Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow, everybody needs a bosom....

I could post the lyrics, but hey, why make it too easy for you.
The record: Brimful of Asha, by Cornershop, 1997.


Oh. Alright then.

There's dancing
Behind movie scenes
Behind the movie scenes
Sadi Rani
She's the one that keeps the dream alive
from the morning
past the evening
to the end of the light
Brimful of Asha on the 45
Well it's a brimful of Asha on the 45
Brimful of Asha on the 45
Well it's a brimful of Asha on the 45

And dancing
Behind movie scenes
Behind those movie screens
Asha Bhosle
She's the one that keeps the dream alive
from the morning
past the evening
to the end of the light
Brimful of Asha on the 45
Well it's a brimful of Asha on the 45
Brimful of Asha on the 45
Well it's a brimful of Asha on the 45

And singing
illuminate the main streets
And the cinema aisles
We don't care bout no
Government warnings,
'bout their promotion of the simple life
And the dams they're building
Brimful of Asha on the 45
Well it's a brimful of Asha on the 45
Brimful of Asha on the 45
Well it's a brimful of Asha on the 45

Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow
Everybody needs a bosom
Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow
Everybody needs a bosom
Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow
Everybody needs a bosom
Mine's on the 45

Mohamed Rafi -45
Lata Mangeshkar -45
Solid state radio -45
Fer-guh-son mono -45
Bancs publics -45
Jacques Dutronc and the Bolan Boogie, the Heavy
Hitters and the Chichi music
All India Radio-45
Two in ones -45
Argo Records -45
Trojan Records -45

Brimful of Asha on the 45
Well it's a brimful of asha on the 45
Brimful of Asha on the 45
Well it's a brimful of asha on the 45

Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow
Everybody needs a bosom
Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow
Everybody needs a bosom
Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow
Everybody needs a bosom
Mine's on the 45

seven seven thousand piece
Orchestra set
Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow
Mine's on the RPM!!

Brimful of Asha on the 45
Well it's a brimful of asha on the 45
Brimful of Asha on the 45
Well it's a brimful of asha on the 45

Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow
Everybody needs a bosom
Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow
Everybody needs a bosom
Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow
Everybody needs a bosom
Mine's on the 45

Pocahontas

I recall the story of Pocahontas, from when I was a child, how she saved the englishman, Captain John Smith from having his brains bashed out with a big rock, by putting her head over his, and defying her father, her chief, her people, to save him.
This story, of course, like so many I read then, was almost totally mythical.
If you really want to know more, I can tell you she died of smallpox, at Gravesend, in Kent, on the south coast of England.
Or you can read what Powhatan Museum has to say about her.
Here, however, we're just listening to music, Neil Young.
I like content in songs, I like there to be a story in the lyrics, or beautiful images. This song, (like so many of Neil Young's), has both.

Aurora borealis
The icy sky at night
Paddles cut the water
In a long and hurried flight
From the white man
To the fields of green
And the homeland
We've never seen.

They killed us in our tepee
And they cut our women down
They might have left some babies
Cryin' on the ground
But the firesticks
And the wagons come
And the night falls
On the setting sun.

They massacred the buffalo
Kitty corner from the bank
The taxis run across my feet
And my eyes have turned to blanks
In my little box
At the top of the stairs
With my Indian rug
And a pipe to share.

I wish a was a trapper
I would give thousand pelts
To sleep with Pocahontas
And find out how she felt
In the mornin'
On the fields of green
In the homeland
We've never seen.

And maybe Marlon Brando
Will be there by the fire
We'll sit and talk of Hollywood
And the good things there for hire
And the Astrodome
And the first tepee
Marlon Brando, Pocahontas and me
Marlon Brando, Pocahontas and me
Pocahontas.

Unknown Legend...

A Poem

Jump Cabling

When our cars touched
When you lifted the hood of mine
To see the intimate workings underneath,
When we were bound together
By a pulse of pure energy,
When my car like the princess
In the tale woke with a start,
I thought why not ride the rest of the way together.

