"Dear Becci Brown, you will probably be feeling better by the time you get this but I thought it would be a nice gesture anyway. Sorry you're feeling rough but do know that i love and that I am praying for you
Also i know the future isnt always clear but we can have FULL confidence in the Living God who DOES know what the future holds (Luke 12:24-25) Praying that you will have a productive week celebrating your salvation in all you do! Lots of Love Podbo.xx
Wednesday, 21 March 2007
Sunday, 18 March 2007
carrying home gold
The sun is setting overhead
I've been racing since I got out of bed
The moon is peaking through the sky
Reminding me time likes to fly
It keeps me deep within the thought
That I can't bottle days
And can't slow down the clock
And it makes me want to hold more dear
Every moment I have here
So whatever I do
Whatever I say
May it all be for your glory
And all be for your praise
Whatever is pure
Whatever is true
And everything that's holy
Let it shine through
Whatever I do
The good life will soon be gone
Quicker than a vapour carries on
And the only things I'll carry home
Are silver, gold and precious stone.
I've been racing since I got out of bed
The moon is peaking through the sky
Reminding me time likes to fly
It keeps me deep within the thought
That I can't bottle days
And can't slow down the clock
And it makes me want to hold more dear
Every moment I have here
So whatever I do
Whatever I say
May it all be for your glory
And all be for your praise
Whatever is pure
Whatever is true
And everything that's holy
Let it shine through
Whatever I do
The good life will soon be gone
Quicker than a vapour carries on
And the only things I'll carry home
Are silver, gold and precious stone.
Saturday, 17 March 2007
Wednesday, 14 March 2007
Mind The Gap
“A consciousness associated with the soul is more relaxed, less intentionalized than a consciousness associated with the phenomena of the mind. Forces are manifested in poems that do not pass through the circuits of knowledge.” (Bachelard, 1958:xxi)
The pages stir, flicker and flip. There’s a breeze that inches it’s way past, over, round and through. There’s a deep whisper of a rumbling emerging and gathering volume, velocity and vroom, clatter and bang.
The doors slide and click. Stand back, hold yourself in, tuck in your hands, your feet, but edge, edge, edge. You dance with them, you rhythmically jostle with them until they’re past and you’re through; through and on.
“Excuse me, sorry….Can you move down please?” Hurdle that barrier? Crash through them? Ease round them? Will you speak, will you push? Nestle in, under an armpit, touch a leg. Hold your breath, bow your head and pray to the god of good hygiene.
Don’t look, don’t speak, don’t smile; your eyes are your final frontier. Listen to your music, read a book; nustle and edge; try to extend your boundaries, or give in, accept, relax; make yourself alarmingly cosy and disembody.
One gets off, two, three, weaving, dodging “excuse me, sorry”. Move casually, slowly to extend new boundaries, new rules, new norms. But don’t be naïve; never fixed, never certain. Regulate and watch yourself watching others watching you.
A seat vacated, draw your bag close; it is you. Sit; it’s warming, affecting, mixing. You’re not you and you alone. Your bag, your book, your iPod, the arm rail, and you; create a corner, steal away, dream.
Listen to them talking; American, Chinese, Italian, the student, the business woman, the tourist, the child, the old man and you. Whispering, as in the library, shouting as if alone, jabbering, animating, questioning, suggesting, and every nuance in between. The whole world on you, beside you, around you.
Watch them pouring off, create spaces, extending yours. Will you relocate to the emptiness, away from your neighbour, risk causing offence? How much is it worth? Do you need it? Why? Stay, stare ahead, stare around to anywhere but, Them.
Need new teeth? Afraid of going bald? Need a career change, to study, to do the worthwhile? Or just need to gorge on ice-cream? Informing, commanding, exposing. Give us your money, your time; you need us. Don’t linger, look too long, They’ll think you’re looking at Them.
Sandwiched between the bibles for today, the map; functional, modern, a scientific artwork of navigation but don’t be fooled, taken in, it lies, deceives, whispers dreams of transports speed. Sometimes, trust your legs, walk the walk and Mind The Gap.
