I got off the train in West London, and saw I had 15 minutes before I had to meet her. Time enough to make sure I knew where we were meeting, and then to look for a Mexican restaurant I had received some info about in a text message.
It was a warm and sunny day, and I was in no hurry as I wandered down the road looking at the people and the buildings around me, looking for numbers on the buildings. I got as far as 300-something before I gave up, I was looking for 800-something and guessed finding it would be too long a walk. So I wandered as leisurely back to the "Chop Chop Noodle Restaurant".
I wasn't waiting long before a pretty girl with an antipodean accent was standing there speaking my name.
In a dramatic twist of fate, the girl I spent last week sulking over contacted me Saturday. Far from having lost interest, she'd just been a slacker, and said she wanted to meet up. I texted her Sunday morning after I got up, and we made plans to meet for a sort of late lunch while she was on her break from work.
Middle of last week -- at work in the pub -- I looked at the rota for this week, and saw I had been scheduled to work 12 - 7 today. I was already working 5 - 1 Saturday night/Sunday morning and despite the bank holiday Monday, wanted two actual days off. So I said to Laura "I can't work on Sunday, I made plans before the rota went up". I was a little irritated when she demanded to know what my plans were, as if they had to be judged on if they were worthy of the day off. In hindsight, she was probably just taking a friendly interest. I lied, and told her I was meeting a random girl I know from New Zealand who has just moved to London.
The week wore on, and it seemed like I wasn't going to hear from this particular young lady again, and I wondered if I'd tempted fate by making up a proposed meeting with her. It did occur to me that it was entirely possible she hadn't got my last message, or if she was just being slack it might prompt her to reply. I had given up hope and got over it by the time I got in from work at 3am on Sunday morning. And saw her email, giving my her phone number.
There's not a whole lot to say. We met and had lunch and talked and got on pretty well. She is charming, smart and funny and I enjoy her company, and she made several references to us seeing more of each other -- like how next time she'd get the bill, and maybe going out for Thai food as our next project.
It's all very new and there is my usual tendency to overthink it all. Does she like me in 'that' way? Do I like her in 'that' way? Does it even matter? Was it a date or just good company? What about next time, if there is one?
When I left her she said to send her a text later, so I did when I got home. I told her I'd got home safely and I'd enjoyed spending time with her and she was good company. I didn't hear anything back, but I think I'm starting to get an idea of what kind of a person she is -- and she's not great with answering emails and texts.
But that just means I'll have to see more of her.
Sunday, 28 May 2006
Thursday, 25 May 2006
O is the loneliest number
Is there a more disappointing message than "0 new. Displaying 0 of 0"?
The briefest spark of anticipation, of hope -- and excitement despite yourself, and then the sunken heart sensation with the almost inevitable outcome. Silence was there, and nothing more.
It's like waiting for the phone to ring, it's like waiting for the post to come. But it's harder than that, or it's worse than that, because of that damn anticipation.
You make your excuses for her. She has to go to internet cafes. She might be broke. But, deep down, you think you know; she has lost interest. And you want to ask her, what did you do wrong? Like a rejected job application, you want to ask for feedback.
Did you write too much, ramble on too much? Maybe you didn't ask her enough questions -- making up for that now, haha.
Locigally, you realise, it's probably really not you. Nothing you did wrong. Maybe it was things you did right? She could have felt bad that she didn't have the time to show you the same attention. Myabe it wasn't ever a decision consciously made -- life just got in the way, and you got left out.
Before you ever really got let in.
The briefest spark of anticipation, of hope -- and excitement despite yourself, and then the sunken heart sensation with the almost inevitable outcome. Silence was there, and nothing more.
It's like waiting for the phone to ring, it's like waiting for the post to come. But it's harder than that, or it's worse than that, because of that damn anticipation.
You make your excuses for her. She has to go to internet cafes. She might be broke. But, deep down, you think you know; she has lost interest. And you want to ask her, what did you do wrong? Like a rejected job application, you want to ask for feedback.
Did you write too much, ramble on too much? Maybe you didn't ask her enough questions -- making up for that now, haha.
Locigally, you realise, it's probably really not you. Nothing you did wrong. Maybe it was things you did right? She could have felt bad that she didn't have the time to show you the same attention. Myabe it wasn't ever a decision consciously made -- life just got in the way, and you got left out.
Before you ever really got let in.
Tuesday, 23 May 2006
Drinks, conversations
Late last week, San came back to London.
Thursday was a strange day, first I took a 90 minute lunch break in order to hot foot it over to the west end and meet a glamorous Charley for lunch. I say we met for lunch, but what amounted to something like a 30 minute journey to/from my office in both directions left us with little time for frivolities such as food. Instead, I led her aimlessly off down Oxford Street in search of any random pub. And they don't get much more random than a pub named "The Cock" that didn't sell any recognisable or traditional brands, instead only imported European ones. It was still cheaper than local pubs to me though, which was good enough. The pub was small and badly lit, and contrary to how you might expect from its epithet was frequented by what appeared to be labourers on their lunch break. We barely had time for one drink before I had to leave again.
Back at the office nobody seemed to notice I'd been gone about twice as long as normal -- nobody was frantically searching for me, nor had even commented or asked after me, apparently. I don't know which was better.
Towards the end of the day I got a message from San, asking if I wanted to meet her for a drink after work. I told her sure, on the condition she came to me and was at the bar for six. I knew perfectly well I wouldn't be leaving the office before six, and that the pub at the station was at least 10 minutes away. I was still there for about 15 minutes before San arrived, and since it was a sunny evening half of the city was having the same idea about a swift one before going home. I missed my intended train, talking and drinking with San in the evening sun -- although again, it was just one hurried drink.
On the train home I was inspired to text San. I told her that all she needed to do was admit she had made a mistake [dumping me] and that she was retarded for me, and maybe we'd take it from there. Of course, she was unwilling to say any such thing. We talked back and forth and came to no firm conclusions other than that there are obvious feelings still there, but neither of us wants to get hurt again nor were particularly eager to get back together. This left us unsure as to what exactly we -- or I -- did want that was any different. So we continue to see each other here and there as friends and talk a lot but don't know anything more than that.
San sent me a message today telling me that apparently her Mum didn't realise we'd ever broken up. Now I think about it, it stands to reason -- I was never quite sure what to say when her Mum would mention to me she hadn't seen me around much recently. I never wanted to say "Since your daughter dumped me, you mean?" but it still seemed an odd thing to say, with San having lived in Maryland and Leicester more than London. It makes more sense now. Apparently she was bemused why we still see each other, why anyone would stay friends with their ex. She probably doesn't know why we share a bed when I stay either, for that matter.
And after Fiona's message the other week I did get around to talking to her. She called me again the enxt night, and I missed her call when I didn't hear the phone ring. I sent her a message asking her to call again; and she did. I was sat in the garden of the pub in the dark with my friends, so when she called I wandered off, walking about and occasionally sitting down on tables on my own while we chatted. It was good. It felt like old times, just talking about nothing -- my work, her work, all the mundane things -- and laughing together and laughing at each other. Eventually she had to go, and the end of the conversation was more difficult -- not knowing what to say other than "bye, then". I told her not to leave it two years before she calls me again this time. After I hung up the phone I noticed it was a full moon, and was tempted to send her a message mentioning it, and how it will be seven years on a full moon this June since we met.
But I thought better of it.
Thursday was a strange day, first I took a 90 minute lunch break in order to hot foot it over to the west end and meet a glamorous Charley for lunch. I say we met for lunch, but what amounted to something like a 30 minute journey to/from my office in both directions left us with little time for frivolities such as food. Instead, I led her aimlessly off down Oxford Street in search of any random pub. And they don't get much more random than a pub named "The Cock" that didn't sell any recognisable or traditional brands, instead only imported European ones. It was still cheaper than local pubs to me though, which was good enough. The pub was small and badly lit, and contrary to how you might expect from its epithet was frequented by what appeared to be labourers on their lunch break. We barely had time for one drink before I had to leave again.
