Excellent Uses for Blogs (1)
10/11/06 09:59
Roddy tests the thesis that bad girls in songs are always called Judy; lists the names of figure-skating moves; turns some excellent Google phrase searches into lists of, say, 'I lost my virginity when...'; and so on.
Waste some time.
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Googling Former Homes (5)
28/10/06 16:57
One odd feature of this odd project is how easy
it is to find photographs of the houses/buildings
I lived in overseas. My homes in England are
proving very elusive. Is it something to do with
types of area in which “ex-pats”
live? Or something to do with the unphotogenic
nature of the streets of identical terrace houses
in which I have, almost invariably, lived in when
in this country?
I lived on the top floor of this building for a few months in 1998. It is on the southern side of Helsinki centre, on the border between Ullanlinna (<—link to Flickr photos tagged with Ullanlinna) and Eira (<— link to Wikipedia entry)
In this case, it’s certainly true that the availability of an image from the web is related to the nature of the area – I wouldn’t have been living in such a place unless the rent was being paid for me by a company I was doing some work for.
Clicking on the thumbnail will give you a larger version.
I lived on the top floor of this building for a few months in 1998. It is on the southern side of Helsinki centre, on the border between Ullanlinna (<—link to Flickr photos tagged with Ullanlinna) and Eira (<— link to Wikipedia entry)
In this case, it’s certainly true that the availability of an image from the web is related to the nature of the area – I wouldn’t have been living in such a place unless the rent was being paid for me by a company I was doing some work for.
Clicking on the thumbnail will give you a larger version.
Googling Former Homes (4)
24/10/06 17:04
We are now into the realms of peripheral vision
– I have managed to find two images which
show (or almost-show) two of the three buildings
I lived in in Hamburg in the mid-/late-80s,
caught at the edge of photographs of unrelated
matters.
William Gibson
would surely be proud.
This
photograph is one of many from an activism site,
recording the stages of a demonstration. The
square archway (?) in the building to the left is
the entrance to the first flat I lived in when I
moved to Hamburg in 1986 – you’ll
need to click on the thumbnail to see the larger
version.
I have to say, the scene itself is very much how I remember the time.
Another
photograph from an activism site – this
time the slightly tamer world of cycling
activism, cataloguing the blocking of cycle
paths.
I lived in two flats in the building to the right – the ground floor front (visible here), and – briefly – the floor above.
Clicking on the thumbnail will give you a larger version, should you wish for such a thing.
The third building from my time in Hamburg is proving elusive. Surprisingly so – the area itself has been much-photographed recently, since the railway goods yards which fronted the entire street have recently been abandoned, leading to many a photoset on Flickr and Hamburg media sources. Somewhere on the edge of a photograph must surely lurk the 5-storey Altbau on the corner of Harkortstrasse and Holtenaustrasse.
I have to say, the scene itself is very much how I remember the time.
I lived in two flats in the building to the right – the ground floor front (visible here), and – briefly – the floor above.
Clicking on the thumbnail will give you a larger version, should you wish for such a thing.
The third building from my time in Hamburg is proving elusive. Surprisingly so – the area itself has been much-photographed recently, since the railway goods yards which fronted the entire street have recently been abandoned, leading to many a photoset on Flickr and Hamburg media sources. Somewhere on the edge of a photograph must surely lurk the 5-storey Altbau on the corner of Harkortstrasse and Holtenaustrasse.
Googling Former Homes (3)
23/10/06 18:08
OK, it’s all a bit sad, but here’s
another one.
During my childhood, we were twice based in a small German town called Iserlohn – from 1967-70 and then again from 1972-76. Unusually, the two houses we occupied during these two ‘tours’ were neighbouring ones – 49 & 51 Dürerstraße.
Perhaps
in recognition of the unifying force of my having
lived in both, the houses themselves have since
been connected, having apparently been converted
to a Kindergarten. The piece of architectural
frippery on the nearside is a later addition. In
converting the houses into one, the entrance has
been shifted from front to back – I guess
because the steps up to the houses were steep,
without space for the creation of a child- or
wheelchair-friendly slope. It’s a poor
picture, but it follows my self-imposed rules of
finding web photos of former homes.
Having lived a total of 7 years in Iserlohn, and formative ones at that, it feels like the closest to a home town that I have.
During my childhood, we were twice based in a small German town called Iserlohn – from 1967-70 and then again from 1972-76. Unusually, the two houses we occupied during these two ‘tours’ were neighbouring ones – 49 & 51 Dürerstraße.
