Objets trouvés

I've misplaced my copy of "100 Years of Solitude", which is annoying -- not least because it's technically the library's copy and not mine. I can't understand how I could lose it, it's not like it's a small book that could slip between the cushions on the sofa. So maybe I left it on a train.

And speaking of losing things on trains, everyone should go check out Found. Something about it -- about the 'found' items and the possible worlds and stories behind them really fires my imagination. I think sometimes we can get so caught up in our own lives, our own messes, our own dramas, that we forget to look around. It sounds trite and cliché, but I know sometimes I can spend so long with my head down and feeling like I'm drowning in one thing or another that I don't notice everyone else. I think these found items change that -- they make you stop, and think, and take notice and look around you and speculate. What is the story behind this note, what was behind this picture? There's whole lives and whole stories going on around us that we know nothing about. And I personally want in, so I'll be making some posters/flyers for Found to solicit submissions from people in London.

I remember in my French lessons at school, learning that the French phrase for lost property office was something like "bureau des objets trouvés" -- it seemed much more optimistic, "found" items, rather than lost.

Following on from last week's "Things I learned" I have decided to insert the "no index, no follow" code into my template here. Although it's all very interesting to see how people arrive at my blog from keywords like "semen" and Nicole Appleton's hair, it's not really what I'm all about. I'm not trying to increase my site traffic, so I'd rather if someone new comes here it's because they've seen my name in a comment or been looking for a blog. Besides, nobody has really got on board with the competition. Maybe you were all waiting to hear what the prize was first? Interestingly, I had a visitor here who had been googling for a Pablo Neruda sonnet. I went to the post the search had led to, and it was a funny feeling reading about how I had sent this sonnet to Lyndsay, back in February. I ended the post, slightly concerned I might make things weird between us. I need not have worried. Lyndsay doesn't blog any more -- not since diary-x died -- but I see her around occasionally on MySpace. Just recently she left me a message saying she owed me love of every kind, or words to that effect. It made me smile, but I knew she didn't mean it literally -- but I'll take all the love she's giving. Regular readers: there's no need to worry, I'm not about to start mooning after her again. Not today anyway.

This week I started a new job. It's just a temp job, on a three-month contract, working in a call centre for some multinational insurance company -- handling the incoming calls relating to a mobile phone company's customer's insurance questions and claims. It doesn't seem so bad, although I'm still training all this week. The job looks straight forward enough to do once you are familiar with doing it, if a little monotonous perhaps. The company rewards employees with perks like free lunches and incentives for performance or whatever, but I think these rewards might be to encourage people to stay in an otherwise dull job. On the plus side, it's closer than London, with shorter hours. The journey time in the car to work now is about the same as the journey time from my town into London -- but of course, I'm not bound by what time the trains are. I just get in my car, turn on the radio, and I'm home in time to feed the cat. On the other hand, although the perks are nice, the hours more sociable, the pressure much less -- and of course, I'm being paid which makes a change -- it's not really what I want to do with my life. I got to shadow some agents today on their calls, and chat to them when they weren't on the phone. I'd ask them if they liked their job, and nobody was enthusiastic. They liked it well enough, or liked things about it more than the work itself. But I'm still going to be looking for creative/media positions.

As a final note, to try and pull this all together, Lyndsay used to say something to me that I try to remember. Something so simple, and yet it seems to fit: she used to tell me "Chin up, Jay". Sometimes when I'm feeling sad, I'll say it to myself and making a conscious effort to lift my head a bit. It makes me smile to think of it, to want to remind her of it, and it does help you notice things around you.
Your homework assignment this week; find something.