B to Q

Crafty Giver
Gifted Taker
Empty Pocket
Baby Maker
Pride In Failure
Agony In Work
Three Minute Memory
Hours of empty Talk
Rows and Rows of Houses
Lines That Never Go
Springing Trees of Blood
So near, so far, so low.

Wake Up Call

Crazy Little thing Called Moth

Look

That look across a crowded room,
Locking in a stare that that make pupils bloom.
Refusing to turn away, demanding that you stay,
Not noticing anything except your everything.
You feel the room swaying, your feet dancing stood still
Concentration wavers, your stomach starts to swill.

It's not love at first sight, it's not cupid firing his bow.
Your drunk and you disgust her,
It's time to make your way home.

Shift Into Leaves

Trees fall, they tumble onto weeds.
No one sheds a tear for fallen trees, nor trampled weeds
Why?
Because They Are Just Trees, and only Weeds (although technically not Weeds I know!)
And crying for them makes a mockery of Trees and weeping for imaginary weeds is just silly.

The Tumbleweed Memories Alphabet Of The Alternative Part 3

Alright kids, I've pondered this long enough.... We're going to talk anthropophagy.

Cannibalism, the act of eating the flesh of one's own species. Be it in tribal rituals or the Roman Catholic act of the eating of the flesh of Christ, it has always been with us; but still we usher it into a dark corner of the world of the moving picture. Yes, I know all about Hannibal Lector, but even with that cinematic boogieman his eating habits where much the subject of jokes (taken to ridiculous extremes in Ridley Scott's sequel)
The Italian cannibal movie. For a brief period during the seventies and early eighties the Italians churned out an astonishing amount of cannibal flicks, most followed the same story idea, white men enter jungle, fall foul of jabbering dancing savages, become dinner. These films were controversial all, (although perhaps not as controversial as the Italians Nazi concentration camp films) and with random exception terrible films that relied on shock value.
The most famous of these two carnivorous cannibal masterpieces.
Cannibal Ferox

Or Make Them Die Slowly as the poster says. A terrible movie in any respect, but it is one of the few movies in which you will hear the lines "and then they ate his genitals"
A university student travels to the Amazon with her friends to complete her thesis which suggests that cannibalism amongst humans is a falsehood, what follows is the most extreme dismissal of her argument as everyone they run into is cannibalised.
Racist to the extreme and featuring the gloating dismemberment of several living animals this is certainly controversial stuff and with drugs and a constant stream of sometimes hilarious swearing (bat shit being my personal fave) and of course cannibalism the film has of course become something of a cult legend.
Littered with awfully contrived scenes, listless performances, inappropriate disco music and direction that seems better suited to afternoon television, Cannibal Ferox has one saving grace, as token white villain Giovanni Lombardo Radice steals the show, spitting out vulgarities at every chance and shooting people for no reason he's like the little devil on your shoulder running around the jungle enjoying himself and screw everyone else, that is until he has his arm and penis severed and his skull removed like a boiled egg. Ah, they just don't make 'em like that any more

Cannibal Holocaust

Ruggero Deodato's Cannibal Holocaust is special, even the name is enough to send certain reviewers into a frenzy, like a hex or voodoo doll it has power over people, not just because of it's brutal visuals but because in the words of Lynne Gorman in David Cronenberg's Videodrome "it has a philosophy".

Four film makers go into the Amazon to film cannibals, they disappear, their footage later turning up it is up to a college professor to view the footage and discover what happened.

Clever almost to the point of becoming self defeating CH tries every trick in the book to convince you that what you are seeing is real, animals are butchered in close up (even the cast have trouble acting through these scenes) and documentary footage of soldiers killing villagers is passed off as fake, bemoaning the actions of Mondo film makers with these scenes Deodato never acknowledges the irony in shouting out against the very thing he is in fact showing, it's this point that annoys most viewers, well that and the animal mutilation: Of course I cannot condone this, but in it's defence at least here it is for the expansion of an idea, for character development, not just sensationalism as in Cannibal Ferox. The film is really about the problems that occur when conversation breaks down, all the problems between the tribes and the documentary makers happen because they force themselves upon the tribes not entering into any form of dialogue either vocal or through the language of symbols or through bartering, burning down a village is more sensational than just observing their daily routine. The desire for fame is also a motivating factor, presenting actual fact may be educationally important but it doesn't bring in the money, as the film crew violate the tribes and the surrounding environment all their talk is of fortune and fame, this is thirty years before the explosion of reality television, but all the symptoms are here, fame at any cost, rape a viewers senses and leave them open for more reality is only what you are told it is. The film crew are shown as shallow ugly people, vignettes with their family confirm this, compared to the tribes of the Amazon who are merely reacting to being forced into a corner by people with nothing but contempt for their heritage they are nothing but savages leaving a sad warning all those who follow in their footsteps.

