seaside and salt air.

darlings

oh dear.

best-laid-plans and all that.

you see we’ve come down with something unmentionable in the sickness of body and soul department (not terminal but not suitable for Town either).

and so the meetings in london must be carefully but gently eased out of and we are heading back to the seaside (a different one this time – we were there today – at the seaside – but brighton – and now – tomorrow – we’ll be heading to Whitstable where William has said the Herne Bay Suite is available for a healing rest before we go to do the Speech in Deia)

one Never knows what will happen you see.

but one thing that you can be sure of – if emotions are left unchecked and sniffles not Attended to – it can only get worse

but before we retire, a few pictures from the past two days to share with you if you’d be so kind as to hang around and scroll down and imagine the sea-salty-air and the shouts of the marathon supporters and quiet cups of coffee in a just-dawn-broken morning with good friends and late night suppers after Trips to the Supermarket and CD playlists burned and walks through a park – actually three parks – blossom heavy on the bough – a metaphor as well, we’ll admit – but not ours to tell – either of them – a walk – actually two by the seaside railings and a deep conversation or more – exploring – remembering – sometimes catching one’s breath – did That happen There? how did we ever recover from those days? and now? where to now?

Whitstable.

where one can think and sleep and prepare to head to the other two islands on our trip.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAand then, when one thinks all might be sort of on the wrong Path – there’s always a sign – not necessarily one that says “Turn left teamgloria” but when it’s a plaque on a building that one didn’t Search out for but there it Was – well – that’s magical – and helpful – and very much smile-inducing all over again.

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see you back at the beach tuesday morning for a catch-up (in a virtual sense – unless you’re planning on being in Whitstable too, of course, but we might not be able to come and hang out – much Rest Cure to be allayed you see).

 

#howtostaysaneinacrazyworld is learning to speak french with heather in arles!

oh, darlings

dearest Heather all the way over there in FRANCE popped on the percolator to make a small cafe au lait and then, with the glorious goldens weaving in and around her legs, she sat down at her beautiful desk in the glorious Provencal countryside and took a lot of time to pen the Most beautiful article about the book.

*shy_downcast_gaze*

we are so Very VERY grateful.

heatherinarles

especially for this……..you never know how our Paths cross and why and when people will be there in another time zone all together when you can’t calm down in the one you’re in and they Know and they respond and, in time, everything becomes clearer and richer and infinitely different in a truly miraculous way.

I found teamgloria right after Hurricane Sandy hit in 2012, having been moved by a comment at Daily Plate of Crazy and I was instantly hooked. I too was drawn to Gloria’s vision of the world as a calming counter-balance to our chaotic society. So it was with great excitement that I read the news that Sophia was planning a book, the very one that she wished that she had by her side during her recovery. And now that I have it, I can say that it is absolutely beautiful.

and then she gave us an extra gift.

this:

(if you can’t see this transmission in your territory, ask mr. google to bring you the file folder that contains this: “Mad World – Gary Jules” – you’re most welcome)

now there’s no way that Heather could know that when who-we-are-in-RL was fourteen, she managed to sneak into a Gig where Tears for Fears were playing (at The Dome, Brighton, 17th Dec 1983 to date us all but why the hell not, love) the Original version of Mad World.

and who-we-are-in-RL was Transfixed – by the words, the music, being fourteen, surrounded by (slightly) older people (and thus feeling very glamorous and naughty and Out Late) and then she listened to the message in the song and the B-side later (Ideas as Opiates)

All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for their daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
And their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow

And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I’m dying
Are the best I’ve ever had
I find it hard to tell you
‘Cause I find it hard to take
When people run in circles
It’s a very, very
Mad world

and right at that Moment – in the Dome, Brighton, being all fourteen and awkward and scared about the present but excited by the Future – it all came together – it was a Mad World – but people wrote about it and other people listened and somehow that made it less Mad and more Magical.

so Mad World was one of our original inspirations for what became “How To Stay Sane In A Crazy World” and all those *gulps* years later – Heather in Arles took the time to order the book and wait patiently for her French postal carrier to come through the Provencal wooden gate and up the winding path and hand her the book and upon reading it, sipping a little from the cafe au lait from time to time, enjoying the sound of dogs pattering around the parquet flooring and looking hopefully out of the window for their morning walk, she thought about Mad World and wrote the loveliest, kindest, most generous book review – and somehow the circle closes (before it opens again, because it always does, in the nicest possible way as we all grow and change and move on and flourish).

n’est-ce pas délicieux?

mais, oui!

your review was a beautiful thing to write – and written so beautifully – merci, Heather.

1st sighting in Brighton, England – and Bella Basks By The Book on the Other Coast.

darlings

the notes are Pouring in!

we feel ever so overwhelmed and grateful.

here’s the 1st sighting in Brighton, England!

1stsightinginbrighton

do you see how closely the book is nestling in between Ms. G. Elliot’s Middlemarch while looking slightly shyly over at J G Ballard (as many do)? *shivers* we’re Hono(u)red to be in such august shelf space.

thank you for this Sighting from Brighton from the splendid catherine with whom (alongside Viv and cat) we shared a House in a village while all students at London University (the house was called Cloud 9 – not after the celestial heavens but after the splendidly feminist play by Ms. Caryl Churchill)

and may we introduce you to Bella?

BellaSuggestsYouReadHTSSIACWas you can see Bella is already very fond of the book.

we had a feeling we might get some furry friends because the book’s cover has a little sheen to it which we thought Instantly was nice to brush up against on the way to visit the View over Manhattan or the city of your choice and Residence.

thank you to S on the Other Coast for the lovely shot of Bella Basking By The Book.

do send pictures when it arrives at Your part of the world.

it really is thrilling to see the book out there.

you are all VERY very very Kind.

*deep_curtsey*

signing off now – who-we-are-in-RL needs the laptop to as her editors in England and CHINA have just sent notes and she must Re-Write as all Writers Must.

what a delicious life.

isn’t it?

into the darkness yet not of the perpetual night #NeilJordan

darlings

this is a long one – do you have a cup of tea or something more potent if you are in a Different Time Zone and have the enzyme in place?

then let’s begin…..

watching Mr. Neil Jordan‘s Byzantium has opened a few doors in our own third-eye-psyche-deepness – it would be impossible Not to be affected by such beauty and darkness and strange eloquence of the Immortals (yes, darlings – V a m p i r e s *shivers*) – not so much the Un-Dead but the Perpetually Alive and what that All Means (it means a lot, just in case you were unsure – A Lot).

Byzantium-quad-poster

here’s the wonderful trailer

if you’re able to receive this transmission in your own country, we recommend listening to Neil (we think he’d let us call him that) on Desert Island Discs from the year 2000 – it’s an insight into a dark and beautiful psyche of his own – and the elegiac music that soars in his head and on the turnable (we feel sure he still does Vinyl) in his house in Ireland.

here’s an interview where Neil talks about Byzantium –

isn’t that extraordinary – he says that Byzantium is almost a feminist companion piece to his prior stepping-out-with-Vampires in you-must-remember-this twenty years ago (gulp? 20 years?!) – how wonderful – shall we watch That Trailer again?

that brought back memories for us – how about you, darlings?

Neil Jordan often directs from his own screenplays – but this time (as with adapting Anne Rice’s work for Interview With The Vampire) – the script for Byzantium is written by Moira Buffini, an english woman with a celtic soul (her parents are Irish)

let’s hear from Moira herself (isn’t it delicious to be able to draw on Source Material because so much is shared on the interweb? but sadly we cannot find Moira’s own Site – we need to see people’s work presented by themselves, in context – just saying……we lead by example, darlings)

do we recommend Byzantium?

we do.

but only if you’re ready to be exploded inside and not-able-to-forget such vivid images of vermillion blood cascading over the screen.

you are?

we knew you were a brave lot.

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tis a tale of women who break the code of the Brotherhood.

