Caught by the River

Shadows and Reflections: Cally Callomon

Cally Callomon | 29th December 2019

It’s time once again for the annual series of postings we like to call Shadows and Reflections, in which our contributors and friends look back on the past twelve months. From Cally Callomon:

Sounds Reflecting: the echo of just how much brilliant new music there was this last year, sounds of Iain Morrison, John Parish, Julia Holter, Foxwarren, Greg Russell, Nettlebone, Underworld, Carbon Based Lifeforms, McCambridge, Thom Yorke, Karine Polwart, Jim Ghedi, Stick In The Wheel, A Winged Victory For The Sullen ringing out the old whilst I also listen to the sounds of the past that re-introduced themselves to me throughout the year: how overlooked The Third Ear Band were, Sparklehorse and The pre-Bonded John Barry Seven

Words Reflecting: a year of words, The Offing by Ben Myers, and how Diane Purkiss’ huge 2006 book The English Civil War could be written about the current English Civil War. Billy Bragg once wrote that we are ‘Between The Wars’ but we’ve passed that point this year, today the ballistics come in words, in 1645 it was the lead shot, both devastating. Marveling at how adventurous the exposure of sounds and words can be whilst being astonished at just how poorly the moribund BBC have risen to these new broadcast ideas.

Place Reflected: on Holy Isle and in the depths of darkest Shropshire, the border country and beautiful Wales, Limerick, a revitalized Dublin. Travel narrows the mind. I have neither will nor time nor lack of shame to fly abroad like I used to, and why? When I can hunker down in this 30 year long stay in my Suffolk home with pond to dive into every morning and fields to tramp that change by the day.

The shadows fell; a 93 year old mum slowly leaving a life well lived in the darkness of encroaching forgetland and Dylan, my son who trained as a brilliant dancer, who came to watch me Molly Dance last year (the baton being handed back) and then quietly died six months later – a mere statistic to some, but a grave injustice to me, a robbery of the very worst, saddest kind. He took flight, he is the Red Kite that visits Suffolk, he looks over me whilst born aloft on the wings of angels.