The worst thing imaginable

People die, they suffer in living and in dying.
Their suffering passed on to passers by, to passers on, to relatives and never gives a damn who catches it's hurt next.
People live in fear of living, houses fall and jobs tumble, they fear for change, for giving change to the homeless man, whose home getting plan fell apart quicker than theirs, they fear his present, not knowing his past, but in their present situation, even that one coin makes them fear for their tomorrow, yet they happily dish out dollar, pounds and cheques for worthless items that television tells them they must have next.
People live in fear of dying, of the doing and the seeing and the not ever going to know. What's beyond, which side of the coin is better, a godless universe obliterated to nothing, eyes open blackness and never again love? Or a universal god, judging all and demanding blind love for the chance of being turned away at the gates for some indiscretion you weren't even told discreetly you were unable to indulge.
Where I stand on all this is insignificant, because I might just have scratched your car, and that may just be the worst thing imaginable.

Wasted Entry

I'm just filling time in my wasted life.
I'm just filling space inbetween them lines.
I'm just wasting storage space in cyber space.
I'm just wasting words, letters and punctuation.
I'm just taking liberties with entries that don't exist.
I'm just taking precious time from people reading this.

Let It Lie

Smother yourself in lies.
Cover up the truth that thrives
In ruining and changing the imagined bed you lie in.
The truth corrupts, alter perception, ends lives.
The lie comforts, protects, all the dreams to which you cling.
Imagine yourself a blissful existence free from pain, knowledge, the unnecessary destruction of loved ones.
Lies offer none of this, just a cotton ball of deflection, a life where nothing ever changes, nothing ever phases, nothing is real and everything is fun.
Tell lies and the truth is all but gone.
It's fragile place on the mantelpiece covered in dust where it lies.

The Tumbleweed Memories Alphabet Of The Alternative Part 2

Boarding House

Reviewing movies is easy. It all boils down to one simple thing, is the damn thing any good?

Then along comes Boarding House and screws it all up. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO THINK ABOUT IT!

Claiming to be the first ever film shot entirely on video Boarding House may be the story of a haunted death house and it's new inhabitants, it also may be about nothing of the sort. That's the joy/agony of Boarding House, even if it knew what it was about it just isn't going to tell you. You could watch the film forwards, backwards, stick another film on half way through, it won't make a jot of difference. And you know what? I applaud it for that (only because I am genuinely scared that the movie may come and get me).

If there is any horror to be found here, it is to be found in director/star John Wintergate who parades around for much of the movie bedding the seemingly endless cast of women and dressing like this.

The female inhabitants of the Boarding House are many, they fight, love, sit around the pool, have pie fights and strip off a lot, unsurprisingly a quite significant chunk of running time is spent with these women. With regard to the plot, it pops by every once in a while sits by the pool and then just falls asleep, conversations seemingly related to the plot are forgotten only to be picked up again some twenty minutes later as if nothing else has gone on, some things are totally ignored and more often than not the cast simply refuse to react to what is happening onscreen, it's as if someone filmed between scenes instead of bothering with the film. A woman hallucinates she has a pig face, but nobody seems that bothered, someone screams the place down after encountering some devilish thing and all her room mates can do is ask her if she wants some pizza. Our studly leading man can make soap levitate with the power of his mind and after telling someone it's easy to do they can do it instantly and join forces with him in the dry ice laden finale.

I know this all sounds worse than Coneheads but I'm not so sure, whether the film subliminally brainwashed me or whether the shoddy 80's video graphics that attempted to show me the credits scorched part of my brain away: but Boarding House may also be the future of cinema, years from now I envisage it being rediscovered and a whole genre boom being directly attributed to it. A kitchen sink of a movie, that delivers all an audience could ever want and dropped off in a package that makes David Lynch appear king of linear cinema.

