Tag Archives: Timor Leste

Fears We Leave Behind

IT’S HERE
Fears We Leave Behind

Buy Fears We Leave Behind on CD Baby

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At the moment, available on CD Baby. Soon coming to Spotify, iTunes, Google Music, and every other music programme you could possibly think of. I will post links as soon as they are ready. But you might want to buy it right now from CD Baby and support independent artists.

Give yourself a break from politics and have a listen!

Half the profits from sale of this album will go to the Bairro Pite health clinic, who are doing amazing things in Timor Leste.
https://bairopiteclinic.org/

THANK YOU!
Please share the shit out of this post! Let’s send me platinum!!!!!

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Behind the Fears: Part 1, England

How it Became What It is

The upcoming album Fears We Leave Behind was written over the space of about two weeks. My friend Tiago and I then spent about a month recording the tracks, including one particularly fraught day recording Six Vials, when I drank way too much coffee and we both went slightly mad.

Then, I moved to Timor Leste, leaving the rest of the production to Tiago. There followed an erratic yet productive chain of emails, as each track took shape, in spite of dodgy internet connections, hectic work schedules and random bicycle accidents. We are almost finished.

Tiago’s dedication to this project has been overwhelming. I’m indescribably grateful for the time he has put into making sure the songs sound exactly how I envisioned they would, and sometimes, providing that vision when it wasn’t there.

There he is, in his lair

I’ve got a few weeks off from teaching soldiers how to sing speak English…

…so I came to Puri Wirata in Amed, Bali.

I’m staring out across the Lombok Strait and listening to the final master of Fears We Leave Behind. Despite the haste with which it was created, this album is a patchwork depiction of all the ways I’ve travelled over the last few years. It is an infusion I didn’t know I was concocting. It is everything I was unable to describe.

If you listen carefully, you can hear Portugal and Panama in the songs. Invisible markings of movement and sound left in the darkest reaches of the soul, only to be brought forth as some sort of subconscious musical alchemy.

A Portuguese friend in Timor Leste listened to the songs. What he could hear was England. I listened again, and then I could hear it too. Of course I could! A strong English weft, around which the colourful warps of venture and voyage wrap themselves.

What better way to pay homage to that weft  than with this poem I wrote, while ensconced in my mother’s house last Christmas. If you don’t like poems, you can stop reading here, and just look at this beautiful picture of my mum instead.

There she is, in her Harry Potter onesie.

 

 

At My Mother’s

December 2016

Derbyshire

At my mother’s, I resign,

rather than decide,

to enjoy myself.

It isn’t like it used to be.

In a good way.

On the television, a man drives his truck into shoppers

Just like the ones we have here.

They urinate on the homeless, now

(not the shoppers).

On the bus, a frantic, careworn woman hoists a flat screen TV.

Casually, she cannot find her son.

But the child at the back knows where he is.

Or where he was.

A sensitive boy sits with his grandma.

She struggles to understand him,

but she would hate him to think she didn’t care.

She asks him to bring it, show her.

A game?

A comic?

He promises he will.

Definitely.

Earnest, blue eyes.

I see into his future,

that sensitivity broken and splintered

into a not-belonging.

I see his power broken,

not whole,

because I am

(though I try not to be)

a pessimist.

By the lake mallards,

with shining green heads,

waddle towards us.

Their hope is menacing.

Who told me

you aren’t allowed to feed the ducks anymore?

We imagined a false flag.

Someone, somewhere, getting rich.

On the television,

a wise man tells us that lightning

leaves patterns on human skin,

like translucent tattoos of intricate fern leaves,

spreading out over someone’s heart.

Perhaps the heart of that sensitive boy?

I imagine

his skin like this.

All the while the wind chimes in the backyard remind me to be melancholy…

lest I forget.

A whole day in bed,

twisting in the warm folds of the duvet.

Occasionally swapping hands,

one clasps the book in a crooked urchin,

the other slipped

between deliciously warm thighs.

On the television,

a woman in a van speaks of musical keys

as rooms.

I want to write music, now.

Music that moves, just because it can.

I know those rooms, I think.

The clouds lie heavy, with a new lightness.

The warm dry air.

A hundred pillows and a thousand adverts and a million useless words.

And what else?

My skin, my bones.

Is that all?

 

Fears We Leave Behind

As the days  pass, it becomes harder to translate what is my personal human experience into words.

Where have I been?

My heart has broken a thousand times and I feel more alive than ever. I have travelled to places I never dreamed I’d go to and met people who were kinder than I thought possible. I’ve been inspired and rejected and loved and hated and surprised and insulted and freed.

And what I’m left with is my own face staring back at me in the mirror. I have left behind the dearest travel companion I ever knew; two people with such strong dreams whose paths are drifting apart for a while. Every day I am strengthened by what he taught me. He helped me to set free the strong, fierce warrior I have inside myself and now I’m running free. No direction, but no fear.

I left part of my soul in Panama. Everywhere I go I am blessed enough to meet people who burn with unbelievable passion. Living souls colliding with mine.

I passed through Portugal and made an album of songs which flowed out of me like water. But it wouldn’t have existed at all if it weren’t for a friend I met in the mountains of the Serra da Estrela, who helped me get really comfortable with my creativity. The more you are true to yourself, it seems, the more your kindred people drift towards you. I know that I am who I am partly because of the spectacular people I have been lucky enough to have cross my path.

And now? Timor Leste,

where bravery runs in the blood.

Many more adventures from the Land of Crocodiles to come

Watch this space for the release date of “Fears We Leave Behind”

Art in this blog by Kakashi Tciar, from his recent solo exhibition at the Xanana Gusmao Reading Rooms