Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea...

Love and Comedy...

2011-08-02T04:00:00.000-07:00

There’s been much discussion on Twitter about dating, by people responding to my tweets about the same. I’ve mentioned Savage Hearts a few time, mentioned previously on this blog, because I’ve been toying with the idea of subscribing for a little while just so I can read what messages have been sent to me, and maybe bounce some back. It seems to me that if I want to find someone with similar interests I should seek people within those circles rather than hoping to cross paths with them elsewhere. At least I’d feel a bit more as if I was on familiar soil. Better the devil you know and all that.

The thing is we all sit in the centre of a Venn Diagram with multiple circles intersecting over the top of us. Like Google + circles, we can be part of all manner of groups that don’t immediately have any connection aside from your own presence. So, for example, I’m part of the Geek circle, specifically circles dedicated to certain comic books, to board games, to a handful of role playing games. I’m also part of the Rock Music circle. I’m a part of the Goth circle (admittedly, right at the edge - my musical tastes are all muddied so that’s true of a lot of circles). I’m part of the Tarot Card Collector circle. I’m part of the Graphic Design circle. I’m part of the Writing circle. I’m part of the Drawing circle. I’m part of the I’ve Got Kids circle. I’m also now part of the Comedy circle.

Where do you begin finding someone who has ‘the same interests’? You can’t expect a perfect overlap, can you? Some common ground and some differences to keep it all fresh then. But where? How?

Let’s touch on comedy again. I was at an Edinburgh preview last night, and saw two acts (and, as a result of joining the ‘Comedy circle’ spent the evening sitting and drinking with Mr Nick Doody - @NickDoody on Twitter - who is a mostly behind the scenes comedy writer). The two acts were two lovely ladies who, in their own way, brought my single simple life to attention.

First up was Tiffany Stevenson, a regular at The Phoenix and currently on ITV’s ‘Show Me The Funny’. I’ve seen her quite a few times, and am quite familiar with her act, so when she was looking around the room for stereotypical geeks I knew what would come next. I wasn’t expecting her to pick me, and she even acknowledged I didn’t look like a typical geek (probably because I didn’t have glasses on). “What do you do” she asked. “I’m a graphic designer,” I said. “Are you single?” she asked. “Yes,” I said. “Good!” she said “Because I don’t want you to get distracted by being in a relationship. I need people like you to deal with my IT problems, to sort things out when they go wrong.” She phrases it better. She’s had longer to work on her act. What I’m saying is she’s a professional (sorry, that’s an in-joke in itself. It may be only me that sees this blog post and gets that).

There was also a bit about the ticking biological clock and the need to have kids. Her show ‘Cavewoman’ is all about how mankind has evolved, if indeed it has at all. I suppose now that I’ve got two sons it’s perfectly acceptable for me to no longer get involved in messy relationships. My clock is no longer ticking. In fact as a geek I can now devote my time to fixing clocks, or the many other things I’m able to do to ensure society doesn’t crumble around us.

You can find Tiffany on Twitter - @tiffstevenson – but try to catch her on TV too. The show is an interesting study in how comedians handle crowds and find material to work with. And Tiffany is one of the better acts. I may be slightly biased as I slightly know her, but there you go.

The second act was Roisin Conaty (@Roisinconaty on Twitter). Her act was a little less prepared, and as I’ve not heard it before it hasn’t stuck in my Peroni lubricated brain quite so well. But she spoke about being single. It’s weird, I can’t really quote any of her act, but I remember her words making me smile because of the scenarios I recognised, then gradually feel a bit more melancholic and reflective, the smile sort of slipping slowly from my face. I think that means her observations were pretty much dead on target. Sometimes it’s not always so great to hear, although it’s nice to know there are people going through the same sorts of thing.

There have been a few female acts I’ve seen at The Phoenix recently talking about being single. I suppose hearing a woman, particularly a funny intelligent woman, talking about being single causes a knee jerk reaction somewhere in me, first thinking “Aw, that’s sad…” then “Hey! I’m free!” Hah! I’ve never acted on those sorts of things. Or, you know, that could just be me and any woman. Heh.

It reminds me a little of an advert I saw in the cinema yesterday, for an Anne Hathoway film (‘One Day’?) in which the guy is saying how he was secretly in love with Anne’s character when they were younger and at school together, but then he acknowledges that he was secretly in love with most of the girls at the time. I think that’s kind of accurate in a lot of people’s realities. It’s possible to fall in love every day. There are lots of intelligent, funny, attractive people out there. But ultimately you’ve got to find the one special one who does something the others don’t, who feels the same about you, who you can live with, who you’re not going to be tempted to kill somewhere down the line. The other intelligent, funny, attractive people you get to keep as friends. That’s the deal.

I’m a sucker for a romance story, as long as it’s not too cheesy. I was in the cinema yesterday to watch Beginners before the comedy night out. It features Ewan McGregor as a graphic designer in his late 30s, stumbling into a new relationship. “Falling in love with a girl again,” he explains to his friend, expressing his confusion at how these things all work out. It’s a cool film, and I kind of wish that reality reflected art and that a graphic designer in his late 30s could randomly meet a quirky girl at a party. Although if I wanted to play it exactly by the rules set out in the film I’d have to wait til I was 38, both parents had died, and I was dressed as Sigmund Freud and carrying a dog.

That might be a little excessive, even for me.

(sorry, weird font and spacing issues here - I'll try to sort it out later)

A Man of Many Masks

2011-07-08T06:31:00.000-07:00

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Daniel apologises as he steps into the apartment. He looks a sorry sight, hair and coat dripping with rain, his glasses steamed up. He becomes aware that he is dripping on the polished wooden floor, and begins to apologise again. I raise a hand to stop him. “Don’t worry,” I explain, “it’s a studio. The floor frequently gets dirty. Art is a dirty business.” Daniel smiles an uneasy smile and allows me to hang his coat up for him. From the hook by the door the coat continues to produce a puddle on the floor.

Daniel Webb is a young journalist working for a local London paper, here to interview me in the run-up to the British Museum’s upcoming ‘The Hero with a Thousand Faces’ exhibition. In particular he is here to speak about the masks I am offering the Museum for the duration of this short exhibition from my private collection. Daniel and I have met just the once before, following a brief phone conversation where I suggested we meet up for a coffee on London’s quiet South Bank. There’s a lovely place that sits directly opposite Cleopatra’s Needle on the north bank of the Thames, an ancient Egyptian monolith that seems both out of place and yet typical of the mish mash of identities contained within this city. This is not my home and yet I love it for it’s cultural diversity, the way it draws in people and influences and stirs them together.

I remember that initial meeting. A sunny day, not at all like today, a golden light filtering through the trees on the South Bank, the laughter and conversations of people sitting nearby, or walking past along the bank of the river. Daniel was early and I found him nervously waiting when I arrived. He rose from his chair, addressed me by my name and eagerly offered me his hand, which I took and shook. His handshake was a little too eager, as if he’d once been told that a firm handshake conveys a strong and confident character. I sat down and we talked a little, and he jotted down numerous notations in a ring-bound notebook. He seemed to relax in my company, seemed to be comforted somewhat by my laughter in response to some of his more insightful questions. But we agreed there and then that he might do better to have some sort of recording device for the purposes of his interview, and that if he were to have his article accompanied by relevant pictures he might as well visit me at my London studio flat. And so here he is.

I lead him from the slowly forming puddle in the entrance hall through to the lounge, and offer him a drink. Tea? Coffee? “Coffee, please,” he says, his eyes wide as he takes in the details of the studio flat. There is little here to suggest anything comparable to the grandeur of the collection Daniel has come here to see; I have the bare minimum to make myself comfortable here. A glass topped coffee table, a couple of white plastic chairs, and four blank white walls like vast canvasses awaiting their first drop of paint. A large window looks out across the Thames, but it now frames darkness, animated by the pattern of raindrops. The lights of distant buildings dance to the gentle brush of the rain against the glass. By contrast my footsteps sound sharply upon the polished wooden floor as I cross the room to the kitchenette near the window.

“Please, sit down,” I call, as I fetch a jar of instant coffee from the cupboard. “Make yourself comfortable.” Daniel picks one of the not-particularly-comfortable chairs, one where he faces the window and the kitchenette, and begins to empty his bag. One by one he places the contents on the coffee table, as if each needs to be positioned just so: a compact digital camera, a dictaphone, a notebook, a pen, and lastly a book from which protrudes a leaflet for the British Museum. The book I see shares the name of the exhibition and is presumably the book by Joseph Campbell from which it gets its name.

To be continued…

Snippet of a short film script... "Red"

2011-07-08T06:18:00.000-07:00

EXT: BLACK SCREEN.

Fade in the words “ONCE UPON A TIME…”

ROSE (V.O.):

Once upon a time…

The ‘O’ of ‘ONCE’ fades into a full moon in a dark sky.

ROSE (V.O.):

Don’t stop me if you’ve heard this one before. Everyone’s heard this one before. It’s only the details that change.

INT: ROSE’S HOME.

We see ROSE’s red mp3 player. A finger with a nail painted bright red presses ‘play’ and the music begins to accompany opening sequence.

EXT: NIGHT SHOTS IN LONDON

The music is the main constant throughout the opening sequence, the images showing London in momentum, as the camera pans past, taking in various snippets. Key to this is ROSE’s journey through London by night, trying to maintain motion, flashes of colour and life. People laughing and chatting, glimpses of adverts and brandings. Trying to maintain the presence of red without making it an obvious focus. ROSE we see only partially, holding a book or magazine with the same red nailed hands, or legs crossed with red shoes. She wears dark colours mixed with brighter reds. The music remains constant, no background noise coming through. ROSE’s journey is uninterrupted by the world beyond her personal theme tune.

We glimpse a few surreal shots, red phone boxes lying like knocked over dominos (as per the art sculpture at Kingston Upon Thames), the traffic light tree at Herons Quay on the Isle of Dogs, red lights flickering in the background.

EXT: NIGHT ON A LONDON STREET

The sequence ends with a shot of the red shoes stepping onto a London pavement. We scroll up to see ROSE’s face for the first time, a twenty something girl with short hair, dyed bright red. Behind her a London UNDERGROUND sign is reflected. Closing in on her face the only visible letters of this sign become the letters DER in reverse. She removes one earphone then the other, replacing the music with street noise.

Across the road a crossing sign displays a red man, ensuring she doesn’t cross. Cut back to ROSE until lights change, then show ROSE crossing whilst red light holds back traffic.

EXT: NIGHT OUTSIDE HOSPITAL

We see ROSE walking towards the entrance of a hospital.

INT: NIGHT HOSPITAL CAFÉ

A man sits at a table, early to mid forties, suit, tie. He sits with a newspaper in front of him, a crossword incomplete. Possible opportunity for other subtle references to Little Red Riding Hood. This is D.I. HUNTER. He is sipping black coffee. There is a general murmur of noise in the background, but it is late and there are few people here. There is soft music playing. We watch HUNTER for a moment struggling with some of the clues.

ROSE (O.S.)

Do you mind if I sit here?

Pull back to show ROSE standing next to HUNTER’s table, and lots of empty tables around them. ROSE has a bunch of roses in her hands. Posters and signs on the wall make it clear that this café is part of the hospital. A bottle of ketchup sits on a table in the foreground.

HUNTER looks around, then back up at ROSE.

HUNTER

Ah… No.

ROSE

I just thought, you know, it’s a big empty room. No point sitting far away from the only other point of interest.

HUNTER

Point of interest?

ROSE pulls a chair out and sits.

ROSE

You. These flowers aren’t for you by the way.

HUNTER

You know visiting hours are over?

ROSE

Yeah, I’m here for my grandmother. She’s ill, she can see visitors out of hours. What’s your story?

HUNTER

I’m here on police business.

ROSE

Really?

HUNTER

Really.

HUNTER pulls some ID out of a pocket.

ROSE

Cool!

(pauses, smiling)

So, what do you make of the coffee?

HUNTER

The coffee?

ROSE

Yeah, the coffee. In your official capacity as an officer of the law.

HUNTER laughs.

ROSE

I’m thinking of picking something up to take upstairs. A drink and a snack.

HUNTER

It’s ah… it’s okay, I suppose. Hot. Black. Does the trick.

ROSE

Grimm.

HUNTER

Grim?

ROSE

Eight across. German brothers and storytellers.

HUNTER

Oh, the Brothers Grimm.

ROSE

Got it in one.

HUNTER

One hour perhaps. Not really my thing.

ROSE

I suppose not. Not many wolves to catch in London.

HUNTER

No. Not as such.

HUNTER checks his watch, reminded of the man he’s keeping an eye on upstairs.

ROSE

You know what? I never understood why there was just a big bad wolf in those stories.

HUNTER

(distracted) Huh?

ROSE

You know, a solitary wolf. They’re pack animals, they hunt in packs.

HUNTER

It’s an analogy, isn’t it? The tall dark stranger your mother always warns you of?

ROSE

Not my mum. (laughs) You off?

HUNTER is climbing to his feet. He picks up his coffee, but leaves the paper.

HUNTER

Er… yeah. Nice to meet you…

ROSE

Rose.

HUNTER

Rose.

ROSE watches HUNTER wander off.

ROSE

(to the empty room) See you later then.

To be continued...

2011-07-08T04:28:00.000-07:00

Late Night Review...

Last night was the Harry Potter film premiere. A big spectacle. Lots of people were there. Many famous ones.

I didn’t go myself, but did see the crowds during the day. Crazy!

The day had been a little hectic. I needed to sort out some tickets at Victoria coach station, and so had headed out in torrential rain. I’d dressed for rain, with my jacket and boots. Still, it turns out it is actually summer, and horribly warm. Whilst I thought it’d be quite cool to hang around London for a little while (after heading to a few shops and deciding not to spend money on a few things I really liked), five or six hours in a coat exhausted me. The evening I decided would be spent doing some sorting out at my parents’ place. Fortunately I decided not to inform them, as I stumbled across a Tweet en route that made me change direction.

Someone was offering a spare ticket to anyone interested, to a comedy show at the Soho Theatre. I figured that other people might jump at the chance but that, if not, I could probably do so. When it appears noone else has offered to take the ticket I grab a tube to Oxford Circus.

Let’s be honest. The title Gimp Fight doesn’t immediately make you think ‘Hmmmm… that sounds like a fun night out…’ Well, perhaps one or two of you are raising an eyebrow and trying not to be excited by the idea. But the fact is I’d read a little bit about it before, possibly through the Twitterfeed of the person who was offering the ticket, and knew it was a comedy show, albeit it a dark comedy show. And sometimes it’s the random opportunities in life that turn into bigger opportunities and introduce you to a larger world of experiences.

ComedyNerd, or Carol as she is known in real life, is apparently a bit of a Late Night Gimp Fight groupie, having spent much of the week seeing the show multiple times already, having claimed the same seat in the front row as her own. She was so familiar with the material that she’d previously been noted as laughing prior to the jokes, and disrupting a reviewer’s viewing of it. I didn’t know what to expect, and the flyers all show a gimp masked man cradling a baby. Or perhaps it’s more the mask of a Mexican wrestler, but in a tasteful sombre black. Either way, it didn’t quite prepare me for the show. Nor did the signs warning of full frontal nudity.

Carol, and the friend she’d been waiting with (and whose name I’ve completely forgotten now because I tend to forget names I don’t see written down or hear repeated – sorry!) are big fans of the comedy circuit, and regular visitors to the Edinburgh Festival. Carol has a list of MUST SEE acts, and a list of prices. The total at the bottom was just under £200. That’s commitment to comedy! Her friend said she usually avoided spending more than a tenner to see an act. That said Late Night Gimp Fight tickets were £15. But absolutely well worth it.

We were the first to enter the theatre, and claimed our seats in the front row. The set looked amazing (a little like the sort of thing I’m trying to conjure up for my own play at the moment), being what appeared to be some sort of small flat, a room consisting of a kitchen and lounge area with doorway off either side, presumably to a bedroom (through a bead curtain) and bathroom (with a door). A front door stage left faced the audience, as did a couch in front of it, positioned so that it was lined up with a TV on the far left of the stage. There was an Apocalypse Now poster on the wall, and a selection of boardgames, books, DVDs and CDs on the shelves (notably a Never Mind The Buzzcocks game and a couple of book by Howard ‘Mr Nice Guy’ Marks). Cuttlery lined the kitchen counter draining board. All in all it looked like a bit of a student flat, but like one where the students did actually make a point of tidying up.

