Darlington Typed

Last weekend I went to Darlington. They had the Salford Zine Library up, so there were zines all over the old card shelves of a an ex-card shop on High Row. I'd popped in the weekend before and liked the people, so agreed to go down and do a bit of collaborative typewriting on the 2nd weekend that they were open.

I quite like turning up to a new town with my portable typewriter, ready for action like some old-fashioned typing-pool hero. It was pretty poo-ey weather though, so I wasn't sure how busy things would be. The square was all filled with foodstalls for a 'Darlington loves food' type event - cooking demonstrations in a marquee, that kind of thing - but as the day progressed and weather worsened, a lot of these packed up early and left. What was q surprising for me, though, was that despite this, Darlington had a buzz and was busy with people coming in for the town centre shops. It seems to actually be a functioning market town in a way that is rare these days. And what was really q great about it is that each time I went, there was some fun street theatre going on that was mobile and engaging people and gave folk something beyond the shopping and their usual routine to interact with.

Vicky from Navigator North had gone shopping and brought a roll of fax paper that has to be on the 'nearly defunct' list of things to buy. It worked well with the typewriter so we got started, and I got my first collaborator called Mel sitting with me so that between us we got a ball rolling and I started to quite enjoy myself. While she was typing I would doodle in my sketchbook, and when folks came in we'd get them to add something and see how things went. 

In the last hour I looked around and suddenly realised we'd got quite busy. Friends of the Darlington arts scene had come in and were checking out the zines and it was nice - a proper temporary functioning zine library. 

(this and all photos of the day by Navigator North)

I don't know anyone apart from the Salford Zine Library who are actively taking zines out for people to see, but it's something I really think is valuable and I hope they don't stop. 

This was the same weekend as a London event that got a little TV feature on the internet, here, and the points made by people on it are I think quite good at suggesting why zines are important. Especially in an increasingly monotonous world, where print media just reflects the lowest-common-denominators and marketing-driven repetitions, zines are one of the few places where people are encouraged to be different, do things differently and in their own unique way. One zine is not the same as the next. Your life is not the same as mine. Our interests do not need to coincide to be interesting. The more diverse perspectives, interests and passions there are, the less dead we are as a people.

We closed the shop late, because of the late influx of people, and in fact I left before the last visitors finished browsing - they were a couple of zine enthusiasts I know from other events and it was really nice to see they'd come to check these ones out, on their first ever visit to Darlo. 

I headed down to Bradford, to catch something of the excellent Threadfest they do each year. Free bands in a half dozen venues, of which I saw an amazing guy called Matthew Bourne by the ice rink, and then some of the acts at the New Playhouse, of which my favourite were the female-vocals+drums of Rattle.

(sketch of the crowd at the Matthew Bourne gig)

Sunday, after a night at my folks', and back to Darlington for a slightly sunnier day. I took the typewriter outside, and with a local photographer collaring people he knew or recognised, we got more people taking part. An inveterate drunk. Market traders. Families. People who used to have them. "I had a pink barbie one when I was a girl". Some really muscly young guys out from the gym. Street performers - the grannies on bicycles and segways who were chasing people and playing old tunes on their sound systems. We tried making pictures with text, we did typewritten interviews, we took jokes that we found in zines and reminisced about fanzines bought at gigs in the eighties.

And what was nice was at the end of the day, some folk who I had just briefly interacted with on the street had come into the shop and were spending a good while just sitting and reading through different zines. Perzines, anarchist zines, travel zines, punk zines, art zines, zines full of jokes, zines produced as part of degree shows, zines I recognised, zines I had a copy of, zines that were funny or cleverly made or intriguing and suggestive of other ways of seeing the world.

Thankyou Darlington, I enjoyed spending some time with you, and I hope to come back again soon. It's a recommended town!

Darlington Type

 

I don't often use this blog for upcoming things cos it ain't exactly a redtop newspaper with a massive readership. But as someone made a nice wee image for this thing I'm doing at the weekend, I figured why not stick it here!

 

Before that I'm off to Cumbria to catsit a furry thing called Stanley, and if I get the impulse I might go hillwalking. Then on Saturday I'm off to Bradford for Threadfest, and as the train goes through Darlington I'm doing this typewritey thing on both Saturday (down) and Sunday (up).

 

So I'm not home much - if you wanna talk to me, best catch me there!

