Street Photography, A Reply

A friend on facebook, when seeing an album I put up of street photography, commented that it was ' really creepy'

Well, no it isn't. In fact it is anything but.

All our lives we walk through cities like zombies, asleep. Our eyes on the ground, headphones in our ears.

We spend life blocking out the beauty all around us.

The city is a vibrant, living organism.

And what is the city's energy made up of?

The people that live in it

So if you could capture some of that energy, that vibrancy - why wouldn't you?

So, yes, if photography is all about shooting fake , posed shots of your friends drunk on a night out, then yes, street photography is creepy.

But if taking photos is actually about capturing life and not just a dead image, well then I think it is pretty awesome.

'Mr Hawthorne woke up too late'

A student gave me this poem which he wrote about my recent fall and resulting wrist sprain.

I am flattered, and somewhat perturbed. It seems my poetry lessons have not been in vain.

Here it is, in its entirety (grammar and spelling errors excepted). Enjoy.

Mr Hawthorne woke up too late
He quickly ate some yoghurt, on a plate.
If he did not hurry, he would miss the bus
So he grabbed his stuff, and started to rush.

When he arrived, it was driving away
He sprinted after, he did not want
To miss his work day

During his sprint he suddenly fell
'Ouch', he cried, and let out a yell
The bus driver spotted him, crawling on the ground
He then stopped the bus and turned it around

Mr Hawthorne managed to get on board,
But his hand was sore

He arrived at work with a swollen hand
But he didn't go home, 'cos he's the man

He taught two lessons, but his hand got worse.
Miss Harris told him to go to the nurse

Mr Hawthorne called his doctor with his phone
The doctor looked at it, and told him he had broken a bone.

The moral of the story is if you break a bone
You should visit a Doctor
Or just go home

Myself, Laughing.

I try to be nice to everyone. About to run past and arrive. However, when I’m out I can’t dwell on my own. 

When he walks up to the library. Seeing it, I’m not here today because I didn’t. Much more,  I meant to follow the spoilt, arrogant, plump bastard.

I was glad to get out. Unfortunately mum and dad decided to have a competition to see how long they could stay. Otherwise, I could go out to clubs to see who I could have fun with.

I descended to the Rec floor. Everyone of them strangers, everyone of them an outcast.

At one point I went in. There were Egyptian engravings on the wall. I walked up to one and found myself. Then I meet Robert, who talked and talked..

I am tired of hanging about with normal. I could go out to clubs. 

A woman in dress sleeping. A black, pin- striped man. The stage is unimportant.

I will move. Shelves, the yage, about to run past and arrive. What?

He walks up to the library. It’s starting. Don’t know, weak. Old routine, hung most of the day. I hate myself. Awkward circumstances. I’ve finished two books.

This goes back tomorrow. I went online – that’s about it. Sort of relaxing. Good person I am being punished for. I try to be nice to everyone though, such as Winnie, dear old lady. 

For them, every one of them strangers, everyone an outcast. What  have I got to be friends with? By good points in their women in a dress, sleeping. There was no-one who I dare approach, or sit with, not even Courtney. 

 He’s going tomorrow. Walk past my hand. I hate them, I hate them all, the only ones who know. 

Time around, life’s too serious. The stage, after all, unimportant. 

I will move. 

There is a sound from the perusing, looking for. A strange woman appears. Myself, laughing. Despair with a few, such as Winnie, dear old lady.  What? He walks up to the library. People. people, with people. At one point I went it in.

Holding me, I managed to get in front of P, saying “how tiny to get in the cinema”. From the school there we saw an American, in the Worall centre with my ‘friends’, when I met Robert who talked and talked. 

I’ve finished two books. Going back home tomorrow.

There is a sound from the people, people with people at one point were all. What was I being punished for? The vicious cycle puts people off me, me even more. Roars of laughter eminating behind the joy in my behind. A woman in a dress sleeping. She was to see, about to run past.

We were there for over two hours! Others set me wands, cups, swords, pentacles. The stage, after all,  unimportant.

I will move, like Liza, dancing. '

Club in the eyes. Everyone will dance. Such as Winnie, dear old lady I could have fun with.

One’s actions must return colour.

She was behind the desk. This dark oh my pathetic says “What am I being punished for?”

Diaries by walking. All way Satan. Apparently Ian and she spent! Couldn’t believe with regards to this evening to have nothing.

Controlling Anne-Marie. I walk up to one and find myself. 

In the corridor I see neon red lights flickering. I approach. Strange woman appears – myself, laughing.

The Empress is Having Sex on my Breath

Passing here, Is and who today?  Because I didn’t love it, I have nothing about it, strange thing.

 I rang him, as if this is. Managed to get in.  Sex -  like books - aint happening.

Try and go to nightmares for help.

I like to think of auntie with Chris, loving life’s problems, earth-controlling help. 

So I get gloomy with regards to this everything to have nothing.

Emotions, calmness, thought, health. I keep connecting.  Dutiful James, I was able to get into interesting things. I need a hallway

Satan, light, joy in my life. I went online.  

I’ve finished two books. Go back home tomorrow, sleep for ages. On my breath vaguely before difficulty I am going to spend.

I like walks, anger, passion. Say goodbye to being honest, go into colour.

I was, I’m going, they are psyche. All day, dude. Though really?  

Starting to cholic here.

20th, March, worry. She’ll be Minellli.

He’s going. I feel strangely pink. Stick two inside -that devil loved it.

 Encounters, bitches. Which was he?

They are Friday night - air, problems, trouble. 

World, I have nothing.

