Rock music - style or substance?

With rock music, it is always eternal brinkmanship between style and substance.

Perhaps we should expect no less, because rock music is no longer (and in some ways, has never been since the beginning) JUST a 'music' genre. It is (and always has been) a socio-economic-cultural and sometimes even political phenomenon. The terms 'rock'n'roll' or 'rock' are hardly ever understood to refer only to the musical content of rock, such as it is; they are almost always much more wide-ranging than that. Rock music was never ever only about the music, as could be said for other genres like classical music or even jazz and blues.

Rock music's obsession with itself, its inherent narcissism, was always bound to be in a music where the performer always has to be on the verge of eclipsing the performance itself. For rock to be rock, the performer necessarily needs to make it out to be all about himself, in a way that it never is, can be, or needs to be, in other musical idioms.

The 'music' in rock music

So, now here we get into "so what exactly IS rock music?", a question that I wisely must not attempt to answer within the scope of this piece of writing. Which might lead one to wonder, can we really find out what the 'musical content' of rock music is? To that question, at least, I can readily answer, yes. The musical content of rock music can indeed be isolated from its packaged whole. The 'musical' founding fathers can indeed be identified.

Ingredients

Rock's 'musical content' history goes back, primarily, to the great folk music forms - country music, blues and folk music itself, gospel music included, from either side of the Atlantic. So, rock music is a 'folk' form, not an 'art' form (to speak thus is banal and didactic but I do so only for the development of explanation). Left to myself (and not entirely uninformed) I would trace the 'germ of the idea' back to two categories of components - one, the development of the 'blue note' and the rhythmic nature of blues, and the other, the story-telling tradition in country music, folk music and blues. When I say 'story-telling' I do not necessarily mean only in a lyrical or poetic sense, but also in a musical sense. In a purely lyrical or poetic sense, for a story, poem or ballad to reinforce and amplify its central theme, there needs to be a sense of rhythm, of repetition and reiteration which sometimes closes the loop on the rhythm and at other times sets off open-ended rhyme, inviting counterpoint. Similarly, for a melody or a sequence of chords (or riffs) to close loops or open up new ones, there needs to be a sense of rhythm.



Now rhythm has always been part of the nerve and sinew of rock and one of its founding fathers. It is no less important than musical values (and here I am speaking rather compartmentally as if rock's "musical content" is in all cases a self-contained product always exclusively differentiable from its "rhythm". In the best of rock music, such thinking is a myth and an antithesis; but I speak so here just for perspective.) It is equally possible for a three-chord rock song to be in the best traditions of rock music as it is for it to be a very bad advertisement for the limited and restricted musical scope of rock music; what makes it one or the other is a sense of rocking rhythm and the depth and space that the interpreter (artist) creates. In simple, classic rock'n'roll, 3-chord songs can be infectiously rhythmic and also leave space for mystery and depth; at the other end of the spectrum, in heavier forms (like heavy metal), in the same 3 chords, 'unsubtlety' and an un-swinging, leaden wall of sound become patently apparent.

None of this may quite be traceable or apparent when we listen to the end-product in most rock music; but ah, we must remember that we are only yet tracing out its musical content and origins. We have not yet considered the socio-economic-cultural elements that went into this particular soup!

The blue note

A little bit about the 'blue note'. Traditionally understood, it is a note 'in the cracks', which cannot be played on a musical instrument except by slatting two notes in rhythm (on a piano) or pulling a note to the next (on a guitar). To get absolutely technical about it, the third or the fifth notes in a scale are usually subjected to this treatment to obtain the blue note. The blue note can only be sung, because the vocal chords are able to bring out this subtlety and mystery whereas musical instruments, due to their precise, pin-pointed mechanical structure and organisation, cannot.

The synthesis of ingredients

The basic rock'n'roll riff can be constructed from 3 chords played in a rhythm derived from the blues (or, to be absolutely precise, from rhythm'n'blues), with movement from one to the other involving blue notes. In so far as this movement can be inflected with country music drawls and chord structures, country music is also a factor in the mix; and in so far as traditional, 'unamplified' instruments are used and the song structure is influenced by folk music, folk music is involved. So there you have it - the synthesis of the 'music' in rock music.



