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Latitude 2007: loving the Jarve
Thursday, August 30, 2007

I may not have mentioned the Latitude Festival this year. It was lovely and I didn't even need the posh muji pacamac that a friend had graciously supplied. Had anticipated Somme conditions but Latitude is in a climate zone all of its own and is full of peace and love, poetry and music, except for the toilets which are just full. Walking to said facilities one night, after Jarvis Cocker set, with three gorgeous girls in their 20s it turns out that we are all in love with Jarvis. Yes all of us, all with different star signs and everything. We admitted we would leave home and family at a stroke if he asked us to - not all at once, obviously, although actually, yes even then, we would share. The Jarvo charm - you can feel it radiate across a crowded field - the full on geekiness of him, the specs (signifying high intelligence) the endless out of control legs, like an ADHD spider, the weird OCD gesturing. We love it all and there is just no knowing why. Skinny, northern, funny, intelligent, mad as a badger - this is my ideal man, and the ideal man of many. I would settle for being his cleaner. This photo comes from my pacamac friend's flickr site - see more:
8:22 AM   0 comments

the dark dark wood
Sunday, August 05, 2007

Flatlands - the sunrise coast - sounds so hopeful, optimistic, sunny. All of these things it is - until you find yourself lost in its dark woods, trapped between the fathomless interior of the forest and the soggy quicksands of the estuary. Making the choice between the chin high ferns their curled fingers poised to clutch your ankles, your wrists, to ensnare you truss you like a partridge for the pot - and the breast high reeds waving seductively in the sea breeze beckoning you in until you sink up to your knees in the glutinous salty black mud. Life is full of these choices - the devil and the deep blue sea - the reassuring thing is either one is equally disastrous. And nobody knows where you are. Sometimes you put yourself beyond help. In a clearing a stinkhorn like a seaside postcard leers at me, surrounded by its fly hangers on. A dark moment of the soul which has made the ordinary light of day brighter.
8:13 AM   0 comments