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I've tended to pass Brum on the M6 going North. Couple of times *mistakenly* gone off the M42 just to play round the houses. The architecture of Birmingham isn't exactly lauded this side of the water. I think Pevsner by-passed it on his travels. Crikey, no he didn't: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Birmingham-Pevsner-Architectural-Guides-Guide/dp/0300107315 I bet the Bullring isn't there. The centre of Birmingham was notorious for being re-constructed every so often. But no, I can't remember bypassing those buildings. I went by above 5 years ago, so they could well have sprung up since then. Brummies are manic builders. BTB, "highways"? Roger On Thu, Aug 14, 2008 at 8:33 PM, Judy Prince <[log in to unmask]> wrote: > Thanks, Dave. > Having read the lovely comparison btn the 2 Birmingham's that R'Owl so > kindly passed on to us all, I now need some info. Don't know if you or > Roger would have it. > Have only been to Birmingham "recently" and to stay overnite in a hotel, > having been flight-cancelled enroute to the USA. On that long taxi drive > to/from the airport, tho much of the sights were like all bigg-ish cities > (depressingly ugly), I absolutely LOVED the look of a group of maybe 70s or > 80s apartment buildings that sat close to the highway. Just googled a > comprehensive site for B'ham architecture (images), and was impressed at the > breadth of talent displayed. [Having spent 30-plus years in Chicago, I know > something of varied impressive urban architecture]. On that site, the > closest I could come up with for what I'd seen and loved, was Eikenald > (sp?). The loved buildings were mid-rise, perhaps 5 of them, and they > caught the eye with colourful rectangular well-windowed unit fronts; the > entire effect was cheerful, lean, clean, and comfy. Any clue what those > buildings might be called, where exactly they are, who designed them, and > when they were constructed? > > [Roger, are you listening?] > > Thanks, > > Judy > > 2008/8/14 David Bircumshaw <[log in to unmask]> > >> A Madeline-crusher! Like it, Judy. >> >> (I'm trying to keep quiet about the Brummie bit today, for Alabaman >> reasons.) >> >> 2008/8/14 Judy Prince <[log in to unmask]>: >> > Fantastic, Dave! >> > I don't see why a Brummie p-book can't top the Madeleine-crusher, do you? >> > <G> >> > >> > Quit talking and start writing, m'duck. >> > >> > J >> > >> > 2008/8/14 David Bircumshaw <[log in to unmask]> >> > >> >> Judy >> >> >> >> what a remarkable reply! >> >> >> >> I can say I'm not in retreat: this latest piece was written before my >> >> previous. As for Oedipus-schmeedipus: I grew up in a quadrangle, >> >> composed of myself, my parents and the ghost of my brother, who died >> >> before my birth. I can confess that when I was thirteen I thought >> >> 'Sons and Lovers' a great book, but it was more for the description of >> >> the fight with Baxter Dawes. >> >> >> >> When I did read Freud, I found it disappointingly 'shallow' (your good >> >> word). I do think that often in family structures the parents are the >> >> primary persons of either sex that one forms a relationship with and >> >> that has an influence on later relationships but I wouldn't go much >> >> further than that common-sensical observation. >> >> >> >> I posted the piece, btw, because at the weekend I actually found a >> >> copy of my long-lost childhood encyclopedia, in a charity shop. I've >> >> had some rather Proustian moments since! >> >> >> >> Still chewing on the rest of your post, thanks, most interesting. >> >> >> >> All the Best >> >> >> >> Dave >> >> >> >> 2008/8/14 Judy Prince <[log in to unmask]>: >> >> > You're still fighting the poem-book, Dave. A genius who wants to >> >> retreat. >> >> > Don't retreat. >> >> > Poetry's beauty is that it's not prose. Your book began, as today's >> >> > "chapter" begins, as poetry, and then you decided to explain, and then >> >> you >> >> > got back to the glory. >> >> > >> >> > Poetry's beauty is that it doesn't explain; that's not its purpose. >> It >> >> > Reveals, in a taut shiver or a sagging that we readers have worn, too. >> >> And >> >> > we want help. >> >> > >> >> > What do _you_ want? What do you most fervently want? >> >> > >> >> > In your Oedipal triangle, at times so lush and hurting, what does the >> >> little >> >> > boy do? He's a full third of the poembook, nah? >> >> > >> >> > Is it, in fact, so shallow as an Oedipal triangle? >> >> > >> >> > Is there any humour---not mocking, but a fireside humour---in the >> >> > boy-recalls? >> >> > >> >> > Ah, these were bold and gentle times and folk, despite what you'll >> >> surfacely >> >> > think. And you've given us some of that. >> >> > >> >> > We want nothing less than all of your recollections....poetic. >> >> > >> >> > Git on w' you, then. >> >> > >> >> > Judy >> >> > >> >> > >> >> > >> >> > 2008/8/14 David Bircumshaw <[log in to unmask]> >> >> > >> >> >> From My Home Encyclopaedia: >> >> >> >> >> >> >> >> >> I have a vague memory of my father, pot-bellied and seemingly a torso >> >> >> with an assumption of legs, but led to bed, assisted by my mother as >> >> >> politeness would say, approximately drunk, as a swaying object >> >> >> somewhere about the fourth year of my reign. >> >> >> In our small flat. Which appeared to possess a hall of sorts, like >> >> >> the illusion of perspective, bridging the between of the two bedrooms >> >> >> (the smaller, mine; the larger, theirs) and the living-room (ours) >> >> >> which was where, in stage terms, the language claimed we acted out >> our >> >> >> lives. >> >> >> He does not then seem to appear for years, though for sure he too >> >> >> lived with us. He had to do something called work, by day, which was >> >> >> distant (sometimes two bus rides away) and alien, as unlike as Welsh, >> >> >> and at nights was required by the pub, where George met the Dragon, >> >> >> the union, and his mates. Which my mother condemned, for the drink. >> >> >> But the plain and ever-present fact of his absence she did not >> >> >> protest. Otherwise, he must have inhabited that same mist that >> covers >> >> >> so much of my early (and more recent) memories. >> >> >> I think he recurred when I measured eight, as I recall an evening >> >> >> before the still-then coal-fire, a glowing snugly winter's evening, >> >> >> when my mother urged and urged me to mock his nose (its largeness) >> his >> >> >> tea (its undrinkability) his friends (their smell) his importance >> (its >> >> >> littleness). That fades, and I am sitting on the floor and he is >> high >> >> >> and seated above me but mumbling in a voice he tells me means that he >> >> >> was born elsewhere, not, God forbid, here, mumbling all his funny >> >> >> (unfunny) stories of his childhood, of crowding with brothers and >> >> >> sisters round a pot yum-yumming at the prospect of stewed peel of >> >> >> potatoes and apple-rind, of his trousers damp from the wash that >> >> >> stank, of horse-shitten cobbled streets, of fresh milk in churns, of >> >> >> playing with hot coals in braziers, swinging them faster and faster >> >> >> around in an arc from his bare knees to his head and he laughs again, >> >> >> his out of place, living in his own world, alone and loveless at the >> >> >> hearth at the heart of his family, laugh. >> >> >> And I can retrieve too a Saturday and a day-trip on the Midland Red >> >> >> through Tewkesbury (where we stopped for toast) and Upton-on-Severn >> >> >> (where from the upper-deck I watched how the river looped about the >> >> >> houses like a noose about to close) and Evesham, with all its >> >> >> close-packed churches, of which I remember nothing. >> >> >> And, too, I can re-stock a road by a beach-front at Rhyl (it might >> >> >> have been) or Weston or somewhere else to the west and on the coast >> >> >> again, walking between and joined to their hands and sensing people, >> >> >> adult people, (my parents) for this time at least together, smiling. >> >> >> And a restaurant where we ate plaice. Or sole. >> >> >> And once seeing him cry, from the numb cold of his bricklaying >> >> >> hands, that fed us all, in the bitter world that was his alone and >> >> >> winter. >> >> >> >> >> >> >> >> >> >> >> >> -- >> >> >> David Bircumshaw >> >> >> Website and A Chide's Alphabet >> >> >> http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.bircumshaw/ >> >> >> The Animal Subsides >> http://www.arrowheadpress.co.uk/books/animal.html >> >> >> Leicester Poetry Society: http://www.poetryleicester.co.uk >> >> >> >> >> > >> >> >> >> >> >> >> >> -- >> >> David Bircumshaw >> >> Website and A Chide's Alphabet >> >> http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.bircumshaw/ >> >> The Animal Subsides http://www.arrowheadpress.co.uk/books/animal.html >> >> Leicester Poetry Society: http://www.poetryleicester.co.uk >> >> >> > >> >> >> >> -- >> David Bircumshaw >> Website and A Chide's Alphabet >> http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.bircumshaw/ >> The Animal Subsides http://www.arrowheadpress.co.uk/books/animal.html >> Leicester Poetry Society: http://www.poetryleicester.co.uk >> > -- My Stuff: http://www.badstep.net/ "I began to warm and chill to objects and their fields" Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds