Jen Harvey

She only ever plays a few notes.

The sounds so small and weak you have to stop and concentrate to hear them.

But most people simply walk on by.

Amid the hubub of the street, her music goes unheard, drowned out by the incessant din of life.

Sometimes you’ll catch a passerby throwing a glance in her direction, confused by this girl who sits on the ground playing an accordion that seems to make no sound.

If a few cents are thrown her way, then it is out of sympathy, rather than appreciation for the music.

Because those same few notes, played over and over, are not melodious, they are mere repetition.

Their purpose is not musical. Their purpose is to numb.

It’s as if, in order to sit there, in order to face those disinterested crowds, she has to play this four note mantra to herself, as a way to block out the world.

When she first appeared outside the store, I would refuse to toss a coin into her box.

She would have to learn to play first, was what I thought. That weak, unmelodic sound she made. That tinny noise she squeezed from the accordion, wasn’t music. Wasn’t deserving of acknowledgement or money.

Some days, it would even irritate me.

“Damn it! Why don’t you learn how to play that thing?”

But every day she would be there again. Hunched in a corner of the shop doorway. Her box at her feet, filled with a few scattered coins, all copper coloured.

That small, small sound she played, never changing.

Occasionally, she sings. Her voice a similar, thin hum of minimalist sound.

Again, not singing. Not music. Just this numbing.

I noticed it when I looked into her eyes. This far away look. Not bored. Not sad.

It went beyond that.

As if she had found a way to cancel out the world. As if, with each note played, she detached herself from everything. That gaze, stretching out into some vanishing point.

A tranquility that came, not from peace of mind, but some long forgotten desperation.

Expressed so perfectly, I now realised, in those sad little notes she plays.

June 25th, 2009 | Category: Amsterdam, Miscellaneous Musings | Leave a comment

Sick of turning on the TV and being bombarded with doom and gloom on all fronts. So this is my doom be gone! playlist, guaranteed to cheer up even the most pessimistic of doomsayers

Yes, there are a few Scottish bands in there, but hey, we’re a happy lot, us Scots :-p

May 4th, 2009 | Category: Miscellaneous Musings | Leave a comment

I’m peddling along the Prinsengracht, late in the afternoon. Dawdling really, because it’s a go slow kind of day, because it’s warm and the trees are green and the tourists are out and about again, mulling around outside the Anne Frank House, and not looking where they’re going. Which always makes me laugh for some reason.

I love this time of year in Amsterdam. The place comes alive, without ever feeling busy or manic.

There’s a relaxed, easy going feel to things.

Maybe it’s what happens everywhere when spring takes hold and the sun comes out and stays out, but I can’t really say I’ve ever noticed it before in other cities. Not the way I notice it here, in any case.

About halfway along, just after crossing the Rozengracht, I hear him.

He’s a damn good whistler. And he’s got some improvised, jazz riff going, as he cruises behind me.

The sounds amplify along the canal and I can see people smiling as I cycle past.

I slow down to allow him to catch up, just so I can compliment him on his virtuoso performance, then stop myself and decide on something else.

I try to imagine what he looks like, this jazzy, whistling cyclist.

And the music, so free and rampant and wild immediately conjours up some beautiful, charismatic, beatnik renegade.

Some suave, stylish, relaxed man, dark haired, dark eyed and self assured.

Someone dangerous as hell in other words.

I hear him getting closer and slow down.

He passes.

Jeans. Red t-shirt. Brown shoes. Grey hair. Saddle bags. An old bike. An old guy.

Average to the point of making me laugh a little.

Save for that whistle, which carries out over the canal and resonates with everyone he passes.

He really is something else…

Amsterdam, on a spring day. I tell you, it will always surprise you.

April 22nd, 2009 | Category: Amsterdam, Miscellaneous Musings | Leave a comment

Saerlig Store Elgfare. Very High Elk Risk.

Heading out of Oslo, it was this roadsign that really made me aware of my surroundings. Of the strangely claustrophobic amount of empty space around me.

Barely an hour out of the city and already we were moving through a landscape that was vast enough to support a creature as large as an elk.

Until I read that sign, I hadn’t noticed it. The space.

I’d been too preoccupied with the weather.

Entering Oslo that morning, ice floating on the water as our ship sailed in, a thin veneer of snow still carpeting the city, I’d stood on the deck, braced against the chill, with one thought in my head.

Winter.

My God. It’s still winter here.

Back home my psyche had already made the shift to spring and I was more than ready for the change of season.

So to be assaulted by winter again seemed harsh.

Quite why I should be so taken aback by the weather is a mystery. It’s mid-March. In Norway. There’s snow on the ground.

What else did I expect?

That roadsign soon shakes me from my stupor though and with each bend in the road I scan the landscape on the lookout for a glimpse of an elk.

