Summer

(with apologies to Madame Boffin)

Summer is definitely on it's way. When the wind blows it has a distinctively warm edge now, particularly in the evenings as I make my way home.

Pretty soon it will be warm enough for me to bring out my t-shirt collection, which will soon encompass and take over the world, seeing as I went through a phase of buying a t-shirt for every gig I went to. If it gets really hot, I may even wear board shorts -- but that's unlikely. It's hard to imagine that only last week we were having freak blizzards and hail storms -- and may continue to for a few months yet.

As I walked to get my lunch today -- enjoying the few moments of sunshine I get while in work (now I see why you have a convertible, Baron Hashbrown) -- I was remembering the summers of when I was younger. The first days of the year when we would be allowed to play on the school field. Holding buttercups under your friend's chin to see if it glows ("you like butter"), looking for four-leaf clovers (and never ever finding one), freshly cut grass and your dad struggling to push a roller up and down the garden.

Bank holidays where the world smells of barbecues, crunchy sausages and baked potatoes -- and being terrified of wasps (not much changes there). Carnivals and town fetes and entertainment from hospital radio -- way back before it even occurred to you buy beer from the supermarket and take it to the park.

Short-sleeved shirts and tank tops and being made to wear shorts to school (but still having to wear a tie every day), waiting all year for six weeks off school. Sleeping in a tent in the garden (okay, sometimes I still do that), or just setting up a tent in the garden during the day but still sleeping indoors at night.

But now I have to admit that I've grown up. I'm 26, I work in insurance, and my lunch break is over so I have to get back on with filing. I might add to this later if I think of it.

The House

There's a house on my street that fascinates me.

I couldn't tell you why it does, where the strange appeal of the place lies. To look at it, it's unremarkable -- a detached, red-brick house like pretty much any of the others. I couldn't tell you anything about the people that live there, just like I couldn't with almost any house on my road.

I know the house has two -- or maybe more -- Siamese cats, and that they are often in the street or standing by the metal gate to the back garden. It's a personality quirk of mine that I remember places with the cats associated with them, but the fact that this house has Siamese cats makes it remarkable. The cats have a certain mystery to them.

As mentioned, I know nothing of the people that live there. If I think about it, I can say that at least two people live there -- adults, in middle age, and they appear reasonably well-off since I think I have seen a Mercedes or some luxury car on their drive. There are also ornaments on some window sills that suggest to me exotic holidays. This makes me think maybe they are a childless couple. Contrastingly though, I also have a feeling that a strange boy that I sometimes see in the street might live there.

I don't really know where he lives, how old he is, or even when I last saw him -- but I remember him as a fair-haired boy that would often be riding a bike in the street. I describe him as strange because I seem to remember he'd talk to strangers, not just me, but other people have commented on it. I could be completely wrong about the boy, I've never seen him entering or leaving the house. Then again, I don't think I've ever seen anyone enter or leave.

I remember one day, maybe 10 years ago now, I saw some graffiti that had been written on the wall of the house, it looked like it had been half washed-off. Now this strikes me as strange, why only half? Who would leave the job half-finished? Would you give up halfway through, go back indoors to have a beer and watch the football? I wouldn't be able to relax doing anything else. I don't know for certain, but I think the writing said "a drunk driver lives here". I remember remarking on seeing it to my brother, and he'd said obliquely that there was "a story behind" the house. Why I never asked him what the story was, I don't know. I wonder if he knew himself.

How long the graffiti stayed visible for, again, I don't remember. Sometimes now I still try and see if I can make the words out -- like the house over the road, where for years, despite numerous coats of paint, you could still make out the black streak where the Dad had been painting the guttering when his ladder started slipping out from under him. That was a strange house, too, for many years. Not any more, though, that family moved. And the family that moved in, in their place, brought cats.

I doubt I will ever know what makes this one house so fascinating. It featured in a dream I had the other night -- probably because I'd noticed it up for sale -- and this has just made me even more fascinated. I might try contacting the estate agent and ask if I can look at the house...