I speak as if it is all merely musical; in fact, it is hardly so. The synthesis I have described, far from being predictable, conscious or even by will, has happened over years of development, driven in many cases not by musical progress but more by social, cultural and economic circumstances. A number of factors have been thrown into the soup, not all of them entirely musical.

The artist and the 'rock star'

At any given instance, it is the performer or artist (and his influences, 'roots' or origins) who largely determines which factors go into the 'soup'. Due to this, it is possible to have 'rock' music devoid of its musical content (i.e., neither rhythmic nor informed by blues, country or folk, nor in a lyrical tradition), as well as rock music which is merely musical and not at all a socio-economic-cultural phenomenon. Both ends of the spectrum are equally possible, and though the former usually prevails because of commercial considerations, it is the latter which lends rock its credibility.

It would seem that the 'music' in rock music is largely precise, scientific and empirically distinguishable, and that what we see today is the effect of putting the musical content through a 'humaniser' device. This in fact, is true. To the extent that the artist is in touch with musical roots, rock music either has musical content or is devoid of it.

The 'humaniser' is a Pandora's box consisting of many factors. It certainly was the social, cultural and economic environment that prevailed in the fifties and sixties, which formed the sub-stratum for the development of rock music. Since the beginning, many factors have exerted primary influence at various times. Social, cultural and demographic factors were major catalysts in the early years, when the best rock music happened. This included the entire age of baby boomers and their adolescent values, the drawing back of young people into the dance halls by the early rock'n'roll of Bill Haley, Chuck Berry and the earliest rock stars; later, it was the anti-establishment, social comment and folk-protest sentiments sparked off by songwriters like Bob Dylan and carried further out and then into oblivion by the flower-power era. This was indeed rock's age of primary output; it is perfectly accurate to say that the best of rock music had happened by the beginning of the seventies.



The influence of social and cultural factors meant that at some point of time, the artist would be tempted (a temptation not easily overcome) to think of himself as higher than the music; a form of narcissism and self-worship, inviting something akin to almost deification over ritual. So rock music's early cultural heroes emphasised style and personal expression above substance and musical values, and rock music did its wallowing in self-indulgence and its obsessive narcissism. The rock music concert became a ritual played out in stadiums where the performer worshipped himself in the worship of the audience.

Due to the economic clout of the baby boomers, who were rock's earliest audience, financial considerations and the lack of vision took over in the seventies, and rock's age of primary output was over. Rock became history, mostly; the most creative rock was already over. For a far more accurate and better retelling of this story, about how musical and other factors came together to produce rock music, I recommend Donald Clarke's The Rise And Fall Of Popular Music, and Clarke's entry about rock, in his Encyclopaedia of Popular Music - both books sadly out of print.

Whither rock music?

Now because the musical scope of rock music is so restricted (tied to rhythm, blue notes, progressions, riffs and chords), creative progress is that much more difficult. Simply put, it is difficult to find an infinite number of things to do differently within the structure of rock music. However, there are other interesting ingredients in the mix; the best rockers bring their own sense of presence while primarily working off the unchanging musical form, and add their story-telling or interpretive talents to the bedrock. A new twist on an old tale, simply put, is the height of what can be done with rock music post 70s. That's not to say that this does not happen, or to belittle attempts to do this. The singer-songwriter and country-rock genres did it well in the 70s, and country-rock continues to accomplish it today. Even so, the legacy of its historical development means that style is almost always going to quash substance, unless those of us who want the real substance of rock music go out, look for and find it.



So...what?

The basics of looking for good music, rock or otherwise, always are and have been simple. Music that is in touch with its (musical) roots , played on musical instruments by musicians who bring their own creative interpretations and energies to a basic set of musical tools, is good music. Conversely, music that has no discernible roots, not played on actual musical instruments by real musicians, is always to be mistrusted (and no, technology does not generally count). And so it goes for a song as well. Has the song been actually written and constructed or is it just a mash-up? Has the song a coherent point, however slim and flimsy? Has it any charm (the intangible creativity of the artist) whatsoever? Can the song become more interesting if another performer sings it? Simple questions which bring out the intrinsic worth of a song.

These considerations quickly reveal that more than 80 - 90 percent of popular music out there today is just noise, static or of negligible value. A sobering consideration, all things being equal.

The siege-ramp of the heart

Can there indeed be meaning?

