A Pocket Full of Seeds has gone on a break

January 22nd, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

Just a half-sombre and half-positive note to say that A Pocket Full of Seeds is now on a hiatus, since January 1st 2014, 4 years to the day since its first post.

Tempting as it is to romantically elaborate or blunder upon some Best Man’s speech about the fulfilment this blog has brought us, it is more worthwhile to note simply that we will be back at some point in the future. We’ll still feed our social networks, in particular with regard to the exciting future developments and revolutionary plans – all the Facebook, Twitter etc. links are at the side on the right.


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December 8th, 2013 § 0 comments § permalink

So it’s time I stopped growing out of music, once and for all. And to head sideways to the several versions of human song, each with heart as much the other, each listened to by someone else at some time in their lives and… here I am, with a fragment to tell and a song to share,  Clear My Head With You by Adventures.

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Muscle Memory

December 4th, 2013 § 0 comments § permalink

I want to breach upon the listening experience of Ole Torjus again: to shed more light on his ambient Norwegian world – a world of continuously tantalising, emotional and mesmeric, electronic music.

Sometimes it’s worth thinking about what it all means: listening to some music on the internet, and now me writing about music on the internet what is everything actually trying to achieve? I end up concluding some nice things about love and loving people and how all this does that and, so, when I, as I am about to do now, respond to some music with just some lines of poetry I wrote whilst listening to it, I think I’m demonstrating to you that Torjus’s songs were like gardeners and they cultivated some feeling, some good good amazing feeling inside of me, allowing me to finally break through the dirt and see things clearly for once. If the song works on you, and if that songs works on you whilst you read the poetry then we might start a chain of expression and love and creativity and probably peace as well, maybe you could continue the chain by sharing the songs on a social network with some eloquent and well-chosen words, share the love, the big chain of love, we could get in the Guiness Book of Records, right?

The songs I focused upon were Safe, Living Together, Renvas Ugnim, Muscle Memory, At The Bottom Of A Strange Hill and Close; that is to say, the entire constituents of Ole’s newly accessible At The Bottom Of A Strange Hill EP, collated earlier this just-departed November. The poem I did was about getting up and doing things even though you really don’t want to and getting into a reassuring routine of that.

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What It Boils Down To

December 3rd, 2013 § 0 comments § permalink

These songs have an essence of what my brother said – something of their being a slightly unpleasant listening experience – slightly uneasy and slightly nightmarish feeling. That essence of some surreal imaginary animals talking , or animals being really conscious and doing human things, like those elephants in the world of Barbar who at one point, confronted with war with the neighbouring rhinos, paint faces on their behinds and pretend to be massive faced monsters, all-lined up on a hill – a congregation of scary clown-looking elephant bottoms… and eventually scaring off their Rhino foes. But that’s it. I’ve found these songs scare off Rhino foes. In October I had plenty of rhino foes in the form of feelings and fears and whatever, these songs dance into the picture book and the rhinos scatter away. I had those classic questions, riddling my head in a tangle, questions like ‘what should I make my profile picture?’, ‘should I delete this status I just wrote?’, ‘should I post these songs I made on Garageband on the internet?’, classic questions. Enter in this EP, and all my questions are vanquished and replaced by Rice or Naan? Because basically that’s what it all comes down to. You may plague your head with a million different rhino-horned issues, you may query your self-conscious every minute of the day with those open-ended elephant insecurities, but what it boils down to is that time sitting down on the chair, at the table, with your knife and your fork, looking perplexed as the guy asks you if you want rice, or if you want naan. Nothing else matters now as the 5 songs on My Nurse Speaks German drift into your room to coax your surroundings, like something somewhere asking you something you weren’t thinking of before in a way that you somehow understand.

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November 28th, 2013 § 0 comments § permalink

Some kind of revival, survival, blood-ending arrival of the good old days. The good old voices in our heads, the English dread, thought of pessimism dragged up to the group tension, made to sound optimistic. I can fathom the values and truths of the most mundane, tedious, recurring dreams, I can fathom them in my manifestivity. My manifested activity. And now I’m bouncing on top, with some surreal sense of delirium, of the good old up-beating sound, electric strings and snare hits, the well-spoken polished appeal; an alternative but popular perspective with an imagined muddly internal mess. Here I am, hearing a clean clean sound, made shiny with beautiful progress from break to refrain, those purposeful guitars sidling an indecicive rhythm, made shiny with well-pronounced intellectual but innocent words, voiced caringly, collaborated together to gather moments of profound vivacity, those kind of words… My apathy, their apathy painted on the walls with telling forceful well-intending emotions. My head is developing some constitution of boy and girl, those two different types of soul, harmonising vocalising some coloured-leaves of love and cohesion, blending all my rickety toils into an appetising good-looking mush.

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Put Him In The Van

November 23rd, 2013 § 0 comments § permalink

One of the few things I remember about my first days ever at school was two guys in my class making a big castle out of little wooden bricks. They made a pretty big castle. I remember it because I destroyed it. I remember the crestfallenness of my two classmates’ faces as we all surveyed the ruins of a well-constructed castle, a big pile on the floor.

I also remember counting to 20 as a nursery class, all in unison, counting the numbers of the world.

I don’t ever remember drawing the drawings I have in a big heap in my bedroom. How I learnt right from the beginning to elevate our thoughts into scribble. Thereafter we learnt how to elevate scribble into lines, to draw our faces, to draw things. At some point we learnt how to shade things, how to make things look like they’re covered in light, to draw three dimensions.

I saw a girl on the train writing in what looked like her diary, I couldn’t help feel struck by the meaningfulness of what was contained in her book, I imagined every of her insecurities written out in urgent questions to the inanimate Tesco ring-binder, I felt this chestnut-shaped wedge at the back of my throat, some mix of sympathy and love and urge to make everything better, answer all the imagined little questions in the book.

And so I felt similarly, albeit with more musical empathy than train-ride sympathy, sitting on a very tall stall at my local pub, watching Mark Wynn splutter out his contents in a stream of magnificent monologue. Some backbone of mild rhythm and a medium of familiar chord schemes, originated with his streaming mind, swilling and splashing, spilling off the stage. Often, when he was into it, it felt like he was in his own world and we were looking over his shoulder, seeing what he was seeing, observing his state of scribbled capital letters, writing to himself, helping us to a helpless sense of fascination and affection.

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