The needle returns to the start of the song and we all sing along like before

It's been almost a week since my last post -- San left -- and things are exactly as normal. The last time San moved to another country she had dumped me shortly beforehand and it seemed all the more lonely -- going from a relationship, to the other person leaving altogether. I wrote it off as karma, just what I get for breaking Fiona's heart when I went off to study in Utah. That was six years ago. San last left, I don't know, maybe three years ago? And the world is a different place.

I don't miss her like before because we haven't been a couple in a long time. I no longer pine for our relationship, because I know I can read through my archives and see things were rarely roses and rainbows for us. It could be that I only felt compelled to write about things when I was troubled, and it could be we were mostly happy together, but either way -- I don't miss it any more. Though, I admit, it's a little strange knowing that I won't be getting any text messages from her.

I mentioned a few posts ago -- in my post about trying to break into the world of dating boys -- that I had struck up a conversation with a girl instead, and things seemed interesting. The update is, nothing happened. We exchanged a few emails, a few casual compliments, even exchanged numbers in a round-about sort of way -- and then just nothing. One day it had been about a week since I'd heard anything from her, and she sent me a text message to say hi and apologise for it. She never responded to my reply, and even several days later there was no response to a breezy, just saying hey, text message. I contemplated if maybe she was playing hard to get. Perhaps she wanted me to chase her. But screw that, I'm not into games -- not those kind of games, anyway. So it ended there, I never bothered to text her again if she couldn't be bothered to reply -- and likewise email. I feel only vaguely rejected.

Work continues the same as ever, neither getting more interesting nor less bareable. I've attended a couple of job interviews, and been rejected -- pretty much without any reason given -- for at least one, so far.

Aurore Sandeau is helping me to realise my dream of being a bona fide artist, by having the honour of being my very first buyer. Just as soon as I receive it from the printer, a picture of mine taken underneath a jetty, on a canvas measuring 297 x 420 millimetres will become my first-ever commissioned piece of work. It's quite an honour for us both. Anyone else wanting to buy unique works from this up-and-coming British photographer is welcome to contact me in the usual way.

But really, nothing ever happens.

Saturday, March 17. 8.15pm

Saturday, March 17. 8.15pm
Maghreb Moroccan Restaurant, Islington

After arriving in Angel earlier, I was so sure I was lost. The bars and restaurants had thinned out, and so convinced I turned back on myself and headed back the way I came. About halfway back down the road, I found I had been right all along.

It was San's last night in town, before exchanging London for the suburbs of Hiroshima. She'd booked a table for 8pm in this Moroccan restaurant, and -- being me -- I was lost. All San had told me was what street it was on, and a couple of bars I knew that it was past. Having walked the length of Upper Street perhaps twice, and starting to panic as I was going to be late, I ended up texting AQA for the house number of the restaurant, after texts to San had proved fruitless. She would tell me "it's near the town hall" which assumed I knew where the town hall was, or could identify which building it was on sight, and would be able to judge how "near" it was.

It was when I got my AQA text reply I discovered I was practically at the door of the restaurant before I had turned around. And although this post starts with the paragraph from my paper journal, written in the restaurant shortly after I got there, I was still the first one to arrive. Altogether, it was a fine send-off for San -- about 17 people turned up (more than she'd even booked for) and everyone had a good time, for me it was both nice and a little strange to see some of her friends I hadn't seen in months or years. Some of her older friends now seem to consider me as more their friend in my own right than just San's old ex boyfriend. Probably because I refuse to go away. I spent most of the night talking and laughing with San's younger sister, whom I consider almost like my own adopted sister these days.

Eventually the evening came to an end, and the waiters brought out a cake that one of San's half-sisters had left. It was then that San started to cry, and she more or less continued to cry on and off until I left her late the next morning. She was crying because she was pleased her friends had come to see her off, but also I think because she was a little scared and it had only just started to sink in she was really going.