*ironiclooktocamera*

and the gothic imagery as the  v a m p i r e s  move through the centuries is breathtaking – especially when one gets to see the inside of Trinity and sense the beauty of the soundstages at Ardmore and the vast windswept decadence of the faded Pier and pebble beach at Hastings – portraying the last stop at the end of the world, according to our friends at the Guardian

The English seaside town is the end of the line – and the end of the world. That has been the prevailing mood in recent British movies like Paweł Pawlikowski’s Last Resort, Thomas Clay’s The Great Ecstasy of Robert Carmichael, and indeed Rowan Joffé’s underrated new version of Brighton Rock, which, like this film, features Sam Riley.

as this is our blog, will you forgive us if we bring this back to our Own Story?

*murmurs* too k i n d.

now who-we-are-in-RL was born in a coastal town.

this one, in fact.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAwhere the windswept beach of hard pebbles and rainy days engenders great despair and occasionally, great writers (usually unpublished because they can’t get off a bar stool at one of the interminable public houses that dot the back streets and sweep the despairing off the streets and into the cozy warmth where they stay f o r e v e r)

this is where we come from.

and where, in time, we flew away from.

to here.

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where the land also has a strange darkness despite the bright sunshine and heat and shiny-happy-people.

it still engenders great writing but again, most remain unknown (or at least they did before the great creative democracy of the interweb and now we can peer interestedly into people’s minds and photostreams and get a glimpse of how-they-live and why-they-do-what-they-do and what they really-what-to-do-with-their-lives).

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but let’s not talk about that now……….that’s for another time……we’re not ready.

let’s read a little of Neil Jordan’s own words.

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He became obsessed with twilights. Between the hour after tea when his father left and the hour long after dark when his father came home he would wait for them, observe them, he would taste them as he would a sacrament. The tincture of the light fading, the blue that seemed to be sucked into a thin line beyond the sea into what the maths books called infinity, the darkness falling like a stone. He would look at the long shadows of the burrows on the strand and the long shadows of the posts that held the sagging tennis-nets on the tarmac courts.
Night in Tunisia by Neil Jordan

this was written in – oh let’s hear it from Neil instead….

“In 1980 I was a young writer … I’d written a book of short stories. I think I was unemployed, actually. Ireland in 1980 was very similar to Ireland actually at this minute, you know? It was going through a huge recession, and there were no jobs, and most people left. But creatively, it was a very, very vibrant time.”

Neil Jordan on NPR

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reading Neil’s words and watching Byzantium brought us back to what it was like growing up in a bleak yet gloriously faded and decadent coastal town – not much money around – a lot of Talk and hanging out under the Pier and gazing out to sea and……….

y-es.

we Have written about this – but we keep putting this one down.

maybe just a couple of pages.

Violet Ryan liked to tell people she was from the Deep South, a taut society with turbulent undercurrents of alcohol, illicit sex, frenzied jazz and a high crime rate.

Yet as much as she dreamed of coming from New Orleans like her hero Truman Capote, she was from the southern-most tip of England. Thaxmead, to be precise; an old smugglers’ village, dating back to Saxon times, on the top of the Sussex chalk cliffs that faced away from the rest of the British Isles and towards the vast expanse of sea. As a small girl, Violet would sit on the pebbled beach and yearn for America, just over the horizon.

In the late Sixties, when Violet was born, Thaxmead was a thriving mystic vortex where people wore a lot of tie-dye, no one had to brush their hair before bed and everyone had one foreign parent; often Italian, French, Greek, but mostly Irish, the sweet-talking, charming Irish. And most children had one parent who was absent, usually one who had left and was never heard of again.

Violet escaped across the ocean as soon as she could, a collection of her own journalism clippings in her hand luggage, a penchant for wearing black with large Jackie O glasses and a need to reinvent herself. She landed in California and never went back.

On her thirty-fifth birthday Violet Ryan was driving down Sunset Boulevard listening to an old self-help tape. She sighed as each stoplight turned red and the guru of the month reminded her to breathe, meditate and keep it in the day. She frowned as the guru paused dramatically for the third time in one long deceptively simple spiritual concept and, with a flick of her wrist, released the tape and threw it carelessly into the back of the car where it slid off the pile of magazines and hit the other tapes nestled behind the passenger seat.