 

Out of my Ordinary

I was in Malta last month, supporting Birdlife Malta as one of their international volunteers. We go twice a year, when the African birds migrate north, and then when they return as Europeans to Africa in September. These times have come to be the peak experiences of my year, with high drama and car chases, strong emotional bonding, sometimes aggression and the witnessing of death, failure, unnecessary human cruelty.

I made zines to record my experiences of the first camps that I went on (I'll post you some if you ask). But while I'm quite proud of the first couple I did, I found these zines were gettting progressively more untogether as time went on. Why was that?
   (1) Because the experience was less fresh of course, but more
   (2) because my increased connection with people and complex side-issues there meant there was less of a clear 'story' to construct a zine around and
   (3) because I took on more responsibilities : I became a group leader, a driver, navigator, a keen scanner for birds appearing, a person learning how to identify different species, and therefore I was no longer a person able to relax or switch off that part of my mind, sit back against a rock and draw a little page for a zine.

So during this latest camp I drew no pictures at all (unless you count quick sketches of birds to work out later with an id. book - blackeared wheatear, sparrowhawk). And I feel I have no story as such to share. Plenty is documented however, with Chris Packham's (somewhat sensationalised, but still true) youtube episodes, and a fascinating media record of police harassment, accusations and responses in the Maltese papers. See for example here, here and here.

My experiences with the dedicated, enthusiastic people I meet on Malta has switched me onto wild birds in a way I never expected. I now carry around binoculars and can bore my friends back in the UK just as well as those geeky bearded blokes I used to ridicule.

This year I joined the ringing station on Comino, where other international volunteers come each year to catch and release birds as part of a scientific programme. I've personally no particular urge to handle birds in the way that ringers do, but it was amazing to see a Scops owl up close, and while I was there a group of children came from Gozo (the smaller of the main Maltese islands) to be shown the work the ringers do. There is a great sense of relief when you step upon Comino: there is no traffic noise, no fumes or construction, and also when you see wild creatures you know they are not in immediate danger of being shot. Unlike the mainland, the landscape is mostly left in a natural state, with garrigue, maquis, sea caves and trees. It's the perfect antidote to places on Malta like Delimara or Mzieb, where camo-wearing hunters have built towers every few metres in which they sit and look and wait to shoot the migrating birds.

And just off the island of Comino is the little island of Cominotto. You can swim across to it, where there is a small beach, and in summer it overlooks literally hundreds of sunbathers packed in amongst burger vans at the Blue Lagoon. I had never been before, and I have still not seen it in daylight.

We paddled across in a kayak after sunset: or rather I was paddled across, in the passenger seat, with my trousers off to avoid getting them wet. The light was quite lovely, enough still - diffuse and refracted in the sky - to show up the cliffs which rise up above a perfect, female-shaped, cave. Paolo, Sarah and Ilaria had already gone over to the island, and taken up positions high above a cliff facing south, where I now followed Ben (my paddler pal and the lead ornithologist here). From our vantage point other Cominotto cliffs arced around, creating a pale curve of Maltese limestone to our left. It was fading by the minute. To the right, a stretch of black sea, beyond which were a few visible lights on the mainland: these got stronger as the night got darker, so I had to avoid gazing that way because they fuzzed up my night vision.

There's something you should know about Malta : it is an island of soft and crumbling rock, that is in a state of slow but constant collapse. When there is a strong storm, streams and road channels carry dust and detritus out to sea, forming a murky brown ring around the island. As we clambered down a little from the highest edge of the cliff, Paolo warned me where not to put any weight, where it was "really shit rock" that could not be trusted for even a hand's weight of pressure. We stepped down on broken rocks which were balanced on more broken rock, all just temporarily paused during their crackling descent downhill. Earlier in the day, Paolo had explored this cliffedge and found shearwater footsteps in little caves and cracks that the birds burrow inside and use to raise their young. Shearwaters are not to be seen there in daylight - they spend the light hours out at sea, finding food and perhaps sitting out in great communal 'rafts' on the waves until it gets dark. Sometimes men go in boats and shoot them there. Sometimes they bring torches and shoot them off the cliffs, too. You can understand why these birds try their best to stay out of sight.