We walked home like we've done so many times before -- I didn't want to mention anything about it being a long time before we will again, if we ever do -- fighting against a strong headwind, blowing grit in our eyes. Tired from either a day in work in my case, or a late, drunken night the night before in San's we both went to bed (yes, separately) fairly soon after we got in. San had yet to start packing, with just over 12 hours to go before her taxi would be arriving for her. I questioned whether she should pack first and then sleep, but San opted to sleep first and then pack.

The next morning, when San eventually got up after choosing "snooze" about five times, I couldn't sleep in. It would be the last time I'd see San for a while, and I wasn't going to the airport with her. I had planned to go with her, even at the expense of the last hockey game of the season, but in the end Mother's Day intervened and I was required to spend the majority of the day at home. Realising that I could sleep any time, I got up to watch San pack and re-pack and re-pack again, in between her bouts of tears.

After an hour or so, her uncle turned up with something for San to sign -- I don't recall what, and I decided rather than supervise San's packing, along with her random relative and her Mum, I'd leave her to it for a short while and read my philosophy book. But before long, I couldn't concentrate and actually got dressed instead, to do exactly as I said: supervise San's packing, along with her random relative and her Mum.

Shortly before I left around midday, San had got her suitcase to weigh as close to 20kg as possible. 20 kilos might be plenty if you're going on holiday, but it doesn't leave you a lot of room if you need to pack for a year. I think she settled for 22kg in the end.

I jokingly asked San if she would walk me to the bus stop, since she was still in her PJs. But she walked me out onto the balcony instead, we hugged goodbye -- refusing to look each other in the eye, so I wouldn't see her crying -- and I told her I'd see her soon. As I started off down the road, she called out goodbye to me, in a voice choked with tears.

I got a text message from her this morning as she changed planes in Hong Kong. By now, she will be in Japan. Probably complaining she has nothing to wear...

England is drowning and I live by the river

I got home on Sunday night, after a disappointing hockey game (Chieftains lost 5 - nil) and wondered why there was a torch on my bed. I didn't think too much of it at first, and then I ran into my Dad.

There had been a message earlier the evening, in a phone call from the Environmental Agency. The phone call was a flood warning, the risk had been raised from "flood watch" (flooding of low lying land and roads is expected) to "flood danger" (flooding of homes and businesses is expected) -- there was an imminent danger of a flood.

My dad had got bags of sand out of the garage to block the doors with, and had prepared various items like torches, candles and a camping stove. He said that he'd stay up until midnight (high tide was expected about 11.30) and that he would wake me up if and when the water came. I wondered if I would first hear the flood warning siren -- the eerie rise and fall of an air raid siren.

I woke up work at 6am this morning with a headache. But no flood. The situation has been updated to "all clear", how long for I don't know.

Clearness of dealing, made them almost invisible

They say the meaning of life is to "find what you love, and do it".

I guess it is about time that I stopped treading water and worked out what I do love, and then worked out how to do it. A life where you spend 40 hours a week in work, with every hour marked by watching the clock and counting quietly two hours 'til break, three hours to lunch, be at home in four hours -- that's not even a life half-lived.

Years ago, I had an interview for the local paper where I had been doing work experience. In hindsight, one day a week was no kind of experience at all -- I should have been doing at least four days a week if I expected to go anywhere. But anyway, I remember the interview and telling them how I wanted a career, I wanted to do something I was passionate about. They were convinced of my passion for the profession, but I guess ultimately felt that I wasn't good enough for them. That's just how these things go.

I'm not a fool. Not all of the time, at least. I understand the reason they pay you to go to work is that you wouldn't go otherwise, I understand you can't enjoy what you do all of the time. But there needs to be a balance, and I am not prepared to live my life as a slave in a white collar.

