Cold Showers

When I step into my Cold Showers I’m in control.

At least it seems like I am. It feels like I can control the experience, to the extent that I decide when I enter and when I leave. (Although who knows why I make those decisions and how much real control I had over them).

But I know that the moment will pass, and the shower will end. And the same happens to be true for all the moments, feelings, experiences, sensations and thoughts that are definitely not under my control. They too will pass. The good ones and the bad ones.

Every moment can feel fresh and new with that knowledge. In fact every moment is fresh and new even without that knowledge. Absolutely nothing is repeated however much things seem like “same old, same old”.

Today’s cold shower could never be exactly the same as yesterdays. And it will end.

I find those to be coldly refreshing thoughts.

I know, I’m weird. :-)

Romie

Travelling along this meandering track of my monthly song titles, and turning them into blogs, we periodically bump into these songs I have written for my grandchildren. In a couple of months there is another grandchild on the way. Another boy, to another of our boys. Another song to be written, and to be sung. It’s exciting.

Romie was our first granddaughter though. Not just that, but the first girl born into our own particular section of the family, after the five sons we ourselves had brought into the world.

Hence the first line of this song … “In a land of boys….”.

It has been a real joy to watch this little girl start to grow up. She’s pretty and helpful and funny and she loves being chased. She’s starting school this August. That’s how quickly time flies.

But you know … and this might come as a shock … there's one thing I’ve noticed:

- girls are different to boys.

I know! Controversial. But that’s how it’s looking on the current anecdotal evidence. Not just physically, but emotionally and psychologically too!

Viva la difference, in my humble opinion. Variety is the spice of life. But there are more revelations to be had. Oh yes! Because here’s another strange thing. Romie has a little sister, Caya, now. And it turns out …

… that girls are different from each other too!

You heard it here first, folks.

nb. After yesterdays post about co-writes and credits, I saw a great blog, from a writer I read regularly, on the subject of “Who is going to get the credit?”.

The wonderful takeaway being - approach it all in a spirit of generosity.

Red Velvet Shoes

Songwriting Co-Write etiquette is straightforward on the surface. If folk are in the room when the song is being written, then they are co-writers. “In the room” means sitting down to write the song together. And then credit is shared, regardless of individual involvement.

I am able to take credit for one or two songs in which I might have only added a line, or even a couple of words. And to be honest, I don’t feel comfortable with that. But technically I did contribute something. So, I guess I can cope. Likewise I’ve been involved in songs where I’ve been part of the “heavy lifting” and others have played more of a minor role.

Red Velvet Shoes (as presented in this recording) is a weird one for me. It started with a title. On this occasion two fellow co-writers were on their computers doing something else more pressing for the duration. So I ended up writing the complete lyric. In this scenario, we were only writing the lyric. Then we passed our lyric on to another group who would write the music. And they did.

But sometimes in our songwriting gatherings one or other of us goes away and later writes different music to a lyric that they feel attached to. Which is what I did that on this occasion. Somebody else wrote yet another tune to it I believe. But for the particular version featured in the link I wrote all the words and music.

It’s still technically a co-write I think. But I’m not sure whether the co-writers are my original lyric guys who were “in the room”, and/or the group who wrote the first version of the music which has got lost in the sand of times.

The recording you may listen to isn’t my best. And the song is highly unlikely to “do” anything. Nor is it a part of my live repertoire so far. Also, these are all good friends of mine I’m speaking of. So it’s not any kind of issue in my mind.

But it does still confuse me a wee bit, when I happen upon the song. You know how easily I get confused. Hence this blurb, which you have been mad enough to read.