Is it possible that what I see is not all that exists? Can there be something (or someone) that exists, that I cannot see?

Is it possible there's indeed a reason why I am here? A purpose to being here? Can it be that I am indeed going somewhere, unbeknownst to me?

Or is it like I always thought? No meaning. All that exists is all I see. Nothing exists that I do not see. No great reason why I am here - I just am here, that's all. No purpose other than the immediate one, not really headed anywhere.

Am I a fool to ask?

Many of my friends get by without asking, even do well. It's complicated enough to get by without asking, so what am I thinking here? Why multiply complication?

What are my hopes for answers? Everyone has something to say; everyone believes something. If believing something will provide an anchor, there's plenty to choose from.

Are all those who believe something anchored, not adrift in the windless, endless, deathly Sargasso Sea? Or are their 'anchors' illusory, relative, subjective? Like the wind that just blows anywhere, without a beginning or an end?

When will this moment pass, so I can go on living without questions?

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Every once in a while, questions build a siege ramp against the walls of my heart. I used to know how to live without suspicion, but now I am not so sure. I've got to find something to believe.

Will any old thing to believe do? After all, it must be all in my mind - probably just getting older. Any old thing used to be enough in the old days - nowadays I've seen too much and heard too much. I never feared, but now I am beginning to wonder. And no, it's not the usual religious fear psychosis. I hate to say this and I wouldn't admit it to myself......but there is genuine unrest inside.

Is there a parallel universe out there which sometimes steps into this one? I've got to know. But how can I find out? Who would know? People would think (and I would agree) I'm stark raving mad to ask.

Why won't this world settle? Why must there be more and more decay? Why can't it all get better so I wouldn't have questions?

Maybe if......

But then.....

..........

A trickle will do on a dry day

"Knoydart? Yes, you'll be safe there."
"I don't want to be safe. I want to not fight for some time."
"Not fight? A warrior who does not want to fight?"
"Yes, a warrior who does not want to fight for some time."
"How will you find your way? There are no tracks."
"I've been there before."
"What will you do there?"
"I'll know when I get there. Probably do nothing."
"Who will you see?"
"Hopefully, no one."
"Well, no one knows the way there."
"Yes. It's just as well."
"What do you hope to find?"
"Myself, perhaps?"
"A warrior who wants to find himself? This gets stranger and stranger."
"Yes, indeed. I've thought so too."
"Is there a point to this?"
"Very probably not. But it seems worthwhile.... In any case, the moment I know it's wasted time, I will return."
"Return to where?"
"To the side of right. To fight."
"And if it isn't wasted time?"
"Well, what's your question then?"
"I still don't see why Knoydart. If you want to lay down arms......there's still our old home."
"I'm not so sure I want to lay down arms."
"By the time you return, we might not be free anymore."
"Then I will live in the hills. And fight."
"Alone?"
"Yes, if need be"
"Well, why not fight now?"
"It's not the time."
"When is, then?"
"When I am properly commissioned"
"Am I not properly commissioned then? Will you not fight alongside me?"
"I would willingly fight alongside you. But I must seek my commissioning."
"And you will find commissioning in Knoydart - a trackless waste?"
"When I get there, I will know."
"Who will commission you in Knoydart?"
"The one who always commissions me."
"The king?"
"Yes"
"But the king is at Scone..... how will he find you?"
"There will be a way"
"There are none, in Knoydart"
"Yes. He will have to make his own way."
"Can this not be easier?"
"No, it never was. Never could have been."
"Perhaps you're making it harder than it is."
"Perhaps. But the one who commissions me knows where to find me."
"Go then, and may the Lord be with you. If I have to fight....I will. And I will seek you if I still live.....after the battle."
"Yes. Do not fret. God will make a way."

‎............ and the warrior turned. Rode hard.....into trackless Knoydart. Where there are no trails to follow, and none to make....... let the sword sleep.

Birds for our tired urban blues - going, going, gone?

A day spent among the birds is quite the antidote to a too-fast world.

Birds appear and disappear at their own pace; of their own initiative. If you need to see them, most often, you go to them rather than they coming to you. And they care not a fig whether you go to them or not.