To no avail. The gargantuan scandinavian traffic hazards remain as elusive as ever. Damn.

We’re headed to the frozen shores of Lake Fefor, one time testing ground for a certain Scott of the Antarctic.

When I first read that Scott had come to Fefor to test his expedition gear, I must admit I wondered just what it was we thought we were doing. Was it really wise to head into such an environment with a toddler and an old dog in tow?

Scott was an intrepid adventurer. We are an urban family, off for a spot of quiet R&R. The very idea that we are off on holiday to an Antarctic training ground just makes me giggle.

My first glimpse of the Fefor Hoyfjellshotel does little to dispel my perplexed merriment.

A creosote red, wooden outpost, with formidable carved dragons roaring from its rafters. Gee.

Inside, it seems strangely familiar and it takes me a while before I realise that I am walking inside the set of “Twin Peaks”. Or that’s how it feels at least.

Something about the lighting, the decor, the wood. It feels very weird, very Lynchian. Very funny.

The taxidermied fauna on the walls, however, are testament to the fact that this place is far from some liminal, dissonant world. It is very real.

A hunting, fishing kind of place. Earthy. Masculine. A place where stuffed animals seem somehow fitting.

From the window, I look down at the frozen lake and spot a solitary figure sitting there, hunched over his hole, head bowed intently. An ice fisher.

I’ve never seen someone do this before and I stand transfixed, waiting to see if he will move. Five minutes or so pass, perhaps more, and there is no movement from the little figure out on the ice.

I think of the herons back home, perched still, almost lifeless on the river banks, lying in wait for their fish. My fisherman is as still as they are, as patient, and something about the way in which he sits, the small, unmoving stillness of it, tells me that its this sitting that matters most. A fish on the line would almost be a distraction, a rude awakening from this transcedent bliss he seems to have found out there, alone on the ice.

Maybe David Lynch would be at home here right enough.

Especially at this time of year. Winter’s end, the crowds gone, the snow beginning to melt. I don’t think I’ve ever been to an emptier place.

It takes a while to get used to actually, this emptiness. Empty hotels have a very strange feeling to them. The corridors seem too long, the sounds seem too hollow. Things seem to expand and contract simultaneously.

The few people that are around, turn out to be locals here for the weekend, for a bit of skiing and a dinner dance. They stay one night and revel, then, just as quickly they are gone, and the heavy atmosphere returns once more.

I have to remind myself not to pay too much attention to the mood of the hotel. That we’re not here to smooch around indoors, but to charge around, hale and hearty in the snow.

Which is just as well, for the space here, the sheer expanse of it, is a perfect antidote for any claustrophobia.

Hours and hours of wide, white space and undulating horizons. Peopled, it seems, by no-one but ourselves.

Each day we head out into this space under a sky of cornflower blue, the low sun sharpening the glint of the snow and transforming the landscape from colour to black and white when you turn into it.

It is impossible to imagine anything more perfect. Some days I just stop and twist about, watching this play of light just for the hell of it. Just because there is no rush about anything. If I want to mesmerise myself with the light, then I can.

Behind me, all I can hear is the scratching crunch of Nikki’s paws as he putters about in the snow.

He may be an old dog, but this is the landscape that envigorates him and sends him flying around with a grin on his face as wide as the Amazon.

I had worried that he wouldn’t be able to keep up with us this time, that his eleven years would have crept into his bones and sent him snuggling up to the log fire and his basket, but nothing could have been further from his mind. One look at the snow and he was scratching at the door to get out and get running.

Perhaps the local huskies had spurred him on. The day before he had sat on the ridge above the lake and watched us as we hurtled across the ice with the dogs. Their high pitched braying and enthusastic howling seemed to carry all over the lake and I could see Nikki was straining to run with us, to join in with this canine chase across the ice.

In the end he settled for charging down the hill ahead of Helena’s sled, racing her to the bottom then charging back up the hill, his loopy toungue hanging out with glee.

It’s been years since I’ve seen him move so fast. There must be some rejuvenating element concealed in that snow he’s been eating. I consider bottling it as a wonder cure and selling it on to Californians.

Then I realise that there is nothing wondrous about any of this.

It’s just what happens when you leave the city. Leave that world behind and come to some place quiet and elemental.

Norway always does this to me. It takes me so far away from everything, everyone, and allows me just to be.

To just turn into the sun and breathe and realise that this is all I ever really need…

April 14th, 2009 | Category: Travel | Leave a comment

There must have been something so absolute about it, so certain about it, when he looked down.

A 54 metre drop. 110,000 cubic metres of water plunging over the edge each minute. The froth and rage of water as it hits the Niagara River.

You throw yourself into that abyss expecting nothing other than obliteration.

How does it feel then I wonder, to plummet headlong into that tumult, only to find yourself bobbing back up again? To realise, with every gulp of air, that this most certain and spectacular attempt at self annihilation has failed?