First world problems heh?

nb. My friend Gary knows the score and can probably throw the light of wisdom on this particular scenario. He may even have been a part of the group that wrote the original music. I can’t remember. We’ve written so many together. So if you’re reading Gary (you’re definitely mad enough to read!) you could maybe help to put this one to bed in my mind. If you can be arsed. Perhaps in the blog webpage comments, so that other mad songwriters may avoid similar confusion. Or get more confused. Ta. ;-)

A Little Flower

There’s A Little Flower on a hillside
Far from anyone.
It’s so very pretty even though it’s unseen
By anyone.
Do not try to find it on that hillside
Far from anyone.
It grows there for the lonely
And the misfits.
Not just
Anyone

”The lonely and the misfits” don’t look need heralded superhero’s. They find their hope in people like them, who somehow managed to bloom on a wild hillside somewhere, in shallow soil, under inclement weather. Without fanfare.

Sing Something Simple

Is there a simple way of explaining the theory of relativity.

I dunno. I can’t pretend to understand it. But maybe there is. I love reading about the big ideas of science though, even when most, if not all of them, are beyond my capacity to truly grasp.

But I’m very grateful to writers who try to explain. Those who attempt to simplify the complicated ideas so that plebs like me can comprehend just a teeny, weeny bit. As though through a glass, darkly.

All the best songs do that too, I think. Though not in regard to scientific theory. Rather, a good song speaks to the breadth and depth of the emotion, confusion, and wonder of our human experience.

So….Sing Something Simple, is my advice to myself.

It’s hard to get it right, but when we do, a good song can capture a teaspoonful of the essence that makes us tick.

And that will always be appreciated by somebody.

Original Son

People say that “blood is thicker than water”. And by that they mean that family ties, specifically genetic family ties, usurp any other relationship.

But what is family?

As foster parents we’ve welcomed non-genetically bound boys into our family on a long term basis. Five of them in all. And our genetic inheritance, the boys of our blood, have been gracious enough to view and treat the invaders, the Not Family, as brothers. At the same time the boys who have joined us, have continued to maintain, in various fashions, relationship with their own genetic kin.

Truth be told family life has always been a complicated thing. And it’s make up has changed over the years. The “mum and dad and two kids” scenario has been the norm for periods of time. But more often than not family is, and always has been, something else entirely. Something more malleable and unpredictable.

And it’s always a work in progress.

Original Son was written to celebrate our own version, one version, of the Family Phenomenon.

Turn Off The Noise

Turn Off The Noise

Bang goes the chance of getting closer 
To the roe deer as she wanders through the glade
A twig ain’t big but cracks when it is broken
But the sounds inside my mind begin to fade

And I turn off the noise, I turn off the noise

Crash goes the thunder on the hillside
By the rocky scree above the forest green
A tree so tall it cannot fight the lightening
Now  falls across the flooded mountain stream

And I turn off the noise, I turn off the noise

Of the silent screen on my desktop
And the silent scream in my head
When I travel back to the forest
Where I can rest

I turn off the noise

A screech reached my ears from the valley
Two buzzards rises up on the wind
They call once more
Then soar up to the heavens
And teach each broken heart to sing

Turn off the noise, turn off the noise
Turn off the noise, turn off the noise
And I turn off the noise, I turn off the noise

Everybody’s Favourite Alien

Everybody’s Favourite Alien.

It’s a song about becoming comfortable in your own skin. Even when your own skin turns you into an outsider and a misfit.

One idea that I’ve discarded over the years though, is that being or feeling like the “Alien” is an uncommon experience. I think we’re all aliens to everybody else, if we’re honest about things. Sometimes we’re aliens to ourselves too.

When I first wrote this one, I wouldn’t have called it a “universal” kind of song. It was all about me Baby!

I don’t think that anymore.

Joy

Joy.

A mysterious word to me. I’ve come to love the idea and the reality of the idea. It would be like bathing in a glorious delight - in the midst of anything. It’s somewhere out there. Maybe this year it will make an appearance. I can sense it reaching out and tickling the edge of my conscious mind.

Like an ocean yet undiscovered. But definitely on the map.

Maybe you’ve already discovered it. Lucky you.

If not let’s look together and notice, perhaps, that it was there with us all along. Just waiting for us to stop trying too hard.

Happy New Year.

Until Midnight

May your humble pumpkin turn into a silver carriage.
May the pesky rats in your life become wild stallions that take you wherever you need and long to go.
May the golden slipper fit you like a glove.

