dot dot dot to dot

Three Statistical Nots

Correlation does not imply causality

Two data points do not make a trend

Random processes are not uniform

The View from the Porch

To describe the view from the porch I must first describe the porch, and if I’m going to do that I may as well describe the garden too, and everything else.

Time and sea air turn all wood grey in this part of the world, so the planks that make up the porch’s floor and ceiling, and the shingles on the side of the house that form its back are all the same shade. So too are those parts of the square support posts and the roof beams that peek out from behind their cracking coat of white paint. Even the wooden rocking chair that has stood outside for as long as I can remember is grey. The sagging window-frames and doors to the living room and sun porch break the monochrome trend with their worn but persistent redness, as do the two new-ish green plastic reclining chairs. Where the porch turns round the south-east corner of the house there is a hammock slung diagonally between two posts, which more often than not is occupied by talkative three-year-old Milo, the youngest son of my cousin Clarissa. A short flight of steps (grey, with grey handrails) leads down to the spiky, uneven, never-quite-green grass of the lawn.

To the left of the steps as you descend, in the spot where one would land were one to leap from the porch, is my aunt and godmother Anne’s fruit and vegetable garden. The raspberries are mostly gone now, picked and eaten by her eager and adventurous grandchildren, but their tall bushes remain to cushion the fall of the hypothetical leaper. The gooseberries, too, have been harvested and transformed into a sweet but tart fool for our dessert. The bean plants have shot up their poles during the few short weeks since we arrived, and are just beginning to bear. To the right of the steps is the flower patch. Someone with more botanical knowledge than I could surely spend even more time describing it than I have spent on the fruit and veg, but to me it is simply a glorious profusion of colour and smell, and a good place to spot hummingbirds.

South and seaward of the flower patch, away from the house and across the short expanse of lawn, is a rose bush running parallel to the porch. It stretches from the trees that mark the western end of the garden, with one small gap (of which more later), to a pair of wiry but proud spruces that stand directly opposite the middle of the porch. Just to the left of the spruces the bare bleached bones of a tree that has been dead for longer than I have been alive reach up from the shrubs. How it has managed to cling on to the thin soil and rocks just above the beach for quite so long is a mystery to all.

Through the gap in the rose bush one finds oneself at the top of a flight of rough marble stairs that run down the sloping face of an even rougher marble sea-wall. The wall is known as ‘Henrietta’s Folly’ as it was conceived and commissioned by my late grandmother in order to make the walk down to the beach easier, and protect the lawn from being undercut by the fierce erosive power of Maine’s winter storms. A relatively new addition to the sea wall, running along beside the staircase, is a wooden rack for storing my parent’s kayaks. During the peak of the highest tides the bottom step is just submerged by the waves of Frenchman’s Bay, giving the momentary impression that the stairs might continue onwards, beneath the swell, to some long-forgotten sunken marble city. The tides here are some of the biggest in the world, and by the time the waters drop the fourteen or so feet to their lowest point a large expanse of chaotically rocky beach is exposed. The beach features boulders as big as cars and patches of shale almost fine enough to be described as sand, but most of it is a thin gravel, rich with snail shells and sea glass, stuck with rocks the size of large saucepans that are usually covered in barnacles, seaweed, or some combination of the two. A decade ago the lower half of the beach was dense with starfish and the spiny purple sea-urchins that they feed on, making barefoot swimming excursions a dangerous prospect, but an urchin-picking fleet selling to the insatiable Japanese market stripped the entire bay clear of them several years ago.

The bay itself is far too restless to be constrained by a single metaphor. In the grey summer mornings it is a gently undulating pool of mercury, laden with the muted growl of distant diesels. As the wind begins to spread across the surface and tease it in to life it is gradually overlaid by patches of brushed aluminium. Then, the sky clears, the sun breaks through, the wind and waves rise and it suddenly transforms in to a dancing, glittering field of bright blue crystals, crossed by straining sails and the wakes of bouncing motorboats. When evening finally closes in the bay gradually vanishes from sight, leaving only the sound of waves washing up the beach to remind you of its presence until the next morning. The only constant attribute of the bay’s character are the brightly patterned buoys that mark the locations of the thousands of lobster traps that are scattered wherever the water is shallow enough. Their constancy is relative, though: they bob and spin with the wind and tide, and their distribution is always subtly shifting as they are raised, checked, and re-sunk by their owners.

Beyond the bay, on the horizon, lie what look like two arms of land sweeping in from left and right but just failing to meet in the middle, leaving an opening to the Atlantic ocean facing due South and towards, as family legend has it, a very distant Venezuela. The left arm actually is a peninsula, but the right is part of a huge island, most of whose area is occupied by a national park full of mountains to hike up, ponds to swim across, and country cafes with lawns to sit on while one reflects on a hard day’s hiking and swimming. The coast of both the huge island and the peninsula are strewn with smaller islands that are by and large impossible to differentiate from the mainland, but for a few that occupy the southern gap and one just to the right of it that conceals half of the town of Bar Harbour. Being the most popular tourist destination in the region it attracts much in the way of waterborne traffic, all visible from the porch, including the occasional hulking cruise ship and, three times a week, a comparatively svelte catamaran ferry. It also dispatches its own ships on a daily basis, the most recognisable being a four-masted tourist cruiser with a striking suit of crimson sails that slouches out of port every sunrise, noon and sunset and returns before ever getting up enough speed to endanger its passenger’s drinks.