She checked her lipstick in the rear view mirror as the next stoplight turned green and the guy behind her in a white van honked, loudly. She balled up her fists in a sudden rage and then remembered to breathe, meditate and keep it in the day. Then he honked again. So she flicked him the finger anyway, tired of trying to maintain any British decorum in the land of the single vibrant gesture of defiance.

Violet Ryan was not sure about being thirty-five. She suddenly imagined she was on camera and smiled at herself confidently in the rear-view mirror, hoping she was revealing hidden depths.

“Terry,” she said, as if sitting in a squishy leather guest’s seat on the BBC soundstage during the early Eighties on the Terry Wogan talk show, “I’m looking at forty in five years and there are dreams I need to show up for before then.”

The Terry Wogan show was something she had watched religiously, week after week, especially when famous Brits long emigrated to America would come back, tanned smiling faces and ambitions fulfilled, living lives of elegance and glamour. Violet would sit on the hideous corduroy sofa in that small town on the South Coast where nothing ever happened and watch in awe, desperately listening for some clue, some insider secret on how you got to escape off this bloody island.

In her mind’s eye she had reached the pinnacle of Brit achievement – she was on the Terry Wogan show. The genial Irish host was leaning forward, his charm evident in the sparkling green-blue Irish eyes which, as Violet checked her perfectly arched eyebrows courtesy of L.A.’s finest beauty shop, she had too.

The TV host asked her what those dreams were, and he sounded like her impending answer was the most important words he would hear all year;  (that is why he had such huge ratings).

Violet paused dramatically, sharing a conspiratorial moment with the studio audience and, as she guessed correctly, a generous number of teen girls desperate for information on how to get off this bloody island. Teen girls surrounded by their families; somnambulant after a carb-rich Brit supper, their parents probably mellow on whiskey. Suddenly Violet saw herself reach out and connect with all those awkward, slightly too curvy, fiercely smart yet troubled thirteen-year-old English girls.

“Terry,” she said, seriously focusing her attention on his face, “I want to fly.”

The host was a little flummoxed by this one. He liked to wing it, he was famous for improvising but this flying business was not part of the broad outline they had discussed with Violet Ryan in the green room before the show.

As he was about to speak, the producer hissing in his ear to not allow his guest to run away with the show, not to get into too much California-speak and lose their solid British audience, to insert his familiar jocular patter so beloved during the Eurovision Song Contest commentary each year, Violet continued to speak with a rising passion.

“I want to see what I’m capable of – I want to fly, to use the year of turning thirty-five to put in the foundations of my forties and beyond. I want to explore the realms of consciousness, study with shamans, take fantastic road trips and listen to Fleetwood Mac as I drive over the speed limit down the Pacific Coast Highway to Santa Barbara for a three-day spiritual retreat. I want to completely inventory and overhaul my life – my thoughts, feelings, friends, lovers, my writing and my wardrobe.”

Violet paused. The wardrobe line was for the queens up North, she knew they loved nothing more than a bit of camp on Wogan each week. She sat back in the squishy mock gentlemen’s club chair and grinned at Wogan who could do nothing more than say it was time for their musical guest, Rod Stewart, another marvelous performer, also now living in Los Angeles.

Concentrating on the heavy traffic back on Sunset Boulevard as she reached the Pacific Palisades and the ocean, turning right onto the coastal road, Violet realized that Terry Wogan would have interrupted her long before her florid chic hippy speech got out of hand. But it was exhilarating to say it all out loud, while driving down the coastal road past Malibu.