But what about the irregular; A jostle, a touch, a push? A beggar asking you, a drunk sleeping on you, a loud chatty lady invading you? From rush hour to empty, above ground, below ground, histories, stories, patterns and shapes. Shifting, changing, moving space. Never constant, never the same, this strange phenomena, this, ‘The Underground’.
The pages stir, flicker and flip. There’s a breeze that inches it’s way past, over, round and through. There’s a deep whisper of a rumbling emerging and gathering volume, velocity and vroom, clatter and bang.
The doors slide and click. Stand back, hold yourself in, tuck in your hands, your feet, but edge, edge, edge. You dance with them, you rhythmically jostle with them until they’re past and you’re through; through and on.
“Excuse me, sorry….Can you move down please?” Hurdle that barrier? Crash through them? Ease round them? Will you speak, will you push? Nestle in, under an armpit, touch a leg. Hold your breath, bow your head and pray to the god of good hygiene.
Don’t look, don’t speak, don’t smile; your eyes are your final frontier. Listen to your music, read a book; nustle and edge; try to extend your boundaries, or give in, accept, relax; make yourself alarmingly cosy and disembody.
One gets off, two, three, weaving, dodging “excuse me, sorry”. Move casually, slowly to extend new boundaries, new rules, new norms. But don’t be naïve; never fixed, never certain. Regulate and watch yourself watching others watching you.
A seat vacated, draw your bag close; it is you. Sit; it’s warming, affecting, mixing. You’re not you and you alone. Your bag, your book, your iPod, the arm rail, and you; create a corner, steal away, dream.
Listen to them talking; American, Chinese, Italian, the student, the business woman, the tourist, the child, the old man and you. Whispering, as in the library, shouting as if alone, jabbering, animating, questioning, suggesting, and every nuance in between. The whole world on you, beside you, around you.
Watch them pouring off, create spaces, extending yours. Will you relocate to the emptiness, away from your neighbour, risk causing offence? How much is it worth? Do you need it? Why? Stay, stare ahead, stare around to anywhere but, Them.
Need new teeth? Afraid of going bald? Need a career change, to study, to do the worthwhile? Or just need to gorge on ice-cream? Informing, commanding, exposing. Give us your money, your time; you need us. Don’t linger, look too long, They’ll think you’re looking at Them.
Sandwiched between the bibles for today, the map; functional, modern, a scientific artwork of navigation but don’t be fooled, taken in, it lies, deceives, whispers dreams of transports speed. Sometimes, trust your legs, walk the walk and Mind The Gap.
But what about the irregular; A jostle, a touch, a push? A beggar asking you, a drunk sleeping on you, a loud chatty lady invading you? From rush hour to empty, above ground, below ground, histories, stories, patterns and shapes. Shifting, changing, moving space. Never constant, never the same, this strange phenomena, this, ‘The Underground’.
Saturday, 17 February 2007
buisness as usual
It's pretty much business as usual here in Peckham. The murders haven't changed much.
There's always a police car speeding or the wail of a siren somewhere near or far. Most nights, helicopters. Lock your windows, lock your doors.
Walking home after dark you get used to looking over your shoulder, walking fast, clenching fists, the beat of a heart.
There's always the guys, smiling, jeering, trying to get attention. You get used to being a peice of meat.
And there's always a man peeing up the side of the telephone box at the end of my road.
There's the kids hanging out two doors down sitting on walls. Always. Hoods up when it rains. Hoods up when it shines. It's only the media that demonise.
There is more fear in Peckham now, and there have been tears. Tears mingling with the pee of the men at the telephone box.
There is high levels of poverty. The highest paid earner at my church is a charity worker and many don't know where next month's rent will come from.
One night last week there were two 'bangs' so loud our house shook and the front door broke. Our house. On the left live a family who frequently scream at each other. They have ripening plantain on a table.
The right is enhabited by a interior design couple, new money.
They're pulling down the Wood Dene estate, where the woman was murdered at the christening. They locked the guy up this week.There's a hughe purple sign on the front of it:
"New homes coming soon." HOMES not HOUSES.