I was shown my cave. It was about 3 feet high, and perhaps 6 foot wide but uneven - more uneven in the ceiling than in the floor, which was handily quite flat. I had to curve into it, laying half my back upon the ground and scraping my head when I moved. A small hole - like a rabbit hole but quite hard to see in the dark - was in the back left corner, and another was in the back right corner. Both housed shearwater footprints. My task was to intercept any birds that flew in from the sea, their gullets full of fish, and to catch them before they scuttled down to feed their young. Shearwaters wait until the very darkest part of the night to return to their nests, so I was told to expect a good while of waiting. A little beneath me down the cliff was Sarah, stationed by a long horizontal crack with its own tell-tale footprints. To my right, at a convenient distance to help should I fuck up, and to collect the captured birds for processing, was Ilaria. Further on from her and out of sight were Ben and Paolo, by other caves.

We fell silent, and waited. The sea noise rose and fell, there was hardly any wind, and a ferry crossed over to our right, from Gozo. Ben says the most magical times really are when you are out there on your own, "although it is more dangerous". You are just sitting there, expectant but still, waiting for the birds to decide the light is right for them to return - or maybe they won't. High above the sea, alone, just waiting.

Until tonight, this site was unexplored: it was already known that shearwaters were present on Cominotto, but they had not yet been investigated with any effort. So maybe nothing much would appear, we didn't know - until a dark shape materialised from the space in front of me and blatted me in the cheek. I had that moment of inept panic that I remember from subbing as a goalie in my friends' old five-a-side games. I was a crap goalie, and I knew it, and this invisible dark bird had put me off balance and ran low in a straight line - fast waddling - past me to the cave on my right.

"Shit!"
"You got one?"
"No, it went past me. I missed it."
"Oh, they are early tonight."

The incident had given me a spike of adrenaline, making me at once more nervous and more alert - so that I felt at the same time both more hopeless (the shit goalie) but also more capable (alright, I'm awake now, I know what they feel like when they come in).

I adjusted my position, rubbed my temple where I'd scraped it, and thought about the feeling of vertigo if I looked at the cliffs, or the waves that appeared in dark white crests below. I used to think I was scared of heights. My mum certainly is, and I think she passed a little of her fear onto me as a kid. I still have the occasional dream of plummeting down from a bridge or tower, and it's an awful feeling. On very very rare and special occasions, none of which have occurred in recent years, I have been able to convert that plummeting feeling into a lucid dream of flying. And that swooping, gliding, dizzying headrush plummet-y dance is just incredible. There was even a time, after I'd had a series of these dreams, that I tried to engineer my eating, sleeping and thinking habits to manifest a repeat. It rarely worked, but just remembering them makes me want to try for those dreams again. The thrill of them must be somehow connected to the fear of falling : it is the dread that gives them their power, the feeling of relief from that feared fate.

I sat with both hands raised (the shit goalie), left leg stretched out to where there was a firm bit of rock, right leg sometimes cocked up, sometimes flat. My back never comfortable, the rock at my neck and that kept knocking on my crown quite sharp and grating. I wondered if wearing glasses gave me a handicap : would the birds sneak in around the edges, where my vision didn't reach?

A faint sound of the birds flying: they must be gathering in the air near their cliff nests before landing. A faint streak of white as one goes into an unguarded cave to my left (shearwaters are dark from above, but white from below : you can watch them close against the waves in the daytime, flashing first white, then black). Shearwaters make famously eerie cries, which sound like shrieking unhappy babies. They have freaked out many a honeymooner or night wanderer before (especially as there's no sign of them being around, in daylight). Another bird, landing with a soft thump by my leg. I try and grab it, miss and am too hesitant - I have blocked it from its cave but it is disconcerted, and flies off again. "Fuck! It's gone!"

Sarah climbs up, at a diagonal from beneath me to where Ilaria sits in her little hollow. She hands over a bird in a cloth bag and then steps carefully back below. Another flash of white somewhere off to my left. A red headtorch rounds the bend as Ben joins Ilaria for the measuring, the weighing and ringing of the first captured birds.

And bumph! My 3rd visitor and I pounce, less gently than before, and I have it. "I have it!" Ilaria crawls crabways over to me, places the bird in its bag - it's a little larger than a pigeon, and with slightly oily feathers, both smooth and coarse (strong) at the same time. 2 : 1 in the football game. Then another brushes my elbow and gets into the same hole as before. "Shit!" 3 : 1

Other birds were coming now, so that 3 of my companions left off their caves to process them properly and quickly. We even ran out of bags. Another hit me in the face, and I caught it. A 6th escaped my grasp and flew off. I felt pretty mean, what with their children down below waiting to be fed, and us getting in the way, adding to the stress and exhaustion and hardship that these fast-declining birds face.