Today was spent at Prakruthi Resort, about 35 kilometres from Bangalore's so-called Central Business District (let's be fair, Bangalore does not really have a CBD worth the name, much like about 99 percent of India's so-called towns). The thing about Prakruthi Resort is that it is a good 5-6 kilometres off the beaten trail (which happens to be the much-harried road to the new "Bengaluru" airport). Now this has resulted in some infinitely good things, and some usual deplorable things. For the good part, being about six kilometres away from the road means that the wind and the birds are pretty much the only noises around (other than the ones you make). The food's also good, as far as it goes - slightly better than the normal resort fare. There's a lot of green, even if too-clean-and-manicured to be any real good. And because the resort is newish, the cane furniture has not tattered yet, nor has the service become non-existent.

Prakruthi, however, joins the hordes of resorts that have mushroomed over the last decade, which have absolutely no respect for the environment. People wrongly assume that if there's a lot of green, there must be a lot of respect for the environment. But let me explain what I mean. Prakruthi has thick coconut tree-cover, a row of silver oaks, a fresh-green lawn teaming with insect life that SHOULD attract the usual insect-pickers, but no - there is a serious dearth of birds here.

Some resorts make a big deal of their bird life, even if all you have is only what you managed to attract. The best resorts, however, have managed to RETAIN the birds in their original habitat. Like Angsana, for instance, on the Doddaballapur Road, which makes a big deal out of its bird life. I remember seeing cane-brakes and a charming couple of Indian Silverbills (their natural habitat). The lawn at Angsana also attracts the Indian Robin, which I did not see at Prakruthi. At least even a place like Golden Palms managed to attract some Pied Wagtails. But alas, there was NOTHING on the lawn at Prakruthi - even the token Magpie-Robin was hard to come by - there was no Pied Bushchat either, nor an Ashy Prinia. Indeed, there was no evidence that the builders had even known the birds that lived there before they came and dug up the place and built this 'green, green' resort.

All that I found in the resort itself, within the grounds, were the usual suspects which do not, strictly speaking, constitute "a wealth of bird-life" all by themselves. The ever-present Red-Whiskered Bulbul, a Tickell's Flowerpecker or two, a lot of lovely Purple-Rumped Sunbirds, and some persistent Common Tailorbirds are all I saw. Even the Magpie-Robin was heard rather than seen.

The only mildly-interesting find within the Prakruthi campus was a Greater Coucal, a sluggish, shy bird which has a way of flying up into the trees from the ground and disappearing from view totally.

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At the far end of the drive in Prakruthi, there was a metal gate which opened out to an open, wild, overgrown scrub-forest, much drier than the deceptive heavy greenery within the campus. This seemed to be a township-to-be, with marked out plots and token roads. But the forest has taken over, and here's the thing - I've seen many places in Bangalore like this. They're all waiting for the axe, but in the meantime there's a forest which features a feast of birds other than 'usual suspects'.

Sure enough, the difference between the complete dearth of birds within the Prakruthi campus and the abundance I saw before me was so quickly evident. My step surprised a Great Tit off a low bush. There was a completely walled compound overgrown with tallish bushes, one of which blocked the gateway so I couldn't go in. Some Indian Robins and some Babblers were in evidence within. A couple of Green Bee-Eaters put on a grand show, on a barbed-wire fence.

It was at this point that a female Common Iora flew into a low mango bush. Now this moment was worth going to any distance for. I've never seen a Common Iora before (only in photos) - and the wait has been really long. The bird is indescribably beautiful, greenish-yellow with black, and it sounds heavenlier still.

A flash of blue, and a White-Breasted Kingfisher flew away at my step. A Spotted Dove kept watch on a post in the distance. I heard the feeble jingling whistles of the Oriental White-Eye and soon enough, there was a flock of about 10 of them, moving busily along, bush to tree. A Green Bee-Eater had just caught some prey, which was battered on the perch (a low-lying cable wire) and busily eaten. What I thought to be a Shikra flew heavily into the darkness of a really low mango bush.

All this, just with my first few steps outside a resort whose name means "Nature" - and has a funereal dearth of birds.

Well, the paradise scrub-forest I saw is meant for the axe soon........the township will take it over. I remember a similar experience on Sarjapur Road, in the Serenity compound. I'm sure what I've just described is happening in numerous places within Bangalore.

But Prakruthi will remain - become less green, and lose even the few usual suspects it has, as it attracts more and more visitors.

