Synthesis.

Had the pleasure of collaborating on a short film project with film maker Mark Mc Keown and artist Jim Mc Kevitt. I like to think all our collabs are of equal contributions to any project but Marks the heart and brains behind this one. Its a more involved and complex procedure than I had expected. In my own limited creative experience I am used to controlling what is produced on a blank page. Less so if I am script writing, more so if I am writing and drawing. Or at the very least I try to give the notion of creative world building in a shared project, which ultimately most creative endeavours end up being. So the filmic experience engenders trust in anothers creativity and such things rise or fall in how successful a project is left at the end. And this one really made me happy with the outcome. Mark really believes in getting in there and delivering art that requires no gate keeper to enter. You go in to his work in much the same way you approach territories new which you have to adapt your internal compass to areas which are startingly familiar and yet possessed of a haunting liminal quality. There are so many everyday sights and sounds we tune out on a daily basis but these things are the soundtracks of our lives. Light ripples beautifully on thoughtlessly polluted local rivers and streams. Wind moves through swaying treetops surrounding abandoned buildings and factories graphitied back in to the corner of our shared vision. These and many more effects we selectively delete but Mark sees them and puts them into short films. Films that record, rewire and illuminate. His vision and sound combine in this one that cause my words to ripple as he lays them down. It was not intended by me to sound poetic but as he aurally rewired it he came damn close. Playing with visions from one of Jim Mc Kevitts many artbooks. I've seen them, Ive felt the pages his colourful images indented. You can smell the ink. I thought his most recent artbook, purely drawn for his own appreciation of the early morning minutes he translated into a visual diary were simply moving. No two clouds the same, the disaray of back gardens untended and doing their own thing, as nature always will. We are not gardeners anymore than we are sheperds. We have no land to tend or flock to protect. Yet we would like to leave behind some well intended appreciation of our lived experiences. Its all so transitory but no less valuable for its fleeting existance. Please give our stuff a look see. We made it for you.

The Hand Of Fear.

The lovely Lisa in her Sarah Jane Smith costume from the classic, and unforgettable, Doctor Who and The Hand Of Fear. I remember the night Elizabeth Sladen walked out of our lives, with Sarah jane Smith walking out of the Tardis. I had no idea that years later the best was yet to come. The return of Sarah Jane feels a little bitter sweet now, with the wonderful Elizabeth Sladen no longer with us. Yet that body of work and the love that drove it will always be with us.

From My Sketchbook.

The Smoky God.

Found this interesting looking book on a recent book haul. Did not know what to expect as I read the title wrong, thinking it was called The Smokey God, which for some reason seemed to make more sense to me. Anyway, when I read the flyleaf explaining what the book was about I half expected the map of a lost continent to fall from behind the dust cover or Kenneth Moore to show up and ask me to accompany him on a trip to the centre of the earth. Neither actually happened.Could this be a true story? Probably not. But then again it could be. Although it does read as a little bit bonkers. But what story of adventures of ien in extremis does not sound a little bonkers. I remember5 being gripped by a biography of Sir Enerst Shackleton with his men in an icy hell actually living the meaning of the word ENDURANCe and I could not help thinking he, and they, were all a little bit potty to put themselves through such terrifying experiences. Mind you, I have always liked reading about the adventures of others not actually having them myself. A lot of pulp storytelling has not aged gracefully, or tastefully, but I try not to project modernity into less enlightened times. there are tropes which cause more than just an eyeroll 9Might not sound like much of an action but with the right eyebrows it can be devastating.) You just have to look at some of the interior sketches to see where I am coming from with that obsevation. Overall though, its the kind of adventurous journal i really enjoy, which I did with this one. It may not quite be Shangri-La but it is a lost horizon of sorts. It was a fast read and one I enjoyed. I am something of a Jules Verne armchair adventurer. Should I ever reach the North Pole it will be in a cardigan and carpet slippers, using gin as fuel for adventure.

Dr Yon Sin; The Mystery Of The Dragon's Shadow.

I found a couple of old pulp mystery and adventure reprints in an amazing collec tion of old science fiction and pulp adventure books in the Oxfam bookstore in Ann street Belfast. A collection of a lifetime genorously donated to the charity after the passing of the collector, his family hoping the charity would be well served by her loved ones years of collecting. From the most obscure science fiction to hard boiled pulp, this was a collection worth sharing. These two pulps were the first thing that jumped out at me. The lurid covers doing their job, hooking my imagination with first glance.Two pulpy anthologies which would no doubt strike most viewers as Sax Rohmer Fu Manchu knock offs, but I was more than willing to discover with the reading if that was indeed the case. Modernity oft scoffs at such notions and most would quite rightly also scoff along, but I try to see history as the way it was rather what we hoped it would be, acknowledging the fault rather than erazing it. How else might we learn for the world that is to come and how we chose to navigate it. The adventure begins in a fog shrouded part of er, Washington.This capitol city having its own East End Of Londoninspired Chinatown. Yet is strongly suggested this part of town is a crime ridden Gotham of a place. i warmed to how much the two male leads warmed to each other, even in the heat of adventure they clearly only have eyes for each other. Its charmingly benign, no subtext, just comradely affection. Men can be like that. So can badgers I suppose. its all unintentional off course, Doc Savages men are written in this way and Monk and Ham only ever fought together and never fell in love. Pulp tropes perhaps but their origins began somewhere. There is also a beautiful maiden to be rescued from a life of crime, which is in itself a pulpy trope. With a good person being black mailed into criminality by wicked ones holding their family hostage. The illustrations within this reprint echo all these tropes, if thats how you care to think of them. Some of them verge on racey. (More tea, Vicar?) It was thrilling glimpse into a world of publishing which has passed. One that barrels along at a rocketing pace. A two mug of tea read.

Marmalade And All That Jazz.

Good old Paddington.

A Midsummer Tempest.

Its been fifty years since this book by Poul Anderson first saw print. Five decades and counting yet I only stumbled across it last week during a book trawl in a nearby Oxfam Books.It was the title that grabbed me to begin with, also the almost school library artwork adorning the cover. A midsummer tempest tells a story set in a world where William Shakespeare was a historian, not a playwright, where everything he wrote was a historical fact. Set in 17th century England, to begin with, we follow Prince Rupert as he fights the Puritans, in defense of King Charles. Its a multiverse of sorts, where well known characters in the works of William Shakespeare were historical beings, their life stories the stuff of daily life. The stuff of reality in a way. And such stuff are dreams built upon.Prince Rupert and his followers rail against the joyless Puritans, a plague on those who would sieve all the joys of this world, always sure their way is the right way. So some events ring with the truth of plausibility and history although perhaps not always in that order. For the truth is that in this version of reality the forc es of magic are as potent as the forces of science. The world of Faerie, of Titania and Oberon and their magical legions are as real as any combatants in the war for human minds and souls. Its period stuff, written in an era which is now itself period. And oh boy, how well it is written. It is set out like a stage play, with settings appropriately setting the place, necessary directions in a tale that moves between fictional worlds as much as real world locations. Events differ as then world unfolds at a different pace, with the enlightenment moving at a more influential speed. Its so beautifully written it feels almost musical. I cannot stress how much this wrong footed me as I was swept up in its Shakespearian cadences. The characters are so well formed, some based on real people , some an amalgram of others. Rich and very,very human.Truly a wee treat of a book. Feel fortunate to have come across it.