And most of all, may you experience love.

Until Midnight

And beyond.

ps. Go Fran! So happy that it’s an all clear. :-)

Painting Little Pictures

Painting Little Pictures. That’s all I’m trying to do here, and with the songs. I’ve always loved the knowledge of the existence of cave paintings, created so many thousands of years ago by our ancestors.

”We woz here!”

My little Christmas picture is always one of letting EVERYTHING go. Even the good habits (like writing this blog) tend to fall by the wayside. Though I’m always a bit wary of relaxing completely. Getting started again is hard.

But it’s important to let it all hang out sometimes. Nothing bad happens, and a lot of good things can.

It’s already a bit of a blur. The various family members left on the same day (a couple of days ago)and we went from complete an utter joyful chaos to a much quieter version of the same thing.

Another year seems to be beckoning.

But actually, as always, there is only ever today.

So. A Very Happy Now to us all!

Silence

Silence? No Sir! Not in this house today.

The family is back for Christmas. But it’s not the Grandweans that are causing the riots. They are playing quietly, and drawing, and following the cat around, and generally being lovely. It’s the sons and foster sons. They all get together and the noise levels go up on the richter scale.

A lot of that noise is created from the sheer joy of persecuting their poor old father. Oh yes, the Spirit of Christmas is being given a battering! And I, the Father of Christmas, as far as my own children are concerned, is right in the middle of the metaphorical snowball fight.

No mercy.

And it’s a truly beautiful thing to behold, from this old Santa’s point of view.
Enough to make the white hairs on my beard glisten and the “Ho Ho Ho’s!” boom forth.

I’ve mentioned many times before what a lucky fella I am. And I am. There are no two ways about it. And here, hidden away from the mayhem in my bedroom, writing this blog, I get a couple of moments to enjoy the glow of all of that.

Silence is often bliss, and it will be again.

But for now let the Glorious Cacophony reign.

You Make My Sad Heart Sing

On Thursday Ineke and I had our traditional wedding anniversary celebration by travelling the two hours to Oban and traipsing round Aldi for our Christmas shop in the lead up to Christmas.

You may not be surprised to hear that we spent £230. The only reason I’m telling you that is to put the next bit in context. Leaving the supermarket carpark after the shop to go for some lunch, we passed a fella sitting in the freezing and showery conditions. Although he had a sleeping bag held over his head he had nothing to stay dry. We gave the few coins we had, and chatted for a moment. He was trying to get enough money to pay for a hostel.

A couple of hours later we returned to our car. He was still there. I had a poncho in the car so I gave that to him. Inevitably it all felt so inadequate. Not just felt inadequate. It was inadequate.

It made me realise why we all usually walk on by. It felt far harder, far more sobering, far more hypocritical on my part, to actually become involved in a small way, than it ever does when I simply turn a blind eye. Which I often do.

As discussed in a previous blog there are no easy solutions. Doing something inadequate is better than doing nothing. And wallowing in feelings of self-guilt doesn’t help nobody. But on the drive home, I wished we had done more.

Yesterday I went for breakfast with a friend. And when I went to pay, it turned out that another friend, who had been leaving upon our arrival, had paid our bill. It was a really lovely and kind thing to do. But in our case, of course, it was just a bit of icing on the cake of life, not a matter of survival.

Both of these experiences are what we might call Christmas stories, I suppose. Just because of the time of year. But really they are day to day life stories.

So, in a likewise inadequate conclusion - there are lots of ways in which You Make My Sad Heart Sing. Yes you. And not just in the springtime. Thank you. We should keep on doing that for each other.

But there are times when the sadness silences any song worth the name.

Put Out The Fires

Yesterday I spoke about struggling to start the Homesong fire. And I got a wonderful email from a Homesonger, friend, and lovely supporter of this blog, Rosie Nimmo, to basically tell me off in the nicest possible way for thinking that my efforts might have been wasted.

It was much appreciated.