But what do I love? In the words of Ron Burgundy "I love poetry, and a glass of scotch...". That's not going to get me very far, I haven't written so much as a line of poetry in years and my epic literary masterpiece about love, loss and zombies is currently only sitting and two pages. I don't think a career is going to come out of that, I can't even win the poetry.com competitions.

I know I have talents, and see no benefit in false modesty -- I have an artistic spark, and I'm not ashamed of it. On the other hand, I recognise that I am not amazing, I am not incredible, I am not better than perhaps a lot of people. However, a lot of people have neither the courage nor the inclination to try and succeed. This narrows the competition.

I don't really know where to begin; whether perhaps I should be looking for photography courses, or looking for assistant positions, or if I should just be trying to flog what I have. After all, I've never tried -- other than to friends who say "Yes, you should try and sell your work", but then won't buy it themselves.

I called in sick at work today, and in between watching a random subtitled Japanese movie, reading a book on philosophy and fielding calls from recruitment consultants, I also plan to devote some time to working out how to do what I love.

Found:

Amo el trozo de tierra que tú eres,
porque de las praderas planetarias
otra estrella no tengo. Tú repites
la multiplicación del universo.

The inspirational Mez recently posted a note-to-self she found saved on her mobile phone. In a similar circumstance, Dr Kenneth Noisewater found a list of uncertain origins. Joining in with the cool kids, today I found a sheet clumsily torn from a writing pad, when cleaning my room.
The above phrase written on it. Despite not being able to read Spanish, I can pick out enough words to know what this is, and what it refers to.

Also on the page is an Easyjet reference number -- either a flight number or a booking reference.

I love stuff like this, random pieces of paper or notes to self. I never find anything worth sending to Found. I want to see posts from the rest of you about random messages to yourself you find...

I wanna be a homosexual

(my apologies to Madame Boffin, who will already have read most of this story in an email -- you can just skip this post)

Sexuality isn't something I talk about a lot, for the most part my own sexual preferences are usually only referred to in passing. Just as I don't consider myself to be my job, or the clothes I wear, I also am not who I choose to sleep with. The fact that I bat for both teams I find no more relevant than that I like to wear long sleeves under my t-shirts. Naturally, it is part of who I am and has shaped who I am and influenced my growing up, but again I don't give it that much thought. I understand for some people it can be difficult to understand, more so than if you just didn't find one sex or another attractive. I get asked how whoever I am dating is meant to know if I am feeling attracted to women or not on any one particular day -- but I like to think of it more simply as just being attracted to people. I don't get into relationships and some days think "I really don't fancy you today". Most of this is just preamble.

Occasionally I get to thinking that it might be an interesting idea to explore my personality and consider the idea of dating a guy. It's not something I've ever done, have had a few ill-advised trysts, and I've been friends with various guys, but haven't ever really sought to combine the two. I wouldn't want to go to a club or a bar to try and meet guys, any more than I would consider it a reliable way to meet girls. But I'd been thinking that it was possible I could meet guys with similar interests, but with a view to more than just friendship.

Perhaps out of curiosity more than anything, I tried placing an ad to meet guys. Considering previous ads to meet girls of various descriptions are usually treated with the contempt they deserve, I wasn't sure what would come of it -- but I thought I'd run it up the flagpole and see who salutes.

The ad itself was pretty straight to the point, bisexual, not interested in the gay scene, would rather play pool and go to a rock club, wants to meet hotties. Because who doesn't? And a disclaimer that I'd ignore the perverts. The response was quite surprising, it seems that guys are more willing to reply to ads -- I'm sure an ad with the same wording to meet girls would go unnoticed.

A lot of people were telling me they liked what I wrote -- though maybe it was just a line -- but it seemed to appeal. I think, however, that even when you are trying to meet people who don't consider their sexuality to be a defining characteristic if you are having to post a personal ad you automatically place yourself in a box, and anyone replying has to be reading the gay personals to begin with.