Having lived a total of 7 years in Iserlohn, and formative ones at that, it feels like the closest to a home town that I have.
Googling Former Homes (3)
18/10/06 18:11
Aha! Found another one (in fact, No. 3 will be
along shortly – how strange that it’s
possible to find images of previous houses on the
web).
Known
by the inhabitants as ‘Squash Court
Villas’, here is an image of the house I
lived in from shortly after I was born to the age
of 5 (1962-67). The house is in an Army enclave
called Blenheim Village, in the
Dhekelia Cantonment
in Cyprus. It appears to be still used as Army
housing.
A poem from a visit to Northern Cyprus a few years ago (the first time back since the age of 5). This poem has never met with the approval of editors etc., but I wheel it out at readings:
Postcards from Famagusta
I.
Haloed still, the Saints’ purged faces
Still raimented, if that’s the word
for colours draining down the walls
towards the rubble, weeds and turds.
Map-marked still, the streets you named me
Yes, still extant, if that’s the term
for pockmarked hulks of wired-off houses
where rats and sentries take their turns.
That jetty’s there – the one you swam from.
It still strides out, if that’s the phrase
for broken pilings stripped of planking
within the watchtower’s arc and range.
The hill-road’s open. The uplands offer
cool relief, if that’s the point
of all this earth-art angled Southwards:
Flags and slogans. Threats and taunts.
II.
We’re out of season.
The chairs are cleared.
The pool stays flat.
The lobby’s dull with uncut wax.
A cane-and-cut-glass chandelier
lies outspread like a polypod.
Our mornings flutter by with books.
The barman makes his brasswork glitter
with vinegar and a twist of cloth.
At night, the headlands push out arms
pricked with beads of coastal lights.
They bleed a little of what lies behind:
the South shines orange; the North glows green.
The night we crossed the plain to here,
the hills tracked us like arcing fins.
The driver nodded to the shattering flares
of some wired compound, turned and grinned:
“Your country! Your country, over there!”
A poem from a visit to Northern Cyprus a few years ago (the first time back since the age of 5). This poem has never met with the approval of editors etc., but I wheel it out at readings:
Postcards from Famagusta
I.
Haloed still, the Saints’ purged faces
Still raimented, if that’s the word
for colours draining down the walls
towards the rubble, weeds and turds.
Map-marked still, the streets you named me
Yes, still extant, if that’s the term
for pockmarked hulks of wired-off houses
where rats and sentries take their turns.
That jetty’s there – the one you swam from.
It still strides out, if that’s the phrase
for broken pilings stripped of planking
within the watchtower’s arc and range.
The hill-road’s open. The uplands offer
cool relief, if that’s the point
of all this earth-art angled Southwards:
Flags and slogans. Threats and taunts.
II.
We’re out of season.
The chairs are cleared.
The pool stays flat.
The lobby’s dull with uncut wax.
A cane-and-cut-glass chandelier
lies outspread like a polypod.
Our mornings flutter by with books.
The barman makes his brasswork glitter
with vinegar and a twist of cloth.
At night, the headlands push out arms
pricked with beads of coastal lights.
They bleed a little of what lies behind:
the South shines orange; the North glows green.
The night we crossed the plain to here,
the hills tracked us like arcing fins.
The driver nodded to the shattering flares
of some wired compound, turned and grinned:
“Your country! Your country, over there!”
Googling Former Homes (1)
08/10/06 18:16
Perhaps it’s middle age, but I found myself
trying to Google up former homes. Here’s
the first result – the house (or its
identical neighbour) in which I lived between the
ages of 9 and 11 (70-72ish).
The
luxuries of neo-Colonial living, eh? It’s
all a bit redolent of Gin and Lime and rattan
chairs. My father was an officer in the British
Army, and this was probably the flashest example
of Married Quarters the family enjoyed.
The ‘enclave’ in which the house was located has become an area for evenings out – many of the houses have been converted into restaurants. It is, apparently, considered ‘of historical interest’ because of its former existence as a collection of British Officers’ houses; although I seem to remember that when the Army left Singapore in the early 70s, the houses were snapped up by Chinese businessmen.
Clicking on the thumbnail will give you a larger version.
The ‘enclave’ in which the house was located has become an area for evenings out – many of the houses have been converted into restaurants. It is, apparently, considered ‘of historical interest’ because of its former existence as a collection of British Officers’ houses; although I seem to remember that when the Army left Singapore in the early 70s, the houses were snapped up by Chinese businessmen.
Clicking on the thumbnail will give you a larger version.