The food shops are as varied as a trip around the world and there's more afro shops and hairdressers than, well, whatever my hair is called. And there's a primark.
The arts scene floruishes in the form of two funky bars, a gallery and the railway arch art studios. Rentable for a couple a hundred a month.
The local library is to be found in any book on postmodern architecture or funky designs. And Monday films at the cinema are £2.99
My local shopkeeps say hello, they give me discounts, they give me freebies.
I wouldn't live anywhere else. It's not because people are poor and needy that I live here (though everytime I step out my door I am reminded how much I have. Its a call to thankfulness and generosity)
It's not that somehow people need Jesus more, or somehow I am more godly for living in a part of London that the rest of the UK despises. That would be some form of post-colonialism and I'm not into that. Everyone needs Jesus.
I live here because it is vibrant. It's a district of multiple personalities. There is alot of fear and many people desperately want to leave Peckham. Especially those with kids. I can't big it up to be something that it's not. That would be insenstive.
But I love peckham, my church loves peckham. And we just have to keep praying for Peckham and it's people.
Meanwhile, it's business as usual.
There's always a police car speeding or the wail of a siren somewhere near or far. Most nights, helicopters. Lock your windows, lock your doors.
Walking home after dark you get used to looking over your shoulder, walking fast, clenching fists, the beat of a heart.
There's always the guys, smiling, jeering, trying to get attention. You get used to being a peice of meat.
And there's always a man peeing up the side of the telephone box at the end of my road.
There's the kids hanging out two doors down sitting on walls. Always. Hoods up when it rains. Hoods up when it shines. It's only the media that demonise.
There is more fear in Peckham now, and there have been tears. Tears mingling with the pee of the men at the telephone box.
There is high levels of poverty. The highest paid earner at my church is a charity worker and many don't know where next month's rent will come from.
One night last week there were two 'bangs' so loud our house shook and the front door broke. Our house. On the left live a family who frequently scream at each other. They have ripening plantain on a table.
The right is enhabited by a interior design couple, new money.
They're pulling down the Wood Dene estate, where the woman was murdered at the christening. They locked the guy up this week.There's a hughe purple sign on the front of it:
"New homes coming soon." HOMES not HOUSES.
The food shops are as varied as a trip around the world and there's more afro shops and hairdressers than, well, whatever my hair is called. And there's a primark.
The arts scene floruishes in the form of two funky bars, a gallery and the railway arch art studios. Rentable for a couple a hundred a month.
The local library is to be found in any book on postmodern architecture or funky designs. And Monday films at the cinema are £2.99
My local shopkeeps say hello, they give me discounts, they give me freebies.
I wouldn't live anywhere else. It's not because people are poor and needy that I live here (though everytime I step out my door I am reminded how much I have. Its a call to thankfulness and generosity)
It's not that somehow people need Jesus more, or somehow I am more godly for living in a part of London that the rest of the UK despises. That would be some form of post-colonialism and I'm not into that. Everyone needs Jesus.
I live here because it is vibrant. It's a district of multiple personalities. There is alot of fear and many people desperately want to leave Peckham. Especially those with kids. I can't big it up to be something that it's not. That would be insenstive.
But I love peckham, my church loves peckham. And we just have to keep praying for Peckham and it's people.
Meanwhile, it's business as usual.
Wednesday, 14 February 2007
The London Underground Escalator
It’s like a fine dance - embarking on the Underground escalator. The steady whir and click of the metallic steps slipping under the solid floor provides musical accompaniment, inviting me to embody its beat; whir, click, step. Whir, click…STEP.
I am on my way to someplace else, transported by a vortex of fake, sticky aired, non-place. Metal structures reflecting modern functionism, with subtle touches of fantastical science fiction, encircle above and beneath.
Signs commanding me to ‘stand on the right’ and ‘no smoking’ sit a top the central reservation like the poking of a crocodile’s head from its watery home. I hold myself ‘to the right’ in this Goffman paradise where all travellers do the same, save for the burning thighs of the busy few. But don’t stop on the left, break the rules; you’ll be ‘insane’. Rush by; careful not to touch, to blend, to affect.