Of all the people that replied there were perhaps only two that actually sparked my curiosity. I felt a little bad about it, but I didn't reply to people who I either didn't find attractive or whose grasp of English was tentative -- this applying especially to people who think "txt spk" is appropriate outside of a text message. I did try responding to one or two people I wasn't interested in to begin with, to be polite, but decided it was kind of dumb.

But as I said, I was encouraged by two responses and figured if all I ever got out of it was to be good friends, it would be worthwhile. We exchanged emails for a while and they seemed to be looking for something similar. I'll never know exactly how similar or just how feasible any of this was going to be, since their interest lasted all of a couple of days.

I think I might have put one guy off with an inadvisable rant about why I don't really do the gay scene. He'd mentioned wanting to meet more people and maybe joining some clubs in London, like photography or whatever. I'd said what a good idea I thought it was, and suggested to him he even check out the First Time Club -- with whom I'd gone to the life drawing class back in December. Although I have more or less dropped out now, for various reasons. But I thought it might be good for him to join. He asked, are they gays? Because he didn't really like spending time with people who weren't. His choice of phrase made me laugh, it reminded me more of Little Britain or how older people refer to the gays -- but I think it was more because he is Polish. I told him that to be fair I had never asked anyone there about their sexual preference, it wasn't an issue to be discussed, but I expected there would probably be your normal mix.

I then went on to tell how when I was at university I though it would be good to spend time with the LGB -- but had instead found them more cliquey and exclusive than most straight people I knew. I was told things by gay people that nobody else would have dared -- I was told that I was really straight and trying to be fashionable, or that I was actually just gay and hadn't met the right man yet. I can't imagine getting out of there alive if I had tried telling that to the girl who said it to me -- oh, you just need to meet the right man. I recognise these were just small minded individuals, but just the same I don't identify with the scene or the community. He probably didn't agree. He also didn't seem over-enthusiastic I didn't live in London.

And that's kind of it -- I try to meet cute boys who share an interest in things like art, music and board sports. And for one reason or another, I fail to do so.
Although as an interesting post-script to the story, I replied to a girl's personal ad, and so far the two of us are getting along well.

Oh, and the title comes from the Screeching Weasel song of the same name. I might make them a Musical Monday subject sometime. Speaking of Musical Monday, all previous posts have been edited to try and ensure the relevant songs all work.

Musical Monday #16

My Musical Monday drop-down menu wasn't working so well -- so I took it apart and replaced it with a straight-forward link list. At the very least, it should encourage the lazier among you to have a butcher's. But yes, google inspired today's Musical Monday with this quote from the rock Iguana himself.

"Nihilism is best done by professionals." -- Iggy Pop

If anyone is wondering, no I didn't already do Iggy -- I made reference to him as the Godfather of Punk, but that was in the post about the Sex Pistols. Do pay attention.

The genius of Iggy Pop -- or perhaps more objectively the appeal -- to me of Iggy Pop is hard to define, as the best artists often are. Iggy Pop's commercial success has been very limited, I love the scene in Trainspotting where Diane calls him "Ziggy Pop". Mark corrects her and she says "Whatever. I mean, the guy's dead anyway." Frankly, I was surprised her character had even heard of Iggy Pop enough to get his name wrong -- a lot of people would have a hard time placing him. That is, until you start to mention songs like The Passenger and Lust for Life.

Iggy Pop's Raw Power is an incredible album. It exists when it was "Iggy and The Stooges", the strange time of his career after he was more than just The Stooges, but before his prolific solo career. Iggy was reportedly never very happy with the mixing of the original version of the album, too melodic for his liking perhaps -- and decades later a remastered version emerged, after a compromise was found between what came first, and Iggy's own idea of editing which involved demanding to know why certain dials weren't in the red. Raw Power describes itself in those two words alone.

