I’m sitting on a whale-shaped fallen tree on Hampstead
Heath, waiting my turn to climb inside the “tree with the hole” to record one
of my audio blogs for the Requiem project. There are two dreadlocked white
people sitting inside, having a rather intense conversation about life, which I’m
loathed to interrupt. However, if they’re still sitting there by the time I’ve
written this blog, I might have to ask if they’d mind my stepping in for a few
minutes.
The heath is a funny old place on a smoky, dusty, mid summer’s
night. The whole place becomes a giant speaker system, and you can hear people
talking miles away, so still and soft is the air. It’s a very magical place.
A group of children has now moved into the tree. They’re
Americans and they’re projecting! I’m quite impressed that their parents are
encouraging them to be as quiet as possible. In this kind of acoustic you
genuinely don’t need to do anything other than whisper! I also rather love the
fact that there are little kids wondering around the heath at dusk. These are
the long summer days which they’ll remember for the rest of their lives.
Magical places like this tree are made even more special when the fading light
starts to play tricks on the mind. There’s many a time I’ve come to the heath
at this time, and seen all sorts of ghostly shapes and hues out of the corner
of my eye.
Today’s been about admin and started at Highgate cemetery,
where we’re filming next Wednesday. The lovely woman who showed me around
brought my attention to a plaque in their newly refurbished chapel. The tablet
was left in 1877 and is dedicated to a 36 year old man called George, “he was
my friend, faithful and just to me...” and is signed “by his sorrowing friend,
Albert”
It would be conjecture in the extreme for me to suggest that
these were a pair of gay Victorian lovers, but the plaque serves to remind us
that since the beginning of time, gay men and women have been rather shunned by
the conventions of death. Even these, I’m sad to say, that it’s still slightly
distasteful for two men to want to be buried together.
The American family are still here – and it’s getting really
dark. The father is obsessively taking photographs of the inside of the tree –
the flash light is blinding me - and Mom is spreading out a picnic. All very
nice and everything (if not slightly eccentric at dusk) but as I wait, my computer
batteries are running low, and hundreds of mosquitoes have started to buzz
around my head. They don’t usually like me, but I reckon these ones are going
to make an exception.
This afternoon I went into Crouch End, and then to Muswell
Hill, preparing stuff for our shoot tomorrow. We’re trying to film sequences to
accompany the Offertory, which is the most experimental of all the movements.
PK has just sent me a series of mind-numbing mixes which both terrify and
thrill me!
August 9th, 1662, and Pepys, yet again, was up at
4am, getting on with a day of business which took him East to Trinity House and
then west as far as Whitehall.
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