The scene is set when one of the five man troupe, a young bearded gentleman, walks onto the stage through the front door, throwing his keys across the kitchen counter. He switches lights on, slumps onto the couch, and picks up a remote control. We are then introduced to an element of the show that runs throughout – a TV screen is projected onto the back wall of the set to show us various Late Night Gimp Fight adverts. Usually these brief scenes, usually doctored adverts or song videos that end with the words Late Night Gimp Fight, offer a few seconds distraction whilst the lights are down and the comedians are running into position for their next sketch. This first time though, which sets the scene, has an advert for a charity. The two gentlemen explain how there are people out there being physically and mentally tortured. And that it is up to them to help look after such people when their masters and mistresses die. They are the Prevention of Prevention of Cruelty To Gimps. “Give a gimp a fish,” explains one man, “and he’ll shove it up his arse. But give a gimp a rod…” The man pauses, then continues… “and he’ll probably shove it up his arse too…”

Once the advert finishes the stage the comedians all appear for introductions, all wearing gimp masks (and including the young bearded man who has had a mask yanked over his head). They sing “Late Night Gimp Show” to the tune of Don’t Stop Believing, one of them on stage in a wheel chair as a special nod to Glee. After the song they introduce themselves to the audience and then announce the new female member of the group who we’ve yet to see. Which proves to be something of a disaster.

There are so many very funny sketches throughout, some of which I’ll try to recall because as a ‘Worst of’ compilation this is old material they’re performing before they go on to do their new stuff at Edinburgh.

There’s a sketch about the father of a four year old who is visited by his tactless friend. After this initial meeting where he casually mentions that his son has been killed they later reappear throughout the show, with the friend displaying his lack of tact a couple of times more.

There’s a sketch where a jock gets bullied by nerds, picked on as he begins to eat an apple. Which is a lot funnier than it sounds.

There’s Jesus being crucified on the cross, delivering his great speech about being delivered into his Father’s hands… before being interrupted by one of the thieves being crucified alongside him, who’s just remembered something he’s forgotten to do…

There’s the jolly doctor who announces to his patient that he’s got nothing to worry about, and that he just has hives. “Hives? Phew! But isn’t that like an itchy rash? I haven’t got an itchy rash…” “Oh! Let’s see. Oh, my mistake, you’ve got A hive. Just the one.” “Phew! Well, that’s a relief!” “Yes, nothing to worry about… hmmmm… I thought ‘hive’ was spelt with an ‘e’ on the end…” Patient’s face drops. “Oh! I see! My mistake! It’s HIV! That’s make perfect sense!” Laughing aloud at his silly mistake, then sees how the patient is reacting. “Oh… I suppose that’s worse, isn’t it?”

There’s a sketch about how Sleeping Beauty could only be woken by a kiss of true love. Nothing else. So, essentially, the narrator explains to the prince, you could do whatever you wanted and she wouldn’t wake up. Which it then cuts back to later revealing that Sleeping Beauty was sleeping next door, and a hysterical Cinderella is shrieking at the prince “What was that? What the hell was that?” before sobbing to herself “That was nothing like Disney!”

There are few great moments where they sing. There’s a wonderful scene where a pervert in a trenchcoat is encouraging Bonnie Tyler to “turn around, Bright Eyes!” There’s a song they’ve written themselves about Making Love With The TV On, that lists various amusing shows to do so to. There’s their beat box version of some Dizzee Rascal (that is paired with another sketch which has its ‘big twist’ ruined). There’s their version of the Full Monty striptease that changes to the All the Single Ladies dance routine midway through (hilarious, and that’s before the big reveal at the end of the striptease!). And finally there are couple of songs performed by the comedians lying on their backs, wearing hoodies over their legs and manipulating them like puppets. Incredible stuff.

Very very funny. If their new stuff is anything like their old stuff, I encourage you go see them.

I went home to where my two of my flatmates were very drunk. My story about how Twitter had presented me with a really cool and unexpected opportunity was derailed by one of them, the comedy writer, saying how I only do stuff in order to write about it on Twitter, and how wouldn’t that be a great idea for a comedy character, or someone that apparently has all the answers and can be reached directly on Twitter? Or wouldn’t it be hilarious if you created a Twitter account and just came across as elusive and vague and difficult to actually Follow? Which, to anyone who is on Twitter, probably sounds like the dullest bunch of ideas you’ve heard for a while, since there are hundreds of accounts out there like that already. And which was a bit of a dampener on a great night out because I think he’d have probably preferred hearing about the great comedy than trying to string together a few terrible ideas and then, being drunk and stoned, lose his thread of thought several times.

But there you go. Too much alcohol makes dicks of us all. Or makes us too honest. Perhaps that’s the same thing.

Late Night Gimp Fight can be found here: http://www.latenightgimpfight.com

Killing Time In Camden...

2011-07-06T02:52:00.000-07:00

It’s mid afternoon in Camden. I’ve met a friend working in the market, who has been handling a hangover and has been demonstrating to me which stalls he watches over, and the constant stream of young attractive girls that wander by. I’ve been to the shop that looks like it’s like an Ibiza club, were it an Ibiza club in the 22^nd century – it’s all glow in the dark bits and edgy graphics and loud electro dance music that never fails to leave me leaving it with the impression I’ve just had a GREAT time. And I’ve traipsed alongside the canal and up and down the high street in glorious sunshine, feeling that okay, this is summer and I should take advantage of the good weather.

But these are not the reasons I’ve come to Camden. I’m here because another friend of mine, Tim, will be on stage at a comedy venue this evening. I’ve been going to quite a few comedy nights recently. A long time ago someone suggested I should go into stand up myself, due to occasional quick displays of wit people are taken aback to witness. Alas this would never work since there seems to be a requirement in stand up to stand up in front of people. And there so are many people much better at standing up than me.

The night starts at 8pm. It’s still mid afternoon. And I’ve started to exhaust my list of things to do to kill time.

“Do you fancy meeting up before 8pm for a drink?” I Tweet, to which comes a positive reply and a suggestion of 6.30pm. This is good, in that it means I have a whole hour and a half less to waste. It does still require me to find other things to do in the meantime. This results in more wandering around, towards London Zoo where I rejoin the canal and work my way back towards Camden. It’s a very nice little walk I’ve not really done much before, one of those few walks in London where you forget, for a moment, all the busy roads and see a more sedate side of things. It’s a slowed down pace. If not for the small groups of people using this route, or sitting down taking in the view, you’d think it was one of London’s best kept secrets.

The sun, by now, has decided it’s put enough effort in for the day and has hidden behind some clouds. There is a light breeze but then it is still warm, almost humid, and the breeze is welcome. I walk the pleasant walk back to Camden Town and eventually find myself sitting in Burger King, where I sip on a large coke. Catching sight of myself in a mirror, I figure the world has seen enough of my bare arms and put my jacket on. Once outside again it begins to rain, just ever so slightly, and it’s lovely and refreshing. It’s about 4.30pm. I still have two hours to kill. I shall go to see my friend in the market again.

My friend in the market smiles when he sees me return, and is rolling a smoke to take a break. He introduces me to some of the people he works with. But we seem to have run through most topics of conversation from our previous catch up. Furthermore it was sunny then, and the talk was of lighter topics such as girls in the market, about comedy clubs, about getting out of repetitive situations. “I used to go swimming,” he confided earlier , “three times a week. I think I need to get back into it.” I nodded, knowingly. “Yes, I’ve been thinking of maybe joining a gym or something. I’m getting a bit of a belly.” I patted my very small belly, just for emphasis. A lady my friend was selling a picture to looked at me with a small measure of amusement. I do not look fat. I look wirey.

With the rain conversations seem to have taken a slightly darker edge. Apparently there was a stabbing recently, one of the security guards having gone to hospital after being slashed with a knife. My friend wants to get out. Already he has earned himself an evil nemesis in the form of a young girl he has caught trying to shoplift a number of times. She’ll still pass by on occasions. Scowling. My friend wants out. He doesn’t feel safe.

A girl who he has just introduced me to, who works at a nearby stall, is looking decidedly uneasy with this topic of conversation. “No, no,” he attempts to reassure her, “you’ll be fine!” She smiles, nervously.

The market is winding down. It is nearly 5pm. An hour and a half to kill. I say goodbye to my friend. I have a plan. I need to pick up some tickets from Victoria Coach Station before the weekend. Why don’t I do that now?

On the bus journey there, the light rain pattering on the windows, the air-con turned up to eleven in a bid to make the bus sound like a hovercraft at full speed, I reflect that today has been a really cool day. I’ve spent much of it catching sunshine and reading, taking advantage of some unscheduled down time between freelance work commitments. I’ve enjoyed exploring parts of London I’ve not been to for a while. I’ve been able to have some quality me time that doesn’t involve going to shops and spending money. I feel cosmopolitan, I feel at one with my city and, by extension, the world. It’s been a lovely sunny day and now the rain is washing away the intense heat and letting things settle for a more relaxing evening.

It’s been a really cool day, I reflect. But a big part of me doesn’t feel like I’ve earned it. Or perhaps more than that it feels as if I’m having a really cool day at the expense of others.

The bus journey takes longer than expected. I disembark at Trafalgar Square to catch the tube. But even on the tube I don’t get to Victoria tube station til ten minutes to six. And Victoria tube is already congested. I figure that if it’s taken me 50 minutes to get here from Camden, despite the fact the travel gods were smiling on me and ensured the correct bus turned up at the right time, that tube trains were arriving on their platforms just as I reached them, if it takes another 50 minutes to get back to Camden I will be late. This doesn’t even factor in the ten minute walk up the road to the coach station and the further five-ten minute interaction with a ticket machine. Looking at the crowd of rush hour commuters in Victoria tube station I think that perhaps the best thing to do is take the Victoria Line back in the direction of Camden. And that at least the journey to Victoria has been a nice distraction, and afforded me some time out of the rain to read some of my book.

The return journey takes me 20 minutes. I am now in Camden again with time to kill. Oh, how I laugh.

At 6.30pm I turn up at the Black Heart bar that has a big neon red crucifix on the wall and pictures of Jesus Christ on the wall, alongside pictures of skulls. It is a place I later remark to someone as not perhaps being the best place anyone would ever bring a first date to. My friend Tim is already here, and not alone; our mutual friend Tara sits with him in a booth and it is she who sees me first. I get myself a drink and drift over. We exchange pleasantries, discuss various writing and comedic projects, and other random events about town. I’ve not known these two very well and so by way of introduction they tell me of various drunken activities. They mention something called Underground Bingo, which may well be to Bingo what Fight Club is to Taking A Work Break, but essentially sounds like a themed Bingo night where everyone get very drunk first. “We’re very much in the upper age range of the people who turn up to these events,” Tim tells me. “Some of the younger members said he looked like Elton John,” Tara confides, “He wasn’t happy.” I nod my understanding. Who would be?

We order some pizzas as more friends begin to turn up for the evening. My pepperoni pizza is the first to arrive. It’s not the finest pizza I’ve ever had, the pepperoni having a higher than usual amount of pepper, oil and gristle in it. Two pizzas for my friends turn up shortly after. Tim has opted for the vegetarian pizza with artichokes, pine nuts and rocket on it. Tara has gone the tried and tested route of a pizza with classic cheese and tomato elements. She looks at the mountain of rocket on his pizza before admitting “I’m with Jason on this one. If you need pepper on your pizza just put pepper on it. Don’t cover it with peppery leaves.”

“But I like rocket!” Tim exclaims.

“After all,” I point out, “he’s a rocket man.”

I can hardly believe the joke has fallen into my lap like that. Tara points out that all that was missing was a little baddumm tishhh!

That night in bed, after a good day out, I feel a little ill. I put it down to my pizza and its dubious spicy meat topic. I reflect that, after having a good day I didn’t really earn, I probably deserved that.

If Music Be The Food Of Love...

2011-07-02T05:54:00.001-07:00

So here's a theory, right? It goes that when you're in love and happy in yourself and you're not desperately seeking someone anymore, when you have that little happy spark inside you, or the warm glow of knowing that you've got someone watching your back on an emotional level, you no longer look nervous and lacking in confidence. You're happy. People LIKE happy people. And so it is often the case that when you're in a happy relationship, not looking for anything any more, you occasionally catch people looking at you. What the hell's up with that? All that time when you were single and you couldn't get anyone, and now you're with someone you seem to have become popular.

Okay, so that's the theory. You may have experienced something like it, and there may be a large heap of coincidence in there too (especially, for example, if you get together with someone in summer, which seems to make everyone look and feel more happy and attractive, and not hiding within a shapeless jacket).

How do you get around that if you're single? Well, two answers are available. I'll discuss those briefly before I go onto my own idea, although no doubt you've already got the gist of it from reading previous posts.

Someone came up with the idea of Cloud Girlfriend, an online site where you essentially create a fictional persona, adopt the picture of someone who looks like they belong in a glamour magazine, and chat with members of the opposite sex who've done likewise. The idea is that you gain the confidence to chat to girls by chatting to girls in a no pressure 'simulated' online dating site. Or something. Or as they say "to get a girlfriend you have to have a girlfriend".

I wrote about it HERE.

In summary, it's a ridiculous idea, and a distraction. But maybe there's something behind it. If you're intensely happy with your virtual life and no longer looking for a girl in the real world, maybe you'll find those real girls start to notice the self satisfied fella in their midst and think "Wow, he's a catch!"

Possibly not.

The other idea is from a book by John Selby, called Let Love Find You. I haven't written about that, and probably should, but several of the key elements are mind over matter, letting go of the past, and reducing the amount of static and noise generated by 'transmitting' your desperate desires. In particular this guy says it worked for him, but essentially he'd meditate every day, find his centre, learn to love himself.

It's a neat idea, and it seems to have worked for a lot of people. But I'm shit at meditation. Or, more specifically, finding a still moment to do it.

So what do I do? Well, my own preferred form of meditation is by listening to music. And happy music makes me happy. Deliriously happy love songs that are all about the craziness of being in love, about being head over heals in love with someone... they make me happy... they make me smile... they make me feel as if I'm in love. And sure, in a Shakespearian way it's all to do with being in love with the idea of being in love, but then isn't it better to fixate on an abstract than to fixate on people. I've been there before, and it's quite frankly embarassing. Admitedly I still do it sometimes, and it's still embarassing, but then it's a learning curve. And this whole music thing seems to be doing the trick.

I'll be honest, the first thing you'll see when you look at my music collection is not likely to be "Wow, what a lovely selection of love songs you've got!" But that's why it's been quite a fun project to do in my spare time. It's a little High Fidelity (and man, you have no idea how much this project has made me want to go watch that film today, a film with John Cusack and Jack Black when he was still fresh and funny), but it's been great. I've got a lot of music to plow through, and The Cure and Depeche Mode have a whole bunch of love songs that are upbeat. Well... The Cure do... Depeche Mode have some very honest songs... but all in all I'm finding love songs all over the place I never really knew I had. Pop songs too.. and I'm also sticking some funny tunes in there, because laughter fits the happiness brief too. Richard Cheese doing covers of songs with explicit lyrics makes it hard to do anything with a straight face.

And the results? I've been very happy this week. I had a lot of eye contact with girls on Monday, which may or may not be connected. And I've just generally been a lot easier going. A lot less stressed. I feel a lot more in control. But generally I'm just feeling happy. And yes, I'm also feeling as if I'm in love a lot, so I might want to watch who I spend time with, but it's fun to feel a little flirty, to speak openly about stuff, to stop bottling stuff in and let it out through the music. It's a tap on a lot of unrealised romantic dreaming - I can let it off in short bursts at a time.

Will it work to make me desireable to woman? Hell, I don't know about that. But I'm feeling more 'centred'. I'm enjoying life. The music makes me upbeat and reflective of the good things in my life. So... should I be worried?

Hell, no.

Anyhow, I'm just about out of credit here. I'd best sign out. Have fun out there!

Ready To Go

2011-07-02T05:46:00.000-07:00

So, a few nights back I ended up chatting with the mysterious K. As I've said on Twitter I've told him much I'm not really prepared to put onto blogs, because putting things on blogs can cement all your crazy ideas into a solid form that, once witnessed, often can't quite be forgotten.

One of the topics we quite often come back to is crazy exes, and in particular this came up when I mentioned my Lovesong Playlist project (more of which... elsewhere...) - it's crazy how often certain moments, certain situations, get linked to songs that for a long time after remind you in painful clarity of that situation. It's not my place to explain exactly why The Killer's Mr Brightside and an un-named Genesis album occupied a dark place in his heart at one time, but it's fair to say the manner in which I've been dumped from previous relationships seems quite tame in comparison. It may also be that he's even more prone to meladrama than me, but that doesn't make it any the less painful. After all, without being part of a psychic hive mind to share experiences we only have our own experiences of pain to register current hurts by.