Back at the office nobody seemed to notice I'd been gone about twice as long as normal -- nobody was frantically searching for me, nor had even commented or asked after me, apparently. I don't know which was better.
Towards the end of the day I got a message from San, asking if I wanted to meet her for a drink after work. I told her sure, on the condition she came to me and was at the bar for six. I knew perfectly well I wouldn't be leaving the office before six, and that the pub at the station was at least 10 minutes away. I was still there for about 15 minutes before San arrived, and since it was a sunny evening half of the city was having the same idea about a swift one before going home. I missed my intended train, talking and drinking with San in the evening sun -- although again, it was just one hurried drink.
On the train home I was inspired to text San. I told her that all she needed to do was admit she had made a mistake [dumping me] and that she was retarded for me, and maybe we'd take it from there. Of course, she was unwilling to say any such thing. We talked back and forth and came to no firm conclusions other than that there are obvious feelings still there, but neither of us wants to get hurt again nor were particularly eager to get back together. This left us unsure as to what exactly we -- or I -- did want that was any different. So we continue to see each other here and there as friends and talk a lot but don't know anything more than that.
San sent me a message today telling me that apparently her Mum didn't realise we'd ever broken up. Now I think about it, it stands to reason -- I was never quite sure what to say when her Mum would mention to me she hadn't seen me around much recently. I never wanted to say "Since your daughter dumped me, you mean?" but it still seemed an odd thing to say, with San having lived in Maryland and Leicester more than London. It makes more sense now. Apparently she was bemused why we still see each other, why anyone would stay friends with their ex. She probably doesn't know why we share a bed when I stay either, for that matter.
And after Fiona's message the other week I did get around to talking to her. She called me again the enxt night, and I missed her call when I didn't hear the phone ring. I sent her a message asking her to call again; and she did. I was sat in the garden of the pub in the dark with my friends, so when she called I wandered off, walking about and occasionally sitting down on tables on my own while we chatted. It was good. It felt like old times, just talking about nothing -- my work, her work, all the mundane things -- and laughing together and laughing at each other. Eventually she had to go, and the end of the conversation was more difficult -- not knowing what to say other than "bye, then". I told her not to leave it two years before she calls me again this time. After I hung up the phone I noticed it was a full moon, and was tempted to send her a message mentioning it, and how it will be seven years on a full moon this June since we met.
But I thought better of it.
Monday, 15 May 2006
Musical Monday (#4)
I'm taking a different approach to today's Musical Monday, in part inspired by the approach taken in Melbourne Stories. Talking about specific bands you might not know isn't going to last me very long, I'm not indie enough to have a large and obscure record collection and I'd be pretty much dried up after Godspeed, You Black Emperor! -- even though I do still intend to write about their post-apocalyptic spaghetti western sound. Instead, I will this week -- and maybe in future -- base Musical Monday around songs I love.This week; Bob Dylan's Tangled Up in Blue.
First of all what I love most about the song, is everything. Then what I next love about it is the narrative -- Dylan tells a complex story of love and loss over countless years and locations, with coincidences and betrayals all interwoven.
I am inspired by the lines near the beginning of the song:
"She was married when we first met; soon to be divorced
I helped her out of a jam, I guess, but I used a little too much force"
I imagine him helping her get out of a possibly abusive relationship -- and accidentally using "a little too much force" on her partner. Perhaps from there they can't be together, so they "split up on a dark sad night, both agreeing it was best".
The song seems to chart how the narrator travels and lives and they coincidentally meet over the years -- like how she was working in a "topless place" when he stops in for a drink, but the two of them aren't sure they recognise each other, and he almost leaves without talking to her.
It's a song about love, he meets various women over the years but there's this one he never forgets -- the song ends with him setting off, resolved to "get to her somehow" -- although there seems a melancholy to it, like he realises he might not reach her, and they always did see it "from a different point of view". Even if it's never explained what "it" is.
Musically, the song sounds like classic Dylan -- slow, simple and folky, with Dylan's trademark strangled singing.
Sunday, 14 May 2006
Hey jealousy
"Attachment leads to jealousy. The shadow of greed, that is."
There is Alcoholics Anonymous, for people with drinking problems. There are also similar support groups for those with gambling addictions. I expect there are probably groups or support of some kind for most vices. But I somehow doubt there are any for feelings of jealousy.
I've written before of the idea or concept of not having a soul, but this is something quite different from that -- it's darker and uglier, and I'm disturbed by my own thoughts. I jokingly make references to the dark side with PR and live journal, but this really does feel like it; there's a part of me that is still dark and angry and jealous.
I get jealous of other people's relationships; I'll find out that two coworkers are now an item, and even though I've never given either of them more than a passing thought, there's a dark stirring of resentment towards them. When I dreamed San had moved on and found someone new, there was sadness I wrote about; but there was also this feeling too.
Or how I really wanted to burn Dave's house down, because of jealousy of him and Deb -- whatever there was, or is, between them I don't know, but didn't like it.
It's not just then, at work when someone new is brought in as work experience there's a flare of animosity towards them -- before I've even spoken to them. As for my colleague on the paid work experience contract, I'll feel he is direct compeition and in my head I draw comparisons to Macbeth where his quest for power is soaked in the blood of the people above him.
It can all be very disturbing.
There is Alcoholics Anonymous, for people with drinking problems. There are also similar support groups for those with gambling addictions. I expect there are probably groups or support of some kind for most vices. But I somehow doubt there are any for feelings of jealousy.
I've written before of the idea or concept of not having a soul, but this is something quite different from that -- it's darker and uglier, and I'm disturbed by my own thoughts. I jokingly make references to the dark side with PR and live journal, but this really does feel like it; there's a part of me that is still dark and angry and jealous.
I get jealous of other people's relationships; I'll find out that two coworkers are now an item, and even though I've never given either of them more than a passing thought, there's a dark stirring of resentment towards them. When I dreamed San had moved on and found someone new, there was sadness I wrote about; but there was also this feeling too.
Or how I really wanted to burn Dave's house down, because of jealousy of him and Deb -- whatever there was, or is, between them I don't know, but didn't like it.
It's not just then, at work when someone new is brought in as work experience there's a flare of animosity towards them -- before I've even spoken to them. As for my colleague on the paid work experience contract, I'll feel he is direct compeition and in my head I draw comparisons to Macbeth where his quest for power is soaked in the blood of the people above him.
It can all be very disturbing.
Serial Killer Sunday
I realise these last couple of weeks I have sort of dropped the ball on Serial Killer Sunday -- not because of a lack of interest, either on my part or on the part of any readers, but because I'm not sure where to take it. The original idea for it was to be a kind of approach like Musical Monday, drawing on the idea from Natural Born Killers; with the media making killers into celebrities. When it started though, I decided to play it straighter than that -- real people's lives have been affected, and it would be wrong to joke about it. However, what I am doing with it isn't very original -- it's nothing you can't find anywhere else on the web, except for the occasional commentary from me.
While I want to continue with it, I'm not sure what it should be. Straight accounts of each of the individuals and their crimes are available on countless sites, from wikipedia to various serial killer pages and books. But it would be wrong to 'promote' the killers too (as opposed to promoting The Killers, who probably have a very dedicated PR team), even in a semi-ironic way. This leaves me looking for a third option, if I am to continue with the straight reporting then I need to be bringing more of myself and my own writing into it -- more personal commentary or reaction perhaps.
Anyway, last week's absent Musical Monday was not related to this; I just didn't get round to it.