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Mustn't a "resort" be a showcase for birds, that will soothe tired, exhausted people who come from urban jungles? Indeed it must. And for that to happen, you must do one of two things (preferably both) when you build a 'resort' - either learn about the bird life and try to preserve the birds in their natural habitat, or, if that's not possible, attract birds by building over in a bird-friendly way. I ask too much, you say? Yeah, I've heard that before.........but what I saw OUTSIDE Prakruthi today healed my tired urban blues.

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(Please click the links to see the birds I've referred to here. They are not my photographs; I am not a photographer. They are just provided to indicate what the bird looks like. I am indebted to many bird-lovers on Flickr for their efforts)

To 'hard-core' birders, the birds I've referred to may just seem normal, not exciting, or just 'usual suspects'. Well, do remember that to the unitiated, they will be heaven itself!

Angels on the high seas?

Pure angelic white wisp
Angel of the high seas
Will you tell what you've seen?
Where you've been?
I ask foolishly.

I know a man that's seen you
And yet he could not find the words
White is pure, and pure is white
Angels do glide soundlessly in streaming white over the dark face of the deep seas

No ordinary gull, or even grim-faced albatross you;
Not even the circumventer of them all, the tern
Your beauty is not of the birds;
It is a breath of heaven on the god-forsaken seas.

Tell me a hundredth, or a thousandth, of what you have seen
A fresh, cleansing, reviving breath of white
As you glide soundlessly over thousands of miles of many-coloured sea

You've seen the oceans roar and also deck themselves azure
The black fury of a storm at sea and gentle ripples glinting in sunlit blue
Heard cries of helpless seamen, doomed to the seabed
Carefree easy laughter of youths cruising across turquoise seas

You've known what it is to put miles behind you and yet have miles to go
To have covered ground and yet ever break new
An old wind forgot, a new wind embraced
You have no way to say it's all the same

Do you indeed have need of another?
Then you surely know of the solitary places
The wanderlust in my soul
The secret places on earth where no man can go

Did you see men in stone, standing in a row?
Staring out towards a distant horizon that only you could bring tidings of
Or did you go close to a boiling mountain, throwing fear to fear?
A solitary streak of angel-white against black clouds of disintegration

In vain do I ask, for what you know, is not yours to tell
The world's a secret place, and you know it full well
It was only given you to cross the seas and find the solitary places for yourself
But not given you to tell of them.

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http://www.flickr.com/photos/chaparralbrad/2415030766/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/david_thyberg/675904377/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/birdhank/sets/72157606866910485/

Midnight at noon

Would three hours of darkness at the height of a twelve-hour day matter very much?

What if the earth was plunged into darkness at noon?

Maybe some won't even notice? Yeah. There are some like that. Working too feverishly inside an air-conditioned box to even look outside a window (if it exists), and see the darkness. Or, looking outside a window, seeing the darkness, and not perceiving because their minds are still thinking about the problem at hand. Perhaps they are solving equations that affect our origins as a planet and as a race. Or just making money.

I wonder what it will do to the entire system, though - what would happen to the geological and planetary systems? Would the tides be confused? Would the moon be caught out of its orbit? Would the sun resent it? Would the stars go on as if nothing had happened?

On earth, what dials would be furiously zinging? All the infinitesimally minute measurements we human beings are constantly making these days about this universe of ours - what would happen to those readings?

What about nature? Would forget-me-nots close their leaves? Would birds retire for a three-hour night? Would the nightjars and owls stake their claim again? Would there be bats in the belfry?

What about financial systems? Would banks close for three hours? What would the "losses" amount to? Or would banks say, this is just another day, with one exception - we're going to have three hours of darkness, but we go on working? (Very likely!!!)

What about political developments? Would that deal still be inked? Do we go ahead with the revolution? So are we withdrawing support or aren't we, darkness or not? Shall we swear in the government or not? Is darkness inauspicious?

For most of us normal folk, I suppose we'd be spooked out of our wits. Maybe we'd go pray. Even so, there'd be questions that cannot wait. Do we hold off the marriage for a day? What about the arrangements? the guests? the money?

It's not too much to say that the plans of everyone on earth - individual plans, corporate plans, national plans, financial plans - will all be rudely jolted, if not derailed altogether.

Darkness. No sun, no moon, no stars perhaps. No rain. No thunder. No lightning. No twilight. No drama. Just......darkness.