I reminded K of the shared conversion from a while back (again... elsewhere online...), about how Cat Deeley had declared that, when younger, she looked for funny and exciting, and now she reflects how she'd like someone kind to grow old with. Sure, I talked a whole lot about that somewhere. And K began to tell me how he'd frequently met a girl working at the internet cafe he frequents who had increasingly been making eye contact, been trying to talk to him, being a little coy and showing some of those I-interested-but-shy signs. And it hit him just like that. He told me he'd become desensitised to romance and love a lot over past experiences, and that he didn't get the sudden spark of love at first sight with this girl. And I shrugged, and told him a little bit about the book I'm reading, Let Love Find You, and how it says if you chill out and stop broadcast your desperate need so often, if you're still within yourself and become receptive, you find a lot more.

"Whoa..." he said, as he often does when he has a lightbulb moment.... "You're right... what if... WHAT IF... someone was RIGHT UNDER YOUR NOSE?" And we discussed how sometimes it's a whole lot of shit putting yourself under pressure to go out on a date and interview each other, especially if one or both of you are desperate and not a little nuts... and how actually it's nice if you slowly get to know each other, and it's organic, and things kind of happen of their own accord...

I smiled. "Summer helps too. So many relationships have started in summer... but then, quite often, by the end of winter, they fall apart." K told me "A friend of mine had this idea. Things expand over summer, and contract over winter. Even relationships. That's why you should never start a relationship during summer."

Well, that's told me. I was thinking August might be my month. Ah well. Roll on winter.

Awkward

2011-07-02T05:45:00.000-07:00

This Tuesday saw me doing one of those things I haven't done in a long while - go to a book reading and signing. The reading and signing in question was by Danny Wallace, and it was the second of his Awkward Situations For Men books, featuring articles as appeared over many many many weeks in Shortlist magazine. As seen here: http://www.shortlist.com/entertainment/danny-wallace-is-a-man#image-rotator-1

Danny Wallace is, indeed, a man. And for a while he was a man very much in my own situation, married, recently upgraded to fatherhood, and experiencing everything such situations have to throw at you. And then I became significantly less married, if not quite officially, and the kids are a little less a presence on my life, so now these awkward situations have less of a bearing on my own life. However that just puts me into a larger category of audience of people, for a significant number of people are not married, do not have kids around their feet and, specifically, are not men.

It's also worth pointing out that Danny is pretty unique in that he is a husband and father that stumbles across more pretty random situations than most of us. And hence more entertaining awkwardness.

The reading amazing. An exercise in multi-media brilliance. The event began with a short video. With some singing (sort of). Danny then came into the room once the video had instructed us to applaud him. Not just one person, mind. But multi-media brilliance is not just a video and some singing (sort of). Oh no.

Danny introduced us to the Wheel of Awkwardness, wherein a little application on his laptop allowed members of the public to revolve a wheel and randomly pick one of the articles to be read out, from one of the two books. Some results had pictures. Some results were, essentially, pictures - albeit with an imagined quote to explain the picture. More audience participation came about with Danny inviting someone to part read out a recent email exchange you may have seen, between Danny and someone calling him a douchebag. And at the end, after a brief Q&A, during which Danny was asked what his favourite cheese was, and someone introduced us all to the idea of 'laugh hangovers' (when you remember a joke or funny event some time after it has occurred, and have a little chuckle to yourself, often in public surrounded by people who have no idea why you just laughed), he got out a karaoke machine, and lots of people had a really good go at not singing Don't Stop Beleiving, until someone actually admited to knowing the words.

We then got books signed. Me and my friend Claire joined the queue, talked, met Danny, talked with him (as we go WAY back, as far back as 2003, since joining his 'cult'), then the two of us retired somewhere to go drink beer, eat chips, and discuss porn and discovering it on other people's computers. Naming no names. Not here, anyway. It's all kinda... awkward...

Sorry. I said 'kinda'. I've got to stop saying that.

All in all a very entertaining night and perhaps the best book reading I've ever been to. So... that's Monday covered...

Intimate

2011-07-02T05:42:00.000-07:00

The weather's gone crazy recently. My flatmate says it's become autumn prematurely, but I keep thinking of it as having lapsed back into spring. I got caught in torrential rain a few Friday's back, and it wasn't too great that Sunday either, when I went with friends to the ICA.

The ICA thing I went to with Chris and Claire though was pretty cool, even though my shoes were soaked through by the time we got there (I don't think it had a detrimental effect on the experience). Essentially, through Katie (who is a friend of Chris) we were to experience a 15 minute 'performance' in order to give some feedback. And it was pretty intense.

We took it in turns to enter a room, having first been given an mp3 player and headphones which we were told had instructions on it which we had to follow. In the room was a woman, with parts of her body covered in writing. On the mp3 player were a selection of tracks that began with short monologues about love, reflections on lovers, almost like an internal monologue, at the end of each we were given and instruction to look at a piece of writing on the performer, such as a spot on her stomach where it had been written 'you were the only one I let rest their head here'.

The reason it got progressive intense was because, whilst listening to the voices talking about love I didn't know where to look, whilst all the time the lady looked at me, smiling. I found it hard to gaze into her eyes whilst voices were talking about love without feeling almost hypnotised by the idea of the performer being someone I had been in love with. The longer time went the more immersed I became. It was quite weird - the monologues started to feel like internal monologues, or personal confessions to a lover, whilst the performer was like a canvas onto which to project the idea of a past lover.

Did I enjoy it? I'd say yes, but it felt almost uncomfortable in the moment. It ended with me being asked to write something on her shoulder (the answer to the question 'When was the last time you said I Love You?') after which she asked if she could write something on my arm; in both cases written in invisible ink only visible by ultraviolet light. And no, as both Chris and I later joked, not a phone number. What did I write? Chris found my answer a little sad but in the headspace I was in, thinking about love interests and not my kids, I wrote 'I can't remember.'

So. Yeah. Intense.

I'll probably go to the ICA a bit more off the back of that. I didn't really know the place existed, but there are lots of places around London I've only discovered recently. I'm discovering a lot more of London recently, and just getting to spend more time with friends and creative people, both of which I enjoy doing. Of course it helps that many of my friends ARE creative, in one way or another. In fact MOST of them.

Anyway. Intimate. Coming to the ICA in fully polished mode sometime soon.

Token Update

2011-03-14T05:20:00.000-07:00

Because the last update here is pre-Valentine's, and because much has happened since then (alas, not romantically, but I'm in a new flat, working in a new place and enjoying at least the presence of some new cute female friends in my life) I thought I'd copy and paste this piece of writing from my more frequently used Blog at Tumblr. Enjoy:

My bedroom window looks out onto a brick wall. It offers no distractions. This is both good and bad, as distractions spark off ideas as often as they lead you off on pointless exercises. But, look, a little closer. Just what is going on with this brick wall?

The brick wall is the far side of an alleyway into which the window looks down. The alleyway is occupied, upon further inspection, by a chef holding aloft a silver platter, upon which is a domed lid. Not a real chef but a plastic simulacrum of one, that I’m reliably informed was once lacking a head. I’d like to think in those days there was a suggestion that perhaps the concealed dish held his head, that it was some sort of macabre - if brightly painted - headless spirit, haunting the alleyway.

The alleyway has another occupant. Down from the bedroom window, looking out into the alleyway towards the same far wall, rests the glassy eyed head of a tiger. Whether it belongs to a genuine stuffed tiger’s head or some sort of costume I’ve not been close enough to check but there he sits, watching, perhaps guarding, perhaps just waiting for the sun to come.

Maybe the chef and the tiger take it in turns to use the chef’s body. I don’t know.

At the top of the wall opposite the window is a railway station. In particular, just over the edge, are railway tracks. Wild flowers peer over the edge, looking down towards the flat, nodding their heads in the breeze. It’s a little bit of nature surviving amidst the noise and chaos of Loughborough Junction.

And yet, beautiful as it is in daylight it really comes into its own at night. Whilst the alleyway and the wall are plunged into darkness the light from the station platform illuminates the plants so that they shine out as beacons atop the wall. A flame that does not flicker, a star that does not twinkle. Just a gently nodding living glowing thing, looking down amongst the darkness. Peering down on us peering up from the window.

Cool. Very cool.

Yesterday’s plan was to get in after work, cook food and then just write, accompanied to music as suggested by American cyber buddy prettyzombiegrl (mostly Sneaker Pimps), but it didn’t happen for quite some time since one of the flat mates was in. So, having made dinner and talked to her for most of the evening, which included moving some of my books into the living room and picking through them for the wise words contained within (think ‘Little Books of Calm’, but with a more zen twist) I ended up retiring to my room at about 11pm.

And then I read some more of a recently purchased book about writing.

And then, because it was so late…

I wrote. Fuck it. I’d had a good evening but there was still time to write. And so I did. And thoroughly enjoyed it. Writing there, in my little room, with my music playing, and a brick wall peering into the room from the darkness outside. I tuned in, found my voice, and wrote.

And then, this morning, after vivid dreams, made more notes.

Thank you. Yes, you. The chances are if you’re interested in what I have to say about writing, what I have to say about the flat or I have something to say about my life you’re one of the people that’s helped me reach this happy place I’m (for the most part) in at the moment. Yes, there are some really miserable things going on in other parts of my life, but that makes the good things all the more gooder.

Gooder IS a word. Yes.

Thank you. :-)

Shakespeare (Amongst Others) In Love

2011-01-28T03:53:00.000-08:00

It's time to get back to promoting poetry and all things romantic again...

Reprise, by Ogden Nash

Geniuses of countless nations
Have told their love for generations
Till all their memorable phrases
Are common as goldenrod or daisies.
Their girls have glimmered like the moon,
Or shimmered like a summer moon,
Stood like a lily, fled like a fawn,
Now the sunset, now the dawn,
Here the princess in the tower
There the sweet forbidden flower.
Darling, when I look at you
Every aged phrase is new,
And there are moments when it seems
I've married one of Shakespeare's dreams.

For those not already in the loop about such things, there are a couple of events in two week's time that might interest the romantic in you. It's of particular interest to those living in London.

Love Poetry,
Poet In The City

For those of you who enjoyed the above poem, and who'd like to have an evening of love poetry on Valentine's Day, either to share the night with someone you love or because it's an alternative to siting at home downing a bottle or two of wine on your own, then please come along to Kings Place on the 14th February.

Tickets £9.50 online.

My previous post about the event is HERE!

Details are HERE!

Meet. Play. Love?
Chapter 2, Are You My Partner?

Last weekend I met up with a bunch of total strangers (plus one friend) and we ended up wandering around an art gallery, discussing in depth what art we appreciated and what, quite frankly, was a bit shit. We then went to a pub, that turned out to be a gay pub with cabaret downstairs, talked about the day out, then some of us went on for pizza to discuss things like tourists who stop at the top of escalators and other random things. The people were a fun crowd, in that they were all quite interesting people with stories of their own, but also very friendly.

So, am I telling you that you've missed some cool event where you could've made a bunch of friends, where you could eat, drink and be merry (and look at art), if only you'd known? Well, not quite. That was Chapter 1. Chapter 2 will hopefully attract a handful more people and could be a meeting anywhere (within London), doing anything (within reason).

And that's where you come in. Or could come in. If you're likely to be in London alone Valentine's Day this will be a great way to not feel so alone. Chapter 2 is kind of pencilled in for the weekend just before the 14th, so you never know, you may actually end up with someone to go out with Monday night. You will, at the very least, leave with a bunch of really cool new friends which is better than a kick in the teeth.

So, yes, sorry... where do you come in? It's simple. On a very practical level it'll be nice to have people turning up. There were about ten of us last time, which was pretty cool, although the question 'Are You My Parner?' was answered pretty quickly by the six people already in relationships, leaving us with three men and one woman still looking. So more single people would be cool, and more women (although I imagine the one woman who was single had no problems with having three single men pay her attention).

On a creative level someone needs to decide what would be a fun thing to engage us all, and all ideas are welcome. There's lots of opportunities to go for something romantic and tied into Valentine's Day, but there's just as many opportunities to rebel against that and go do something random. Allan Wills, who is arranging these events after he found his wife through a similar project, travelled the world and jumped out of planes amongst other things and although we'll probably not be doing anything quite that grand it does help highlight that there are relatively few restrictions on your ideas.

The gallery event was free (the beers and food afterwards not so free, but then that was more a friendly catch up after the event itself), so it doesn't need to be anything that costs money.

My own vague ideas are:

Maybe something involving writing or reciting poetry
Maybe something at the Globe Theatre on the South Bank
Maybe something in Camden Market

I've got no real fully formed ideas, but those are three springboards. If anyone else has ideas feel free to visit the website HERE - or just contact me through your usual channels.

As a footnote I'd add that the AYMP project is currently sitting in London, but it's in it's infancy, and could quite possibly evolve into something a lot larger. I don't know. What I'd really like to say is don't feel you've got nothing to contribute if you're nowhere near London. Maybe you'll find online involvement brings you closer to someone. Maybe something said will encourage you to travel here. Or maybe AYMP will come to you. Who knows?

Meet. Play. Love?

Mutual weirdness

2011-01-25T04:12:00.000-08:00

Thought I'd repeat this quote again, in this format.
Because it's possibly one of my favourites.
Or, you know, wishful thinking... :-)

Dr Seuss says...

2011-01-25T03:55:00.000-08:00

"Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind."
"You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams."
"I'm afraid that sometimes you'll play lonely games too. Games you can't win 'cause you'll play against you."

"I’m glad we had the times together just to laugh and sing a song, seems like we just got started and then before you know it, the times we had together were gone."

"Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple."

"Being crazy isn't enough."

"If things start happening, don't worry, don't stew, just go right along and you'll start happening too."
"We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love."
"poor empty pants
with nobody inside them." :-)

The Weekend

2011-01-25T02:31:00.000-08:00

“There aren't enough days in the weekend.”
Rod Schmidt

So here, at long last, is a lengthy blog about the weekend...

It begins Friday night, when I finished my late shift relatively early (before midnight), and went to meet my friend at The Intrepid Fox. I figured, hell, it's a fun place, I make friends there sometimes. It's a cool place when you're feeling a little lonely. My friend rocked up from a gig in Hammersmith (seeing 'The Cult') and I got talking to a guy from America, before the Fox shut and the three of us tried to get into the Crobar. My friend knows the bouncer, and so was let in, but we were told in no uncertain terms it was too full for us other two.

I might have tried to sneak in regardless. I may have been grabbed and pulled back out of the doorway. I rang my friend on the inside and explained there was no way we were getting it, but the message went straight to answer machine. At no point did I consider my friend a prick for disappearing into the bar and leaving us outside. Well, you know, not til the morning.

It was probably for the best. I got back in and to bed at about 5am. I got up and out of the house by 9.30am.

Saturday

Saturday was a proposed pubcrawl, to celebrate Australia Day on the 26th January. Some of you eagle-eyed people might spot that Australia Day is closer to next weekend than this one just passed, but having been invited to this one it seemed rude to kick up a fuss. Intentionally the aim had been to get up early enough to pick up some Aussie-ish beach wear on the way to the first bar, something from Fat Face. It didn't quite work out like that so whilst friends turned up as the ladies from Sheila's Wheels, I looked like some weird confused geek.

The lady on the left, who is helpfully being pointed out here, is 'Megsy' our tour leader. She's also a participant in something called 100 Things, where people list one hundred things they'd like to do within their lives, and attempt to do so, raising money for charity in the process. Here's Megsy's 100 Things for you to look over, to applaud, to make you think, to maybe even offer assistance with. Or maybe, just maybe, it'll give you a moment to think of 100 Things of your own to complete.

We were also told about the incredible Carnivale D'Ivrea in Italy, which takes place in March. Not only told about, but invited along, and if money was no problem I'd be there like a shot. Money is a problem, however, and I really need to sort out getting my own place before arranging foreign holidays... but this looks SO cool - next year, Italy, next year!

Megsy was the first of two people I met this weekend who was working on a private project that involved inviting others along for the ride, but we'll come to the second person in a moment.

It was a pub crawl, of course, so we wandered bar to bar, and between maybe fifteen of us shared about forty free shots at some of the bars towards evening. Theoretically things could've got really messy, but I somehow managed to survive, brain intact. I had a great time dancing, though noticeably spent little time trying to flirt or engage any of the girls we met in any bars. I only really noticed that the following morning, and when the photos appeared online Sunday morning I begun to wander if looking and acting like the funny friend or the protective brother is really doing my love life any favours.