Do you rejoice that fate has decided you will live? Do you stand up and experience some strange epiphany, some glorious, reinvigorating engagement with life?

Or do you find, in this failure, merely the terrible confirmation that all your efforts in this life really are for nought?

March 12th, 2009 | Category: Miscellaneous Musings | Leave a comment

It’s not possible to write anything to do this magnificent musician justice. So I’ll let the music speak for itself, because that, after all, was what John Martyn was about.

Thank you for the music.

January 30th, 2009 | Tags: John Martyn | Category: Miscellaneous Musings | Leave a comment

[I went for a walk with the dog. This is what I encountered]

Perhaps it was the wind that caught him unaware. After a week of damp south westerlies there was a sudden about turn. A sharp chill from the east that brought with it deceptively blue skies and a last hurrah of summer enthusiasm.

In the park, the kids were yelling and squealing, delighted at last that the damp had retreated. That they were finally able to scamper around unfettered by walls and ceilings. And if they shivered they did not care, for a cold day outside is always better that a rainy day spent indoors, noses squeezed against windowpanes.

Perhaps he sat on a branch and looked down at the playing children and, sensing their joy, spurred on by the unexpected blueness of the sky, decided to take a chance. To spread his wings (still downy) and see what happens.

Or maybe it was just the wind.

Turning as it did, so sharply, so early in the season, September having just begun, perhaps he had pointed himself west, into a wind that was no longer there, bracing himself against a force that was now behind him and pushing him downwards, as he fell and fell, those downy wings not quite ready for this moment.

So that when I arrive, I see him lying there, a crumpled heap on the pavement.

Thinking he is dead, I walk on, only to see him gasp. See his beak open, then stiffen, as if in a scream. He repeats this motion two, three, four times as I stand over him and watch, the small, singular drop of crimson blood the only indication of the violence that has occurred.

In the park the children play on while I watch him die.

September 17th, 2008 | Tags: Amsterdam, death, pigeon, things you see on the street, walk | Category: Amsterdam, Miscellaneous Musings | Leave a comment

The sign above the door should have alerted me I suppose.

Boutique.

No mere shop this. No, this was a sophisticated outlet, catering for the more discerning fashionista.

Despite this, I went in.

Those who know me well will be the first to admit that when it comes to fashion, indeed to attire in general, I am detached at best.

Scruffy and inelegant would be fair descriptions of me, and though I try to deceive myself that my style shows a certain nonchalance, the truth of the matter is that my fashion sense sucks.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t appreciate style. If I see someone walking down the street looking stylish and individual, then I can appreciate it. Perhaps even more so, because it isn’t a talent I possess myself - the art of stylish dressing.

Unfortunately, my ineptitude in this department has also crossed over to my daughter, Helena. Too young to dress herself, she must rely on me to make a sartorial statement on her behalf.

The result being, she is often mistaken for a boy…..

And so it was in this boutique.

I should point out here that I was in a children’s clothes store.

Boutique sounds so adult, so a la mode, so sophisticated, it seems implausible it should be used for a kids’ store. But there you go. Such is the subtle, fickle nature of the fashion world.

Boutiques have evidently branched out into fresh markets since I was last inside one and today’s kids are clearly more fashion conscious and discerning than I realised.

So I browse the store while the shop assistant casts a bemused eye over Helena’s ensemble. Lots of stripes and colours and blue jeans. Tom boy chic is how they could market it I suppose.

He asks how old he is, and I tell him SHE is one.

“Ahhh” is all the reply he can muster.

Browsing through the rails I am taken aback at the amount of black there is. Sombre, edgy outfits seem to be the only thing available.

And all I want is a raincoat. Some cheerful little jacket to help fend off the rain and the winter blues.

I ask the assistant what they have in the waterproof department. Something sturdy and easy to clean. You know, something that can survive the battering a one year old will give it.

He nods sagely and produces a few pieces, with a definite flourish and flick of the wrist.

A little black, leather looking all in one suit and a matching jacket.

The kind of thing a Hell’s Angel would wear. Only minituarised.

Hmmm.

“They’re a bit, you know, black….” I stutter.

“Oh but black is very in this autumn for the wee ones.”

His enthusiasm and conviction are impressive, but I am still a little unsure.

“The winter is dark enough. Do you not have anything in red, say?”

No, no red.

Perhaps that was last season then?….

For the hell of it, we get Helena into one of the biker outfits, just for amusements sake.

Apparently she looks “great” but I’m not so sure.

Do I really want my daughter to look like some mini hellraiser?

I politely decline further assistance and explain that I don’t really get fashion.

“All I want is a bright, plastic mac really….”

The assistant shrugs and gives Helena a friendly ruffle of the hair. Clearly he sympathises with her plight.