The word that comes to mind is EERIE.

We would probably find ourselves in some weird, unexpected, unanticipated kind of freedom - suddenly, there would be nothing to do for three hours, in an otherwise pressure-packed day. Of course some of us, even MOST of us, would just go on hammering away at making our living, too oblivious to notice that the world had actually stopped. We'd never be able to figure out that maybe we ought to think about how weird darkness is when it comes at noon.

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Relax. It may not happen again. Once was enough.

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What if, in another story, also here on earth, those three precious hours were worth everything to life itself? Maybe, in those hours, the world actually changed. Maybe some plans were laid then that would result in ultimate destinies, no matter how few perceive it. What if cosmic wrongs were being righted? An eternal bully punished and power taken away for ever? What if there was a huge big drama going on out there while nothing shows on earth?

How can everything hang on a single day?

Everything. My life, your life. Our future. Our earth. Our homes, our children, their children, our friends, extended family, our nation, all nations, our entire race as human beings. Everything that we, as all of humankind, include in our definitions of "life".

What if everything were in the balance on one single day, a day within which darkness came at noon?

Too fantastic?

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Whatever darkness at noon means, it surely isn't in any script we would write as human beings. Maybe we will spend the next millennium figuring out what happened that day, and get nowhere. But it would be enough to keep us busy, like the eternal busybodies we are.

It is....someone else's plan. Someone else's plan, for something we might be curious about but don't understand. Maybe for something we don't care about anyway.

"And it was about the sixth hour, and there was a darkness over all the earth until the ninth hour."

Skellig

A safe place.

That's what he'd come looking for.

He remembered, somewhat vaguely after all the years, the breathless run down to the coast, white with fear. The king's men , swords glinting in the evening light, bore down on him. He didn't wait.....he jumped. Thrust himself into the bosom of the Atlantic.

He was almost dead from exhaustion and exposure when that little fishing boat came by in the morning. He remembered nothing from the night past; they fed him, nursed him.... When he knew he'd been rescued, he wanted to jump again.....into the Atlantic.

He waited for the darkness. At sunset, he slipped noiselessly into the sea again. No one saw him.

When he came to, he lay on a rock, on a grassy bank. It was morning. A huge black-white mass reared up before his opening eyes, startling him for a moment. It was an island. Out there in the sea.

He got to his feet...have I been swept ashore again? No...there's the mainland out in the distance...shimmering in the wintry sun. Where am I then? He turned. And lost his breath at what he saw.

A sheer mountain. Green, but forbidding. No fit place for any man, for sure. Too sheer for climb, too narrow a bank to last the day - he'd be swept away like drifting debris when the tide came crashing in. Then he saw the stone steps.

An ancient stairway, deliberately snaking its way up the relentless steep. Someone was here. It was a chilling thought. A picture flashed, like an icon, unfathomably, across his mind - of silent men, working soundlessly over the years, lovingly laying stone after stone.....to the very skies. He looked up again and couldn't find the end of that stair......

It was either the stair, or the Atlantic. Why live again? Those who would look for me now....want to take my life. Even I don't look for me now. Jump.....jump......let the sea take me. Let the sea take me.

He turned, and walked up the stair.

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No strength. Why did I choose this stair? Why am I kept alive? I'd failed......tried in my own strength. It was the only strength I knew.

At midday, halfway up that black, sheer slope, every moment a dance between being blown away by the gales, and clinging, adhesive, to that unforgiving cliff, remaining alive by sheer miracle - divine providence, to speak the truth.

No strength again. I don't care whether I live or die. Heck, I never had cared!!!!! Irony. Blackness.

When he came awake again, he was drenched. A chilly drizzle fell silently. He lay on a grassy knoll, precariously horizontal for a few feet before a yawning black drop opened its evil jaws. One one side, flowers grew among black rocks. On the other, the Atlantic slowly drank in the drizzle. For some crazy, delirious reason, he felt alive again. The cold rain drenched him silently, but a delicious, fresh breeze soothed his smouldering body. The skies were black, yet not angry. Not like the previous day.

Started back up those steps again. Just couldn't imagine how the stair had come to be......did anyone actually live here? May be someone lived here, but not anymore. Either way, surely someone who cared about no other human being; he knew and understood what that felt like.