Anyway, starting at 11am and going on for just over eight hours meant it was pretty full on, but didn't go on ridiculously late. Which is just as well, as Sunday had other plans.

Sunday

On Sunday I was due to meet a bunch of strangers to... well... I wasn't sure. There was a Psychological Art Game proposed at the National Gallery, and we just had to turn up to, as the tag line stated, to meet, play, love? I'd arranged to meet one friend, Chris, and potentially another, Claire, but since the latter had been on the pub crawl too (she's on the right hand side of the picture above) and was feeling a bit the worse for wear, she elected for a day with books and DVDs.

We were there to meet Alan Wills, who's recently set up the website www.areyoumypartner.com - having previously experimented with blogging his search for love and a wife via a series of random invitations to try a date that was somewhat out of the ordinary (result = success!) he now wants to be able to resurrect the idea for other people to meet up in a series of interesting ways, to defy the idea of conventional dating. I wasn't sure what this would mean before turning up. Part of me was terrified that it might be some sort of speed-dating thing, simply within the confines of a gallery.

And yet three words intrigued me: Psychological. Art. Game. I had nothing to loose, and potentially everything to gain.

I'd found out about Allan via a mutual friend called Kate, who had met Allan during his Are You My Wife? project -whilst she'd been experimenting with her own 30 Dates in 30 Days project - and because Chris and I had met Kate via something else random and spontaneous it seemd that Allan's project might be something we could really get into. I'll admit a little trepidation to sticking my hand up and saying to the world "Okay, yes, I'm looking for someone," but when online dating seems to be an exercise in spending lots of money and enduring the humility of seeing how much people rate you out of ten (the last time I checked it had fallen from seven point five to seven), and going out is often an exercise in getting drunk in the hope that I might get drunk - and lucky - enough, well, it held some promise. And I wasn't disappointed.

Okay, so the male to female ratio was maybe stacked against the men, and of the ten people who turned up, six of them were in couples (including Allan and his wife), but it was a nice crowd of people and I'm pretty sure we'll see all of them at some point in the future, if only through further 'Chapters' in the project. I can see, as more people get involved, there is the potential for singles to get together, and that's cool, but it was just a nice dynamic this weekend, meeting a group of people like-minded enough to spend their Sunday afternoon doing something experimental.

Experimental? You want to know what the Psychological Art Game entails? I won't disclose it here, as it's something I think might work really well as a future first date, but it's on Allan's website. In conclusion though I seem to have been able to get to the heart of someone else's likes and dislikes almost perfectly (and with no idea whether I was anywhere near the mark until it was confirmed) - which is funny, because I'm always tied in knots about whether I can read someone properly, or whether I just want to read them in a particular way. So essentially I go around thinking the best, but don't do anything about it because I can't recognise the signs as being explicitly signs. My anti-rejection buffer generally stops me from doing stuff, but it's also wired up to my don't-ruin-a-good-thing circuits. So, well, those are issues I need to resolve.

I'm not sure where or what Chapter 2 will be, but since I've got the Love Poetry event I'm helping out with on Valentine's Day I think the day before, Sunday 13th February, has been pencilled in as a possible date, an 'Anti-Valentine's Day'. Which is good because it then frees up Valentine's Day for everyone - it'd be a shame not to see people for the next 'experiment' (although also nice and reassuring that they've got a person to spend that day with).

In summary a really nice bunch of people. I'll maybe summarise them in more detail following Chapter 2.

Monday

I got my hair cut. Whenever I have moments of doubt about the man in the mirror I always change how he looks, whether it be via complete beard shaving or extreme hair cut. This time I went for the short hair, as the floppy hair was making me look a little studenty. I prefer to look a little more serious, a little more cool, if only to balance out the fact that I'm not half as cool as I'd like to be.

And then I went on to teach art at the place where I volunteer. Drew a few pencil sketches, one of which another volunteer asked to take home with her, after she'd asked me a lot about my love life (relax, she's married, and trained as a social worker - oh... and another Romanian). And then, on the way to work for the evening I bought The Picador Book of Love Poems. Mainly for ideas for things to use to promote the Poet In The City event, but also as a springboard for my own poetry. It's been a while, but it's something I'd love to get back into.

The last poetry I wrote was a Sonnet I composed for my ex-wife, in a card for her to read on the morning of our wedding, with each of the ten lines beginning with a letter that spelt out her newly married name. I've not really considered anything much since til recently, and the wedding card emory had me considering Valentine's cards on the bus journey home last night.

But that's another story.

The Message of Love

2011-01-24T02:10:00.000-08:00

Now the reason we're here
As man and woman
Is to love each other
Take care of each other
When love walks in the room
Everybody stand up
Oh it's good, good, good
Like Brigitte Bardot

Now look at the people
In the streets, in the bars
We are all of us in the gutter
But some of us are looking at the stars
Look round the room
Life is unkind
We fall but we keep gettin' up
Over and over and over and over and over and over

Me and you, every night, every day
We'll be together always this way
Your eyes are blue like the heavens above
Talk to me darlin' with a message of love

Now the reason we're here
Every man, every woman
Is to help each other
Stand by each other
When love walks in the room
Everybody stand up
Oh it's good, good, good
Say I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you

Talk to me darlin'...

The Message of Love,
by The Pretenders

Credit where credit is due. The above image was stolen from here.

Vaguely promoting forthcoming AYMP and Poet In The City events in London.

#lovers #poetry #song

Send "Message Of Love" Ringtone to your Cell

Because She Would Ask Me Why I Loved Her

2011-01-24T02:08:00.000-08:00

If questioning would make us wise
No eyes would ever gaze in eyes;
If all our tale were told in speech
No mouths would wander each to each.

Were spirits free from mortal mesh
And love not bound in hearts of flesh
No aching breasts would yearn to meet
And find their ecstasy complete.

For who is there that lives and knows
The secret powers by which he grows?
Were knowledge all, what were our need
To thrill and faint and sweetly bleed?

Then seek not, sweet, the "If" and "Why"
I love you now until I die.
For I must love because I live
And life in me is what you give.

Because She Would Ask Me Why I Loved Her
by Christopher Brennan (1870-1932)

Frank!

2011-01-24T01:57:00.001-08:00

#neilcolquhoun #frank #boilingpoint

I promised I'd do this a while back, and it's been sitting in my Inbox a while, so on the back of my previous book-promoting post it's only right to address te balance and get this out there too!

The novella "FRANK - Volume 1: Boiling Point", by Neil Colquhoun, is something of an immersive experience. In a series of short podcasts the author introduces us to various characters. The first five minute episode part introduces hitman Walter, with Frank himself introduced in the second explosive episode. So far so good, but the podcast is just one of a couple of facets that blurs the line between the author and his public. I've been following Neil for a while on Twitter, and since he's been writing the Frank stories there have been competitions for listeners to get involved, to make cameo appearances within the stories.

I love this way of engaging the audience, plus the associated Infected Legion, those that have responded or otherwise helped promote the worlds of Neil Colquhoun (and, in a sense, spreading the disease) who get a little badge on his site.

Neil sums up the Frank story as follows:

Frank, a mysterious bounty hunter gets more than he bargained for in
his latest assignment. Becoming mixed up in the beginnings of a gang
war, he has to contend with a team of hit-men, who are not like your
usual guns-for-hire!

It’s a story about a a bounty hunter, a dead-but-alive hitman
partnered with an alive-but-should-be-dead criminal, an escort girl, a
man who has a taste for something bad… and the Devil!

The 'Frank' podcasts can be found here, at http://neilcolquhoun.com/free-audiobooks/frank, and Neil is on Twitter @necol66

Handling The Undead

2011-01-23T20:22:00.000-08:00

Wow! I'm not quite sure how to sum that book up, but it's pretty amazing. Where as Let The Right One In was a very intimate and personal story - though perhaps less so in the book than the film - Handling The Undead takes a number of very strange phenomenom and subjects the whole of Stockholm to it. A heat wave, malfunctioning electronics, spontaneous telepathic broadcasts between people and, yes, the dead coming back to life, we see the effects these events have on a handful of people, specifically those people who are already mourning the dead, that are forced to re-evaluate things when their loved ones return. Not all of these effects are explained by the end (although I understand there's a novella length epilogue still waiting to be translated into English).

Much like Let The Right One In wasn't so much a vampire story as it was a boy confronting bullies and finding a true friend he can share an almost unconditional love with (who, okay, just so happens to be a vampire), 'Handling the Undead' is not really a zombie story, though it will appear to many as such. It cuts straight to the relationships between people, particularly family, seeing where the ties are strongest and where they fray. Ultimately it's sentimental without being mawkish, the characters are beautifully rendered and believable and the 'reliving' are simultaneously alien and human. It's also punctuated by a timeline of events as they unfold, of newspaper clippings and transcripts of interviews that make for an added dose of 'reality' that serves to remind you that these characters do not live in a vacuum, although I'd have perhaps liked to have seen a little more of what the world made of events in Stockholm. Perhaps it was beyond the scope of the book though, as the stories it does concern itself with are really engaging, and it would have been a shame to see them fighting for space with a 'bigger picture'.

There are three main families around which the book revolves:

Gustav Mahler, the old journalist who gets the scoop of the dead coming back to life, his daughter Anna, and her young son Elias, nearly two months dead;
Flora, teen goth and Marilyn Manson fan, and her grandmother Elvy, who are visited by Elvy's recently deceased husband Tore, who was still be prepared for burial; and
David Zetterberg, a stand up comedian, his wife Eva, who writes and illustrates children's books, and their son Magnus.

It is David Zetterberg and his son who take centre-stage for most of the book, his being the story that starts off the first chapter (after a short prologue). Shortly into the book Eva Zetterberg is tragically killed, but it is soon after that the dead begin to come back. As the reliving who was the shortest time dead befor coming back Eva remains the most coherant of the dead, although it takes her some considerable time to be able to relearn to put thoughts into words and try to relate exactly what she experiences. The three families' stories briefly entwine - Gustav is the journalist assigned to get an exclusive with David Zutterberg, although he ends up concentrating on the welfare of his grandson, and Flora is a fan of Eva Zetterberg's children's books and - being particularly sensitive - is able to eavesdrop on the thoughts of Eva's family when they cross paths.

The book ends with a handful of unanswered questions, with hostility to the dead only beginning to become apparent in the final chapters. I can't really say to what end the reliving resemble classic horror movie zombies as their motivations and nature are one of the key points addressed through out the story by the living protagonists, but it's fair to say that the story, like Let The Right One In, ends with a positive note. That's not to say it ends well for everyone, nor that the stranger events see any sort of of final conclusion (I suspect the related novella will fill in a lot of the gaps) but for the most part the three seperate families are able to find some sort of closure, or resignation. David Zutterberg's story, in particular, ends well, though it's fair to say that the three stories are all linked, that Flora's tale helps David's to reach a conclusion, and that his in turn is able to help Anna help her son.

Another really beautiful book by John Ajvide Lindqvist. I think I may have enjoyed reading it more than I enjoyed reading Let The Right One In, though that is largely because I read that book after seeing the film, and had lots of preconceptions. This book is very much a blank slate, and so I hungrily devoured it, page by page, with no idea where it would take me.

I'm very happy with where it took me. A stunning book, and I feel pretty wired having got through it. It's funny, I can go to sleep now thinking relatively happy thoughts, which is perhaps weird for a horror novel.

But then, in may ways, it's not a horror novel at all.

Love Poetry

2011-01-21T04:31:00.000-08:00

Since I’m promoting a Love Poetry event for Valentine’s Day, I’m probably going to use this blog, over the next three weeks, as a place to post some poetry with appropriate images. Who knows, I may even write some of my own poetry and post some of my own pictures.

Watch this space. And feel free to point me in the direction of some good material. And don’t hesitate to ask me anything about either of the events I’ve mentioned over the last few days. :-)

2011-01-19T06:52:00.000-08:00

Do you love poetry? Do you live in London? No, wait a minute, that's too generic...

Do you love poetry about love? Will you be in London on the night of Valentine's Day (that's Monday 14th February)? Do you think you can drag someone else out for an entertaining evening of live poetry recitals in a pretty damn classy place (which, let's face it, is a little different from flowers and a local restaurant)? Alternatively, are you a single hopeless romantic who'd like to sit and listen and sigh deeply and maybe, just maybe, meet similarly single hopeless romantics (they'll be the ones sitting on their own, sighing deeply and glancing around in case that special one is also there in the audience)?

Do you have money for tickets?

You do? You are? You would? You have?

That's wonderful! Feel free (after having bought non-free tickets) to come along to the Love Poetry event, hosted by Kings Place, a lovely little place a few minutes walk from King's Cross Station, and arranged by the lovely people at Poet In The City (specifically this event is managed by the lovely Rebecca Wilkinson, the charity is chiefly executived by the lovely Graham Henderson and a whole bunch of lovely people - like me - volunteer our time to promote poetry in London, and other cities in the UK).

Here's some blurb. I'd only say much the same as this anyway, so it makes sense to just quote what is written elsewhere:

Celebrate Valentine’s Day in grand romantic style at this fabulous poetry event. Featuring a superb line up of Picador poets reading poems about love, passion and intimate relationships, properly functioning and otherwise.

Featuring the distinguished Picador poets:

Ian Duhig, Paul Farley, Annie Freud, Clive James, John Stammers, Robin Robertson and Lorraine Mariner.

Since it began in 1997, Picador Poetry has established itself as one of the leading poetry imprints in the UK, and the roll-call of Picador authors includes many of the best-known names in British and American verse.

I first went to one of these poetry events in 2010, and they're always entertaining - and, in part, why I now volunteer for them. I also went to see Clive James at Kings Place last year promoting his memoirs, and he's very entertaining in his own right. I'm looking forward to seeing him again and to discovering some more talented people. So, if nothing else, come along and keep ME company.

You'll have to buy your own tickets though. :-p

It Can't Rain All The Time...

2011-01-17T02:58:00.000-08:00

...but it'll damn well try.

I've not really been motivated to do much this morning. I was in the mood for maybe writing some miserable poetry, which I suppose is better than nothing, but I had a book review to write and post online, which was perhaps more productive. I'm not really looking forward to my volunteer work today, as I've no idea how I'm going to bounce in all smiling. At least with the graphic design work I don't have to be happy - I can just bury myself in work for a bit.

I'm going to be like this for a few days, I think. This may mean I'm not online much. And it may mean I go seek proper human interaction with some of you until I can snap out of it.

Meanwhile, on other internet sites, I've been compared with this guy. For he always seems to be walking in the rain. I'm sure it's a metaphor.

A little heartbreak aint the end of the world

2011-01-16T17:04:00.001-08:00

So... there we go. Relatively painless, but actually ended a little more painful than I'd liked. Got to say goodbye, got to hear her story of where she wants to go with her life, got to confirm she's leaving and that there's not some magical way to persuade her to stay.

And, well, after that we just got drunk, and watched several hours worth of South Park, and it would've been rude to try anything by that stage.

Then just one final bowl of soup, a cup of tea, a few more awkward silences and sad looks, and a hug goodbye. Two people at different stages in their lives that might've connected better if things were different. But she's flying out on Tuesday and not coming back.

We plant roses in our hearts hoping they'll bloom into something wonderful, and yet we always plant the seeds where the thorn will do the most damage. And yet we never really learn, do we?

I'll miss her. :-(

I’m mature / (im)mature

2011-01-15T16:23:00.000-08:00

On Twitter someone’s said that, for my age of 36, I’m mentally very mature. Which was weird as I don’t usually feel it, and especially weird as it wasn’t some female groupie doing the usual ‘cheer up Simon’ thing.

I had to admit to him: Mentally I’m quite mature. Emotionally, very immature. It doesn’t always strike an easy balance.

I overanalysis everything, every situation, every person (yes, even you!), and quite frankly I’m terrified of putting a step wrong.

When I’m talking in general terms, like this, I can be brutally honest - it’s relatively easy over the internet. When it comes to face-to-faces I wear my mask of least-likely-to-offend. Not that I’m naturally offensive or anything. I’m anything but. I find people a pleasure to be around and value all my friendships. But I don’t rock the boat, which may be why, as a rule, I’ve got lots of female friends but generally rather than end up with one of these confirmed nice, sane and generally quite cute people I end up with psychos who see me as an opportunity for something. Although, okay, generally quite cute too.

Still. There’s a learning curve there. This week has taught me a lot about myself. When to appreciate someone for what they are and not to put yourself through shit for what they’re not. When to recognise the thing you’re chasing after is more a dancing balloon heading into space than a taxi ride to other things.