All hail John Wintergate and roll on Boarding House 2!

The Tumbleweed Memories Alphabet of the Alternative part 1

AXE (a.k.a Lisa, Lisa)

Frederick Friedel's 1972 thriller, originally called Lisa, Lisa ( certainly a more apt title ) was renamed Axe by shrewd distributor Harry Novak hoping to put more bums on seats with a more visceral title and a lurid advertising campaign "Little Lisa Took An Axe, Gave Her Captors Forty Whacks", whilst it may have done the trick it actually does the film a disservice, far from being a sadistic revenge flick, or a video nasty ( as it was branded in the U.K during the 80's) it is actually a quietly unnerving little film that says more in it's silence than in it's (admittedly) awkward dialogue.

Three convicts on the run seek sanctuary in a remote farmhouse inhabited by the titular Lisa, and her disabled grandfather, the convicts (bar one) begin to enjoy tormenting their hosts, until the quiet mysterious Lisa begins to turn the tide.

It all sound very familiar (particularly in the field of independent films from the 1970's) but Axe stands apart from it's more brutish companions, certainly not as laden with grue nor filled to the brim with sexual violence, Axe might just be pulling the wool over the eyes of it's audience, particularly with the character of Lisa. As played by Leslie Lee, she initially seems a shy, naive country girl, but there is something else going on, her grandfather though totally dependant on Lisa seems more terrified of her than of the more obvious threat posed by their visitors, in a clever move, this back story is never expanded upon leaving the audience, much like the three convicts totally unprepared for how things will unfold.

The film is paced with little consideration for those expecting a cheap thrill, even given it's short running time Axe is more concerned with tension and atmosphere than quick cutting and blood letting, and with it's character relationships it is more akin to a Southern Gothic than a Penny Dreadful, the photography more interested in capturing a unique angle or dramatic shard of light or shadow, than simply showing what is taking place, in fact at times it appears as if Axe may just be a slide show with added voice over, this could of course be just down to a lack of time on location, a need to shoot fast and ask questions later, but this is the wonder of cinema that appears beneath the radar, a refusal to play by the rules, and like the film makers themselves we, the audience must be prepared to ignore cinematic dogma, either that or go back to watching The A-Team.

Free Time

A Crime to tell time.
A Crime to waste time.
A Shame that time won't wait.
A Shame that time will take.
Looking at seconds chasing minutes in the ticking of a clock won't free it from the shackles of an hour, any more than pretending free time isn't all the time your not looking for it at all.

Road

I really ought to go to bed,
There's nothing here for me.
The day's sorry song's been sung
The bread's been won,
The handcuffs are on,
The damage is done.
And the race has been run,
And the hoping has gone,
Along with the fun,
And the set of the sun
And the love has been wrung
Now I'm holding a gun
And it's weighing a tonne,
On the road that I'm on.
On this road that I'm on.

What Became Of Elton

Sat there in his suit and tie,
Holding court on all things
Watford vs Coven-try,
I wonder to myself
What became of Elton?
Oh, tell me that he didn't die.
Bouffant like a believer
Of a destiny as heir apparent
To Richard Keys.
And still I can't unlock
the mystery of
what became of Elton

Can someone help me, please?

I remember him, I remember him...

Introducing cameos from
Vinnies Samways and Jones.
At half-time of a game,
I wonder what became
Of Elton, all the same.
I recall the glint in his eyes
That hoped for a future
Hosting Littlewoods Cup ties,
Sporting Dickie Davies hair-dyes.
I wonder what became
of Elton Welsby.
Perhaps he lives in Selby
Walking in his suit and tie
in Morrison's, pushing his trolley
Holding a moth-eaten brolley
Telling everyone who'll listen
That he used to be on telly.

For Him

We burn as we watch
The grey clouds of eyes
turn to rum
And then on to gin.
So will someone say:
She died for him,
She died for him.

Wanton Vandalism

I could damage myself if the stars aligned
I touch the soles of my shoes three times
And call it superstition
But grafitti makes me touch my eyes

And I'll rampage if the cars collide
I touch the souls of your dead three times
And I'm calling it religion
And grfitti mkes me meat my ayes.