Monday, 8 May 2006
You'll be in my dreams today
Last night I dreamed San had a new boyfriend. I presume it was a boyfriend, but now that I think of it, I don't remember that it was actually specified. I don't remember meeting this other person, or actually being told about them.
I do remember, though, asking San; "But what about us?"
And even now, I can clearly visualise how she looked in my dream. She looked at me with such genuine sadness -- but it was sad because she knew it hurt me, and didn't want to hurt me.
And she said: "You know there is no 'us'."
And that's it, that's all I remember of the dream -- probably all there was, because that brief exchange said everything it needed to. I still felt sad today, at work, I knew it wasn't real but at the same time; it kind of is. There isn't really an "us" any more, even if we make plans for the summer involving zoos and late night jazz clubs and movies and stuff, and even if we spend time together and feels like back when we were together and thingd were good. Despite all of that, the not wanting to acknowledge it and not wanting to try and label it, there is still no us -- she still could say, "Sorry I can't meet you that day, I'm going out with my boyfriend".
I have that same option, of course. And as I've said before, I'm certainly not in love with San if I am fantasising about other girls, or chasing other girls or even just not even being sure of wanting to be with her. San has broken my heart and messed up my head too many times for me to ever be sure we could make it work.
"I no longer love her, that's certain. But maybe I love her?
Love is so short; forgetting is so long."
I'm trying to work out what it is then. Is it just the thought of an ex moving on? Instead of them becoming a nun and never going outside again, instead choosing to take a vow of silence, in mourning for what is lost. Or perhaps it is just not wanting to be the one who is single when she's moved on? Maybe it's just sad having to admit when something is really, finally over.
Though that said, I was planning to write a post along the lines of; "How do you know when your last kiss is the last for good?" until I mentioned it to my friends, and they said except in circumstances involving death, how can you ever be sure it was the last? I'm pretty sure the last time I kissed Fiona will have been the last ever, but who can say what might happen in 50 years? So it's hard to write something off as completely over. Plus, generally when I accept someone is gone and get over it, they come back again. But when you're still secretly hoping they might, they won't, because you've not accepted it yet.
Incidentally, I wanted to tell San all day about the dream -- but was scared she'd say it was true. Until she mentioned making friends with some girl she met in the library, who wanted to fix San up with her friend. She didn't specify male or female -- so a bit like in my dream. So in response I did tell her.
In reply she merely said "Dreams are funny things. *hug*..." and proceeded to ask if her new man was perhaps David Duchovney.
There's not really any clever way to tie this all together at the end, no great realisation that I don't already know, no great epiphany. I know that I have to let her go emotionally, and probably that until I do I won't be able to move on. But what's new there?
I do remember, though, asking San; "But what about us?"
And even now, I can clearly visualise how she looked in my dream. She looked at me with such genuine sadness -- but it was sad because she knew it hurt me, and didn't want to hurt me.
And she said: "You know there is no 'us'."
And that's it, that's all I remember of the dream -- probably all there was, because that brief exchange said everything it needed to. I still felt sad today, at work, I knew it wasn't real but at the same time; it kind of is. There isn't really an "us" any more, even if we make plans for the summer involving zoos and late night jazz clubs and movies and stuff, and even if we spend time together and feels like back when we were together and thingd were good. Despite all of that, the not wanting to acknowledge it and not wanting to try and label it, there is still no us -- she still could say, "Sorry I can't meet you that day, I'm going out with my boyfriend".
I have that same option, of course. And as I've said before, I'm certainly not in love with San if I am fantasising about other girls, or chasing other girls or even just not even being sure of wanting to be with her. San has broken my heart and messed up my head too many times for me to ever be sure we could make it work.
"I no longer love her, that's certain. But maybe I love her?
Love is so short; forgetting is so long."
I'm trying to work out what it is then. Is it just the thought of an ex moving on? Instead of them becoming a nun and never going outside again, instead choosing to take a vow of silence, in mourning for what is lost. Or perhaps it is just not wanting to be the one who is single when she's moved on? Maybe it's just sad having to admit when something is really, finally over.
Though that said, I was planning to write a post along the lines of; "How do you know when your last kiss is the last for good?" until I mentioned it to my friends, and they said except in circumstances involving death, how can you ever be sure it was the last? I'm pretty sure the last time I kissed Fiona will have been the last ever, but who can say what might happen in 50 years? So it's hard to write something off as completely over. Plus, generally when I accept someone is gone and get over it, they come back again. But when you're still secretly hoping they might, they won't, because you've not accepted it yet.
Incidentally, I wanted to tell San all day about the dream -- but was scared she'd say it was true. Until she mentioned making friends with some girl she met in the library, who wanted to fix San up with her friend. She didn't specify male or female -- so a bit like in my dream. So in response I did tell her.
In reply she merely said "Dreams are funny things. *hug*..." and proceeded to ask if her new man was perhaps David Duchovney.
There's not really any clever way to tie this all together at the end, no great realisation that I don't already know, no great epiphany. I know that I have to let her go emotionally, and probably that until I do I won't be able to move on. But what's new there?
Saturday, 6 May 2006
Thursday's interview
I mentioned early last week that I had a job interview. How it all came about, and where it went from "ok, you have an interview" was all a little strange.
The agency I contacted naturally wanted me to come in and register with them, and we would have tried to arrange some mutually convenient time. As it happened the consultant I was corresponding with said she didn't have time, and instead broke all the rules by briefing me on the job and putting me forward for the interview before I was registered -- and before we had even met.
The interview was Thursday, and since we had only arranged things to begin with on Tuesday, there hadn't been much time to get details worked out. I called Emma -- the consultant -- on Thursday and after we discussed me, what I am doing, how I have got here, what the job and the company were like, we had some of the strangest conversation I have ever had. She wanted to know what I looked like, because we are meant to have met -- and on the offchance they asked her. Would you just like me to email you a picture instead, I asked. She laughed and said sure, but I wasn't sure. So I'm sat at my desk, trying to keep my voice down, and saying
"Well...uhhh...this is weird. But...umm...I'm 5'8 with short brown hair, and grey/blue eyes..."
and she'd be saying "What? I can't hear you, it's a bad line, can you speak up?"
"I'm wearing a black suit and a blue shirt..."
It was very weird.
Then in case I should be asked, she described herself in an email for me. In her own words; 5'8 with wavy blonde hair, green eyes, slim (but more Kate Winslet than Kate Moss), and she had been told she looked like Drew Barrymore; although she didn't see it herself.
I guess that's how you get a job as a recruitment consultant; being able to sell yourself.
I turned up promptly and smartly dressed at the interview -- impressive since I was trying to tie my tie while on the tube to Leicester Square. I was kept waiting the usual few minutes and took the opportunity to look through a large portfolio left out, including press coverage of all the agency's work. After a little while I was met by a woman called Ellie. I enthusiastically shook her hand, expecting her to lead me to a room where I would then meet the interviewer. But no.
It seems God has a sense of humour; if I thought I was unprepared having only had one evening to prepare, it turned out they were expecting me on Friday -- and the woman I was meant to see was in a meeting. I also thought originally the interview had been arranged for Friday as well, until I had checked the confirmation when it arrived and seen it was Thursday. I decided it best not to mention this, in case I looked unprofessional turning up on the wrong day.
The interview went reasonably well. I was told to play up my creative side, because it was something they put a lot of importance on, and I impressed them when they asked why I wanted to work there and I was able to talk about being project based and it's a bold move that is paying off. Ellie looked very pleased and perhaps a little proud of her company and said yes, it was working very well. I'd also been told to be enthusiastic, and "bouncing off the walls" -- enthusiasm I can do, within reason, but short of having too much cherry coke I was never going to bounce off the walls. Incidentally, I once wrote a poem which included the lines "gonna have some fun, gonna get so high, gonna [have to] scrape me off the ceiling" which was about having too much cherry coke.
