I got intimately acquainted with the bugger over 157 kilometres today
Here are the original lyrics. Apparently you can pick up a bootleg of it, recorded for the White album sessions.
On the road to Marrakesh
I was dreaming more or less
And the dream I had was true
Yes, the dream I had was true
chorus:I'm just a child of nature
I don't need much to set me free
I'm just a child of nature
I'm one of nature's children
Sunlight shining in my eyes
As I face the desert skies
My thoughts return to home
Yes, my thoughts return to home
Underneath the mountain ranges
Where the wind that never changes
Touch the windows of my soul
Touch the windows of my soul
Ahhh.
I am well hope you lot are too.
Here are the original lyrics. Apparently you can pick up a bootleg of it, recorded for the White album sessions.
On the road to Marrakesh
I was dreaming more or less
And the dream I had was true
Yes, the dream I had was true
chorus:I'm just a child of nature
I don't need much to set me free
I'm just a child of nature
I'm one of nature's children
Sunlight shining in my eyes
As I face the desert skies
My thoughts return to home
Yes, my thoughts return to home
Underneath the mountain ranges
Where the wind that never changes
Touch the windows of my soul
Touch the windows of my soul
Ahhh.
I am well hope you lot are too.
Sunday, 23 December 2007
Friday, 21 December 2007
The Camden Catacombs
There is a complex of tunnels and vaults under Camden. The Camden Catacombs, as they have become known were built in the 19th Century as stables for horses and pit ponies that were used to shunt railway wagons. The tunnels run under the Euston mainline, under the goods depot at Primrose Hill, beneath Gilbeys Bonded Warehouse on the Regents Canal and under Camden Lock Market. Their route can be traced from the distinctive cast-iron grilles set at regular intervals into the road surface; originally the only source of light for the horses below.
The network of tunnels also includes an underground canal basin and this is clearly visible, close to Camden Lock where the towpath is carried across it on a bridge. The tunnels also gave access to the basements of a number of Victorian Warehouses. I WANT TO GO DOWN THERE!
More pictures of the Catacombs, and hundreds of other interesting underground sites in England here; http://www.subbrit.org.uk/
The network of tunnels also includes an underground canal basin and this is clearly visible, close to Camden Lock where the towpath is carried across it on a bridge. The tunnels also gave access to the basements of a number of Victorian Warehouses. I WANT TO GO DOWN THERE!
More pictures of the Catacombs, and hundreds of other interesting underground sites in England here; http://www.subbrit.org.uk/
Thursday, 20 December 2007
Wednesday, 19 December 2007
My five minutes
The Aesthetometer
(This is only a teaser. Expect the full experience at a cinema near you SOON)
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(This is only a teaser. Expect the full experience at a cinema near you SOON)
Add to My Profile More Videos
Photography
I cycled to Willesden junction. My god it was cold. That coldness that sucks all your breath out and grips your lungs with ice.
The sky was immense and completely clear, and the winter sun was shining but was farely muted, as if it had been turned down a setting or two.
I was in no rush, and I had my camera with me so had my hunting eyes, and a nice song by moondog was playing through my headphones as I reached an odd place. There was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in this place, physically, but the old man who stood in the middle of a narrow pavement leaning his head on the shaft of his broom, seemed to me to be the guardian of a momentary zone.
I saw him in a glance, a beautiful image that still burns, his wan human face at the same time lost amongst the bricks, dust and traffic and at the same time shining in its difference. I doubled back with that familiar pathetic, guilty feeling to try and capture this image, but he had resigned himself to the dust and was making his way back inside. When he closed the door it seemed impossible to believe that there could have been anyone pass through it in the past thirty years.
Next door but one, two young girls sat on the front wall of their four foot square concrete garden. Their view of the road obscured by a parked van.
On the other side of the old man's house was a long wall with a small gate in the middle. The locked gate was a side entrance to a large cemetary crammed full with headstones which sided onto the tangle of railway lines that headed to the junction, and a solitary figure in a black jacket walked away from me along a path. The most beautiful, full coated Fox then appeared from amongst the tombstones, looking directly at me, halting the steam from my breath.
Instinctively again, I raised my camera, but the wind rushing through the gap made tears flow down my face, and I could not see to focus.
When I looked away from the dark frame, the fox had disappeared, as had the man in black, and I cycled on, over the railway bridge, and away from those moments.
The sky was immense and completely clear, and the winter sun was shining but was farely muted, as if it had been turned down a setting or two.
I was in no rush, and I had my camera with me so had my hunting eyes, and a nice song by moondog was playing through my headphones as I reached an odd place. There was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in this place, physically, but the old man who stood in the middle of a narrow pavement leaning his head on the shaft of his broom, seemed to me to be the guardian of a momentary zone.
I saw him in a glance, a beautiful image that still burns, his wan human face at the same time lost amongst the bricks, dust and traffic and at the same time shining in its difference. I doubled back with that familiar pathetic, guilty feeling to try and capture this image, but he had resigned himself to the dust and was making his way back inside. When he closed the door it seemed impossible to believe that there could have been anyone pass through it in the past thirty years.
Next door but one, two young girls sat on the front wall of their four foot square concrete garden. Their view of the road obscured by a parked van.
On the other side of the old man's house was a long wall with a small gate in the middle. The locked gate was a side entrance to a large cemetary crammed full with headstones which sided onto the tangle of railway lines that headed to the junction, and a solitary figure in a black jacket walked away from me along a path. The most beautiful, full coated Fox then appeared from amongst the tombstones, looking directly at me, halting the steam from my breath.
Instinctively again, I raised my camera, but the wind rushing through the gap made tears flow down my face, and I could not see to focus.
When I looked away from the dark frame, the fox had disappeared, as had the man in black, and I cycled on, over the railway bridge, and away from those moments.
Santiago Ramon y Cajal
This chap did some early research into the brain, and produced some odd, beautiful images, which were hand drawn from life, the only method at his disposal at the time, late 19th century Spain.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Santiago_Ram%C3%B3n_y_Cajal
Saturday, 15 December 2007
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