In an ideal world, this place would somehow probe the deeper meaning of something somewhere, but instead it continually rattles off the minutia of life; a trip here, a happening there, perhaps a snippet of life previously unreported. Did you know that they sell memory sticks in the shape of a penguin, ones with a cute little blue rubber scarf no less? I got one for Christmas you know.

You see what I mean?

Here is not really place for great revelations or world events. To engage with those might reveal more than I'm comfortable with, give a clue to what's inside, that inner seething mass.

So instead you must piece the puzzle together for yourself, but as yet I've not given you the corners and precious few of the bits of the sides. Do you see a picture at all? I think I lost the lid of the box some time back, the picture was faded and peeling anyway, so I'm not sure it would help you in any event. Maybe some lyrics would help here...

The Chamber Of 32 Doors

Artist: Genesis
Album: Lamb Lies Down on Broadway

At the top of the stairs, there's hundreds of people,
Running around to all the doors.
They try to find themselves an audience;
Their deductions need applause.

The rich man stands in front of me,
The poor man behind my back.
They believe they can control the game,
But the juggler holds another pack.

I need someone to believe in, someone to trust.
I need someone to believe in, someone to trust.

I'd rather trust a countryman than a townman,
You can judge by his eyes, take a look if you can,
Hell smile through his guard,
Survival trains hard.
I'd rather trust a man who works with his hands,
He looks at you once, you know he understands,
Don't need any shield,
When you're out in the field.

But down here,
I'm so alone with my fear,
With everything that I hear.
And every single door, that I've walked through
Brings me back here again,
I've got to find my own way.

The priest and the magician,
Singing all the chants that they have ever heard;
They're all calling out my name,
Even academics, searching printed word.

My father to the left of me,
My mother to the right,
Like everyone else they're pointing
But nowhere feels quite right.

And I need someone to believe in, someone to trust.
I need someone to believe in, someone to trust.

Id rather trust a man who doesn't shout what he's found,
There's no need to sell if you're homeward bound.
If I chose a side,
He wont take me for a ride.

Back inside
This chamber of so many doors;
I've nowhere to hide.
I'd give you all of my dreams, if you'd help me,
Find a door
That doesn't lead me back again take me away.

PS: For those who liked the cliffhanger at the end of the last post, you'll be pleased to know that the dead PC is now well again. Resurrected, Lazarus like, courtesy of a power supply replacement. Some small pride at having been able to diagnose and rectify the problem, a small part of my world that could be changed to the way I wished to see it, an opportunity to use long ago acquired skills, the sort that are never likely to become surplus to requirements.

Unquiet Slumber for the Sleepers...

...in That Quiet Earth

Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xSzS7S5uAos

Very occasionally, my iPod's random play feature will throw up an oddity. This afternoon's case in question was 'Harold the Barrel by Genesis, from their Nursery Cryme album released back in 1971, not that I first heard it then. I didn't start listening to their stuff until some time in 1976 and saw them for the first at Manchester Free Trade Hall in January 1977.

What struck me about its appearance today was the quintessential Englishness of the lyrics, the attitude of a socially embarrassed mother, the typical English copper, Harold's failed attempt at maintaining a stiff upper lip in the face of adversity, whilst all the while going quietly mad, and lastly the neighbours gossiping about the goings on behind Harold and his mother's back. It reminds me (as do many things) of the way things were in the sixties. Yes, I was born in 1961, but can't claim to remember the "sixties" as an event as it's so often portrayed, but it does instead match what I believe life was like at that time and how those who weren't traipsing up and down Carnaby Street or inhabiting The Cavern Club would have been behaving.

The other resonance in the lyrics for me came from a book of Graham Greene short stories I'm reading at the moment. All were written from the late 30's to the early 50's and seem to touch on the lives of ordinary folk as they were being affected by world affairs happening around them, or in the mess they had left behind. Some aspects of the latter were still to be seen when I was growing up. For that reason his stories prick away at memories left long in the distant past, or pretty much forgotten. Strange to think that they're still there. They're worth reading [the short stories, not my memories] should you have a few moments.

Anyway, on to Harold...

Harold the Barrel by Genesis, 1971

News:
A well-known Bognor restaurant-owner disappeared
early this morning.
Last seen in a mouse-brown overcoat,
suitably camouflaged,
they saw him catch a train.

Man-in-the-street:
"Father of three its disgusting"
"Such a horrible thing to do"

Harold the Barrel cut off his toes and he served them all for tea
"Can't go far", "He can't go far".
"Hasn't got a leg to stand on"
"He can't go far".

Man-on-the-spot:
I'm standing in a doorway on the main square
tension is mounting
There's a restless crowd of angry people

Man-on-the-council:
"More than we've ever seen.
- had to tighten up security"

Over to the scene at the town hall
The Lord Mayor's ready to speak

Lord Mayor:
"Man of suspicion, you can't last long, the British Public is on our side"

British Public:
"Can't last long", "You can't last long".
"Said you couldn't trust him, his brother was just the same"
"You can't last long".

Harold:
If I was many miles from here,
I'd be sailing in an open boat on the sea
Instead I'm on this window ledge,
With the whole world below
Up at the window
Look at the window...

Mr.Plod:
"We can help you"

Plod's Chorus:
"We can help you"

Mr. Plod:
"We're all your friends, if you come on down and talk to us son"

Harold:
You must be joking
Take a running jump

The crowd was getting stronger and our Harold getting weaker;
Forwards, backwards, swaying side to side
Fearing the very worst
They called his mother to the sight
Upon the ledge beside him
His mother made a last request.

67-yr-old Mrs Barrel:
"Come off the ledge if your father were alive he'd be very, very, very upset.
"Just can't jump, you just can't jump"
"Your shirt's all dirty, there's a man here from the B.B.C."
"You just can't jump"

Mr. Plod:
"We can help you"

Plod's Chorus:
"We can help you"

Mr. Plod:
"We're all your friends, if you come on down and talk to us Harry"

Harold:
You must be joking.
Take a running jump......