Bewitched in Liverpool

Every month or so I make the journey to visit my brother in Liverpool. It is normally an eventful few days… this time most definitely deserved the same description.

I glance around to discover a horror scene to only be expected once a year; for one evening, this terror becomes acceptable. I see two 22 year olds in school-boy shorts, Royal Mail t-shirts and faces painted in the design of the after-life; pale skin, sullen eyes and gaunt expressions. I see two striped t-shirts, four white gloves and clinically white faces with black lips and eyes, both artistically trapped in a glass box – arguably this box should have been that of the artist’s desperate attempts to escape… in this case however, it was a box of drunken excitement and ironically childish behaviour.

Before me I see a reflection holding contoured cheeks and collar bones, black lips and menacing eyes - above which I see a witch’s hat bringing me back to youthful days of trick or treating and sweets by the bucketful. Stepping out the door we are met with more of the same alarming variety – we see zombies and mummies consisting of a body wrapped in A LOT of toilet paper, we see girls with more make-up than clothing shivering in the bitter Liverpudlian winds, but most of all we see fake blood dripping from every other skull, mouth and neck.

The chocolate and sugar-coated sweets may have been swapped for a few rum and cokes or vodka-redbulls, and the trick or treating may have become a night of dancing and partying - but the basics are still there - fancy dress, close friends and a night full of enjoyable, if slightly questionable, antics. 

Typically, Halloween was a hectic sugar-rush from eating too much chocolate, followed by the inevitable crash and bed by 8.30. Fast forward ten years and some 11,000 miles and bedtime has now stretched to 4am. Halloween was another opportunity for me to copy my big brother – my role model, my best friend. Always wanting to dress up as he did, wanting to go trick or treating with his friends rather than my own; clearly in this case the costume is all that has changed; any opportunity to spend time with my brother is treasured and inevitably becomes a cherished memory. Unfortunately, due to the new nature of our Halloween celebrations and the alcoholic replacement of chocolates and sweets, the memories have become somewhat hazy in parts – but the memory of a good time stays intact without fail.

I can honestly say the subsequent morning reflected something of a post-apocalyptic, zombie attack movie scene. Rising from the “almost dead”, we stumbled down the stairs and were welcomed with the disturbing sight of popcorn all over the floor. Even this did not prepare us for the horror of face-paint sponges leaving their marks on the carpet and on the sofas like the blood splatters of a brutal murder, nor the lingering but distinct smell of alcohol and garlic bread, used to fend off the vampires. Half dead cups of tea - the ultimate elixir to revive us after a night of terrifying, bewitching madness – lay strewn around like the unnerving remains of bodies at a bomb site. 

The day slowly…but surely, passes and evening creeps up on us before we have time to recollect our thoughts. Nightmares of the previous night and the sheer volume of alcohol consumed haunt us, I think to myself that surely such skeletal fragility currently embodied in the friends around me could not be topped...could not be worse. Oh, but was I wrong. This weekend, unlike Halloween, was far from over.

Winter is coming

It's strange as winter arrives and summer departs, what feelings are refreshed. I find myself being re-familiarised with the sound of raindrops ticking the seconds away as I fall asleep. The rush of chills that ripple through me as my feet brave the bottom of the bed. The night sky creeping up on us before the day is out; before the day is done. With winter comes day after day of grey clouds, never ending rain holding the power to drain you of your smile and of your motivation. The gale force makeovers and numb noses. The weather fights you and bites you, brings you down. Your lips are chapped and your skin is dry and that beloved tan is but a memory.

Winter can make you feel cold inside and out – stripping you of the smile the sun sets in summer - however, it's the ironic warmth it brings which makes it just about bearable. 

Winter brings the toasty smell of central heating; it brings blankets and jumpers, duvet days and crackling fires. In swoop the soups, the stews and the marshmallow-topped hot chocolates; the teas, the roasts and the mulled wine. The safety of your duvet, shielding you from the cold air which settled in your room overnight - you daren't expose a limb. The necessity to get on with the day drawing you out of bed; finding yourself grabbing desperately for multiple pairs of socks and the fluffy robe which hangs on the back of your door like a cloak of cuddles waiting to wrap itself around you. 

The early morning sun fighting to warm the air, reflecting off the frosted fields - sparkling and glistening in the sun, the frost adds a touch of magic to the cold mornings... A touch of beauty. All around, the trees feel the forceful features of winter; leaves hanging on by a thread to the dwindling branches. The temperature continues to drop, week after week, day after day – I begin to find myself dreaming of the mornings where I will awake to snow-capped cars and a vision of white – pure, untouched snow making even the greyest of days, simply, beautiful.

Observing those who observe @ The Tate Modern, London.

Arms crossed, hands pocketed, feet at a standstill; eyes roaming. Such closed off body language juxtaposes the suggestion of exploration in their eyes, in their minds. I spend moments considering their thoughts - where this piece of art before me takes them. What mental journey of escape and wonder, of distance and turmoil do they find themselves on. Or is it emptiness - do they feel and envision nothing... are they simply looking? Perhaps this art has not awakened or nudged a settled thought - their minds undisturbed.

I chuckle at a thought - observing those who observe, is, observing the mind's observations.

Notting Hill Carnival

Paint on the floor, cans bottles food.. On the floor. So many people, every movement is a struggle, wrestling your way through drunken youthful inhabitants of London enjoying the vibes. Every metre is a fresh scent of weed, drifting through your nose and in turn tickling your senses like a blow of relaxation.
Looking around at a sea of colours, feeling like I'm floating... Drowning in the madness.
Every character is a new entity, curled moustaches, burgers the size of children's faces, colours and patterns you thought you'd never see together... No rules = more fun.

Security? Police? Bullshit. I have seen more joints in the past few hours than I have in my past few years.

Floral headdress , red Indian feathers... The crazier the better. That item of clothing you never dared to wear... Now is your moment, grab a drink and shake your fucking tail feathers.

Summer Storm

As I sit on my window sill at 2.45am to watch this summer storm unravel I can't help but feel a yearning love for the planet I live on.
Ribbons of lightening blinding my sleep-ridden eyes, boring their way deep into my thoughts... Thoughts I didn't suppose I could conjure at this time of the night.
The thunder bellows through the sky and through the clouds for what seems like an eternity. Sending frightened children to their parents beds and some like me to their windows, enveloped by curiosity of the world that surrounds them.

The pathetic fallacy of this striking storm emphasises the reoccurring nightmare I experience on nights like these; nights of heavy heat and light sleep. Tossing and turning in my bed all night I feel my thoughts tear through my sleepless mind like the raindrops racing through the sky.
I hope that with the end of the storm coms the end of my nightmares... But the storm seems as though it could last the night. Just as it seems to quieten a roar of thunder erupts from deep within the sky, bringing my eyes to a sudden stare towards the window - awaiting the cold-white flash of the lightening bolt which will inevitably follow.

Bulgaria

Going to Bulgaria is like going to a place I've always known. A concentrated hub of family, love and memories. But now standing on the beach at 3am and truly absorbing what lies before and around me, I discover that what I am seeing is something new. With the jazzy beats tickling my eardrums and curling the corner of my lips to a smile and the lights of a weekend break reflecting off the still sea, I can't help but feel a warmth within myself.

In the distance I see a ship hard at work, a juxtaposition of the people hard at rest; sipping cocktails and daring to make a move on that person they've had their eye on all night.

 

Every year I return with a fresh perspective on something I've seen year after year. Scenes I've always been exposed to only now hitting me hard in the heart.

And so I find myself with a question, is this place my true home?... or is that a part of me yet to be discovered?