It's my day off work. Usually I settle down at the pc, do some editing tasks, answer emails, catch up on what the poet bloggers around the world have been doing over the past few days, hopefully writing &/or taking part in the community.
It's a geographic journey sans planes, trains & automobiles. Click, I'm in Kent, Ohio. Click Helsinki. Click Mexico in London. Click Amsterdam. Click Sydney. Click St Helena ( which comes to me via a service provider in Mountain View. Hello Google.).
& it's also fucked my eyes. I've just increased the text size to 150% so I can see what I'm writing.
But anyway. This is a temporal journey. Usually I might put the washing on early & then, some hours later, Mad Dogs & Englishmen, go out & do some gardening & clean the pool in the heat of noon. Today I've mowed the lawn – mown the lawed? – cleaned the pool, done the dishes, &
put on the washing, first load almost finished, second near to going in. Hang it on the line as an excuse for having a cigarette (Jesus, I'm pathetic).
But anyway. In the days when the pelican dreamt, when I hadn't gone back to paid employment & I could spend my time exploring my mind & letting the animals out to see what they brought back, when if I didn't feel like mowing the lawn / cleaning the pool / doing the washing there was always tomorrow, one of my delights was the birdlife in this place, the variety of it. It's still there, & I still enjoy it, but I don't see enough of it. Or most times enjoy it. Anyone who's ever been woken at 5.30 a.m. by an army of raucous white sulphur-crested cockatoos will understand my reservations.
& Miles is now playing Bye, Bye Blackbird.
But anyway. Today I've been attacked by saneness, & gone out & mown the lawn & cleaned a thousand leaves from the pool – it might be Fall in the northern hemisphere but here it's Spring, though with the lack of rain & the heat shock that the trees suffer from it might as well be Autumn (three songs there, hidden, confused titles, pick them out correctly & you get a chocolate bar or a pass to WonderWorld or a pat on the bum from your Uncle John & do you know what your willie's for?) – while it's still relatively cool.
Which brings me to. Somewhere, once, when I was young, a year or so ago, I wrote about the bebop bird, who would be out there trilling these incredible bop lines. Reminded of that by another bird, which brings me to The Magnificent Seven.
Confession time. I love Kurosawa &, not being a purist, I also love the westerns which are Kuroswa rewrit. The Outrage (Rashomon); A Fistful of Dollars & A Few Dollars More (Yojimbo & Sanjuro); &, most importantly, The Seven Samurai in leather. Not just because it's Kuroswa, but because I grew up on American International B-grades – here he pauses & lights incense sticks & bows in the direction of Roger Corman; & Miles is now doing something from Porgy & Bess – it's a compilation, but how could I resist? Time After Time, So What, Milestones, the Concerto de Aranjuez, It Ain't Necessarily So. I take that gospel / whenever it's possible / but with a grain of salt – shit, I've lost track of the hyphens, now Excel will butt in & tell me my formulae are incorrect - - there. you happy now? - - - & the first time I saw Steven McQueen & Robert Vaughan & Charles Bronson (in his original Polish nomenclature) were in Roger Corman movies (& Jack Nicholson & Peter Fonda & & & but that's another bedtime story) & Yul Brunner came to me via Cocteau's Testament of Orpheus & I quite liked Brad Dexter & I liked Eli Wallach & I creamed my jeans because James Coburn was sooooo cool. Horst Bucholz, mind you, was a waste of space, but I kept superimposing Toshiro Mifune on him & that got me more than / halfway there. & then there's the Mexican bandits which, of course, brought to mind the mexican Bandit of Paul Blackburn's poem. & then there's the dichotomy of black & white, the concept anyway, because, after all, the movie was in colour.
(I could have skipped that last paragraph & just written "it's a boy thing".)
But anyway. In Elmer Bernstein's score for The Magnificent Seven, he had two distinctive themes. One was when TM7 were riding along, one note & you knew they were coming (& were not the only ones) & the other was the Mexican Bandits theme. I could have whistled them both for you, but the CD has moved into So What & it's Coltrane's solo & I've shut everything else out. But my fingers are still making music on these keys – fuck off Peter Quince - & I'm trying desperately to finish this off, so, gasp, here goes.
There's a crow out there whose song is the Mexican Bandits theme from TM7. Black bird. Apt. Now, if I could only get those fucking cockatoos to greet me in the morning with Dum dumpta dum, da dada dada dumpta dum, doowah, dedodadoowah……