All of next week I am at home with Deronda, here. Clothes, boys.  Turn it on again with the “been too busy”

I couldn’t stage. Important to move and cry. Complete nutcase from the light creature of before.

The Empress is having sex with my breath. Will I think, or sleep for ages?

Time around, life’s too serious behind the joy. Sounding like an ant happening. 

My bed was drifting, smashed in hope.

Concrete Sky

Slate grey sky pushing through my windows.  Bare tree claws stooping sinisterly over a coal tit.

The clock ticking is the only sound.. It seems to be burrowing through the wall.

In the bleak mid-winter a dead swan was frozen on a snow-covered lake.

The book case makes me feel lethargic. Accusatory spines glance out, neglected. A little fly keeps swarming around the sofa.

My neck is broken and the cushion is too real.

The TV is an opaque monstrosity. Its black face regards me indifferently.

The whiskey was too much but necessary, after the clitoris and the shower. My ears bled, so I drank.

Outside the canteen the school was eerie. Dead corridors and darkness. Walking into my classroom, wine-headed I held a whisky.

The colour-coded timetable looked ridiculous. A drunken lesson to an invisible class.

My feelings did not tally so I dispersed to the stair top to have a cigarette.

I know how Jesus felt. This is my cross and that which I must bear. But god. I hate them so. Her contorted face sour like a lemon cursing in my face

I must not let it filter through to my weekend, I must not, but still.

I woke up after a few hours of passed out sleep wide awake, and still drunk.

So I got up and watched Holiday Inn

Funny how the film is seen as a warm-hearted Christmas classic, best known for the fireside scene with Bing Crosby crooning White Christmas.

The hideous racist spectacle of the black faced white performers on Lincoln's birthday singing about slavery is all but ignored. Conveniently edited out and hilariously juxtaposed with the 'Freedom Song' for Independence Day.

Fred Astaire's fire cracker dance routine was pretty awesome though.

Then I curled up in bed with 'The Passion of Perpetua and Felicity'. Though the title may lead you to believe that it was about two drags queens road-tripping across the States, this is not the case.

It is in effect a mostly forgotten Bible book about Christian martyrs and Wild Animals.

A nice, pleasant read before bed time as you can imagine. Sent me right off.

The concrete sky is looking pretty unappealing right now, and the snow and the wind is adding to my unfavourable impression.

A trek into the city is distinctly uninspiring, even with the free cinema ticket.

But I may have to, otherwise I will melt into this tired old sofa,  my rotting corpse left for the deer I  love so much to feed upon.

The Dreamer

"You don't understand anything"

I tried listening to radio 4, some political debate. And I couldn't bear it. It was like being plugged in to this oppressive fear filled structure which hurt my head.

All these people arguing so cleverly about the state of The World. I can see why F is the way he is.

Oh but the way he slated me when we were talking about god. What can I say? I don't even know what I was trying  to prove. But I remember the arrogance, the self-assured contemptuousness oozing out of him like some black jelly, and I had to stop.

How could I even begin to explain?

Yeah, once upon a time I  had this weird dream where I went to Wonderland with Alice, and The World became this collective Dreamscape where I was somehow not only an actor but the creator, and I looked down and saw that everything had been leading up to this moment, and everything I believed was true, because I was the Dreamer.

And now I don't watch the news, or television, because I don't want to plug myself in to the Collective Insanity,  but I don't know where to go, how to rediscover that purity, or how to forget it.

Fear. That's what I got when I was plugged in. Fear, anxiety, frustration. It seeped out of the radio and into my body, and I had to turn it off.

And now I have classical music playing and I want to follow it somewhere else, to a realm hinted at by the stars and the silent lake and the deer sitting like statues in the garden, and the autumn colours and the moonlight. Like walking in to a painting and floating up to the sky.

There is so much beyond the surface. And sometimes I taste it and I connect to something much higher than me. And then it fades, and I'm back here in the show. In the game - suppress, suppress. So hard to be awake when everyone else is asleep.

Play your role to the best of your ability.

And when you try to convey it to someone else they can't grasp it - how could they? how could anyone?

No. Turn off the radio, turn off the news, and live like a hermit with the deer and the stars beside the water. Seek comfort in remembrance, drift.

Drift away on this beautiful music and leave The World to collapse in upon itself. Disappearing like a dream, eternal consciousness floating out through space.

Autumn Colours

Study full of sun, and folk music, and the water blue and rippled 

The image floats like a painting or a dream

I can't stop staring

I wish I was out on a boat

The autumn colours are so much more vibrant here. I had to close my window because the leaves were drifting in.


I'm so happy that I can sit here, at this vantage point, in this sun trap, looking out.

I guess if I was outside I would be cold. But in here, right now, I am warm.


I've done my marking. And I have a beer beside me and a night of Spanish food and socialising ahead of me.

Running the gauntlet, into the city. I am ready. I am ready, but I am so glad.

 Glad that I don't have to do it every day. Glad that I live here, in this beautiful space, beside the water.


My early morning walks home from nights in the city have taken on an almost mythical intensity.

That path, completely dark, empty, filled with stars.


I remember the last time

Two deer, the side of the road. Just looking right at me, the moonlight bouncing of our backs.

I had to take a deep breath, and stop. A moment or two. Standing still.

The bridge between me and them broken, like in that Robert Frost poem.

Alive, in a world of stars, and moonlight, and silver deer on dark country lanes.


But I must stop

My head hurts.  The sun is low in the sky and burning into my eyes through the old windows.

The music is an entity, floating on the insence swirling through my brain

And I am here, and the room is filled with sunlight.