So, yes, mentally I’m mature. Emotionally I’m not. If I wasn’t the former the latter would’ve driven me insane by now. And God knows, it’s tried.

Evolution...

2011-01-12T14:19:00.001-08:00

"In our troubled world, you hear a lot of folks calling for revolution. Down South, they're calling for evolution."
Bill Hicks

A while ago, in the mists of time, I wrote a blog that talked about how I ended up here, where I am now. Online and wasting valuable time.

It's here (http://psibreaker.blogspot.com/2009/06/getting-to-know-me.html) and is about as close to a Psibreaker 'Origins' story as you're likely to get short of becoming good friends with me and bonding over a weekend in a remote cottage drinking lots. Or in a flat in Amsterdam, after exploring the delights of the city (not the red-lit delights, the other ones). Both of which have been done by people I'm very happy to consider good friends. But I digress.

The END bit of that post, that first real attempt to blog I made after joining Twitter, suggested that it was "a little like the human consiousness, a stream of thought somewhere between pure polished personality and subconsious. It's vital, it's fresh, it's almost fucking alive. Most of all, I feel connected to like-minded people in a way I've not been able to before."

The thing is, I've wondered if human evolution is supposed to take us to a moment when human kind is enlightened, when thoughts can be transferred mind to mind in an instant, when we can all be as one. Cue new age music and twinkly lights. In which case Twitter is a perfect example of technology well outstripping human nature, because it's more like wandering into a crowded pub and hearing everyone trying to make a point at once than it is reaching perfect understanding of the people around us. At least we can tune out the voices we don't want to hear. Or just shout at them a lot and grind our teeth, and make angry noises.

The thing is, until mankind CAN all see eye to eye, all connect on that higher level, there will be arguements about what exact evoluntionary path we're supposed to be taking anyway. And I think that's going to be going on a long time.

Me, I'm just going to find some friends I can get along with and hold tight, enjoying the ride as long as I can. I'll keep myself evolving as long as I've breathing, developing, learning, growing, passing on wisdom or laughter or anything I can sell to make a few quid.

And then maybe I'll see you on the other side.

The evolution will not be televised. :-)

Careful What you Wish For...

2011-01-11T14:55:00.000-08:00

"Everything that you wanted I have done. You asked that child be taken, I took him. You cowered before me and I was frightening. I have reordered time, I have turned the world upside down, and I have done it all for you! I am exhausted from living up to your expectations of me. Isn't that generous?"
Jareth the Goblin King

There I was, minding my own business, eating some food and it struck me that sometime life, or reality, or the big bearded bastard in the sky, or the pointy bearded one in the flaming abyss, maybe they really do listen.

Careful what you wish for?

I'm feeling pretty happy with the way things appear to be heading at the moment, as if someone just decided to check the schedule and saw that, okay, it's this guy's turn to get a big helping of sprinkles on his icecream. But on reflection dreams don't come true in a snap, as if some fantastical tight-trousered spirit summoned them into being. But they do turn your whole world upside first. They have to tear things down, potentially tearing away comfortable surroundings and taken-for-granted cornerstones. They take the pain-stakingly built Lego construction of your life and reduce them to handfulls of multi coloured bricks.

Because if you're going to build your dreams up sometimes you need to get back to the basics. And work from the blocky green ground up.

I don't know if it's all worth it. I don't know if the dreams I've had in the past have been realistic or not. But many have come true, if broken down to the very basics of what I've wanted. And sometimes it feels like crawling over broken glass to find that one shining crystal of dream, of hope, of wonder.

But shining crystals are cool.

Dreams are cool.

"Magic and dreams and good madness..."

2011-01-11T05:51:00.000-08:00

There's only so many times I can possibly say it's been a crazy few days, or variations of the same, before I start yawning myself. :-)

What may be better are a few details. So, here we go...

Friday

Friday night was a night at Katzenjammers, with Claire and co. I've been declared the Oompah Brass bands fifth official groupie, which I deny whole heartedly. :-p

I met up with the guys from Snortle Comedy; they're like the new Goodies, if only because there are three of them and Steve reminds me of a hairer version of Graeme Garden, rarely seen without glasses and suit. Chris was celebrating being unemployed, and his mothers constant attempts to point him in the direction of jobs that pay peanuts. Jamie somehow got into the place looking like a swarthy fisherman. Some said he looked homeless, but he hadn't quite got the dirty bearded look, the nicotine stained teeth and fingers or smell of beer and urine. Although I didn't check too closely.

As official groupie it is part of my job description to stand outside talking with them during smoking breaks. There were tales of weird sex, of ladies trapped in bathtubs, and of ball cupping. The latter was demonstrated on me by the tuba player. It's almost a rite of acceptance into a new circle of weird friends.

A coin toss determined I wasn't going to the Intrepid Fox. Which was good, because I hadn't got much money left for the weekend.

I got home to find myself listed in someone's Twitter #ff post as someone who looked to be promising in 2011. Which I considered incredible praise (and, frankly, a kick up the arse to perform). Thank you @Decimoo :-)

Saturday

Because I hadn't got much money left for the weekend, I walked to Wimbledon Village from Kingston, to join the Wimbledon Eight pub crawl I'd promised I'd go on. I had the intention of only drink coke and water.

I got there, didn't see anyone I recognised, sent a text to the guy who arranged it then remembered his phone was buggered. I wondered around a bit, checked other pubs, and left the meeting point at about 2.30, half an hour after we'd arranged to meet.

Apparently he was late and arrived at 2.40.

Because I hadn't got much money left for the weekend I walked back to Kingston. In all that was just over two hours walking. I felt vaguely fit by the end of it.

Because I hadn't got much money left for the weekend I turned down a request from my friend Glenn to go drinking in the evening at the Intrepid Fox.

Because I hadn't got much money left for the weekend I hesitated when a girl I'd met just once when very drunk at the Intrepid Fox facebook messaged me to see if I was going.

Using advanced mathematical principals unknown outside my head, I estimated it would be possible, to go for a drink, if I only travelled by bus.

And so I went on to meet my nice new Romanian lady friend and hung out with her. And although nothing really happened much, we did spend most of the time exclusively in each others company.

And she got a massage out of it. I think that scores 'nice guy' points but I have a slight issue with always being the nice guy. It usually fucks me over in the long run.

We spoke about future plans - Slimelight in the near future, Stonehenge maybe some time in Summer.

Sunday

Posted something about Slimelight and Stonehenge on Facebook. My second cousin from The Netherlands announces she wants to come too. :-)

Heading out to London I pass a dog with a pink collar that takes an immediate liking to me and decides to follow me. I've no idea who her owner is, but she keeps following, sniffing trees, investigating gardens then catching up with me. Several times I turn around and attempt to find her owner and then, when she's occupied sniffing something, turn around. After the first couple of attempts I try to put a car between us. The last time, near the end of the road, she nips into a garden and I run like crazy, round the corner, round another one, and keep running for the best part of a minute. This wouldn't be so bad if I were not carrying a large boardgame and what looks like a giant metal dildo (it's in fact an elaborate case for a card game, designed to look like a bullet - but a bullet that's about the size of a bottle of wine).

The dog, apparently, is unable to pick up my scent.

I met up with friends to play boardgames near London Bridge, including one that takes the piss out of the War on Terror, and one that takes the piss out of Chavs (and is loosely based on Monopoly). One of my friends confided with me that he'd been wanting to get down to Slimelight with his mate, and so a plan was hatched. I think I've got a good new friend in John - I didn't realise we had such similar tastes before today.

Went home feeling good but had a bit of a come down moment. Possibly because the alcohol was wearing off. Possibly because I half hoped to hear from my Romanian friend. Possibly because what goes up must come down.

Monday

Checking my Inbox in the morning I find a long email from a celebrity confiding me to secrecy, so have to write a reassuring message back. That was weird.

I fired off a message to my Romanian friend about Slimelight and Stonehenge.

Most of today is devoted to my volunteer work with two charities: Sutton Centre of Independent Living and Learning and Poet in the City. During the first I draw my 'Under A Cheshire Cat Moon' pic, which I scan and drop into Facebook and Tumblr along with another bunch of pictures later that day. Get some nice responses. I'm happy.

Poet in the City is an evening meeting. At Kingsplace, Kings Cross, we discuss upcoming events. I've already volunteered to help with the 'Love Poetry' event on Valentine's Day, but discover that what I thought was a one off event called Borderlands, about poetry from eastern Europe ("Ooo, Romania's in eastern Europe") is, in fact a run of about six events that are all tied to Romanian poetry. Wow! So, well, yes, I sign up to that too.

I'm also asked if I'd like to take at least part responsibility for Blogging and Tweeting on behalf of the charity. Wow. Sure. Yeah. Okay.

And then in a taxi ride to Waterloo station I am told by the guy who runs it about a book of poetry they once produced, and how he had me in mind to design the next version. Wow! I've already done something a little like this as a private project, ambient photography cut together with what I considered cool quotations. So... yes, yes, yes!

I get home to find my dad watching the film version of Aeon Flux. And find replies from my Romanian friend, who says she's still up for Slimelight, she's glad that I'm taking Stonehenge seriously and she likes the fact that I'm nice.

So... yes. Eventful. A very eventful few days. I think I'm allowed to chill out just a bit today. Just a bit, mind.

"May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself."
Neil Gaiman

Amen to that. I almost feel like wheels are turning where I can't see them, as if someone has decided this year should be a good year for me.

I bloody hope so. :-)

2011-01-11T04:12:00.000-08:00

From Tumblr. And an indication of maybe where I'm going this year. :-)

2011-01-09T15:19:00.000-08:00

From Dave McKean's Cages.

Words, words, words...

2011-01-09T15:08:00.001-08:00

It's been a crazy weekend. And all I really want to do is write and write and write, to try to get things out of my head and onto what passes for paper here, this strange little bundle of memories, inspirations, insecurities, sights and sounds and songs, all bubbling away, threatening to spit and splash and startle and... and... I don't know what to write. I don't know where to start and I don't know where's the truth and where's the fiction.

It's been a crazy weekend. It's been a GOOD weekend. Life threw a few curve balls, decisions I might not have made were made for the better and I'm all the happier for every little anecdote this weekend has thrown up. But I just think I'm coming down a bit.

I think I need to stop thinking so damn hard.

I think maybe I should go listen to music until I can't keep my eyes open any more.

Maybe a little longer.

It's been a crazy weekend. And maybe the first of many this year. And maybe posting Neil Gaiman's New Year's Message was a step towards ensuring it all comes true.

Every.

Last.

Word.

Happy New Year

2011-01-05T15:34:00.000-08:00

This is something I stumbled across online earlier today, something Neil Gaiman said once at the end of 2001, then repeated in 2004 before deciding that every three years was just about right. And so, after 2007 he reached 2010 and had the following to say. And although these aren't my words I'd like to pass on the sentiments to you...

May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.

And, once upon a time, he performed an extended version of this before a live audience, as can be found here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2d0QIt1EOGo

I don't know what my coming year promises, let alone yours, but here's to good things. Happy New Year, every one of you. :-)

2010-11-22T01:27:00.000-08:00

Invitations...

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon…
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day.
And if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

The Invitation, by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

The reason I’m starting this post with this poem is that this poem, which led to a book, was once referred to (by an ex partner of the author) as the longest ever singles advert he’d ever read. Which brings me to this next point - which hopefully I can mention in just this Blog… then get on with other things…

This week, whilst looking at a job site, for creatives (that’d be Creative Pool) I found an ad for single creatives (that’d be Date A Creative) which I found intriguing, particularly since I’m single and creative. So I signed up for free, only to find that the better features are only available if you pay money. Ah, yes, creative types have money, don’t they? No more starving poets in the streets, although I’ve been assured that there are plenty of starving screenwriters.

From Date A Creative I considered what I’d been considering for a while. My perfect partner would most likely be a geek, someone with a playful attitude to ‘stuff’, someone a good distance away from corporate suits, media types and wealthy headstrong mouthy ladies looking for a wealthy headstrong mouthy bloke to marry. So I did a quick web search for a dating site that might cater for the geek, and found, amongst others, GeekDate. Which doesn’t look too bad, but I suspect GeekDate is just a name on a larger site that may include a whole bunch of non-geeks. But, ah well, it’s better than Date A Creative, and feels like a step in the right direction.

I have yet to try Match.com, although I have friends that have used it and swear by it.

Anyhow, this poking around on dating sites has prompted a little whining on my behalf on Twitter and in emails (apologies - hopefully it was little enough), which prompted the entirely relevent “As a last desperate resort, I believe there are women in the real world” comment I got. And it’s true, previously I’ve met people through social groups. Or, if I’m honest, loitering around pubs where they’ve been working as barmaids in two instances.

But, well, Twitter as a social group has yet to get me linked up with anyone, and most of my real life friends are in happy couplings (and there’s a whole bunch more than there were when I was last single, back in 2004) and have yet to introduce me single (desperate) friends. I always imagined that I’d be the bumbling old socially inept fool that friends would end up looking for a perfect match for, but I’ve been in a long term relationship and have two kids - suddenly the idea that I’ll be lonely in my old age doesn’t quite have the same cold promise.

If I’m honest it’s because I look around and see lots of people in lovely little relationships. And, for the first time in ages, I’m looking around and seeing various cute ladies around and not feeling incredibly guilty.

Here’s hoping that the festive period, and sprigs of mistletoe help usher in a happier new year.

Copied and pasted from my Tumblr account, til I can get this blog (without bells, whistles and randomlinks) set up.

In additional news, in the four days since I posted this elsewhere, I've had a little contact with someone. It's early days but it's not so lonely days any more. Even the suggestion of interest is enough to get me in a good mood and getting on with things more poitively.

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue...

2010-06-15T18:32:00.000-07:00

No, I'm not getting married again. Just considering whether to start blogging here ocassionally again, or whether to just confine such things to my Tumblr account, or the new website I'm working on.

Any opinions? Anyone keen to see me updating on Blogger more often?

Theoretically I can link Blogs together some how.

Anyhow, it's late and I can't muse over these things when I've got sleeping to do. Goodnight!

Lost Time

2009-07-06T06:16:00.000-07:00

(part one - fiction)

Six days ago

It was a quiet street, up a slight incline from the main road where I'd disembarked from the tram. There was no traffic along this side-street, though the pavement was lined with parked cars as far as the street's end, old cars I'd never seen the like of before landing in the Czech Republic. The buildings were all tall, grey and uniform, presumably a mix of office blocks and apartments, their ground floor windows revealing blinds and darkened rooms behind frosted glass. The doorways I'd passed, those with clear glass panels, peered into short halls that led into dark corridors and stairwells. Much like the one where I stood now. Through the window I could see the narrow corridor stretching towards the back of the building, tucked alongside a flight of stairs leading up to the next level. A few doorways offered alternative exits, though they appeared without exception to be plain and heavy looking wooden doors, without significant defining features.

I checked against the list of names, and finding the name Horáková prepared to ring once more. As I did so, I noticed a woman descending the staircase, middle-aged and wearing a long brown dress and a grey cardigan over the top, her hair braided and tied into a bun behind her head. As she got closer she glanced up, made eye contact, smiled, and crossed the short distance between the bottom step and the front door. As she opened the door a crack, she smiled once more. "Dobré jitro..." she said, wishing me good morning or something like that, the end of the sentence carrying enough inflection to suggest a question, curiosity as to who I might be.

"Hello. Mrs Horáková? I'm Ewan Brook. We spoke..."

She smiled again, nodding and pulling the door wider. "Yes. Come in, please." She stepped aside, holding the door open until I had managed to pull myself and my bag clear of the street. "It's been quite cold this week - can I get you a warm drink? Some tea, perhaps?", she offered, leading me towards the stairs. "Yes," I said, "tea would be lovely."

She led me to her apartment on the first floor, a small arrangements of rooms with windows looking out onto the street. The buildings across the street looked much like every other in the street, cold and grey and with dark windows revealling little else. "Please, please, sit down," Mrs Horáková said, motioning to the nearest chair in her small living room, then changed her mind and motioned instead "Please, your coat. Let me take that for you." Her English was good, I reflected, though basic. From what I'd heard English was not really common with the older generations this far east. I shrugged the bag off of my shoulder, and pulled my coat off, thanking her as she took it and hung it on one of several hooks by the door, alongside two others, a bright red winter coat and what looked like a man's jacket. I sat down, and looked around the flat a while whilst Mrs Horáková stepped into the kitchen.