Postcard From A Mine

Shine a light and let me see the sunshine batteries.

Yours,

Mine

Skimming Stones

Come on, girl,
Give me a piece of light,
Or a crust of bread,
Or a guage of what's
going on in your head
Cause I'm picking up on nothing
But long-wave radio when
You're giving me digital
And I feel like a rock in
A rockpool
That you just spotted
And threw in the ocean,
A skimming stone that sank
So, thanks
But, well, you know...
No thanks.

Words To No-One

"I don't feel a thing for you"
The seven hardest words you'll use
When you love someone.

"I don't feel a thing for you"
The seven hardest words you'll use
When you lose someone.

"I don't need a thing from you"
The seven hardest words you'll use
When you need someone.

"I don't care who you sleep with"
The seven hardest words you'll use
As you lie awake

"I love you"
The hardest words you'll ever lose.

Perfecting Lies

And what did we make of The Tens?
Will we make our kids proud,
Now we sit in our 40s
Hearing the distant sound
Of the shovel hitting the ground?
Or will we enter The Twenties
Pretending we're teens
Playing games to take our minds
From blowing ourselves
To smithereens?

Bury our brains in pixels
Keep perfecting lies.

Bury our brains in pixels
Keep perfecting lies.

Vinegar Trees

You distort me.
You make me sound like ships
Crashing wayward
On the Atlantic,
While planes paint patterns
Overhead with chemicals
Compounding me.

You distort me,
But I'm not like the things you are.
I'm in a submarine world
Hogging oxygen
And selling bottles for profit
Keeping you for myself.

You distort me,
And you do as I write,
Writhing like a caterpillar
when it's raining vinegar
From the vineyards
Of Vinegar Trees.

Squares Of Light

Blood fell just on my teeth, an indescribable feeling in this sweltering heat.
Blood ran upwards from feet, yes feet, an indescribable sight in this sweltering heat.
For breakfast, so sweet, the chunks of raw meat, an indescribable taste in this sweltering heat.
And your body, hanging out of sight from the street, slowly decaying, an indescribable stench in this sweltering heat.
But the sun is a shining.
The birds are a singing,
The day is still young.
And I may go for an ice cream, find a tree near a seat, and hide away from this indescribable but beautiful sweltering heat.

Of All That Matters

Towers taller than towers
A badge and a tie that promises underwhelming powers
Like gold plated urinals and parking that tell everyone everyday who you want them to see.
An office with a office inside.
A salary that makes you smirk at the sheep on the sly.
As if sheep would understand what that smirk means to you, as if they would think of anything other than what they were going to do,
A computer in front that contains all of your brains.
With such power, such gravitas you struggle to refrain,
From telling your friends you control ten other people who look just the same.
You building is the height of 4000 dull men, and when you stride to the top you can no longer spy,
The people who will be you, when it no longer means much for you to be you,
or when the they that can be you can do it for half the price.

To Sell A Blog

It has been bought to my attention that whilst loyal support from the many, many Tumblers remains at a high level, it is entirely possible that the outside web, the place beyond the search button is unaware of the existence of this blog. I'll give you a moment to get over that shocker......
Right, okay now?
Anyway, whilst I am happy to continue in the vein that has seen Tumbleweed Memories through the turbulent times of the last three years, I also understand that sometimes things need to change, to adapt to modern times, maybe appeal to a wider audience, maybe deal with a few different issues.
I want you to know, this does not mean that the mighty TW will be selling out, anyway I will list below a few ideas for future blog articles, let us know what you think.

1. Premiership Football
2. Miley Cyrus
3. 13th Century Florentine: Pier della Vigna
4. The Rubik's Cube
5. Bela Lugosi
6. Dutch Elm Disease
7. The demise of Radio
8. Batteries
9. Del Amitri
10. Pot Noodles and their place in 21st Century cuisine.

Why Are We Stopping Here?

Why?
Well?
Why?
I want to know, why?
With a world on the go, with a never ending circle and an impossible number of trees to shelter under.
Why a day and a night with feet rooted in cement stops worlds colliding, stops wings being spread.
Not putting thoughts in mouths, no putting fingers on maps.
This isn't the deep dark wounds of a mind in transition.
I'm just asking questions.
Because If I'm not, then why?