I just reread the poem and found it also included the line "got my mask to hide my feelings". It's surprising sometimes to look back at something like that and realise how unhappy you were. Or when I emailed the girl I mention in my karma post, and she made reference to being glad I was still alive -- I was so intense when she had known me and seemed likely to self destruct.
Anyway, after the interview I called Emma the consultant and she assured me the company had been told I was coming on Thursday. I expected to hear something on Friday, some kind of initial reaction even it was just that they wanted to see me again when they were expecting me, but I didn't hear a word. Either way, I am going to be staying at my company now until at least until the end of May -- and the longer I stay working there, the more employable I will.
I wish I had done this years ago, but back then I didn't realise I would want to work in PR. It's funny how these things go, if anything it's reassuring me that life might not ever work out the way you expect or plan it, but that's not necessarily bad.
The agency I contacted naturally wanted me to come in and register with them, and we would have tried to arrange some mutually convenient time. As it happened the consultant I was corresponding with said she didn't have time, and instead broke all the rules by briefing me on the job and putting me forward for the interview before I was registered -- and before we had even met.
The interview was Thursday, and since we had only arranged things to begin with on Tuesday, there hadn't been much time to get details worked out. I called Emma -- the consultant -- on Thursday and after we discussed me, what I am doing, how I have got here, what the job and the company were like, we had some of the strangest conversation I have ever had. She wanted to know what I looked like, because we are meant to have met -- and on the offchance they asked her. Would you just like me to email you a picture instead, I asked. She laughed and said sure, but I wasn't sure. So I'm sat at my desk, trying to keep my voice down, and saying
"Well...uhhh...this is weird. But...umm...I'm 5'8 with short brown hair, and grey/blue eyes..."
and she'd be saying "What? I can't hear you, it's a bad line, can you speak up?"
"I'm wearing a black suit and a blue shirt..."
It was very weird.
Then in case I should be asked, she described herself in an email for me. In her own words; 5'8 with wavy blonde hair, green eyes, slim (but more Kate Winslet than Kate Moss), and she had been told she looked like Drew Barrymore; although she didn't see it herself.
I guess that's how you get a job as a recruitment consultant; being able to sell yourself.
I turned up promptly and smartly dressed at the interview -- impressive since I was trying to tie my tie while on the tube to Leicester Square. I was kept waiting the usual few minutes and took the opportunity to look through a large portfolio left out, including press coverage of all the agency's work. After a little while I was met by a woman called Ellie. I enthusiastically shook her hand, expecting her to lead me to a room where I would then meet the interviewer. But no.
It seems God has a sense of humour; if I thought I was unprepared having only had one evening to prepare, it turned out they were expecting me on Friday -- and the woman I was meant to see was in a meeting. I also thought originally the interview had been arranged for Friday as well, until I had checked the confirmation when it arrived and seen it was Thursday. I decided it best not to mention this, in case I looked unprofessional turning up on the wrong day.
The interview went reasonably well. I was told to play up my creative side, because it was something they put a lot of importance on, and I impressed them when they asked why I wanted to work there and I was able to talk about being project based and it's a bold move that is paying off. Ellie looked very pleased and perhaps a little proud of her company and said yes, it was working very well. I'd also been told to be enthusiastic, and "bouncing off the walls" -- enthusiasm I can do, within reason, but short of having too much cherry coke I was never going to bounce off the walls. Incidentally, I once wrote a poem which included the lines "gonna have some fun, gonna get so high, gonna [have to] scrape me off the ceiling" which was about having too much cherry coke.
I just reread the poem and found it also included the line "got my mask to hide my feelings". It's surprising sometimes to look back at something like that and realise how unhappy you were. Or when I emailed the girl I mention in my karma post, and she made reference to being glad I was still alive -- I was so intense when she had known me and seemed likely to self destruct.
Anyway, after the interview I called Emma the consultant and she assured me the company had been told I was coming on Thursday. I expected to hear something on Friday, some kind of initial reaction even it was just that they wanted to see me again when they were expecting me, but I didn't hear a word. Either way, I am going to be staying at my company now until at least until the end of May -- and the longer I stay working there, the more employable I will.
I wish I had done this years ago, but back then I didn't realise I would want to work in PR. It's funny how these things go, if anything it's reassuring me that life might not ever work out the way you expect or plan it, but that's not necessarily bad.
Tuesday, 2 May 2006
Monday, May 12. 8.15pm
(copied from my moleskine notebook journal)
Week three in PR starts largely without event or remark. I pay myself on the back for making a good impression with a colleague (basically, I emailed her and asked if she needed help with stuff I had previously been working on -- despite knowing she had someone else on work experience to help her. Turned out she figured she could use some help, and was flattered I asked.)
I've got an interview with another -- possibly rival? -- PR firm later this week, and I'm excited. I might be what they are looking for, and it sounds like what I want, too. It might also interest my company, inspire them to offer me something to stay with them. It's unlikely, but an idea all the same. It would amuse me greatly if getting a job turned out to be this easy -- surely, it can't be and it won't be, but maybe the time is just right?
I need to really do my homework -- research the company and its clients and their campaigns, know my job, know myself and know why I want a job there. All during tomorrow, I have just realised.
Commuting and working in the city isn't so terrible, though I'd like to move closer perhaps, it'a not the big bad I imagined it to be.
Week three in PR starts largely without event or remark. I pay myself on the back for making a good impression with a colleague (basically, I emailed her and asked if she needed help with stuff I had previously been working on -- despite knowing she had someone else on work experience to help her. Turned out she figured she could use some help, and was flattered I asked.)
I've got an interview with another -- possibly rival? -- PR firm later this week, and I'm excited. I might be what they are looking for, and it sounds like what I want, too. It might also interest my company, inspire them to offer me something to stay with them. It's unlikely, but an idea all the same. It would amuse me greatly if getting a job turned out to be this easy -- surely, it can't be and it won't be, but maybe the time is just right?
I need to really do my homework -- research the company and its clients and their campaigns, know my job, know myself and know why I want a job there. All during tomorrow, I have just realised.
Commuting and working in the city isn't so terrible, though I'd like to move closer perhaps, it'a not the big bad I imagined it to be.
Monday, 1 May 2006
Musical Monday (#3)
Suicide Bid -- once called a "UK punk and ska super group" in the music press -- were formed in 2005 from three of the former members of punk band The Filaments. From there they were able to use their reputation and contacts to recruit members of some of the most significant punk bands of recent years, including King Prawn, Ex-Cathedra, The P.A.I.N, Inner Terrestrials, Deathskulls, Sonic Boom 6 and Operation Nailbomb.
Their debut album -- This Is The Generation -- mixes reggae punk reminiscent of the Clash with dub beats and political lyrics. Originally more of a project than an actual band, Suicide Bid have surprised themselves with interest from major labels, playing Radio 1's Maida Vale and are now recording their first full-length album.
Without sounding like a PR piece, Suicide Bid are a breath of fresh air in what sometimes seems like an industry dominated by image and bands more interested in sounding like each other than pushing boundaries.
The political content of songs like Turning a Blind Eye or Don't Lie Down ("They'll kill the planet just to make a profit/This is the generation that has to stop it") is offset by the haunting saxophone or the driving reggae bass lines. They might just be too edgy and challenging to ever really break properly into the mainstream, the poetry striking a little too close and the music too intricate to appeal to the masses. But don't let that out you off -- this is something very special.
This Is the Generation -Dont Lie Down.mp3
Sunday, 30 April 2006
Increasingly desperate
I have been trying desperately to avoid looking at my bank account balance. I know this is stupid, that there isn't more money in there from just not looking or I can't make it last longer by not knowing, I just didn't want to know. I should have realised how close to the edge I am, considering how much my travel into London costs me. I have reclaimed the expenses, of course, but that doesn't change that I'm not actually earning anything. I don't know how long I can go on working without pay for, but then I don't know how long they want me to, either.