Above the peaks of Acadia National Park there is nothing but clear azure. As boats leave their wakes in the bay below, so jet liners leave their contrails in the sky above, soaring from the busy metropolises of the Eastern US to Paris, Amsterdam, London, my friends, and my home.

It's been a while

This is not a proper post, but there is one coming. It is lengthy. I think a more appropriate name for this blog might be ‘I hope you like text’.

Well, I hope you do.

Some context for the upcoming post: My father’s father bought a holiday house on the coast of down-east Maine in the fifties, and it has been the prime summer vacation destination for my family ever since. I was there for three weeks this summer, and a friend of mine back home asked me what the view from the porch of the house was like. I do not own a digital camera, because I am useless, so I decided to write a description, which ended up taking me two weeks, because I am useless. What follows is that description.

Well, there you have it

I hope you enjoyed my notepad-delay broadcast of Glastonbury 09. Reading it back, I clearly got slightly crazier as the week progressed. I also hardly talked about the music at all, which is I suppose quite appropriate, since there is so much more to Glasto than just bands and stages.

Anyway, normal service will now resume, which is to say, I actually need to start thinking of things to write about now.

Glasto '09 replay: The Day After

Teardown begins the moment the last band leaves the stage.

Stalls take down their signs and hoardings first, so shops and bars that were landmarks revert to being grubby tents full of tat.

The camping fields are a sea of rubbish, abandoned tents and people trying to sleep off hangovers, with the occasional scavenger wandering around looking for half-full crates of beer.

Even once you are in the car, you haven’t left Glasto. People wander up and down the cars queuing to leave hawking bottled water.

I am home, showered and shaved. The only things that give away where I have been for the past week are the mud that I cannot get out from my toenails, and the tune I can’t stop humming.

Wind. Up. Stereo. Wind up stereo.

Glasto '09 replay: Day Three

11AM on Sunday, and already people are queuing with all their stuff to leave the site, either to go home or pack their cars and come back for the last day.

Saw Easy Star All-Stars (again) on the Pyramid stage. Woke up, fell out of bed, dragged me fingers through me dreads.

Saw Status Quo on the Pyramid stage. Jugga jugga jugga.

I know it’s only dad rock, but I like it.

Saw the Bishop of Bath and Wells on the Pyramid stage (?!). Something about blessed are the cheesemakers?

I am eating lunch in a giant letter B.

Big wheels are a must in the mud. Golf bag carriers and wheelbarrows work, wheelie suitcases do not.

The tallest flag in front of the Pyramid stage this morning simply read “Alex’s Massive Pole”

A mini stage across from where I am sitting is just beginning to play “live” Where’s Wally. I’m not quite sure how it works. Badly, I imagine.

Live Where’s Wally is followed by a man painting a picture of Joe Strummer live and upside-down. The painting, that is, not the artist.

I met a young graffiti artists spraying stencils. He reckons the giant ‘B’ I am in is the work of Banksy, who he cites as his main inspiration.

Saw John Otway in the Cabaret tent. There is (WHAT?!) a house (WHERE?!) in New Orleans (WHAT’S IT CALLED?!)

Otway is the first person I have seen get the Cabaret tent crowd to its feet.

Saw Robin Ince in the Cabaret tent. I wish Margaret Thatcher really had died.

The ‘always open’ 50p tea tent in the Green Field has closed for the rest of the festival.

Police are on the scene, you know what I mean? I finally saw some cops in the stone circle, accompanied by calls of ‘FIVE-OH!’ from the punters. Clearly there are a lot of Wire fans at Glasto.

Something off the south end of the site just kicked out a ton of black smoke.

Only at Glasto do you find flyers encouraging drug use.

Saw Roots Manuva at the Jazz World stage. One hope one quest.

There is a motorised paraglider over the festival.

I only just ‘got’ the name Glasvegas. I am stupid.

Saw Prodigy at the Other stage. ALL MY GLASTONBURY WARRIORS!

Once the stages close, dancers congregate around any stalls that are still playing music, and take their clothes off.

Glasto '09 replay: Day Two

I heard someone referred to as a ‘caring drug dealer’

Saw Eagles of Death Metal at the Pyramid stage. I never smile when I tell a lie.

Saw Spinal Tap at the Pyramid stage. The little children of Stone-enge.

Jacko’s death is pages one through five of the newspaper.

People keep talking about the police presence at the stone circle, but I am yet to see it.

Saw some of Dizzee Rascal from a distance. Where da Gs? Blud don’t make me get old school!