In my mind I was attempting an honest appraisal of the dip in my own levels of energy and motivation. As I’ve sometimes alluded, this blog has become something of a private journal, in which I try to get my thoughts in order, and then fire them out for anybody to read. It’s lovely to have people along for the journey. That’s a very uplifting experience.

Today’s blog title, Put Out The Fires , is from my modern protest song about working together to put out the wrong kind of fires. Rosie’s email played that role in a way, by putting out any dangerous little embers of disappointment or disillusionment in me. I’m grateful for her protest!

Homesong

Ha! Homesong?

It was a thing. It is a thing still. It still could be a thing.

However, it’s not feeling like something that I can make happen in the way I had envisaged. I’ve run out of ideas and energy for now. I could potentially keep it going here in Campbeltown. But even though it was appreciated by many, it seemed to be kept going, mainly, by the amount of enthusiasm that I could generate.

Enthusiasm needs to be shared I think. It’s not something that can be manufactured. And although my own enthusiasm wad and is genuine, and shared to a certain degree, I’ve certainly not had the force of personality and mind to keep things going until whatever it is that I feel, was felt by other people.

I say that. My friend Lori has run with it. And I’m very grateful for her support. She’s been brilliant. And I’m grateful for all the performers who have travelled here to perform.

And I haven’t given up really, even if this sounds like that kind of confession. I want this site to remain as a potential catalyst to prompt other people, anywhere, to give home gigs a try. And maybe I will still host them. People have asked.

Primarily I am a fella, like everyone I guess, who is simply trying to learn how to live this short life. I express that life through songs, writing, and my relationships with friends and family. I’m also an occasional performer. I can do it. But maybe I won’t get the chance to do it in people’s homes on any regular basis, like I had imagined.

I’m not sad, because there is still so much life to be lived, and so many songs to write and to sing. And perhaps “Homesong” is something more than just the idea of gigs in houses.

Maybe it’s something fundamental about who I am.

A song that can be sung anywhere. Even when the place seems far away.

Winter Sun

It’s not particularly warm in these northern latitudes, that Winter Sun.

But it’s enough.

Just a little bit of brightness can carry us through. It holds the promise of a future springtime, when the life, that seemed to have died a death, will burst forth once again.

You and I can be that winter sun, for someone. And we can receive it from someone too.

I’m trying to keep my eyes open for the opportunity to do either.

Milo

Milo was written about Milo.

He’s the third grandchild. From a young age (he’s still only five) he always struck me as a force of nature. A natural athlete I think.

But even that force of nature is human. He had a bout of pneumonia and flu at the same time this year, which would have been horrible for his parents to witness up close. We had something similar with one of our boys when they were young. It’s horrible to see young life in a vulnerable state. And my heart, like yours no doubt, weeps for anyone who loses a young child.

Milo came through and is nearly back to his indomitable self. We do what we can to protect, encourage and teach our young ones. But still bad things can happen.

Life, for the most part, isn’t in our hands. And that is what makes it so precious.

Dobby Is A Free Elf

My song Dobby Is A Free Elf was written when our youngest foster son, shortly after meeting us for the first time, asked me to write a song about the Harry Potter books.

Those books are great stories, even if some people get awful snobby about them. J.K. Rowling did good, and brought to life some epic themes. I like the song I wrote too, albeit that parts of it were quite a vocal challenge in recording.

But it’s fine talking about big concepts such as, “Good” and “Evil”, “Right” and “Wrong”, “Justice” and “Injustice", “Freedom” and “Slavery” in our art and in our conversations.

It’s fine talking about them. But it does us no good whatsoever when everybody is at loggerheads about what those words even mean. And that’s the world we are increasingly living in right now it seems.

It feels, to an extent, like we have all been captured by dark algorithmic spells, cast from the wands of invisible cyber Voldemorts. Spells that cast doubt upon the very nature of truth, and that cause brothers and sisters to become divided if not completely alienated from each other. Spells that make age old certainties a thing of the past, and cause us to become blase about present dangers and to focus on trivia.

