Actually he was about 25 by the time he killed a b'ar
I have been ill and off work today, mooching around the flat on our last day in it, and feeling bored. I really hope I'm feeling better tomorrow, because moving house in my current state is going to be a horrendous task.
I'm reading Davy Crockett's autobiography at the moment; it's a strange book, full of self-aggrandising and political grandstanding, and a lot of rather dry military campaign records. I was hoping for more descriptive passages about frontier Tennessee living. On the other hand, it is full of crazy 19th-century backwoods slang (‘I was plaguy thirtsy, and took a little of the critter’ - that kind of thing), which I do like. Although he comes across as down-to-earth and fairly equable, there are some really remarkably blasé passages about killing Indians which seem astonishing now. At one point his unit burns 46 Creeks alive in a house; and the next day, with food supplies running scarce, they find a stash of potatoes in the cellar of the same house. He remarks that
hunger compelled us to eat them, though I had a little rather not, if I could have helped it, for the oil of the Indians we had burned up on the day before had run down on them, and they looked like they had been stewed with fat meat.
Jesus, what a detail. It's the kind of thing that stops you in your tracks, being so obviously not made-up and so revealing, and so matter-of-factly described that you suddenly have a very clear impression of the sub-human status American Indians had in his eyes.
I am listening to a lot of Tennessee music too. Although right now my theme tune is a punk-folk song by Frank Turner which I am playing endlessly:
and if I knew somebody who played pedal steel guitar
I'd get them in my band
and then my band would get real far
but I was raised in middle England, not in Nashville, Tennessee
and the only person in this band is me
Although it is a classic example of the kind of ‘American-backlash’ thing which I usually dislike, I think this song is awesome.
Oh, and also I saw Vicky Cristina Barcelona today and I adored it. It is about sex and art and Europeanness and it's just a fantastic film, and made me want to stay up smoking and writing all night. Except I won't because just sitting down typing this I feel dizzy and I need to go to bed.
Bleurgh. That Davy Crocket bit I typed out has made me feel sick again.
I'm reading Davy Crockett's autobiography at the moment; it's a strange book, full of self-aggrandising and political grandstanding, and a lot of rather dry military campaign records. I was hoping for more descriptive passages about frontier Tennessee living. On the other hand, it is full of crazy 19th-century backwoods slang (‘I was plaguy thirtsy, and took a little of the critter’ - that kind of thing), which I do like. Although he comes across as down-to-earth and fairly equable, there are some really remarkably blasé passages about killing Indians which seem astonishing now. At one point his unit burns 46 Creeks alive in a house; and the next day, with food supplies running scarce, they find a stash of potatoes in the cellar of the same house. He remarks that
hunger compelled us to eat them, though I had a little rather not, if I could have helped it, for the oil of the Indians we had burned up on the day before had run down on them, and they looked like they had been stewed with fat meat.
Jesus, what a detail. It's the kind of thing that stops you in your tracks, being so obviously not made-up and so revealing, and so matter-of-factly described that you suddenly have a very clear impression of the sub-human status American Indians had in his eyes.
I am listening to a lot of Tennessee music too. Although right now my theme tune is a punk-folk song by Frank Turner which I am playing endlessly:
and if I knew somebody who played pedal steel guitar
I'd get them in my band
and then my band would get real far
but I was raised in middle England, not in Nashville, Tennessee
and the only person in this band is me
Although it is a classic example of the kind of ‘American-backlash’ thing which I usually dislike, I think this song is awesome.
Oh, and also I saw Vicky Cristina Barcelona today and I adored it. It is about sex and art and Europeanness and it's just a fantastic film, and made me want to stay up smoking and writing all night. Except I won't because just sitting down typing this I feel dizzy and I need to go to bed.
Bleurgh. That Davy Crocket bit I typed out has made me feel sick again.
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