But my head swims; can't stay on my feet. The Atlantic yawns behind me and the relentless unending stair in front of me. Gale winds. Oh well, let any wind that blows have its way with me; what do I care anyway.

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"How did he get here? We must leave him; it is no business of ours."

"We must care for him. It's God that brings anyone here. Get some hot water, and a cloth......"

"If he could get here, some more will follow; why, isn't he a fugitive with a price? Why need we pay? The bloodthirstiness of men has nothing to do with us."

"We must save him; that is God's will."

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He cut the carrots out of the thin soil; put them with the shallots and the potatoes. The Atlantic yawned in front of him, as it had every single day since he came here. Miles away, Eire stretched; it was becoming a distant memory as the days passed. There, on the mainland, men warred; ate and drank, sold and bought, bustled and moved......it had all somehow ceased to matter. Here, on this hill, time had stopped. Day and night, rain and sun, sunrise, noon, red sunset, murky twilight, black night.....all came and passed, but there was no concept of time.

Here, a few strange men lived; lived to the sky and the ground, in stone huts. All they were aware of, if earth indeed moved them, were the sky above and the ground below. They ate what they grew; sometimes a gull or a gannet would stray into their hands. Months and even years passed and no human being alighted far down the steep, where the hill dipped into the ocean.

Perhaps it was merely survival; on earthly terms, it was nothing more. But this was no mere earthly hill rising from the waters; divine providence provided day after day. Perhaps it slipped into the sea a bit everyday; if you woke up each morning and felt the earth you lay on, you were aware of what divine sustenance alone could do day after day. These meagre men impressed him; they lived with a disdain of life that was remarkable. They had nothing and there was nothing to live for; yet, they lived it not by sight.....but as pilgrims, looking to a different world.

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Sometimes anger draws blood within. Anger I did not know I had inside. Raw hate, bloodthirstiness. Any blood will do; mine or theirs.

But look where I live.....anger does nothing for this place - does not preserve it. If this slipped into the sea, me and my anger would go with it. No, there must be something, even SOMEONE, bigger than my anger, any one's anger.

I'd seen crude drawings of the carpenter, that some of the men had....there were no artists here. There was no colour. There were pencils, and parchment. A stark, bare tree hung inside the little chapel. They never said anything about Him. I didn't ask.

But I wondered. Wondered what manner of man He must have been. Why do I feel peace, who had never known peace in my life? Why did I slowly think it was possible, even RIGHT, to live again? My anger wasn't right; sometimes, the sea clawed like an enormous enraged dragon at our little hill, but was I right to think He never let this hill go? And when I walked on the stair, with the foaming sea on one side and the black steep on the other, did an invisible hand loose the wind's fingers as they coiled and clawed around my frail body?

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He'd found his safe place now; a patch of grass with underlying black rock, in a corrie on the farther side of the hill. Here he lay alone for hours, watching the kaleidoscope of sea, earth and sky, as God's gentle breeze blew over the hurricane gales in his soul. Permanence came; and with it, miraculously, that jewel of life on earth - purpose. The hard knot of anger came undone slowly, uncoiling and melting away, replaced by a strange calm which had no root within him; he could not explain it and certainly didn't try.

He loved this place; here he communed with what had become his home in the sky, not yet realised. Here an invisible hand touched his, here where the same hand joined sea, earth and sky.

He thought, strangely, of what this place would be if someone came here after him. Would they feel the invisible hand? Maybe they would....if he could put up a stone there. He heaved a black stone into the soft earth and began hewing it a little each day.

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Michael had gotten separated from the group he'd come with, and found he'd wandered on to the far side of South Peak. It had been cloudy and murky all day, with sheets of rain; they'd been advised not to come here today. Michael never knew what drew him.

Then he saw the Cross. On this seemingly God-forsaken outpost, looking towards the distant Americas far, far beyond the horizon, a gentle breeze blew and a weak sun appeared. The rough-hewn cross stood as it always had, a little tilt, well planted into the still-soft meadow earth.

Someone had known an invisible hand - in the attic of time, and just thought to record it.

It stood a witness to another who'd been here in a bygone age..... the centuries had flown by but yet the cross stood, braving the onslaught of the elements. Michael knew it would stand for centuries to come; unless the invisible hand were to remove it......when it's work was done, for all time and all ages........