The story of Violet Ryan is something we wrote when we lived in Los Angeles before (2001 – 2006 if you’ve just joined us) and when we felt lost and adrift and trying-to-find-roots but there are no roots – we are pretty rootless – always have been – and it looks like That won’t change Now.

but it was the Celtic twilight – as Neil wrote about – which drew us in – there are lots of Celts here – and plenty of twilight.

we feel the melancholic dark blood – but have no history to draw on – only from movies and books and talking-to-people

we grew up in england.

while looking irish (because one of our fathers – we have two – they’re not together – biological and chosen – is from dublin) – not a good idea in england in the 70s if you know your history.

so we’ve spent *sighs* decades – being drawn to irish tales and dark thoughts and deep pain expressed through the genius of words – without anything to hold onto – apart from words – and novelists and film-makers and the like.

you know, maybe that’s enough.

perhaps that’s for the best.

we’ve heard some of the stories (who knows which are actually True) and maybe it would have been a very painful existence – undoubtedly different – we might not have made it here – physically and metaphorically – who knows – nobody.

and so we write.

perhaps not for a living.

and that feels very hard to say.

maybe later on that will happen.

it seems not right now.

other things are Calling – other skills – we thought we had said goodbye to digital but it appears digital had not said goodbye to us – we must use the skills we have for good – do something meaningful with the strange stuff we know and are able to communicate ably

y-es.

Violet Ryan is rather autobiographical – although we don’t own a lipstick and we do our own eyebrows and sadly Terry Wogan no longer does a chat show on the telly (but we’d happily appear on his Weekend Wogan show on the BBC Radio to be sure).

but as Eleanor Webb in Byzantium shows (you knew we’d bring it back Here eventually, darlings) – sometimes you have to keep writing your story over and over again to understand what Happened and what it all Means and then one day, maybe, you’ll find someone who reads it and understands.

60224371and maybe – just maybe (*innersqueal*) that Person might be Neil Jordan and he not only explains what it is to be driven-by-the-celtic-twilight but he also says he’ll make your book and screenplay into-a-Movie.

so in the meantime we write.

793581c8e44311e292b622000a1fb73b_7and dream.

while being the best digital strategist we can and helping people understand how to thrive online while we take stolen moments to understand who we are or at least Why we are like this.

was that too deep?

we’ll get lighter as the weekend approaches ;-)

*winningsmiletocamera*

we promise.

gosh.

we forgot to ask!

are you an American?

happy triumph-over-the-english-day!

*ironicgleam*

bar-b-que nicely stoked?

is that a pot of tea?

do They Know?

oh.

it’s Ironic Tea?

well, that’s perfectly splendid.

carry on.

looking back, in black and white.

darlings

we just updated our photography-site: with memories in black and white of glorious people, places and things.

it felt so strange to re-shoot (in digital from prints made – ahem – gosh – too many years ago to mention) these moments from our history to bring them (why? for some reason we feel compelled) to the Present.

teamgloriapictures - men

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAteamgloriapictures - womenthe true Question (if there are any true questions left to ask) is not Why Now?

but why not Before?

ah.

now that’s a story.

quick distracting moment for you – *looktocameraandwink*

we hesitated over putting austrian film-maker A. Hans Scheirl in the “women” category because we knew Angel before *saidsignificantly* his/her Transformation and so we compromised and put Angel into both men/women sections and hope that we build up a future body of work of gender warriors.

because that would be Glorious.

another thing that is glorious is this young woman – beth ortonyes. it’s Beth Orton

circa *slightlypainedlooktocamera* 1992, perhaps?

we both worked as production assistants (ok, a runner) on The Vacuum, a short film by Rapid Eye Movies directed by Tim Rolt, starring Simon McBurney, made for the British broadcaster, Channel 4.

weird how everything is coming Full circle in ways we can’t yet say but will maybe next month when we know more about this new emerging Life.

#laviecashmere, love.

 

 

teamgloria | lists | cinemas as dream palaces.

1. Duke of Yorks Picturehouse, Brighton, England | ah, mis-spent (or not) youth – smoking ten malboro red on the balcony with some cheap red (head) as i slipped into the mysteries of saturday afternoons watching Louise Brooks…..



 

2. Electric Cinema, Notting Hill, England | sundays after portobello market, watching nouvelle vague 60s – all black turtleneck and leather jackets and faded dreams of Thatcher England.

3. Laemmle Monica 4-plex | secret joys of slipping into a cinema with the sun still beating down outside, sand on your feet from the beach, skin smells of suntan oil mixed with Chloe and watching a Woody Allen or Chocolat – memorably one new year’s eve when I wanted to be alone.