I was chased (and caught) by a giant bubble, Prisoner-style.

Spinal Tap’s backing vocalist is called Arnica (har har).

Saw Pendulum at the Other stage. Boop boop boop.

There is always good dancing at the other stage.

Saw Franz Ferdinand at the Other stage. Lucid dreams, UH-HUH YEAH!

Glasto '09 replay: Day One

The news of Michael Jackson’s death spread like wild fire. I heard it first in Shangri-La, which this year is styled like some kind of urban techno dystopia. A friend and I spent 15 minutes convincing a slightly crazy and distraught woman that it was just another Glasto death rumour, of the type that happens every year, and was certain to be false. When we left, every group of people we passed was talking about Jacko, and every stall and bar was playing one of his songs. Upon discovering that he really was dead, we resolved to start a counter-rumour that Bruce Springsteen was dead and Jackson was filling his spot on the Pyramid stage.

We are all the messiah of our own religion.

Saw the Hot Rats at the Park. If she says she can’t do it, she can’t do it, she don’t make false claims.

Saw Frank Olivier in the Cabaret tent. Sexually innapropriate juggling.

Saw Ed Byrne in the Cabaret tent. See you? See cunt? You’re a cunt, you!

Saw the Easy Star All-Stars in Dance East. See you on the dub side of the moon.

Had tea in a tree.

Saw Animal Collective at the Park. Four walls and an adobe slab for my girls.

Glasto '09 replay: Day zero

Wind. Up. Stereo. Wind up stereo!

Who stewards the stewards? The early shift stewards.

There are ‘green police’ roaming the site in fancy dress, blowing their whistles at people who piss in the stream. One group is dressed as robots.

All the dust is making for very dramatic sunsets.

Rumour has it that Emily Eavis’s boyfriend was thrown off the site on Sunday night for not having the right credentials.

Saw Maximo Park at the Queen’s Head. VE-LO-CI-TEE!

Fancy dress abounds, much of it very strange. I walked past a man wearing pink tights, a tutu, a centurion’s helmet and a gas mask.

There is an area called the market, but the festival’s real trading place is the stone circle. Security and police never come up here. There are wandering vendors hawking cold beer and water, sangria, vodka jellies, sun cream, wellies, laughing gas, cannabis, cocaine, ketamine, pills, MDMA, and even antihistamines.

When rain hits the stone circle, space under the trees is suddenly at a premium and the sellers have to compete with each other (and the thunder) to be heard.

The moment the rain stops, a spot by the ever-burning fire in the centre of the stones becomes the prime real estate.

It is raining cocktail sticks and frying pans.

Glasto '09 replay: One day to go

The arrival of the 1500 main shift stewards has changed the dynamic of the Oxfam camp site. Previously it was small communities of tents each with their own vibe, but now it is a packed site with a group conciousness and a real buzz about it.

Every time I go back on to the main site it is another order of magnitude busier.

Police men, police women, police dogs, police horses, police bikes, police jeeps. Lots of cops.

A man is being arrested in front of me at the medical centre. There are four cops, three site security and one paramedic dealing with one disorderly drunk. Most of them are just standing around watching him.

MOO!

It hasn’t rained all week, and the dust is getting very bad. Last night from the far south of the site I could hardly see the pyramid stage. At the moment that backstage area and the north-east corner of the site (where the staff campsites are) have the most vehicle traffic and so the worst dust.

Free tea and coffee in the Oxfam site (and delivered by jeep to those on shift at the gates) goes a long way to keeping morale high among the stewards.

There are fire response vans here from Pinewood Studios.

Glasto '09 replay: Two days to go

The man has come for my gazebo. The man can fuck off.

The next step in the festival tent arms race is a tent with a courtyard.

Guy ropes: blameless hazards or malevolent killers?

The rest of the stewards are arriving. There is no space any more.

Birds and helicopters circle the site.

The fence is undeniably sinister. It’s visible from most places on the site, and if you are up on the north or south slopes you can see it wind down across the valley and back along the other side.

The pylons are like a cross between the pyramid stage and Trash City.

A site boss was inspecting the gravel stocks at our gate last shift, he said there might be a storm on Saturday.

New graffiti seen on the fence: ‘Leave now to avoid dissapointment’, ‘Pilton Maximum Security Prison’, ‘Due to the recession the festival will close at 5pm today’

Glasto '09 replay: Three days to go

We were told that the radio sets were strictly business, but at 3AM the control box is calling around all of the gates getting people to help make up a new phonetic alphabet using the names of television programs.

There are flushing porcelain toilets with wooden seats, if you know where to find them.

On the midnight to 8AM shift it gets coldest between 5 and 6.

Glasto '09 replay: Four days to go"

We can get behind the Pyramid stage until Wednesday (when the punters arrive). The temptation to jump the fence, run up the steps and shout “HELLO GLASTONBURY!” was almost overwhelming.

A lot of Bob Dylan is being played about the place.

Sitting round the fire on quiet night shifts.