For while all the hip young things will be smooching about in their gothic ensembles this winter, there will be Helena, all kitted out in the pink plastic raincoat, decorated with butterflies, that we found in a store further up the road.

And while she may not be trendy, at least the sheer pinkness of it should ensure she stops getting mistaken for a boy…..

September 1st, 2008 | Tags: Children, Fashion, Parenthood | Category: Miscellaneous Musings, Parenthood | Leave a comment

In 1954, my father, then just fifteen years old, made a pilgrimage to Lourdes.

It was, by all accounts, a life affirming trip, made all the more memorable by the monumental effort it had taken my father, and his friends from the local youth club, to raise the necessary funds.

For three years they had toiled away to get the money they needed. No fundraising effort was too exhausting or bizarre- raffles, variety shows, bob-a-job, laundry, shoe shining, even a snooker tournament - you name it, they tried it.

And when the funds were raised, they boarded their bus and made the three day long journey to the south of France.

I suppose we forget, these days, just how time consuming and exhausting travel used to be.

A bus. From Glasgow to Lourdes. In 1954.

It gives me muscle cramps just thinking about it.

But for my dad and his friends, this effort was an important aspect of the trip.

It was supposed to be an effort, supposed to be special, supposed to be out of the ordinary and memorable.

Just as the destination itself, the holy shrine in Lourdes, was special, out of the ordinary and memorable.This extraordinariness, is what turned the journey from a simple trip to France into a pilgrimage.

Faith played a huge role as well, of course.

That unshakable belief that the grotto in Lourdes really was a holy place, a place of miracles. The sacred ground where a marvellous apparition had occured.

For my father and his friends, Lourdes was more than just a small town at the foot of the Pyrenees. It was a place to be close to God.

Fifty four years later, I found myself holidaying in France, just a couple of hours drive from Lourdes and decided to pay a visit myself.

In contrast to my father, my little excursion was a casual, effortless affair, imbued with no more significance than any other holiday excursion would be.

It was simple curiosity which took me there, rather than faith.

Nevertheless, I found myself promising that I would light some candles at the shrine and, if not pray, then at least pause to think about those friends and family that were ill or departed.

It’s not something I have a problem with, performing these little acts of faith, despite my agnostic/atheistic tendencies.

For me, such symbolic acts offer an opportunity to pause and reflect. To step aside from the moment, from the mundane, and simply think.

Little concentrated moments of reflection. That’s all they are.

So I was surprised to find myself slightly overcome with emotion as I stood in line at the grotto, candles in hand and a list of people in my head - requests for votive offerings having been passed on to me over the phone.

Of course I knew that Lourdes was a place of pilgrimage. A place where the sick and the old came to pray in one last effort to fend off what is, for all of us, the inevitable.

But prior to being there, all of this had seemed so very abstract.

Confronted with the reality of the long lines of “les malades” being helped forward to the shrine however, I was suddenly struck by a strange mixture of melancholy, rage, pity and confusion.

The young boy, lying prone in his bed being wheeled in front of me. The baby so sick it was being fed through a tube in its navel. The old woman, bent and buckled and vacant. The able bodied whose eyes nevertheless revealed a sadness and a pain that afflicted them just as much as any illness. Were they here to pray for sick relatives, for dying friends?

I looked at them all and felt my throat thicken and my skin burn.

All that pain. All that hope.

I clutched my candles and tried to keep pushing forward. I’d promised I would do this, so there was no going back.

But as I stood there, a rage took hold of me. Quietly I dug my nails into the wax and shuffled forward.

All these people, so ill yet so hopefull. Struggling, despite infirmity, to make it to this place in the hope of what? Some miracle cure, some salvation, some relief?

For that is what is on offer here, no?

Release from all that pain.

That’s the hope that brings them here, year upon year.

Yet how many of them will go on home, to linger, to die?

I watched them all and felt my anger turn to confusion.

What was I doing here, with my candles and my rage? If this is all such nonsense to me, then why am I doing it? Surely it would be better to simply turn around and pass my candles on to someone in the crowd, then leave?

But I kept on going.

Too afraid to turn back, I suppose. Because I was on a promise. Because I was caught up in the spectacle of it all now. Ushered along through the lines of people, closer and closer to the shrine.

At some point it just becomes too late to turn around.

At the altar I lit my candles and started once again to recall the people I was doing this for.

And in an instant, the whole circus around me disappeared. All there was was the thoughts in my head. The fleeting memories as each name entered my head. Little snapshots of happier days. Days before these candles were needed.

It made me happy, at that moment, almost despite myself.

Is this what all the others feel, I wondered?

Is this what the believers feel? This small, timeless, transcendental moment.

A moment of bliss, which curbs my anger and makes me happy but which gives them hope and brings them closer to God? ….

August 25th, 2008 | Tags: France, Lourdes, Religion, Travel | Category: Miscellaneous Musings, Religion, Travel | Leave a comment