And by this time the rocks beneath my butt were making a strange noise. When I adjusted position, relieving one buttock for the other or shifting stones from under my ankle, I listened down the tunnel to where I could hear the young birds calling in a wonderful kind of thankyou and bonding call to their parents. It sounds almost like a kitten that is calling to its mother just when it thought it had got lost. The sound of worry being relieved/ sound of parent and young/hard to give a comparison to, but lovely. It was a really sensational experience: the cliff itself seemed to make the noise. Hidden tunnels. Life behind the rock. Ffoomh! Another one goes down the left hand cave. Grab! I get one in a bag.

My final score was 6 : 5 : 3 : 1 : 1.
6 got past me, into their holes.
5 I caught, passing on to be ringed. One of these was at the very last moment, just as we were leaving.
3 tried to get to their holes but found me there, flailing at them on my back, and quite sensibly flew away again until I'd left.
To release them, we open the bags in front of their intended hole, and they shoot down. But 1, after being ringed, came out of its bag an unexpected way and flew away to sea. Oops. My fuckup that one.
And the last 1. That 1 popped out of the hole behind me to the left, and ran - sounding like a fat little dog - straight behind my back and down the other hole.

We have seen more birds than Ben and the team expected. Paolo is rightly glowing with the fact that this place was so full of life. In fact we are all glowing, although very little is said to each other. I am guided up the few feet to the clifftop, and then we follow the slope back down to the waters. Earlier, when we paddled across, we'd seen the remains of hundreds of blue vellella vellella. These are curious plastic-looking jellyfish which are non-stinging and sail into bays like this on the wind. Now, trousers off, bum wet, half-moon above and Paolo paddling me over, we catch glimpses of them floating in little groups, like they're waiting for the sun to rise again. I step out, and my feet in sand get covered also in vellella vellella and I have to do a slow dance to wash them off. I watch Paolo paddle back for the others, I urinate into the sea, and I realise in a quiet, lingering moment, that this has been one of those moments that make up a life. No need to engineer a lucid dream anymore: this is the real thing.

I bought poetry for my birthday.

I am currently away from home (away from home so often that 'home' is now more loose and displaced than it used to be).

I am busy with active conservation, a group effort, a relationship, people, and rhythms of life that are mostly externally determined : I mean that I am not usually waking when I like, deciding what to do with a morning coffee, and living that luxurious (though penurious) life I am accustomed to.

The details of what I'm actually engaged with are not for here. I do hope to write them up in some way, or make some illustrated record, but it matters little if I don't manage it.

But today. I wasn't sure what to do with my free day: I could have gone to an exhibition and tried to meet people. Instead I walked to a nearby coffeeshop and read a book. It was quite simply the most perfect thing to do, and I feel much the richer for it.

When you've been surrounded by people and a shared project for a while, then your mind attunes to the tasks and interactions that you are seeking to fit in with, to achieve. By stepping away and beginning a good book, you escape from this. All those conversations and unfinished aims are put a certain distance away and the fantasy or different world - the carefully worded ideas and beautiful artifice of a story - lift you up and away. I am so grateful to books for giving us this chance to develop individually: to get an input to our brainmachine that is higher/more heightened than the everyday and the milieu we are usually immersed in.

I last bought a book on my birthday - a collection of poetry. Since then I've only read newspaper articles, online news, facebook posts and sherlock holmes short stories (the rubbish later versions, not the early and quite immaculate ones). That form of shallow & short reading does not do the same magic as a proper book. But now I've had 2 hours of reading pleasure and I am the better - more unique, free, gifted - and more ready to re-attach myself to the normal world because of it. So if you're stressed, read. If you're busy, take time out. If you're unable to concentrate, then do a bit of exercise then sleep well and wake in the morning with a book of fiction to hand.

Today's book was bought for 99p from a bargain shop in Carlisle. It is in translation, which some would see as a shame, missing the original purity, depth and nuance of it. But I am fine with translation: I am happy in fact that it's a reminder of the world's greater diversity - I get a filtered version of a world that I know is richer and more varied in its language, culture, meaning than I will ever make time to access. 

I had no idea what to expect, and in fact I am barely any distance through this book: before I finish I may even learn to dislike it (often I find the final part of a book feels like a sordid 'wrapping-up' and cheapening of the opened box-of-delights and intriguing avenues that the first part reveals to us). But for now, it's a good book, and I am happy.