I'd obviously arrived whilst she was watching TV, the large box in the corner tuned into the news, the co-host chatting with the lady next to him. A white symbol on the screen indicated she'd switched the sound off. On some shelves behind the TV were a number of items, pieces of glassware, small porcelain cats, an array of family photographs. Looking closer I saw that one photo, of a couple smiling at the camera as they sat in a restaurant, seemed slightly dated, then realised it showed Mrs Horáková as a younger woman.

"How has your trip been?" a voice called from the kitchen.

"Fine," I called back, "Yes, a lot quicker than I expected. It really doesn't seem like I've been gone from home that long." I laughed. "I guess I haven't really."

"Have you ever visited Prague before?"

"No," I said, glancing out of the window, my laughter faltering, as I remembered why I was here. "No. I suppose I should have, really. We never really knew, you know... We hadn't heard..."

"He spoke of you, often, you know. Michael seemed very fond of you all."

I smiled. "Yeah. He's like that. He's just, you know, never been very good at letting anyone know where he was. Especially since his parents passed away. I think it was Christmas we last heard anything, a postcard from somewhere I think. India, maybe Sri Lanka."

Mrs Horáková came into the room, carrying a tray with two mugs of tea, a bowl of sugar and a plate of open sandwiches, some sort of ham and egg on top. She smiled as she set it down on the table between us. "I thought you might be hungry after your journey."

I nodded, adding "Yes, thanks." I took a bite, the bread tasting heavy, the meat slightly peppered. Mrs Horáková let me take several more bites, then motioned towards my mug. "Sugar?" I nodded again, my mouth full, then raised one finger. She smiled, as she tipped a spoonful into my tea, then stirred it. "Thanks," I said, once I was able. She sat back in her chair then, as an afterthought, leant forward and turned off the TV.

"So," she said, after a sip of tea, "you are intending to stay here awhile." "In Prague? Maybe" I answered, before taking another bite into my sandwich. "Ah, yes, in Prague, of course. But you mentioned the apartment upstairs when we spoke on the phone." "Oh, yes, sorry. Yes," I said, putting my sandwich down, "How long has it been empty?" Mrs Horáková shrugged. "Maybe a month?" I reached towards my pocket - I'd promised that Michael's unpaid rent would be sorted out, to make up for his absense, but she waved a hand. "Do not worry about that. I have been able to rent out the apartment a couple of weeks. It is empty now, of course, so you may stay as long as you like."

I nodded. "And his belongings?" Mrs Horáková looked at me, as if waiting for me to continue. "Michael's things?" "Ah, yes, they are upstairs now. In the cupboard." She leaned forwards in her chair and pulled herself to her feet. "I'll get you the keys. You can go up now, if you like." "No rush," I said, as she walked into the kitchen once more. I heard a drawer slide open, and the jangle of keys. "No, no rush," she said, "I'll just put these by the door here." She put the keys down on a small stand next to the front door, where a wooden cat sat, curled up, asleep. As I finished the last sandwich, she returned to her seat.

"I'm sorry I can not tell you more," Mrs Horáková said, after a brief silence. "I did not see Michael for some weeks, and then I found the number for your parents when I went upsatairs to see if he had been in at all. I believe he had been learning to speak Czech for a while. Something to do with his studies. He was..." she paused and frowned. "You hadn't heard from him since last Christmas?" she asked. I nodded "That's right. I think. Well, he may have contacted my parents sometime last year but, no, I haven't heard anything." Mrs Horáková nodded. She seemed to have something on her mind, presumably trying to finding the correct words to use. After a moment, she spoke. "He was involved in some sort of art exhibition. I heard him mention something about a play, at one of the small theatres in the centre of town. Have you heard of 'Black Light'?"

I shook my head. "'Black Light'? Is that the name of the play?"

Mrs Horáková shook her head. "No, no, it's..." She struggled to find the right words, then asked "Have you heard of 'Laterna Magika'?"

Again I shook my head.

She frowned, then held her two hands apart, fingers spread, as she tried to explain. "They're both types of... theatre? They're like plays that use films on screens, sometimes puppets, sometimes dance. They're very popular in Prague, with tourists." She looked at me, clasping her hands together, as if hoping that what she had said made sense. I nodded. "I think I understand. I'm sure I'll be able to find out." She nodded, smiling. "Yes. You will find it hard to miss in Prague." Then she seemed to remember what she had begun to say. "Your brother, he had been working on several things. Yes. A painting too, I think, but most of the time he was preparing for the play... the story of the golem, I think. He was..." Mrs Horáková tapped a finger on the side of her mug as she tried to think of something. Then she looked up, and spoke very seriously.

"He always showed a lot of interest in the stories of Prague. Like the legend of the golem, or the tale of Faust. I think he wanted to somehow interpret those stories. To tell them again, perhaps to tell them in a modern way."

I put my empty mug down. "I don't really know the stories."

Mrs Horáková smiled. "Don't worry. He has his books upstairs. Come."

Telling stories...

2009-07-06T05:49:00.000-07:00

Of the story openers I posted last week, the two that were earmarked by others for thrashing out were the story that asks 'How long have I been here?' and the one that introduces Ewan Brook to an old lady in an apartment somewhere in Prague. Ironically both have their roots in the same place - Prague. I visited the city a couple of times whilst going out with a girl from the Czech Republic, and dug up bits and pieces about the city's history, and one of its more famous sons, Kafka, came up onto my radar. Which implies I was unfamiliar with Kafka. Not true, but I was certainly less familiar with him than I am now.

The following story, of which there is little more written except to rewrite the first few paragraphs, owes much to the monolithic and generic settings of Kafka's stories. Previously I've had it mentioned that the main character has no real personality (although that was pretty much how I wanted the character portrayed, lost on the ebb and flow of his/her own thoughts) but that the other character we hear from promises so much more. I've yet to really explore that, but for your pleasure, here is the intro to the unfinished story in full. At least the first version of it.

The second story intro, which will be posted just after this one, is the first part of a long story that I set in Prague due to the inspiration I got from visiting different parts of it, and seeing things that just inspired me to write about them.

'Citizen K' (for want of a better title)

How long have I been here?

I sit in darkness, the giant screen in front, bright in my face, hissing at me, noise illuminating every inch of glass, dancing around like bees in a monochrome hive. I'm staring at it, have been for countless minutes. There are vague shapes dancing amongst the patterns on the screen, lit up in neon. Is that a woman's face, frozen mid-laugh? I blink, to make some sort of sense of the image, and she's gone, replaced by the chaotic dance of noise. Watching it, trying to tune into the world being projected into this room, I grasp the sudden realisation that the world I'm watching is seperated from my own by a layer of glass. Everything that has consumed my pattern of light, cast out of a screen and bathing me in it's illuminance. I get the sudden sense of being here, being somewhere, and my mind begins to query just where that somewhere is. The edges of the screen sharpen crisply, defining the white noise in a familar rectangular shape, whilst the walls around me slowly lean into view, and the weight of a chair begins to reassert it's presence around me. The light dances across the surface of my skin, and I fold my hands in my lap as I become aware of them, of my legs stretched out before me. Slowly I break my gaze away from the screen, looking to one side of me. I am not alone. Vague figures caught in thin strips of light either side of me, sitting on the same chair, watching me, smiling in the darkness. I'm comfortable, I'm warm, I'm not sure quite what's going on but I'm relaxed.

The outline of one of my nearest companion's heads molds itself into the contours of the chair beside me, and I wonder just how many people are here in this room. In the darkness I make out further shapes, a doorway, a clock, a strange silhouette shifting across erraticallty patterned walls, words and pictures dancing in and out of focus. I turn my head again, my attention drifting towards the dancing lights in front of me. I think it's the noise that becomes clearer first, the hissing static retreating enough for me to recognise the drumming of heavy rain. After that the clarity begins to spread, the screen momentarily showing me a skyscape of dancing stars before reasserting it's identity as a window, it's pane distorted by the splash of a hundred raindrops, in a constant state of movement but oh-so-solid and real. Solid glass, between the cold wet world outside and the room within. The image of the laughing neon lady has become the vague outline of an illuminated street sign outside my window, whilst within the features of my room begin to map themselves over the figures around me, the smiling faces and silhouettes.

The seat begins to feel firmer around me, no longer a shapeless warm sensation around me. In the dark the lights through the window have caught the edged of items around me, marking out hard lines and soft curves as the sweep of someone's arm, the tilt of someone's head, casting other shadows across the wall. The walls, I recall, are covered in newspaper clippping, stories about reality spilling in through the cracks, about the truth digging it's way up from beneath the streets, stories I've painstakingly collected over days, weeks, months...

How long have I been here?

"How long have you got?" a smiling voice asks from the darkness.

I turn towards the voice, seeing nothing. Rising from my chair I stumble on unsteady feet towards my desk, and switch the lamp on, wrenching it's head to shine it's glaring light across the room. Empty. Nothing. No-one. Just me.

Me. I don't really remember much anymore. That's fair enough - the City doesn't really seem to remember me anymore. The people pass by me on the streets without casting a second glance. I'll admit, I didn't think I was anything special. I was just one faceless cog in the machine. One of a thousand insects. A speck of dirt on a stomping boot. I've forgotten who I was. I've taken to call myself Citizen K, but I'll admit, I can't really remember where that name came from.

And so I was quite happy to fade into the grey backdrop of this miserable rainy city, going through the same stale routine not knowing or expecting anything new. And then I began to see the signs. Things that just didn't add up. Strange alignments of patterns on walls, odd glances from people, half heard whispers. Nothing quite real enough to pin down, but suddenly the world wasn't so black and white anymore. What was once routine no longer seemed so, as if the cog in the machine had become loose, as if reality had been knocked slightly off-track. For a while I thought it must have been me, that I must have somehow been broken. I began to collect newspaper clipping that suggested otherwise, that showed that there was something genuine trying to manifest itself into the world's greater consiousness. Here were articles about figures in modern politics, with radical new messages, or artists with daring new messages to convey. Writers with stories to tell and theories to divulge. What was the connection? What was it I couldn't quite see, behind the hand written pleas, the invitations to share these people's private lives, if only for a split second? And then I found him.

The Sleeper.

There are seven hundred and thirty three individual cuttings on these walls, enough to cover what original wall space there is of this small room, and of those fifty nine concern The Sleeper. Twelve more articles about him are spread over the surface of the desk, freshly collected from magazines and papers this week. No-one knows who The Sleeper is, only that he was involved in a terrible car crash on one of the busier routes out of this grim city. The wweather had been bad, visibility reduced, and a truck had skidded and flipped over onto it's side as it tried to change lanes, crashing into several cars as it did so. The Sleeper was the driver of one of those cars. The impact itself shattered the front windscreen, collapsing the driver's door inwards and crushing much of the chassis. The vehicle was, reports say, dragged along with the momentum of the upturned truck, sheering metal from it's frame as it did so. The man who became known as The Sleeper, though protected by the car's airbag, was concussed by the accident, his face caught by splinters of glass and jagged metal. He has never regained consiousness. Furthermore, he has never been identified. Having carried no identification and despite the attempts of police and media to track down concerned relatives, The Sleeper has remained Unknown.

It has been months now, perhaps weeks... days? However long it has been since The Sleeper was discovered, his comatose body transfered to The Hospital, the news has focussed on him. The signs all point towards a messiah, a dreamer, a shattered soul behind a shattered vissage. And whispers all concern the boy in the car, the unknown traveller, the mysterious and enigmatic Sleeper. These pages in front of me, torn out of glossy magazines and tabloid papers alike, all query the identity of The Sleeper, where he came from, where he was headed, the state of his car. Conspiracy theorists suggest that some of the cars were looted before the emergenct services arrived, based around reports of apparently disturbed wreckage, or of figures seen watching, vulture-like, from the sides of the road. One of the papers shows a badly reproduced image of The Sleepers car, the windscreen almost cleared off glass, shattered and scattered across the rain-soaked road, the flashing orange lights distorted in the water. Inside the car the dark silhouette of the drivers seat is crushed down awkwardly to one side. Although the most popular shot of The Sleeper is a full-colour shot of his face, eyes bruised and partially obscured by the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, a number of cuts marked across the left side of his face, I can't help but look at the photo of the car-wreck. This is where it all happened, I tell myself, peering into the unpenetrable darkness of the car.

"This is where it all happened", a voice smugly echoes behind me, causing me to spin around.

Nothing. No-one. Just me.

The Follow Friday Blog

2009-07-03T04:46:00.000-07:00

Today's Twitter #followfriday is promoting those who have good blogs worth taking a peek at. Here's a quick list, with a quick quote lifted from each. This list may be amended later.

@camiknickers “Hey buddy. Thanks for your advances. I’m afraid I want your friendship more than I want your cock. If that’s going to be a problem, fuck off. Sincerely etc. camiknickers”

@crazehkitteh “i'm sorry if today's post has not stimulated you intellectually, but gimme a break! I'm a Gemini remember, so I can assure you there are further rants in progress.I JUST WANT TO BE NICE TODAY, is that ok???”

@davesusetty “So, much to everyone's amazement, Susan Boyle didn't win Britain's Got Talent. And other sad news, the last survivor of the Titanic disaster, Millvina Dean, died at the age of 97. However, BBC News got their wires crossed somewhere along the line....”

@ElleSergi “One part writer, one part historian, one part loon. I am three! I am a magic number. I also hate marmite, and really should sleep more.”

@EmApocalyptic “You know, I think writers might be a bit weird. Please don’t be offended, but I think we are rather strange and obsessive. We make up worlds, make up people, spend hours and hours and hours writing about them…”

@ememess “When I was a kid, bin men had an aura, a mystique, something of the night about them: fierce, semi-mythical beings who came with the dawn and hefted sacks of household trash into the grinding back-ends of their trucks, before rumbling ominously away.”

@Eyglo “As an aspiring writer I am constantly looking at other people’s works. Interested in how they came up with their ideas, how they write and why. Twitter is a great platform to know a little bit more about these things, so for the past few months I’ve been semi-obsessed with Twitter too.”

@hatmandu “Maybe it’s time to start killing things off, and having ideas for new stories, instead of keeping the same ones going at the expense of all the sense.”

@Herring1967 “I smiled back at him for a second, confused at what had amused him, but then realised it was probably my moustache. It had come at him by surprise and everything had happened so quick that he couldn't stop himself laughing in my face. Which isn't great customer service, but I can't really blame him. After all it's a funny moustache and I am trying to reclaim it for comedy.”

@Itxi_Itx “Never feel guilty about stuff that's pleasurable. Unless its something freaky that you really shouldn't be doing, of course.“

@jamiesmart “For me, any comic that has the phrase ‘bum rush’ in it should be automatically approved.”

@JaneyGodley “My life is officially over, gone are the days when I could sleep till 3 o’clock like a right good comedian. I am going to be like one of those old ladies who wake up at 6am, put on a housedress and then fall asleep on the sofa listening to The Archers.”

@JhonenV “Friendship is a wonderful and restorative thing when it is in its good and proper form, a life-affirming and sometimes simply life-sustaining state that few people or cartoon animals can do without..”

@juliansimpson “What the… Who the… Where the fuck am I?”

@Julirose “On one occasion, I ventured into dalnet to find my usual chatroom empty, so I randomly clicked on another (#bdsm-uk). Well, there went a very preconceived notion about sex in the UK!”

@mandoran “Today was a brilliant example of what the Norwegians call ‘agurk’ news. Literally it means cucumber news”

@nashg “There have been odd exceptions, but in general, I find that people just irritate me. They either want something, or they are dull but insistent, or scary, or arrogant, or just out on day-release.”

@necol66 “COMING SOON: my strange and weird story about killer gnomes. YES THATS RIGHT, I SAID KILLER GNOMES...”

@purplesime "Okay, I admit there have been some inconsistencies. But it's nothing major, get over it!"

@rebeccawoodhead “I’m beating Cheryl Cole!”

@sarahjpin “If you rely on people loving you for your face, then you're fucked. They've got to love you for your smile and what's behind it. Because when the pretty fades, the smile shouldn't.”

@waitingword “The hurts of our yesterdays all too often have a profound affect on how we love and are loved (or do not love, and are not loved) tenderly today.”

@warrenellis “Off To The Pub!”

The following don't really have Blogs, but their Twitter accounts work just as well enough...

Representing the guys we have...

@demonchild6
@doodlewhale
@MatBlackmore
@tankyknight
@AndrewsBit
@parrais

...and the girls...

@ladylaura77
@cherrymorello
@ebeth
@gibbzer
@abiblackmore
@TrinaWright

That's it for now, but feel free to check in later. I'm sure I'll be digging up a last few names before the end of the day!

Old Beginnings...

2009-07-02T17:45:00.000-07:00

...the hope is, that with my increased confidence in my own abilities, I might actually finish one of the twenty or so stories I've begun...

