Storyville, 13 years on death row.

6°C, dry with white cloud.
BBC: A Death Row Tale: The Fear of 13.
Quite the most moving thing I have seen on TV for many years.


Credit: Storyville.

Practically a single scene play with just the narrator. If tells his own story in a beguiling manner the revealed gem after gem.
I put the recording on late on a Friday evening thinking I could watch half and finish in the morning.
A man on death row, a drug addict, a car theif was sentenced to death for a rape and murder. He sits in a darkened room, under a single light and tells his story.
In this story, there are frequent glimmers of optimism and unwavering hope. He used the time to teach himself to read properly, to enjoy reading and became articulate. More than that, he’s eloquent.
Yarris tells a story of horror, obvious human rights violations and poetry. Not wistful romantic poetry, this is beauty within a life in a hell. Men in a confined space with a dreadful end story, behaviour is animal. Here is hope.

There are a few edits where outside images break up scenes, the unfolding story evolves and unfolds beautifully. Through my own personal tiredness. .I was pinned to this. Half an hour in, resuming in the morning was out of the question.
My hope is that I can this film on disc, I want to go back to this sometimes. There are themes here for me personally. This is a public space, so I’m not saying now.

Although I’m no criminal, I can take something from this story. There are profound messages about life here. Take a look.

New music; Gesualdo da Vanosa

7°C, storm Imogen is still a force.
New CD,

first impression: It might be a new release, and it may sound ultra modern in parts. But the first compositions were written in the1600s.

We’ll see how this one grows in my esteem.
Listening to music has snowballed this winter. Having bought nothing last summer, the contrast is great. Now, more than one disc arrives in the post each week. More than I can keep up with really.
The iPod is an invaluable tool in digesting new music. The poor thing does need a repair however; the battery is exhausted. Add to that the car as a valid medium to listen and familiarise myself with new purchases.

The pleasure of muck.

Storm Imogen; 7°C, very strong SW , frequent heavy showers, drying later.
Meanwhile, on the domestic front, my laundry didn’t come not very fresh tonight. The powder drawer looked rather grubby so I took it out. It’s not too difficult to clean with lots of water and a few different sized brushes.
The drawer hole was a more grim affair. Inside was a pink gum of old washing liquid that the lodgers use. Perhaps they have tipped it into the wrong compartment. Whatever, it was a yucky job to clean. You have to be so careful when you do this. My forearms are slightly itchy now. Laundry products are very corrosive when concentrated.
Nevertheless, there is a strange and disgusting pleasure in getting such a filthy object clean.
At the time of writing. The machine is on a cold cycle with nothing inside but froth. That’s to give it a full rinse out.
I ought to do that every month.

Race horses.

10°C, light SW wind, heavy rain subsiding to light.
It has been a winter of storms. So many have passed over this island, and more are jostling to do the same. There are so many that we could regard this as all one storm rather than a chain of individuals. The Met Office now gives them names, Imogen is on its way.

With the scene set, picture a muddy field in the Wirral, most of the grass is obscured by thick gravy like reddish mud. In this field is the venue for a schools inter county Cross Country race series.
I took the young lad (who, it turns out, did very well for his school).
I dropped him off, on time and then took off to move the car.
Most of the day saw me searching for him having missed the race. Meanwhile, the youngest groups ran first.
I picked a spot where I could be easily seen, and could easily watch the races go off.
The images remain in mind now, it reminded me of a horse race. Lean and lithe, these kids stood pale from the cold and high on adrenaline. All sinewy and with only one thing on their minds, their race.
The start gun, actually was the proper thing, and loud too. The kids stood on the line, straining for a clue that the gun was about to fire. The whites of their eyes were visible. They took the event seriously, and very seriously.
Soon, the trigger pulled, all set off across the acres of gloopy mud. The front runners remained fairly clean but the trailing ones soon picked up the sloppy mud kicked onto their legs and lower bodies as they shrank into the far edge of the field.
Later, they would finish, strung out with a hollow look on their faces. Some would wobble to a stop and vomit from the exertion.
All the while, others stretched and sprang up and down to prepare themselves. Or, maybe they were cold.
The weather didn’t let up.