GOAT began a partnership with MIND UK in June 2020, specifically working for safer communication around and about mental health.
It is a cause close to our hearts, and one that is necessary to address daily in all industries and in all relationships.
We are working to remove stigma and the remaining taboo about mental health and have encouraged our friends and GOATs to contribute work on the broad topic of 'mental health'.
This section of goatmilk.tv is dedicated to the words, works and projects created by GOATs specifically working to create positive change along with MIND for better mental health. We are hoping this part of our platform will bring focus, visibility, love, warmth, humour, profundity, space and points of identification to all of our readers and the wider community.
To get involved or learn more, please contact us at email@example.com.
by henry white and ed glynne jones
A collaboration by Henry White and Ed Glynne Jones
Released 15th September 2020
Itching is the first release from skttrd, an audiovisual collective run by Henry White. Itching is the first single preceding a full album/feature length film coming in early 2021.
Henry collaborated with film maker and long time friend Ed Glynne Jones during the seemingly endless UK lockdown to create “itching”. The two are frequent collaborators, utilising their at once varied and specific skills and set of references to create ambient and considered works. Henry speaks of collaboration as “a tool to virtually reach out to friends struggling with their processes and their anxiety” and imagined a world outside of his lockdown flat and physical discomfort through the creation of this piece. He and Ed “bounced the work back and forth between London and Glasgow” in order that the piece would take on a fuller and newer form founded in collaborative honesty and intent. The pair spoke of an “urge for creative motivation” brought on by the cabin fever felt by all throughout lockdown that inspired the making of this work; ultimately focussing it into a place of self-reflection. They hope that “itching” will help you find togetherness within yourself.
You can catch more of skttrd on their facebook page , bandcamp and spotify.
You can catch more of Ed here on his instagram.
Henry White (music)
Ed Glynne Jones (visuals)
DON'T SWEAT IT BY O.H. AND Z.H.
DON'T SWEAT IT
A new short by O.H. and Z.H.
Released 5th August 2020
O.H. and Z.H. collaborated on a new project exclusively for GOAT as part of our partnership with MIND (on the very broad debut subject of 'mental health'.)
O.'s warm narrative bleeds in and out of his sister's collected archive footage and shots spun through midday sun around their home in Stroud. This is the pair's first publicly released collaboration and GOAT is honoured and excited to release this as the first piece in our new collection focussing on mental health.
Read the full transcript below.
Moments. They feel like loose change in old jeans at the minute. Like a dog in the car. Not entirely forgotten, but out of focus. Side-lined. I’ve been looking for moments, and I’ve found some occasionally.
The best ones are the ones that come when you least expect it. When you’re cooking and…wow. I’m enjoying this. This is giving me something more. I’m not working in neutral, but with energy and momentum. And it’s not forced. It’s organic. That’s a pretty thing, a moment like that. Other times, I search for them on a walk. Plugged into headphones, marching through nature, my mind playing tricks on me. Music is a fast-track to feeling, so when I’m plugged in, in through the doors of my mind come fantasy. Imaginary worlds. A colourful future. And I indulge those moments, fuck yeah I do. Because as soon as I disconnect, and I start the car, I’m back in real time. That’s not to say that my audio accompaniment takes me out of real time, but it’s a kind of asymmetrical real time. With music, I’m the hero in a myth that I’m penning with my mind. Without music, I’m a hero in my own true story. The history is writing itself. And that’s ok. More than ok even.
In a pandemic. A sentence, or opening, that I never thought I would ever write. Or use as a preface in a phone conversation. Or use in a comparison, or as a means of contextualising. We will now refer to moments in time as ‘before Covid’ and ‘after Covid’. Similarly, we talk about before and after lockdown. I’m still very much in the throes of quarantine, so I’m yet to taste the afterlife. Over 100 days in a two-mile radius. And that’s that. That’s what I’m living. I’m existing like that. In that. And in a beautiful and, dare I say it, unprecedented way, there’s an abundance of moments. Because time doesn’t grow out of achievements and business; you don’t find moments because you’re occupied. Moments were here before you were born. And they’ll be here long after you’ve kicked the proverbial bucket. And that’s more than ok. It’s great.
There are days when I feel very little, temperamentally speaking. Like I’m sleepwalking through my waking hours, in motion, but not with emotion. In some skewed way, I’ve been, at times, in a 9to5 zone. Knowing that I’ll only do or accomplish so much, when I’m going to eat, exercise and finally, when I’ll sleep. Admittedly, I can choose my lunch hours and I consume sleep ferociously. But there’s a certain routineness to my carrying on. A zombified state perhaps. It’s not all doom and gloom, but sometimes the body and mind aren’t available to bask in the wonders of the world. Not open to tasting the fruits of our technicolour existence. It’s too preoccupied hunting for pockets of serotonin, trying to cure itself of the sterile delirium of monotony. And that’s ok.
Writing this, for example, is a moment. It’s like a fever magically disappearing from your system. Or like a shot of something potent, except it isn’t your blood soaking up the goodness, but rather the goodness emitting from you. I always feel like I’ve just had really beautiful, protracted sex when I write something that I’m happy with. And I mean protracted, not protected. Morning sex in a naturally lit room with white sheets and a gentle breeze. For the feeling of flesh on flesh, and body within body, is one hell of a fucking moment. That’s something, I’ll confess, that wasn’t included in the lockdown essentials. I’d happily stock up on moments of sexual congress in place of loo roll. Funny how that moment of loo roll hysteria now feels symptomatic of a bygone era.
I just lost my final paragraph to a technological malfunction. Safe to say, it completely annihilated the moment. But I can’t help but feel like you have to experience those – it’s humbling to know that your hard work can disappear. The written word is not above the law. Ironically, my lost paragraph was about memories, and about holding on to them. Memories is the older cousin of moments and can be somewhat of a bully. For if one is repeatedly pitting memories against any and all current events, one will never truly experience the full power of that immovable hegemon we call the present. Curiosity killed the cat and comparison murdered the moment. Now, I’m not saying don’t look back, I’m just saying that nostalgia can be a particularly persuasive mistress. Just know when to say no is my advice to you.
Moments, a lot like writing, never really feel conclusive. They may feel ephemeral, like that first hit of a cold Coke. They may seem unattainable, clandestine and, even, farfetched. Mirages in the desert. They seem to languish. Transcend logic. Appear, walking to the beat of their own drum like a bruised, moody you after a bender. And you know what… that’s absolutely fine. They’ve set their boundaries; they have self-respect.
And so, here’s my offering to you.
Be like a moment. It may seem kind of abstract. But why not. There’s plenty of time, there’s plenty of space, there’s plenty of plenty.
I think that’s what I’m trying to do, somehow, in my own way. To be like a moment.
And that feels pretty fucking good.
Words by O.H.
Stroud, August 2020