Linda Pastan

More on Volcanic Ash, From the Experts...

Go HERE for pdf pamphlets.
Damn! I can't get this to format... So it goes in as it is.

Ash clouds: Eyjafjallajökull

Just a few words on ash. Here in Britain all aviation is shut down, as it has been since very early on thursday morning. Why? because of a cloud of volcanic ash,  hurled into the sky by the icelandic volcano known as Eyjafjallajökull.(Ash is actually a rather incorrect name for it. Ash, I think of as the residue left after combustion. This is not residue after combustion, ejecta might be more correct, mineral matter, spicules of basaltic glass. One airport "spokesman" was rambling on about ash and soot. He seemed to think the air was full of soot too. What a muppet. He will be earning vastly more than me of course, so I'll try not to feel too critical of his lack of understanding about the events which have closed down his industry. Maybe he's really good at powerpoint presentations.)
Journalists around the world are tripping over their tongues trying to say Eyjafjallajökull. There are a myriad different versions out there. Once upon a time, the BBC had a pronunciation department whose job was to make sure newsreaders didn't make fools of themselves. Would it be so very difficult for the TV stations to call the Icelandic embassy, or Icelandair, or anywhere they can find an icelandic person, to ask for the correct pronunciation?

Eyja means "islands", (Ay-ya) fjalla (fya-tla( means mountain, jökull (yer-kutt) means glacier, or icecap,  "Ay-ya fya-tla-yerkutt", there's a slight "l" sound on the end, not a full-fledged "l",  not quite "tl", just half an "l" sounded. That's as near as I can get. From memory.
I'd imagine it got its name when early norsemen saw it as one of the first sights of land to the west of Norway, they thought it islands, then, closer, saw it was a mountain on a bigger island, covered in ice.
The volcano is in the mountain, beneath the glacier, and so the active crater first caused a huge icemelt which flooded rivers and washed out roads.

 Another Icelandic Volcano, Hekla, 

as described by Abraham Ortelius in 1585

The latin text "Hekla perpetuis/damnata estib. et ni:/uib. horrendo boatu/lapides evomit" means "The Hekla, perpetually condemned to storms and snow, vomits stones under terrible noise."

The blast of the eruption coincided with  a period of calm weather, low winds, so up there, from 10,000 to sixty thousand feet in a broad swathe across the north atlantic, scandinavia, and western europe the air is filled with highly abrasive dust. It melts onto, and clogs jet engines. It stops them. Which is not a thing you want to be present for.
It will abrade the surface off glass windscreens, leaving a plane flying blind, it will block instruments. So aviation has shut down, totally.
It's strange. Looking up, we see clear blue sky, not a trace of any visible cloud. Yet its up there. My car is covered in a fine film of dust. No more than if I'd driven a half mile of dusty farm road.
Yet there are no lines in the sky, no vapour trails. No faint, far-off rumble of jet engines throttling back as they line up on the airport.
No police helicopter clattering about in the night sky. No yellow air-ambulance rushing busily toward the helipad a couple of miles to the west.
No little planes, no weekend pilots, no military heavy-lifts.. It's only when they're not there that you notice how much a part of the daily scene are machines flying in the sky.


Just close by to this eruption is the sleeping giant, Katla.
If Katla erupts, this one will look like a pimple in comparison. There's also a lot more ice depth over it, so the mudflows and flooding will be far more aggressive.
I've flown over volcanoes a couple of times, as I think I posted about before, close enough for the skin of the plane to become too hot to touch inside the cockpit. And close enough for the noise of things hitting the plane to be louder than the engines. Both were propellor-driven, not jets, but I'd hate to think of how rapidly that stuff was clogging the intakes.
The wings, in which the fuel tanks live, were even hotter.
I loved living in Iceland, even though it was often cold, wet, and windy, it's a beautiful country,  sitting over the junctures of two tectonic plates, it's the place where the Mid-Atlantic ridge is exposed above the surface of the ocean, where you can see geology in action, land forms that can change in a matter of days- minutes, even.
Where you can see new-born rock, hold it in your hand, the magma of our planet's interior.