A red square invites me tantalisingly to press in an emergency to ‘stop’ this process. Its rules, which in breaking have a tumultuous effect, bring out the rebellious, the teenagers who dare. Playing, joking, kissing.
I am lost in a function, another product on the conveyer belt to be moved to a destination. There’s a place for each part of my body; hands and feet catered for. At my feet I feel a play of bristling hairs. Jamming my right-hand shoe into them I wonder whether they’ll polish and shine or eject the dirt of the atmosphere. I imagine the experience of trapped shoelaces and move my foot away.
Mind wandering, engagement unnecessary, I suddenly realise I’m tilting forwards, my hand rising on it’s holding conveyor at a faster pace than my feet. Shuffling my hand downwards, I’m drawn out of my dream back into the function, the vortex, the science.
At regular intervals to my left, screens demand my vision to shift from front facing. Bright bold colours juxtapose the consistent silver Underground standard, moving and dancing in a dizzy like fashion. Angled perfectly for maximum viewing, yet what is that? Are they upright or leaning? A confusion of space, proxemics, degrees.
The adverts roll through on a loop slower than my bodily motion up the tunnel. My eyes flick from screen to screen; catching the end of one, the beginning of another; there’s no possibility to stop and stare. An accumulation of images requires my imagination to rustle through; picking, choosing, making sense.
Increasing advertising space opens up possibilities, addresses the consumer, confuses the consumer. Makes the consumer feel giddy.
This ritual, the ‘on’ and the ‘off’, becomes an urgent situation at the top. Have I embodied the rhythm effectively or will I prove myself impermeable to such a dance, resulting in my shame? Catch the beat, concentrate, hold it; whir, click, step. Whir, click….STEP.
I am on my way to someplace else, transported by a vortex of fake, sticky aired, non-place. Metal structures reflecting modern functionism, with subtle touches of fantastical science fiction, encircle above and beneath.
Signs commanding me to ‘stand on the right’ and ‘no smoking’ sit a top the central reservation like the poking of a crocodile’s head from its watery home. I hold myself ‘to the right’ in this Goffman paradise where all travellers do the same, save for the burning thighs of the busy few. But don’t stop on the left, break the rules; you’ll be ‘insane’. Rush by; careful not to touch, to blend, to affect.
A red square invites me tantalisingly to press in an emergency to ‘stop’ this process. Its rules, which in breaking have a tumultuous effect, bring out the rebellious, the teenagers who dare. Playing, joking, kissing.
I am lost in a function, another product on the conveyer belt to be moved to a destination. There’s a place for each part of my body; hands and feet catered for. At my feet I feel a play of bristling hairs. Jamming my right-hand shoe into them I wonder whether they’ll polish and shine or eject the dirt of the atmosphere. I imagine the experience of trapped shoelaces and move my foot away.
Mind wandering, engagement unnecessary, I suddenly realise I’m tilting forwards, my hand rising on it’s holding conveyor at a faster pace than my feet. Shuffling my hand downwards, I’m drawn out of my dream back into the function, the vortex, the science.
At regular intervals to my left, screens demand my vision to shift from front facing. Bright bold colours juxtapose the consistent silver Underground standard, moving and dancing in a dizzy like fashion. Angled perfectly for maximum viewing, yet what is that? Are they upright or leaning? A confusion of space, proxemics, degrees.
The adverts roll through on a loop slower than my bodily motion up the tunnel. My eyes flick from screen to screen; catching the end of one, the beginning of another; there’s no possibility to stop and stare. An accumulation of images requires my imagination to rustle through; picking, choosing, making sense.
Increasing advertising space opens up possibilities, addresses the consumer, confuses the consumer. Makes the consumer feel giddy.
This ritual, the ‘on’ and the ‘off’, becomes an urgent situation at the top. Have I embodied the rhythm effectively or will I prove myself impermeable to such a dance, resulting in my shame? Catch the beat, concentrate, hold it; whir, click, step. Whir, click….STEP.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)