Earlier in the week I learned that one of my colleagues and fellow intern had been offered a contract. I'm hazy on how much work experience he has done to date, but I know he likes the company; it's a major company with lots of big accounts and lots of jobs, but as he says; there is a lot of competition for the jobs, too. Being nosy, the next day I found his contract -- wholly by accident. And I found it wasn't a job offer at all, but instead an offer of paid work experience for three months, at a rate of £100 a week. I don't know if that is exclusive of travel expenses, because I spend at least £70 a week on travel and it wouldn't be very feasible. On the other hand, I'm currently working for even less than that, so it would be a step in the right direction.
I enjoy the company and I enjoy the work, and I think I could be very happy doing the job. But that's not really up to me.
In the meantime I need to try and find a way to make some money. First to go has to be the snowboard, but who the hell wants to buy a snowboard at the start of the summer? Perhaps I should have planned ahead a little better before I bought the bloody thing. I am also trying to isolate from my bank statements my car insurance payments, since when I got the car late last year my Dad agreed to pay the tax and insurance for a year as a joint birthday/christmas present -- but to date I have been paying for it.
All of this is just a short-term solution, the reality is I need a job that is paying me real money, and I need it right away. I've sent my CV and a covering letter to a couple of London-based agencies that deal with recruitment in PR, so the hope is either a job may come from one of those, or that my company will be compelled to offer me something more substantial rather than let me go. I don't know how much I mean to them, there is a greater supply of interns than there is demand, and I might just be another face they will forget in no time at all.
Earlier in the week I learned that one of my colleagues and fellow intern had been offered a contract. I'm hazy on how much work experience he has done to date, but I know he likes the company; it's a major company with lots of big accounts and lots of jobs, but as he says; there is a lot of competition for the jobs, too. Being nosy, the next day I found his contract -- wholly by accident. And I found it wasn't a job offer at all, but instead an offer of paid work experience for three months, at a rate of £100 a week. I don't know if that is exclusive of travel expenses, because I spend at least £70 a week on travel and it wouldn't be very feasible. On the other hand, I'm currently working for even less than that, so it would be a step in the right direction.
I enjoy the company and I enjoy the work, and I think I could be very happy doing the job. But that's not really up to me.
In the meantime I need to try and find a way to make some money. First to go has to be the snowboard, but who the hell wants to buy a snowboard at the start of the summer? Perhaps I should have planned ahead a little better before I bought the bloody thing. I am also trying to isolate from my bank statements my car insurance payments, since when I got the car late last year my Dad agreed to pay the tax and insurance for a year as a joint birthday/christmas present -- but to date I have been paying for it.
All of this is just a short-term solution, the reality is I need a job that is paying me real money, and I need it right away. I've sent my CV and a covering letter to a couple of London-based agencies that deal with recruitment in PR, so the hope is either a job may come from one of those, or that my company will be compelled to offer me something more substantial rather than let me go. I don't know how much I mean to them, there is a greater supply of interns than there is demand, and I might just be another face they will forget in no time at all.
Serial Killer Sunday (#3)
Well-spoken, mild-mannered, good-looking and educated Ted Bundy is often seen as the archetypical psychopath -- and along with his total inability to relate to other people these qualities made him extremely dangerous. Responsible for more than 30 murders in the mid- to late- 1970s, Bundy was introverted and shy, although academically gifted, and was generally well-liked by the people around him. He was also the first mass murderer to be referred to as a "serial killer".
Born Theodore Robert Cowell to the unwed Eleanor Cowell in 1946, Bundy spent the first years of his life living with his grandparents, believing they were his parents, and his Mother to be his sister. Bundy never knew his biological Father, although he took the name of Johnnie Bundy, whom his Mother married when he was 4 years old.
As a young teenager Bundy already had a history of shoplifting, theft and was an aspiring con artist, he also claimed to have spied on girls dressing through their windows.
Bundy's first recognised (there is speculation he may have killed or attacked women earlier) victim on January 4, 1974 barely survived, after he attacked her with a crowbar while she was asleep. The pattern was repeated with an attack on another young woman, also a student the University of Washington, but this time Bundy kidnapped her.
Growing more bold, Bundy went from attacking women in their apartments at night to stalking and killing them in the park -- he claimed at least eight victims between January and July, reaching a climax when he kidnapped two young women in broad daylight from the Lake Sammamish State Park, near Seattle. Around this time Bundy was also volunteering for the Seattle suicide crisis center, a role that seems both out of character and coldly manipulative.
It has been said that Bundy's crimes are particularly abhorrent because he often preyed on the good nature of people -- he was remembered as a charming young man with his arm in a sling, who approached people asking for their help with his boat. It was like he punished people for being willing to help him out, and it's this behaviour, an almost total lack of empathy or conscience that seems to identify him as a psychopath.
Moving to Utah to attend law school in the Autumn of 1974, Bundy brutally killed two young girls in October, before just over a week later attacking and attempting to kidnap a woman, who managed to escape. Bundy had approached her, claiming to be a police officer, and lured her to his car -- she escaped when he tried to handcuff her, despite being concussed after he hit her with a blunt object he'd hidden in the car.
Bundy was arrested in the summer of 1975 after his car was identified as stolen, and in 1976 he was sentenced to 15 years for kidnapping. In 1977, Bundy was taken to Colorado to stand trial for murder. However, he escaped by jumping from a second floor window after he was allowed to visit the courthouse's law library during a recess. With an injured ankle, Bundy wasn't able to make it very far and was arrested again a week later.
While awaiting trial in December, Bundy managed to escape again -- this time by cutting a hole in the ceiling of his cell, walking out the front door and stealing a car. By January, Bundy had made it to Florida -- via Denver, Chicago, Ann Arbor and Atlanta. He promptly began killing again, fatally attacking two young women asleep in their sorority house and injuring two others. He abducted and killed a young girl in early February before he was again caught driving a stolen car.
Despite being on trial for murder, Bundy remained popular, receiving fan letters from young women, and even marrying a coworker in the courtroom, during the trial. In a display of over-confidence or arrogance, Bundy refused the five court-appointed lawyers and chose instead to represent himself. He was sentenced to death in 1982, but his influence even seemed to appeal to the Judge, who made a point of telling Bundy:
"You're a bright young man. You'd have made a good lawyer, and I'd have loved to have you practice in front of me, but you went the wrong way, partner" -- and to take care of himself.
It's ironic perhaps to tell someone to look after themselves right after you sentence them to death.
While on death row, Bundy confessed to further murders and later offered to help detectives working on the case of the Green River Killer. Bundy's insights were largely unhelpful, and perhaps motivated more out of arrogance and a desire for attention -- apparently the detectives hadn't expected him to be much help, but had instead hoped to get details of unsolved murders Bundy was expected of. Bundy later confessed to a further eight unsolved murders, and is believed to have been trying to manipulate his confessions into a stay of execution by promising more details "later".
Along with offering more confessions, Bundy also later started referring to other selves and a part of himself he called "the entity" -- but not until he was appealing his death sentence. In a final television interview blamed his actions on violent pornography warping his mind, and warned against sexualised violence in the media. This is worth mentioning only because Bundy hadn't ever mentioned pornography before, and none was ever found on searches of his home. Instead it seems he was manipulative and unrepentant to the end, when he had to be forcibly dragged from his cell. On January 24, 1989, Bundy was executed in the electric chair. Crowds outside with banners reading "Burn, Bundy, Burn" cheered the news of his death.
Friday, 28 April 2006
Retracing my karma
"My party piece:
I strike, then from the moment when the matchstick
conjures up its light, to when the brightness moves
beyond its means, and dies, I say the story
of my life -
dates and places, torches I carried,
a cast of names and faces, those
who showed me love, or came close,
the changes I made, the lessons I learnt -"
(extract from untitled poem, by Simon Armitage)
Sometimes I talk of regrets in my life; mistakes in judgment, lapses in concentration or just decisions made that I have in hindsight felt were made wrongly. However, it occurred to me lately when I talk of these things that there are parts I am leaving out.
Months ago, late on a random Saturday night I ended up sitting in a pub with Deb and some assorted other people, including a very quiet guy that worked in the kitchen of the pub I worked in, and a friend of his who happened to be a boy I went to school with. We went to school together, but I'd probably be safe in saying we were never friends -- in fact, I would go far as saying I bullied him. From the age of 11 to probably about 16 or so, I was a dick to him. Most people were, and I guess I didn't think for myself -- he was just the kid whose clothes didn't fit, who had a bad haircut, but it wasn't only that. I think part of what annoyed me is that sometimes if you were talking to him individually, he could be okay. You could have a normal conversation about music, but in public -- if there were other people around -- he acted weird, played up to it. Perhaps he wanted the attention, even if it was negative attention? I don't know. Anyway, the point is that I believe I treated him badly. Although in the years since we left school our paths have crossed on several occasions and we have been friendly and polite to each other, it's nagged at me.
Then this one night, someone went to introduce us and he stopped them and said we had gone to school together. I agreed, we had -- and I turned to him and said that I was sorry for being such a complete arse to him at school. I told him that I had no excuse for my behaviour, that it was inexcusable, and for what it was worth I was sorry.
He said it clearly couldn't have been that bad, since he couldn't remember it. I don't believe it, I didn't believe it, and I think his eyes said something different. Either way, he said he remembered I made him a compilation tape of something or another and we had talked about music. I figure if he clearly doesn't hold a grudge against me, and I have told him I'm sorry, then I can consider it closed. Resolved, you might say. And like Earl Hickey I can cross him off my list.
In a conversation with Charley last weekend, the context I don't recall now, I remembered a girl I had gone to school with -- someone else treated badly. I decided to carry on with crossing people off my list, and sent an email to the address I thought I could remember for her -- just asking if it was still her address, because I wanted to reach her.
After almost a week I got a reply confirming it was indeed her address, and asking who I was.
I wasn't sure -- and to be honest, still aren't entirely convinced -- I was doing the right thing, but I emailed her clearing up who I was, and laying out exactly why I was emailing her. I apologised for messing with her head and generally behaving badly towards her for years, and hoped she would forgive me. I didn't honestly expect her to still harbour bad feelings about it, but I have never before apologised to her either.
For what it's worth, she says she forgave me years ago -- water under the bridge and all of that. Now I have to decide if I want anything further to do with her, since I had no desire to try and rekindle any friendship, but am wary of just disappearing again.
The whole concept of karma in Buddhism troubles me. I sort of get it -- every action having an equal and opposite reaction, the illusion of separateness, and so with it what you do to someone else you are doing to yourself, in a way. But I have always had issue with when bad things seem to happen undeserved to a good person -- the old lady who gets knocked over by a fleeing shoplifter, maybe hits her head or breaks something, what did she do to deserve that? But just the same, when I look back, I think of bullying a boy at school and wonder if it has anything to do with why my own life was later made miserable. I look at the girl who I treated badly and would never give a chance to, and consider if it has any relation to my failed relationships.
I don't believe it does, but I also think it's important to recognise bad things you have done and trying to make amends. It's a step towards universal compassion.
I strike, then from the moment when the matchstick
conjures up its light, to when the brightness moves
beyond its means, and dies, I say the story
of my life -
dates and places, torches I carried,
a cast of names and faces, those
who showed me love, or came close,
the changes I made, the lessons I learnt -"
(extract from untitled poem, by Simon Armitage)
Sometimes I talk of regrets in my life; mistakes in judgment, lapses in concentration or just decisions made that I have in hindsight felt were made wrongly. However, it occurred to me lately when I talk of these things that there are parts I am leaving out.
Months ago, late on a random Saturday night I ended up sitting in a pub with Deb and some assorted other people, including a very quiet guy that worked in the kitchen of the pub I worked in, and a friend of his who happened to be a boy I went to school with. We went to school together, but I'd probably be safe in saying we were never friends -- in fact, I would go far as saying I bullied him. From the age of 11 to probably about 16 or so, I was a dick to him. Most people were, and I guess I didn't think for myself -- he was just the kid whose clothes didn't fit, who had a bad haircut, but it wasn't only that. I think part of what annoyed me is that sometimes if you were talking to him individually, he could be okay. You could have a normal conversation about music, but in public -- if there were other people around -- he acted weird, played up to it. Perhaps he wanted the attention, even if it was negative attention? I don't know. Anyway, the point is that I believe I treated him badly. Although in the years since we left school our paths have crossed on several occasions and we have been friendly and polite to each other, it's nagged at me.
Then this one night, someone went to introduce us and he stopped them and said we had gone to school together. I agreed, we had -- and I turned to him and said that I was sorry for being such a complete arse to him at school. I told him that I had no excuse for my behaviour, that it was inexcusable, and for what it was worth I was sorry.
He said it clearly couldn't have been that bad, since he couldn't remember it. I don't believe it, I didn't believe it, and I think his eyes said something different. Either way, he said he remembered I made him a compilation tape of something or another and we had talked about music. I figure if he clearly doesn't hold a grudge against me, and I have told him I'm sorry, then I can consider it closed. Resolved, you might say. And like Earl Hickey I can cross him off my list.
In a conversation with Charley last weekend, the context I don't recall now, I remembered a girl I had gone to school with -- someone else treated badly. I decided to carry on with crossing people off my list, and sent an email to the address I thought I could remember for her -- just asking if it was still her address, because I wanted to reach her.
After almost a week I got a reply confirming it was indeed her address, and asking who I was.
I wasn't sure -- and to be honest, still aren't entirely convinced -- I was doing the right thing, but I emailed her clearing up who I was, and laying out exactly why I was emailing her. I apologised for messing with her head and generally behaving badly towards her for years, and hoped she would forgive me. I didn't honestly expect her to still harbour bad feelings about it, but I have never before apologised to her either.
For what it's worth, she says she forgave me years ago -- water under the bridge and all of that. Now I have to decide if I want anything further to do with her, since I had no desire to try and rekindle any friendship, but am wary of just disappearing again.
The whole concept of karma in Buddhism troubles me. I sort of get it -- every action having an equal and opposite reaction, the illusion of separateness, and so with it what you do to someone else you are doing to yourself, in a way. But I have always had issue with when bad things seem to happen undeserved to a good person -- the old lady who gets knocked over by a fleeing shoplifter, maybe hits her head or breaks something, what did she do to deserve that? But just the same, when I look back, I think of bullying a boy at school and wonder if it has anything to do with why my own life was later made miserable. I look at the girl who I treated badly and would never give a chance to, and consider if it has any relation to my failed relationships.
I don't believe it does, but I also think it's important to recognise bad things you have done and trying to make amends. It's a step towards universal compassion.
Sunday, 23 April 2006
Things I’ll never say
San and I were talking over the weekend, about diaries and life and I asked her if she still kept up with her own online diary. She said it hadn’t been written in for a while, because writing about things means she has to think about them and face them and bring them into the open and deal with them. And there were some things she just didn’t want to do that with. I didn’t press her on details. But sometimes I think I know, because there are things I’ll never say. Like when we spend time together it can feel just like back in the old days when we were still a couple – sometimes it’s better. We’ve both grown up a bit since the days of when I was living in Leicester and seeing her all the time, San has grown out of acting like a princess and maybe I’ve grown out of letting her be one. She also takes more of an interest in world events now – she’ll surprise me with it and I’ll ask her who she is and what she has she done with San.