Here's a series of opening paragraphs. If you see one unfinished story that grabs your attention, feel free to grab mine and prompt me to do something with it. Really, I need much prompting. With sharp sticks or sharp tongues.

******
It was a quiet street, up a slight incline from the main road where I'd disembarked from the tram. There was no traffic along this side-street, though the pavement was lined with parked cars as far as the street's end, old cars I'd never seen the like of before landing in the Czech Republic. The buildings were all tall, grey and uniform, presumably a mix of office blocks and apartments, their ground floor windows revealing blinds and darkened rooms behind frosted glass. The doorways I'd passed, those with clear glass panels, peered into short halls that led into dark corridors and stairwells. Much like the one where I stood now. Through the window I could see the narrow corridor stretching towards the back of the building, tucked alongside a flight of stairs leading up to the next level. A few doorways offered alternative exits, though they appeared without exception to be plain and heavy looking wooden doors, without significant defining features.

I checked against the list of names, and finding the name Horáková prepared to ring once more. As I did so, I noticed a woman descending the staircase, middle-aged and wearing a long brown dress and a grey cardigan over the top, her hair braided and tied into a bun behind her head. As she got closer she glanced up, made eye contact, smiled, and crossed the short distance between the bottom step and the front door. As she opened the door a crack, she smiled once more. "Dobré jitro..." she said, wishing me good morning or something like that, the end of the sentence carrying enough inflection to suggest a question, curiosity as to who I might be.

"Hello. Mrs Horáková? I'm Ewan Brook. We spoke..."

She smiled again, nodding and pulling the door wider. "Yes. Come in, please." She stepped aside, holding the door open until I had managed to pull myself and my bag clear of the street. "It's been quite cold this week - can I get you a warm drink? Some tea, perhaps?", she offered, leading me towards the stairs. "Yes," I said, "tea would be lovely."
******
How long have I been here?

I sit in darkness, the giant screen in front, bright in my face, hissing at me, noise illuminating every inch of glass, dancing around like bees in a monochrome hive. I'm staring at it, have been for countless minutes. There are vague shapes dancing amongst the patterns on the screen, lit up in neon. Is that a woman's face, frozen mid-laugh? I blink, to make some sort of sense of the image, and she's gone, replaced by the chaotic dance of noise. Watching it, trying to tune into the world being projected into this room, I grasp the sudden realisation that the world I'm watching is seperated from my own by a layer of glass. Everything that has consumed my pattern of light, cast out of a screen and bathing me in it's illuminance. I get the sudden sense of being here, being somewhere, and my mind begins to query just where that somewhere is. The edges of the screen sharpen crisply, defining the white noise in a familar rectangular shape, whilst the walls around me slowly lean into view, and the weight of a chair begins to reassert it's presence around me. The light dances across the surface of my skin, and I fold my hands in my lap as I become aware of them, of my legs stretched out before me. Slowly I break my gaze away from the screen, looking to one side of me. I am not alone. Vague figures caught in thin strips of light either side of me, sitting on the same chair, watching me, smiling in the darkness. I'm comfortable, I'm warm, I'm not sure quite what's going on but I'm relaxed.

The outline of one of my nearest companion's heads molds itself into the contours of the chair beside me, and I wonder just how many people are here in this room. In the darkness I make out further shapes, a doorway, a clock, a strange silhouette shifting across erraticallty patterned walls, words and pictures dancing in and out of focus. I turn my head again, my attention drifting towards the dancing lights in front of me. I think it's the noise that becomes clearer first, the hissing static retreating enough for me to recognise the drumming of heavy rain. After that the clarity begins to spread, the screen momentarily showing me a skyscape of dancing stars before reasserting it's identity as a window, it's pane distorted by the splash of a hundred raindrops, in a constant state of movement but oh-so-solid and real. Solid glass, between the cold wet world outside and the room within. The image of the laughing neon lady has become the vague outline of an illuminated street sign outside my window, whilst within the features of my room begin to map themselves over the figures around me, the smiling faces and silhouettes.

The seat begins to feel firmer around me, no longer a shapeless warm sensation around me. In the dark the lights through the window have caught the edged of items around me, marking out hard lines and soft curves as the sweep of someone's arm, the tilt of someone's head, casting other shadows across the wall. The walls, I recall, are covered in newspaper clippping, stories about reality spilling in through the cracks, about the truth digging it's way up from beneath the streets, stories I've painstakingly collected over days, weeks, months...

How long have I been here?

"How long have you got?" a smiling voice asks from the darkness.
******

"Resolute is not the end of the world, but you can see it from here..."

It's cold. Whatever else the great, magnificient and terrible wilderness at the top of the world is, it's cold. Believe me, I know. There aren't that many places on God's earth that man hasn't conquered, but up here, up in the Arctic, where the sun sometimes disappears for months at a time, this is one of them. Man has, simply through plain common sense, left most of the Arctic circle to the few animals born to live in such a climate. Aside from maybe a handful of Inuit settlements, and the ocassional weather station or military outpost dotted across the icy landscape, man is a rare sight . The human race, it seems, would rather be somewhere a little more hospitable. Who could blame it?

There's an Inuit settlement in Canada, one of the most northernmost settlements in the country, that goes by the name of 'Resolute'. You might be forgiven for putting the name down to the people's resolute attempts to dig in deep and brave the freezing winds and bleak landscape but, no, it's named after a ship. The HMS Resolute was a Royal Navy Arctic discovery vessel that got trapped in the ice, as part of an expedition of four ships in the 1850s. They'd been sent to discover the fate of a previous Arctic explorer, who'd gone missing with his own expedition of two ships. If history has told us one thing, it's not to sail your boats in Arctic waters. The Resolute was lucky, and was freed from the ice the following summer, after all it's crews had found safe passage away on other vessels. The fate of the original expedition, well, that was never discovered.

At times like these I wonder how much easier things might be if we'd come up here to go searching for missing expeditions and boats. As it is it's about all I can do to distract myself from the icey burning sensation spreading through my limbs. I have to keep going.

Resolute may well have the most northern commercial airport in the world. I don't know. My research didn't cover airport details - I didn't even book the tickets, right? But I'm guessing Resolute Bay Airport is the most northern commercial airport in Canada. Hell, yeah, it must be. There are only a few inhabited places this far up the map. As far as big settlements go, and we're not even talking that big, there's only Resolute and Grise Fiord further north, on Ellesmere Island. Still, Resolute has a little of the tourist haven mentality. Not much, but a little. Let's face it, beautiful though the region is Resolute is essentially a series of gravelly roads, maybe a hundred houses, and a whole heap of ice and snow. And yet they've got their gift shop, with their Inuit carvings and 'not the end of the world' t-shirts. No five-star hotel complexes just yet, but they've got running water, they've got heat, they've got internet in case you don't want to wait a fortnight for mail. In this climate it's a slice of heaven.

We stayed just a couple of nights in Resolute before flying further north. Flying further north requires flight by HC-6 Twin Otter, the small sort of plane that you tend to see people jumping out of in the movies. A small plane that could fit maybe twenty people, wings spread wide, with propellors close by either side of the cabin, and balanced upon three wheels, it looked relatively delicate. Fragile, even, compared to the commercial jets the average city-dweller is used to. And, well, guess what? That's me.

There were too many of us to fit aboard the one plane. At least with all the equipment. Logistically the only way to transport all seventeen of us and our supplies, we'd need to charter two planes. Back then we'd only had a rough idea of how things were going to pan out, of how we'd be working. Of course, if we'd known exactly how it was going to pan out, none of us would've got on the damn plane. None of us would be dead. And those of us still alive wouldn't be battling to stay alive.

I'm pulling the coat closer, tighter. It doesn't really do much good, but it makes me feel better. I think that if you keep your body - what is it they call it? - your 'core' warm, then the extremities take care of themselves. Or at least you tend to stay alive longer. Something. Something I read somewhere, or someone advised.

David. It was David.
Poor old David.
******

Please, sit down. Make yourself comfortable. I want you to feel relaxed before I begin. It's not so much a story I have to tell as a collection of stories held together by a common theme. Are you ready?

Good.

I guess, at heart, I'm a collector. I like to pick things up, turn them over in my hand, appreciate the details in a piece of jewellery or artefact or, conversely, it's simplicity. I travel a lot, so I get the opportunity to pick up bits and pieces from all over the world. My collection really pools together some amazingly beautiful pieces from all over the world, invaluable and rare and an amazing insight into the cultures and personalities of far flung civilisations.

Nothing really shows that more than my collection of masks. Each mask indicates a story common to a particular society. Here there are masks of gods worshiped by isolated tribes, gods unknown beyond their small and simple world, there we have contemporary mask, complex hybrids of metaphor and symbolism built shrewdly by educated theatre set designer. Black masks, white masks, every colour under the sun masks, and plenty coloured by moonlight too. Gods, heroes, villians, man and beast, comedy and tragedy. Every player from every stage.

Understandably, that's a concise introduction to what is an extensive collection. I think I'll probably do the collection more justice to tell you the story attached to some of these masks. As a collection themselves they are simply an array of different faces, but by stepping behind each one and looking out into the world through their eyes, you'll begin to understand a little of the various people of the world and where their stories fit into their communities. And with that in mind I can't think of a better mask to begin with than this one.
******
When Roger Charles Bell woke up, he instinctively knew that there was someone else in the room. He had awoken suddenly, perhaps in response to a bad dream, his heart beating a little too rapidly, his eyes and ears alert. Glancing around the room he quickly dismissed the idea, seeing nothing but the gloomy room around him, clothes hung up over a chair, his few possessions neatly standing in their usual locations. The familiarity of the darkened room brought a sense of relief, and he lay down again, pulling his covers back over himself.

He lay down in his bed, his racing mind trying to calm itself as he stared at the blank ceiling above, his eyes picking out vague patterns in the grainy darkness. He still couldn't recall quite what he had imagined in his sleep that have awoken him, but as he tried to reflect on it, taking apart the possibilities with a rational mind, he felt the lulling sensation of sleep creeping back over him. He welcomed it, closing his eyes and letting his thoughts drift.

"Hello, Roger."

His eyed flickered opened again, painfully aware that he was not alone.
******
A white sun hangs low in a golden sky, it's glow warming the otherwise cool mountain air. Far below me amongst the trees of the forest I hear the morning chorus of birds. By my side my companion, a small dog, stirs, resting his head in my lap and rolling his eyes in my direction. Smiling down at him I gather my belongings, and we both climb to our feet.

I frown as I notice a white rose growing from the rock-face. I bend down, and pluck it free, as my friend yaps at my side. I hold the flower up in the sun-light, some distant memory trying to surface.

The petals fold around my face like a mask, and through the eye holes I see a dark void before me, swimming with faces. With a sudden rush of noise and a flicker of light I find myself falling...

Awake...

Please. Poke me. Pick a story and prompt me to finish it. And maybe I'll start sticking some completed ones up.

Under the Sun

2009-07-02T15:33:00.000-07:00

Well, I won a competition. I wrote a haiku that lots of people saw and that brightened up their day and that the judges voted the best. Except, of course, it didn't scan like a 'traditional' haiku.

Of course, as others have pointed out, it's not in Japanese either. If you're going to be a fascist for traditionalism, you might as well go the whole hog.

I sent a few entries in, as did many others, I suppose. forgot about it for a few weeks, then got a phone call for a quick interview. It seems I was a high contender, for the following piece:

Beneath the morning sun
The city is painted gold
People move like bees through honey

The interview can be found here.

There are a few points worth noting here. One is that I had gone for the feel rather than mechanics of a haiku in this case. Second was that they'd decided to waive that rule anyway. Third was that bees don't actually, as a rule, move through honey. Still, nearly everyone seemed to have overlooked that, and it had worked as a metaphor for me, with busy bees commuters moving through hazy morning sunshine in a half asleep but happy daze.

But, yes, it wasn't a REAL haiku because, as far as I could tell, it didn't scan correctly. I'd gone for the mood of a haiku, familiar as I am with their musings on simple natural phenomenom, and usuallyone line that balances against another description split over two lines. Something like this haiku I've just stolen from online:

The wind of Mt. Fuji
I've brought on my fan!
A gift from Edo

By this token I haven't got a traditional haiku in terms of mechanics, but have in terms of feel. But look, here's a 'Bashō classic' haiku:

The first cold shower
Even the monkey seems to want
A little coat of straw

...which, somewhere between Japanese and English, has gained way too many syllables in the translation. And yet it's a classic.

In any case, I thought ti'd be unlikely that I'd win, seeing as it wasn't a proper haiku. And the whole bee/honey thing - people were bound to notice that sooner or later, weren't they? Yeah, of course.

So it was a bit of a surprise on Monday to get a call to tell me I'd won, and then a second call for an interview with the papers. This can be found here.

You can see, if you check it, that some of those die-hard haiku fans weren't happy, and so I offered some vague hint at an apology. It seems that people took part in the challenge from several points of view. I was chasing my own muse, others found themselves wanting to stick rigidly to the mechanics, and then felt grumpy when the winning entry didn't adhere to 'the rules', even though those rules had been waived.

I felt a little bit sad for the poor bastards, but not so sad that I'd give up my prize, a free pass for the rest of the year to 'Words on Monday' at the Kingsplace auditorium. At best it'll help me learn creative techniques that will actually push me in a direction I want to push myself, at worst it'll vaguely put me in a creative headspace and help me feign creativity.

Anyhow, thought it might be worth fleshing out the details with the opening lines to an unfinished story that I began to write several years back. It's thanks to this, and the earlier 'vignette' below it, that I had the image of a golden sun rising over the city in my head in the first place...

I stare out across my city in the mid-morning sun, the buildings below basking in the warm golden glow. Through the window of this office, looking down at the world many storeys below, I cannot help but smile down on this, my city, so peaceful, so beautiful. The summer sun slowly rides higher in the sky, cool blue shadows disappearing in the cracks between buildings, the roofs of the buildings tinted bright yellow. Far away the river glitters through the spaces between the grand buildings along the north bank. My city, so peaceful, so beautiful, and yet still so distant. Up here, where I can see the whole city stretched out beneath as if I flew out on wings, I imagine myself somehow a king over this thriving wilderness, this golden world.
"Mr Martin?"
I stop in my thoughts for a second, my eyes resting somewhere on the horizon. It's several minutes past eleven. I'm wanted elsewhere, back in the real world. But out there, beyond the glass, beyond this tower block, I feel myself drifting, floating, flying, watching the world beneath me bussling with life, yet so far away. The air buffeting me up carries the distant sounds of traffic from the streets below to my ears. I close my eyes, press my forehead against the cool glass, and smile, imaging myself suspended in space, wrapped in the warmth of the sun above, the subtlest echoes of the city whispering to me, reaching for me, praising me...
"Mr Martin?"
In my mind the golden landscape beyond the glass turns a little colder, a little darker. A smile flickers across my lips, but my teeth grit a little tighter, my hands find themselves folding into fists as I ready myself to turn around and face the young man at the door. I hold the position for a few seconds, concentrating on the air being drawn into my lungs, and being forced out...
"Mr Martin!"

And THIS is the original inspiration, which might help explain what the story was about - a little more horror than initial impressions of the above might've suggested, and it actually works as a conclusion to the above snippet of fiction too:

The voice stops...
Hands clapsed snugly behind your back, you turn to face him...
Beyond him the City spreads out like a cloak...
From up here, in this tower, you can see for miles...
Far away the river winds like a snake through the twinkling cityscape...
He’s angry... what are you looking at...?
“What are you looking at?”
You wonder what it would be like to fly out from up here...
To launch yourself from this high tower and soar...
But he’s not interested...
He cannot see...
His head all full of figures, of facts...
Words, abstracts rules, the bars of a cage......
You take him to the window, show him the world stretched out before you...
This, the City, the Kingdom, bathed in sunlight...
And then, when he laughs, you show him...
You show him how to fly...

The only other thing to consider is, can my winning haiku actually work as a 'traditional' haiku, consisting of 17 on (syllables), in three metrical phrases of 5, 7, and 5 on respectively.

The morning sun shines
Painting golden streets below
Bees move through honey

You know what? On reflection I still prefer my original.

Michael Jackson - Off The Record

2009-07-02T06:02:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, in a fairy tale world called childhood, a tape fell into my open kiddie hands that had two albums on it. This was my introduction to Michael Jackson, and I loved him.

Fast forward to the present day, and I see magazines with his image in black and white across the cover, with the words '50 Years of Genius' and I find myself thinking "Really? They got to him early. And he wasn't really particularly genius by the end either..."

So, ah... why the change of heart?