If Dobby and we are to find our freedom in THIS world, then one simple starting point might be to acknowledge the real value of spending less time in that cyber world - and more time speaking to real people in real time.

It just might help to stop that damn Voldemort from getting such easy access to our thought lives. Additionally, it’s always harder to fight with someone you’re talking to in person.

Sorry, I haven’t got many better suggestions right now. In case you were asking ;-)

ps. Ironically, almost tragically, there are many people, like me, making these suggestions on the very Internet platforms that we’re seeing a problem with. No, I dunno either. It’s a double edged sword, because to an extent the internet is becoming the “real” world.

pps. apologies if this comes across as a dark outlook. I’m not personally overcome by anxiety. I’m happy in myself. But I am obviously concerned about the world out there and the future life for children and grandchildren who are inheriting the dilemma’s my generation has caused.

Broken Hearts Don’t Need A Hero

I was in Glasgow last weekend. Walking through the streets as you do. Seeing the folk in various places hoping for a few coins. A few coins at a time in their lives that could well and truly be called “rock bottom”.

It’s a hard thing to see, and as a man with a conscience, I haven’t found a way of dealing with walking past (it’s usually walking past) those folk who are sitting there on a cold December day. There aren’t any easy answers, short of treating it as a personal crusade. The Big Issue magazine was, and continues to be, a great idea. It helps pour a little bit of dignity into the whole scenario when possible.

But aside from developing the sort of political system that treats those on the margins of society with more concern and compassion (that seems as far, further off than ever) we seem to be stuck with the sheer sadness of it all.

My song Broken Hearts Don’t Need A Hero, was an attempt to get my head around this particular big issue a few years ago. Our fundamental need for friendship, one that we all have, is its underlying theme.

We can’t easily change the situation for people on the streets. But perhaps we can help to close the barn doors before the horse bolts for somebody that we know.

Simply by being a friend to them when the shit hits the fan. Because that person on the street could easily be you or I.

Freddie

Freddie sounds like a confused kind of a song even to my ears.

I know what I was trying to do. And if it sounds like a confused song to you too, it also happens to be one about a confusing subject.

It was my attempt, a little before it became the political and culture hot potato that it has since become, or at least before I was aware of that happening, to understand what it might be like to be born as a woman trapped inside a mans body. Or vice versa.

Yep, the T word. Transgender.

Now, for the record, I’m firmly of the opinion, like pretty much everybody else, that this issue has been, and is being, dangerously abused to make the lives of vulnerable children in particular and many women too, potentially more dangerous, damaging and frightening, than they should ever have been. It has also been used to destroy the lives of some of those who have stood up and simply voiced their genuine and compassionate concerns about it. People like J.K. Rowling. I’m definitely on her side, not the side of the thought police.

Having said all that, and in the midst of this maelstrom of uproar, there are still people who grow up with a body, and body parts, that don’t seem to represent who they are. It can be hard enough, even in a relatively sympathetic western society, to grow up gay. The gender dysmorphia (and it is a thing, even with the above mentioned abuse) adds extra layers of difficulty. And, strangely, despite the supposed “support” from a minority of powerful and influential “influencers”, probably even more difficult now for many of the “supported”.

Growing up is hard for everybody in some way. Finding out who we are is hard. Whether that be Man, Woman, or A.N.Other. I’m all for giving myself and everybody else the benefit of any doubt. And also adding a touch of kindness and compassion where possible.

And that’s about as far as I’ve got with all of this. It’s all become very complicated and divisive. It would be nice to think that in a few years this issue will look like a storm in a teacup. And that as a society we will be dealing with individual difference in a more compassionate way, while still upholding the rights of free and open speech, without which we can never reach satisfactory outcomes.

Having brought up five of my own children and five long term foster children (not that that makes me an expert!) I also most definitely think that any life changing decisions our children make should be put on hold till they and their bodies have grown up to adulthood.

Nothing can fundamentally change who each of us are in any given moment. That should be the starting point for any relationship with ourselves and with each other.