And sometimes when we see a film together, or we go to see John Hegley together, and things are just good I’ll consider going back.
But you can’t ever go back. This is the girl who broke my heart one time too many –who told me she didn’t love me and couldn’t be with me on more than one occasion. If things feel good between us now, if there is perhaps something unspoken hanging in the air, it’s because we’re not together and there’s no need to know where things are going. There’s no need to feel anything, because we’re just friends now – even if I do still consider getting a flat with her if I get a permanent job in London.
I know we can’t be together, because even when we were together I think we were always both kind of, sort of, looking for someone better or something more. And I know now we still are. It wouldn’t be right to be with San if, like last night, a cute girl catches my eye across the bar, and I get embarrassed and smile and look away when she looks at me. If even if I didn’t act on it – didn’t get the chance to act on it – that doesn’t change the desire. And what about people like Deb, who every time she hugs me I don’t want to let her go and when she looks at me a certain way I just want to kiss her. Or Lyndsay – months now with no contact, but still a flame flickering somewhere in my mind, like the postcard I sent her from France comparing her to the morning sun on the Alps. All of these thoughts and feelings and desires would still be there.
And as I say, San broke my heart one time too many – there comes a time when you have to stop, and say to yourself that there is no guarantee the cycle won’t continue and she won’t do it again in a month, or six months’ time. I guess she knows this too, if it’s even something she thinks about.
And sometimes when we see a film together, or we go to see John Hegley together, and things are just good I’ll consider going back.
But you can’t ever go back. This is the girl who broke my heart one time too many –who told me she didn’t love me and couldn’t be with me on more than one occasion. If things feel good between us now, if there is perhaps something unspoken hanging in the air, it’s because we’re not together and there’s no need to know where things are going. There’s no need to feel anything, because we’re just friends now – even if I do still consider getting a flat with her if I get a permanent job in London.
I know we can’t be together, because even when we were together I think we were always both kind of, sort of, looking for someone better or something more. And I know now we still are. It wouldn’t be right to be with San if, like last night, a cute girl catches my eye across the bar, and I get embarrassed and smile and look away when she looks at me. If even if I didn’t act on it – didn’t get the chance to act on it – that doesn’t change the desire. And what about people like Deb, who every time she hugs me I don’t want to let her go and when she looks at me a certain way I just want to kiss her. Or Lyndsay – months now with no contact, but still a flame flickering somewhere in my mind, like the postcard I sent her from France comparing her to the morning sun on the Alps. All of these thoughts and feelings and desires would still be there.
And as I say, San broke my heart one time too many – there comes a time when you have to stop, and say to yourself that there is no guarantee the cycle won’t continue and she won’t do it again in a month, or six months’ time. I guess she knows this too, if it’s even something she thinks about.
Serial Killer Sunday (#2)
#"I'll make a shoehorn outta your skin
I'll make a lampshade of durable skin
And oh, don't you know that I'm always feelin' able
When I'm sittin' home and I'm carving out your navel#
Skinned by Blind Melon
Born Edward Theodore on 27 August 1906 to George and Augusta Gein. The younger brother of Henry Gein, Ed Gein has been the inspiration behind many memorable movie serial killers -- including Norman Bates in Psycho, Leatherface in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Buffalo Bill in The Silence of the Lambs. The latter is one of the more accurate portrayals of the mass murderer who made 'suits' from the skin of his victims, and made ornaments out of their skulls.
Gein's childhood is almost undoubtedly where it all began -- although as ever with this type of depravity, one can't help but wonder if someone could just be born bad. Gein's father, George Gein, was a hopeless and timid alcoholic while his mother, Augusta, was feverishly puritanic and endlessly warned her sons against the sins of the flesh, and the inherent evil of women. Although she had their best interests at heart with her dire warnings of the pits of hell, and preached of the evils of alcohol and lust, one can't help but feel it may have been taken a little too far.
Gein's brother Henry died four years after their father died of a heart attack. By all accounts, Henry grew up fine and wanted a normal life of his own -- perhaps a wife and family, and to move away. He apparently also made the mistake of bad-mouthing their mother to his younger brother. In 1944 the fire service were called to a bursh fire at the Gein farm. On their arrival, Gein claimed his brother was missing, although he lead them to where his body lay. The cause of death was put down as asphxiation from the smoke.
Gein spent the next year living alone with his mother in their farmhouse, and the inspiration for the movie Psycho apparently comes from their relationship, where Augusta would tell her son what a waste he was and compare him to his father, in between praising him and letting him share her bed. Her death from cancer a year later, following a series of strokes, probably didn't do Gein's mental stability a lot of good.
With the assistance of an accomplice, known only as Gus, who worked at a local cemetary, Gein mutilated the bodies of a number of women. He apparently favoured the older, plump women who reminded him of his own mother -- and it was from these that he began making his gruesome trophies. The details of these I won't go into here, there are some things I just won't talk about in public, after all.
In a move that may have been inevitable, when 'Gus' was moved to an old people's home and could no longer help Gein with his nocturnal activities -- which, incidentally, went unnoticed, Gein moved from grave robbing to murder.
A number of missing persons in the area were left unsolved after bodies were never found, and although after his arrest Gein was later a suspect, he denied killing more than two people.
Gein spent 10 years in a mental institution, before being declared mentally competent to stand trial for his crimes. Despite being found guilty, it was ruled that he had been insane at the time of the murders and he was sent back to hospital where he was apparently a model patient. He died of cancer in 1984, and was buried alongside his mother in the same cemetary he had desecrated during his lifetime.
Thursday, 20 April 2006
Day two
At the end of day two in the PR internship things are good. Strangely, for someone who is used to getting out of bed normally no earlier than 9 or 10, I am not struggling too much with 6.30 starts. It helps that I sleep on public transport, so I grab a window seat on the train into London and doze until we arrive.
The office is a very cool place. I felt a little silly yesterday, turning up in my smart black suit and white shirt to find that it really was smart casual, not even smart, but blue jeans casual. They reassured me I did the right thing wearing a suit though, because if it had been the other way around... Everyone seems friendly, people introduce themselves and ask how long I'm around for and you have conversations like you haven't only met for the first time that morning.
The work varies -- although I doubt any job is all interesting and exciting all of the time, it's a pretty fast-paced environment and not too unlike journalism. But rather than pages to fill and editors to satisfy there are accounts and presentations and all sorts of things to organise. In the course of a day I might be researching stuff, looking for up-market bars and private clubs around the country, then spend some time putting mail shots into envelopes, then later on be calling journalists to try and convince them they want to be writing a feature about a new washing up liquid.
It feels strange calling newspapers. I was given a list of people to call and told what to say, and they warned me journalists could be rude and asked me if I had spoken to any before. "I kind of worked as a journalist, for a while" I say, and they understand. I know how it is. But I'm still surprised when I talk to one and am trying to sound enthusiastic about being from whatever detergent company (even though technically, I'm sort of not) and they say in a bored voice, tired of dealing with PR people: "What are you flogging, then?". But it's not like that, and that same weary journalist takes half an interest when you explain and puts you in touch with someone else.
When I was being asked to do some research I was asked if I had ever done research before. Again, I tell someone that I sort of worked as a journalist.
"Come over to the dark side, have you?" they ask, and I laugh.
Because it's true. PR always was referred to as the dark side -- people who couldn't write a tight, punchy intro and are more interested in getting you to write about whatever product they are being paid to push, but of course it's not as simple as just that. All the same, I have been turned to the dark side of the force, I have pledged my allegiance to them, and I do enjoy my work.
The office is a very cool place. I felt a little silly yesterday, turning up in my smart black suit and white shirt to find that it really was smart casual, not even smart, but blue jeans casual. They reassured me I did the right thing wearing a suit though, because if it had been the other way around... Everyone seems friendly, people introduce themselves and ask how long I'm around for and you have conversations like you haven't only met for the first time that morning.