My first actual memory of Michael Jackson was when Good Morning Britain made a big thing of showing the Thriller video one morning. I must have known who he was, dimly, to have felt the need to watch it and to know who this Jackson character was, but the video was the first time I ever remember seeing the all singing, all dancing (and all shuffling) Michael Jackson.

Just as everyone has their own Doctor, their own James Bond, their own cultural touch-stones that grabbed their attention depending on when they popped into the world, or were popped in front of a TV screen, Thriller era Jackson was MY Jackson. He of the brown face, the cheeky boyish looks, the clothes that were just slightly out there but not yet creeping into eccentric. He did lots of smiling, he was softly spoken, he charmed the ladies. The tape I had collected together Off The Wall and Thriller, and he seemed a thoroughly nice guy, even if I didn't know what he was saying half the time. And, you know, he was a lover, not a fighter. The cheeky scamp.

He had not, at this point, reached the stage where he felt he needed to recapture his lost childhood by surrounding himself with kids, nor had he reached the stage where he thought ladies might somehow find the idea of a grown man grabbing and rubbing his crotch and making odd howling noises attractive. For one thing, these are two very distinct images you don't really want to have in the same headspace. They make, if you'll pardon the image, uneasy bedfellows.

Furthermore the whole grabbing of the crotch and making howling noises just doesn't work. Trust me on this one. I know someone who tried it. Yeah, someone else. Not me. Shut up.

As he grew up and started to adopt more of a cool swagger and wear bizarre costumes and bits of tape around his fingers (and always the white socks with black shoes - what's with that?) and began to look all moody I kind of lost interest. Or, well, turned away for a moment. But Michael Jackson had a way of making you take notice, even if you ended up rolling your eyes.

The Moonwalker film I remember looked quite cool. Having watched it earlier this week I can say that, actually, it's quite rubbish. I still love that one video, the surreal one where he's flying around in a fairground plane, in a fairground world, through nashing teeth and past altars to Elizabeth Taylor and dancing Elephant Man bones. THAT'S still cool. The rest is all a bit shit, especially the whole Smooth Criminal / evil mastermind Joe Pesci planning to get kids hooked to drugs so they become loyal in their adulthood storyline.

Michael, you should've taken note at this point. Drugs bad.

Black and White, a video I always thought quite cool apart from that bloody Culkin kid, who Michael Jackson had inexplicably become best friends with, takes a turn for the very wrong when it ends with Jackson smashing up graffiti'd windows with messages like 'Niggers Out' and 'KKK Rule' and then grabbing his crotch, rubbing his hands over himself and generally making a big and quite terrifyingly grim tit of himself. Now, if this even remotely turns you on, ladies, please go and slam your head in a door. No, better yet, find a lift door to do the work for you. If these are the actions of a sane and charismatic figure of fun, I'm the Pope.

If any of you are in any doubt as to whether I am the Pope, I refer you once more to that door head slamming thing. It may not help, but it'd make me feel better, for one.

Do you think Jackson and Culkin sat down to watch that video with the crew after it had been spliced together? "Good job, gang, good job. Right, let's take these kids to therapy."

A lot of jokes have hung in the air since Michael Jackson died, but to be fair they'd been buzzing around him like flies for years. I personally was never very comfortably making jokes about the whole paedophile accusations, because I consider Michael Jackson a unique case. Plucked from normality at a young age, growing up surrounded by media types and yes men, I doubt that he had any sort of reality gauge. Where as the rest of us can turn around to our peers when we go a little crazy, and they can help reign us in, Michael Jackson has never really had any peers. He's had no blue-print for a solid family life, and in trying to distance himself from the behaviour his dad had towards him, pushing him into the lime-light, he fucked up his kids by putting them into shadows and masks instead.

Ultimately Jackson's death was tragic. But so was much of his life. Perhaps, most tragic of all, was that he was railroaded onto this path from an early age, and later attempts to reconnect with the childhood he never had conflicted with his attempts to retain his King of Pop crown, to live the extravagent lifestyle, because that's all he knew. Poor bastard.

I'll miss him, I guess. But then I've been missing MY Jackson for a while.

He's been gone a long time.

Sometimes It's Not All Sunshine

2009-07-02T04:32:00.000-07:00

"So, do you have any history of depression?"

"Does being a goth count?"

So, it's official. It's semi official, at least. I went to the doctors last week, answered some questions on a multiple choice test, and the end result is that I've been diagnosed as the proud owner of Mild Depression. This means that doctors now get to ask me whether I ever consider harming myself, or chucking myself under a train, at which case I will be deemed to have something a little more serious.

I didn't really want to go to the doctor, but was convinced to by Laura, as much to put her mind at rest as my own. There's a whole catalogue of reasons why I might have depression - debts, driving lessons, young baby, girlfriend with post natal depression, four year old who still needs attention, every day work stress, and having had a bump on the head two years ago which makes me burn out a little earlier (maybe - there's a chance it's just all the other stresses getting on top of me). They all sort of compact on each other, meaning the driving lessons start to go a bit rubbish, certain debts get overlooked, you know. It's a vicious circle.

Anyhow, last week I was told my choice was drugs or going to see someone to talk to. Drugs were immediately appealling, coming from the persepctive of some 50% of the population who don't like to get touchy feelly, who like to drown their sorrows in drink, who like to bite the bullet and hold it in and deal with it their way. Plus all the tales of celebrities bowing shuffling into counselling sessions and disappearing into a nice big house somewhere to emerge into the sunlight some time later, cured, didn't really appeal to me. It all sounded so miserably tabloid.

But, well, drugs fuck you up to, as recent news stories will tell you. And I can maybe look at the whole 'talking to someone' thing and used it for writing fodder. Rather than sticking my chin out and saying "Fuck it, I'm okay, I don't need anyone else's help," I'm sort of saying "Fuck it, I'm not okay, but neither do I need to hide this and pretend I'm too cool for school."

To be honest I'm not going to be using my Blog as a dumping ground for all the rubbish that gets dug up. I don't think I have that much to dig up. So don't worry about that. If it still bothers you, well, don't let the door hit you on the way out.

Oh, and I've discovered that they're making redundancies at the company. Although we've been told the Marketing Department (and thus the Design Studio) have not been earmarked for ANY losses, the fear of scoring a hat-trick and joining the unemployed masses for the third time in just over 12 months is an ugly scenario that doesn't quite skirt my imagination. Pah!

Sometimes it's not all sunshine. But sometimes it is. That's life. Take the lows with the highs. And go enjoy the sunshine. Now.

That's an order. Doctor's orders.

Cages

2009-07-01T07:57:00.000-07:00

"...we are all prawns in God's great chess game of existence..."

We interupt this Blog for a quick commercial break. I will now try to sell you something. Do not be alarmed. Please.

Recently the question cropped up about what people's favourite books were. Lots of good suggestions came up, from those I'd heard of to those I hadn't, to the completely unexpected but appreciated ('Tintin In Tibet' was a childhood favourite!) Still, I was able to answer quickly, with possibly no hesitation, that I'd pick Cages, by Dave McKean.

Cages is a big book. It's not the sort of thing you could put into a jacket pocket, or a handbag. It's near enough impossible to carry with one hand. This means that not only is it a perfect book for putting on your coffee table, should you have such a table, but you could also use it as a coffee table. Or as an improvised weapon. This will, I'd imagine, decrease the value of a really beautiful book so barring a zombie apocalypse or alien invasion you might want to keep it somewhere nice and safe. Away from young children, I might add, as they seem to be able to strip pages from the spines of any valuable book they get their hands on in minutes.

Okay, so I've established that it's a big book. A beautiful book. One that might be used to smash the brains of any zombies wandering into your neighbourhood. Is that enough to entice you to buy this book? Probably not. If these are your requirements you might like to look at some other big coffee table book. Perhaps that old sex book by Madonna, or an illuminated copy of the Bible lifted from a church. Either of these things will serve your purposes. But, well, if it's a good book with a good story and good pictures, then Cages might be just the thing for you.

In particular, if you're interested in contemporary mythologies - stories told by characters throughout the book to illustrate certain points - or the creative process, then this book will tap into those. And, of course, there's the beautiful artwork too, mainly black and white inks, but occasionally dipping into pencils or brightly coloured paints.

That's the look and feel of the book. But the story and the characters? The book is concerened, for the most part, with an artist who has moved into a new apartment and is struggling to find his muse. This artist, Leo Sabarsky, encounters two other 'artists': Angel, a nightclub musician who seems oblivious to the adulation of his fans; and Jonathan Rush, a writer turned reclusive book critic. But for the most part these people, and the other members of the apartment block and local neighbourhood, live lives that are separate from each other. Sabarsky finds his muse in the form of a woman who lives across the road, Rush lives with his wife as they struggle to understand what has happened to their lives, and Angel is... Angel is visionary, seemingly able to tap into the resonance that runs through everything. If he has any every day concerns we are not witness to them.

What really makes this book work though is the amount of time spent on character dialogue, people just talking as people do, often mundane and trivial and feeling strangely voyeuristic to overhear, and sometimes taking a turn for the odd. The grouchy landlady. The bitter old bar man. Two men in the bar bickering about music. An old woman talking to herself as she waits for her husband to return. Leo Sabarsky meeting his neighbour Jonathan Rush, who seems oddly agitated. His later conversations with the lady across the street. The gallery owner who seems only to be able to communicate via a series of cards with individuals words on. The man on the street wearing a contraption on his head representing the various planets. The surgeon who takes things apart to discern what it is within them that gives them value. Even God speaking with his cat. Above all this is a graphic novel that pays a great deal of attention to the individual worlds of the characters, and what happens when some of those worlds meet. There's very little conflict and, as such, the scenes where there are acts of aggression really stand out as stark and disturbing amongst the rest of the book, largely engaging, entertaining and enlightening.

It's also worth pointing out that there's a happy ending to the story. Or, well, there's a lot of ambiguity about what exactly has been going on, like sitting through to the end of Twin Peaks (although not quite so taxing), but ultimately you feel that people have ended up less lost than they started off, and a great deal happier.

Cages. A book about the cages we find ourselves in, the cages we build for ourselves, and how to escape from them. Or a book about creativity, and uncaging that. Or... well... it could be about a lot of things. There's a lot going on between the covers.

There will be some that consider the book pretentious. But, you know, I think it's got enough safeguards in it to not take itself too seriously, despite the philosophical tangents it wanders off at. And also, quite frankly, I don't care. It's a damn impressive book from a guy known mainly for his artwork, and I continue to find it a brilliant read. You don't have to read it - particularly if you've read thus far and feel you know the book well enough now. But, trust me, if you ever have a large amount of cash sitting around that you're willing to invest in a massive tome of a graphic novel, GET IT!

That is all. You may now continue your normally scheduled life.

The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

2009-06-30T22:52:00.000-07:00

This might've been a poem once, or a fragment of song, but it never really evolved beyond these six lines - in any case, it's the source of the name of my blog(s):

Between the devil and the deep blue sea,
Between heaven and hell (and between you and me),
There's so much left unsaid, there's so much left to see,
There's so much we can do, there's so much we can be,
With our hearts pumping round all this blood inside
We're just walking wounds waiting to happen.

Getting to know me...

2009-06-30T22:27:00.000-07:00

Where did this all begin? And where will it end? I can't speak for anyone else but my online experience, in particular my online 'citizenship', evolved like this...

About ten years ago, my online experience was limited. My life revolved mainly around working the weeks, clubbing the weekends, and minor distractions to fill the gaps. My main interests were - in increasing levels of cool and decreasing levels of geekiness - horror roleplaying games, comic books, tarot cards and music. Girls too, of course, but given three of those four core interests I was lacking in certain social capabilities that ensured they played a major role in my real life. I wrote and drew cartoons to entertain and express myself to others, and stylish looking diaries to entertain and express myself to myself. It was before the world had embraced Blogging, and it was how I really got a handle on who I was, and found 'my voice'.

Online I only really devoted any time to a mailing list where we were all writing fictional accounts of hunting vampires and other things that stalked the night. I was developing my love of writing, but not persuing it with any real zeal, because I was young, in my 20s, had started earning money and was enjoying pissing it back up against a wall by going out clubbing, and buying obscure music and books from America. I suppose I did most of my reading around this time, tapping into some rich seams of counterculture writing.

Ah, those were the days. Young, foolish, happy. But so wrapped up in myself because I was very much the outsider.

Okay, jump forward to about seven or six year ago. I'd been exposed to handful of really good, inspiring websites. I'd had a stab at creating my own version of TV Go Home, putting together a Time Out parody called Torn Out ('the heart and soul of a jaded London'). It probably still exists out there, in bits and pieces. In doing a bit of research, trying to find out about creating an online cult around a larger than life fictional character ('Dr Celery Jones'), I stumbled across a book by a guy who asked people to join him, and inadvertently started a cult of his own. I then inadvertently joined his 'cult', joined an online community, and began Blogging properly. And found I could write and write and write.

That community still exists - www.joinme.co.uk

I started to go out and socialise with a massive group of strangers, and within about a year had met my girlfriend, discovered I was going to be a father, and moved away from London to start a family.

Okay, so five or four years I'd developed the Virgoan need to catalogue various things on various Wikis I'd created, but I didn't really have an online 'presence' of my own until I got a MySpace account. I'd drifted away from the online community I'd been with in London, and MySpace allowed me to get back in touch, to make a profile that immediately allowed me to show my true individual colours, and sell that packaged personality to a greater audience. As someone involved in design (and a s a wannabe writer) it offered great potential. It was here I made an online friend called ThisBlackHole, who wrote incredibly dark but articulate fiction, and HIAB-X ('Head in a Box'), someone with whom I shared a lot of interest. It was also where I first became fully aware of Warren Ellis's online empire, being familiar with him previously through my largely UK-centric comic collection.

At about this time I began to indulge my writing a little more. Submitted something for a small press publication, got it published, had an accident, went into recovery mode for a while and let writing sit on the back-burner a bit. By now, of course, I was also a full-time dad. I had less time to pursue writing, so MySpace was largely a place to indulge in finding new music and other writings. I also indulged in a little online gamery, but it's near impossible to do with a young family.

About two years ago I stumbled across Facebook, found it less 'packaged' and more user-friendly than MySpace. Last.fm had neatly taken over most of my online music needs (I'm there as both 'Psibreaker' and 'LokiSK') And as I said to HIAB-X at the time, MySpace is like trying to advertise yourself to a greater audience and for making and maintaining web contacts. Facebook is for maintaing contact with friends you already have.

Which I still do, via the medium of pictures. Most importantly it gave someone with no Flickr account a way of showing off photos, and of keeping in better contact with rarely seen friends and family. And get roped into 101 applications to eat away my free-time. Until...

Until Twitter.

With Twitter I don't bother updating my Facebook account. Facebook, with it's 101 pointless but pretty distractions stopped me Blogging or writing for ages. Possibly also because we're back in London, and I can see many of my Facebook Friends in the flesh again I've not had to indulge so much. But, importantly, Twitter allows me to Blog again, because I don't get distracted by all the questionaires, gifts, games and rubbish associated with Facebook. Micro-Blogging, as they say. But it's more than that. It's current. Normal Blogs feel like I've sat down, composed an exciting monologue, and pinned it on a notice board for all to see and consider. I find it a little self-indulent, but then I'll happily do it anyway. For fuck sake, I want to be a proper writer. It's what you have to do!

But Micro-Blogging, it's spontaneous. It's quick witted observations. It's often mundane observations, true (I'm sure my 'Ham and mustard. Scrummy.' comment yesterday won't win any awards), but at other times it's spot on. It's hard to be ingenuine and keep up with everyone else.

I have this image of Twitter being a little like the human consiousness, a stream of thought somewhere between pure polished personality and subconsious. It's vital, it's fresh, it's almost fucking alive. Most of all, I feel connected to like-minded people in a way I've not been able to before. Blipping music too, so that people appreciate exactly what mood someone's in. It's 140 characters at a time, sure, but I haven't seen much misunderstanding between Tweeters (then again, I don't Follow the sort of person likely to flame or have hissy fits). It's great for haiku, quick one-liners, blathering banter, rants about pressing issues, news. The death of David Karradine spread like wild-fire - I'd never have found out til much later had not the news slowly trickled in, then flooded! I swear, I'm the source of news in my office simply by having my ear to the ground and my eye to the Twitter.

I also know I don't need to waste my life watching the Apprentice or Big Brother, because it will be relayed to me almost immediately. Which is good, because we have no TV.

If you're not already on Twitter, I encourage you to join, find a whole bunch of people to Follow, and just plug into the hive mind. We'll be waiting for you.