And right now, some of that's sifting down out of the sky, all over northern europe.

Following comments, a couple of links that will help explain why flights are grounded.
Speedbird 9, or the Galunggung Glider.
BBC-How Ash Affects Airliners.
Boeing, Volcanic Ash Procedures.
BBC current situation reports.http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/8628323.stm

A KLM  Boeing 747 flew into ash over Alaska in 1987, all four engines stopped. They were successfully restarted at 14000ft, and the aircraft landed safely, but the less than six month old plane suffered $80 million in damage, including all the engines having to be replaced.

Getting There!

On Tuesday I took a ride out to get the vital kiln shelves and materials...
And a few tools to replace the rusty and worn-out ones, boxwood modelling tools to replace some horrible plastic ones. Off the shelf glazes and a few glaze materials to mix a couple more. I've hardly ever used ready-made glazes before, but now, if ever, is the time. I'm aiming for a slightly lower stoneware firing too. Call it saving the planet, or call it saving on electricity bills. one of those.  I came home £450:00 poorer. That's almost 690 dollars.
Last time I was buying materials for thjs much money we were talking almost two tons of clay and dry materials in 25 kilo bags.. (50lb)...
This tucked away in the back of the Land-Rover with a lot of room to spare.
Sigh. This is the 21st century, get used to it.
One of my favourite pottery books is Dennis Park's Potters guide to Raw Glazing and Waste-Oil Firing.

He gets great results, and unashamedly says he does it because he's cheap. He reckons a shovelful of any dirt and a shovelful of ash is pretty much always a  viable glaze. He fires on the oil drained out of crankcases at service-time, and glazes without bisc firing, using tumbleweed ash and mine-tailings. (In Tuscarora, Nevada, high desert, abandoned mining towns).

I Sometimes Wonder...

...Where are they now?
Do other potters think like me? Wonder who bought the pot, did it get used? did it get stuffed into a cabinet, or high on a shelf?  Or did it get broken, and carted away to landfill?
When I make a teapot, it has to work as a teapot, no matter how far from the traditional shape it may be.
This one was for a gallery in Knaresborough, 1988.
Inspired by Maurice Sendak.

"Leaves in My Virginia!"

A Local Doc, over Rocky Lunchtime Bourbon, Speaks of Barter and Hopeful Home Remedies

 

Nostrums? Lordy, I have seen them all.

Alcohol’s the favorite. Many a quack’s

panacea bottled in a cellar and hawked

from door to door is thriving still.

Bindweed’s supposed to heal a bruise.

Cherokee remedies still survive,

and slave recipes—hyssop, juniper, chives.

Waitress, freshen this elixir, if you please.

One day a hefty woman who works a loom

down at Pepperell Mills sauntered in

with no appointment and perched herself prim

as an English queen in the waiting room.

What happened next? For a prolapsed

uterus, folk medicine recommends

inserting an Irish potato. It works,

if you can stand the weight, my friends.

Well, she’d relied on that specific

since winter. We’d hit, you understand, July,

and her complaint, not one bit shy,

was, Leaves in my virginia. Not beatific,

no, but she was composed, no maniac,

and it made some sense. What better place

than a protected pocket, warm and moist?

But the spud had sprouted, sent runners amok.

You never know in these flatland burley

counties if your manual skills will bloom

as sawbones or private gardener. Deftly,

I removed the obstruction and took it home.

I’ve raised a whole colony in my window box,

and bake, fry, or boil, I’m proud as hell

of this year’s crop. The woman paid her bill

with eggs and applejack. Life is a paradox.

Now I’ve got to rush back and tend my flock.

Got appointments at four—a pregnant lady,

a leg to set, twins to inspect for chicken pox,

and Marvin with his routine emergency.

I guess you could say my practice is thriving.

Drop by, and I’ll fry you up some shallot

hash browns in Margie’s seasoned skillet,

a flavor I can promise is sure to revive

any ailing soul. Where do I get my onions?

Don’t ask. The whole sweet world is a garden

R. T. Smith