The work varies -- although I doubt any job is all interesting and exciting all of the time, it's a pretty fast-paced environment and not too unlike journalism. But rather than pages to fill and editors to satisfy there are accounts and presentations and all sorts of things to organise. In the course of a day I might be researching stuff, looking for up-market bars and private clubs around the country, then spend some time putting mail shots into envelopes, then later on be calling journalists to try and convince them they want to be writing a feature about a new washing up liquid.
It feels strange calling newspapers. I was given a list of people to call and told what to say, and they warned me journalists could be rude and asked me if I had spoken to any before. "I kind of worked as a journalist, for a while" I say, and they understand. I know how it is. But I'm still surprised when I talk to one and am trying to sound enthusiastic about being from whatever detergent company (even though technically, I'm sort of not) and they say in a bored voice, tired of dealing with PR people: "What are you flogging, then?". But it's not like that, and that same weary journalist takes half an interest when you explain and puts you in touch with someone else.
When I was being asked to do some research I was asked if I had ever done research before. Again, I tell someone that I sort of worked as a journalist. "Come over to the dark side, have you?" they ask, and I laugh.
Because it's true. PR always was referred to as the dark side -- people who couldn't write a tight, punchy intro and are more interested in getting you to write about whatever product they are being paid to push, but of course it's not as simple as just that. All the same, I have been turned to the dark side of the force, I have pledged my allegiance to them, and I do enjoy my work.
Monday, 17 April 2006
Musical Monday (#2)
Musical Monday continues on a completely different train of thought to the first post. We go from the most powerful jazz musician in America, to a folk rock 5-piece from Michigan.The Great Lakes Myth Society were formed in 2004, two months after the dissolution of their previous band, The Original Brothers and Sisters of Love.
The GLMS rekindle their love of Michigan first explored in TOBSOL, and build further on it, mixing influences such as Steeleye Span, David Bowie and a very clear sound of the Pogues. The songs range from being nostalgic, as with Isabella County, 1992, to fantastical, like with Big Jim Hawkins, where they retell the mythical Paul Bunyan's creation of the Great Lakes, by way of a fight with a giant Jim Hawkins.
One of the things I like most about the band are their poetic lyrics, which would stand out as worthy poetry even without their music; indeed it sometimes feels like the songs have been made to fit around poems. The way the lines scan and words fit to the music seem like strange choices if this isn't the case -- although the songs don't suffer for it.
Not having so much as ever visited Michigan the songs are full of intricate references I often need explaining -- luckily for me, Jamie introduced me to the music and she does understand the references, and so can explain things like why in Isabella County, 1992 there are references to being "drunk all the time" or what the "salt trucks" are in the song Red Jacket Miners.
The songs are strangely catchy -- even if some stand out more than others -- although I find I enjoy them more if I can concentrate, rather than just as background. It's difficult to know what song to include here, but I have chosen Isabella County, 1992, if only because it was one of their first songs I heard, and the one I have mentioned the most. Short of that, go their MySpace page and listen to the songs they have available to download. Or just buy their album and be done with it.
Great Lakes Myth Society -Isabella County, 1992.mp3
Sunday, 16 April 2006
Serial Killer Sunday
David Berkowitz is at once one of the most complex, contradictory and enduringly fascinating serial killers. During 1976 he shot and killed six people, and wounded eight others in attacks dating back to 1975. It has been said that the media attention on serial killers prompts them to continue killing, prompting more media coverage and even more killings. Berkowitz called himself the Son of Sam after he was called it in the newspapers, and the letters he wrote were inspired by something he had read about Jack the Ripper. Cynically one could suggest that Berkowitz's own website used for his messages of remorse and faith are just part of his need for attention.
It is speculated that Berkowitz's adoption inspired in him the rage and violence that he was to later vent as the .44 caliber killer, although he apparently had a generous and caring adopted family. However, he is also the subject of much professional debate -- about his motives, his sanity and the full extent of his involvement.
During his reign of terror in New York, Berkowitz taunted the police with barely-legible but haunting letters in which he claimed he was ordered to kill by "Father Sam" -- apparently his neighbour Sam Carr, whom Berkowirz claimed was a demon -- with instructions related to him by Harvery, his neighbour's black labrador.
Berkowitz -- nicknamed the 'Son of Sam' -- was apprehended after being given a parking ticket on the night of one of his attacks. He cheerfully confessed to the murders and pleaded guilty.
He has since retracted his tales of demonic voices and evil dogs, instead giving a more straight-forward explanation of a loathing for women. Berkowitz has said, however, he was a satanist and has also claimed that his neighbour, Sam Carr's, sons John and Michael were also involved a satanic 'coven' -- among other people whose identities he hasn't revealed. John and Michael died in mysterious circumstances in 1978 and 1979. Berkowitz insists he acted alone, but "There were others who knew about them and urged me on. But I carried out the killings. I take full responsibility for my actions."
Berkowitz is a quarter-century into a prison sentence of 365 years, and has repeatedly insisted he doesn't want to be paroled. He is now a born-again Christian and author.
Serial Killer Sunday
In the vein of Musical Monday and Half-Nekkid Thursday, I bring the blogging community my own theme day: Serial Killer Sunday.I will create the first post later on today, since right now it's 1.30am and I just spent an hour making the image for the post.
Thursday, 13 April 2006
Bat country
I'm ashamed for missing Musical Monday on only the second opportunity I've had so far to take advantage of it; I realise also there has been no "News day Tuesday" or "Serial Killer Sunday". I missed Monday's because I went to London to visit San, who is home for Easter. Things are carrying on as normal in Kings Cross -- a Starbucks has opened (though I don't believe they really open, I think they're alive and they grow...) and new buildings are springing up along the skyline. The area is regenerating, all in time for the Olympics, I don't think I even saw a single burned-out car this time round. In San's house things have their own kind of normality -- San's younger sister came out to their Mum, who I don't think was really all that surprised considering the amount of time she was spending with her girl "friend".
Things carry on more or less like they always have. In San's flat I noticed a mini trampoline. "Why do you have that?" I asked. San told me her sister had bought it, and didn't ask anything more. If San had bought it, I might have tried to understand why -- but San's sister and her mum buy strange things they see on TV. Like the new water filter in the kitchen. Not satisfied with the plastic jugs you fill up and put in the fridge, now they have an electric one with indicator lights and stuff that looks like an R2 unit and doesn't chill the water like it's supposed to.
San and I went to see the film "The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada", in a screening with only perhaps half a dozen other people. Described as "Part complex character study, part Peckinpah-esque border Western, part mystic epic" the film revolved around a killer being made to carry his victim's corpse to his resting place in Mexico. It was funny in places, touching in others, and sometimes just sad, and needless to say I really liked it.
So that's why I missed Musical Monday, I will try and make a belated post to make up for it tomorrow since I already picked out in advance who it will be about.
Things carry on more or less like they always have. In San's flat I noticed a mini trampoline. "Why do you have that?" I asked. San told me her sister had bought it, and didn't ask anything more. If San had bought it, I might have tried to understand why -- but San's sister and her mum buy strange things they see on TV. Like the new water filter in the kitchen. Not satisfied with the plastic jugs you fill up and put in the fridge, now they have an electric one with indicator lights and stuff that looks like an R2 unit and doesn't chill the water like it's supposed to.
San and I went to see the film "The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada", in a screening with only perhaps half a dozen other people. Described as "Part complex character study, part Peckinpah-esque border Western, part mystic epic" the film revolved around a killer being made to carry his victim's corpse to his resting place in Mexico. It was funny in places, touching in others, and sometimes just sad, and needless to say I really liked it.
So that's why I missed Musical Monday, I will try and make a belated post to make up for it tomorrow since I already picked out in advance who it will be about.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)