Lester Bangs wrote of Iggy Pop with such admiration and passion, when his peers were criticising the basic music of The Stooges. They'd say, but anyone could do that. Lester Bangs comeback always seemed to be but anyone isn't -- he is. If you think anyone can do it -- and they probably can -- have a go yourself, Iggy Pop was the one up there with the courage to do it. That kind of attitude is what carried the Clash, The Ramones, the Sex Pistols into their own careers and to change the face of music.

But behind the energy and the passion, behind the manic dancing and the cutting himself on stage with beer bottles, there is another side to Iggy Pop and to The Stooges, particularly. The nihilism of songs like No Fun and I Wanna Be Your Dog have a lot in common with Lou Reed's music, and in turn with the heroin.
But Iggy Pop isn't dead at all, and I'll leave my own nihilism to the professionals like him.

On weekends

I arrived in London shortly before 9pm, and it had already been raining for hours. It had been raining -- a steady, grey drizzle -- when I finished work at 6, it was raining when I was sat at the station an hour and a half later waiting for a train. I got to Kings Cross and decided to walk the last part above ground, in the rain, rather than take the Death Star-like tunnels.

It felt strange. Not like returning home, but returning somewhere that had been very familiar for a while. It made me smile, walking in the rain with my umbrella, and listening to the car horns and the sirens and the throngs of people crossing the road. I got to San's apartment building, pressed the buzzer for her flat and waited. It felt like I was waiting forever -- her flat is not that big, and I knew she was in, so I didn't know why it was taking so long to let me in. Eventually she did.

It's been weeks or months, but I wasn't surprised to see that her front door was still the colour of the unpainted grey undercoat, from where the council or housing association or whoever was responsible had begun repainting it and stopped.

San and I were meant to meet up weeks ago, but she cancelled at the time because she was broke and being moody. She now leaves for Japan in exactly two weeks, and I knew this might be the last time I'd see her. We said we'd go to the club night at the Academy as we used to like to do sometimes, and especially as this would be the last time she'd go for a while. In the end, it wasn't even on. I wanted to go to a pirate night at a place called Rock, but San was appalled at the suggestion -- and fortunately for her it wasn't on until next week anyway.

After some discussions about the evening and the weekend itself, San expressed a desire to stay in with takeaway and a movie rather than go out. Considering I'd been in work all day, then gone straight to London pausing only to get changed -- and the train fare had already cost what I'd expect to spend on a night out -- I was happy with this, and had brought a bottle of wine.

The Chinese takeaway was a little disappointing -- I prefer my local one here, despite just being over the road to the flat in Kings Cross, Friday's sweet and sour chicken and noodles was over cooked. Since San shares her flat with her Mum, and her Mum was watching tv, San and I didn't end up watching a movie -- instead we just ate takeaway and listened to the radio in her bedroom. And if anyone is wondering, I was perfectly well behaved -- we both were. It was nice, just sitting in her room, and drinking wine, and not feeling the need for anything else or anything more.

There was a David Cronenberg movie on tv we wanted to watch on Friday night -- but after a bottle of wine between us and a long week, we barely got a few scenes into the film before we were falling asleep.

Saturday we watched movies and hung out, and San said she felt guilty we didn't do anything, but sometimes just hanging out and watching a movie does count as "doing something". It doesn't have to be cultural or exciting, sometimes it can just be good company. Although San claims never to have visited the Natural History museum in London, which both shocks and appals me. I love the place, and still feel the awe I felt as a child when I stand underneath the huge dinosaur skeletons. It's on the list of things to do.

I came home early Saturday evening, and invited all my friends round since my parents were out of town. We drank beer and listened to music, and periodically we would all stand quietly outside in the dark and the cold and stare up at the sky.

In the clear night sky, the moon was being slowly eclipsed by the earth's shadow.

I touch the fire and it freezes me

I've been told in the past my eyes are my best feature. They're very expressive. I've said before my eyes are like a kind of mood ring, the colour changing with my emotion. Checking my reflection, they're a steel grey/blue -- and on very rare occasions they look green. I think the grey is important, it gives an edge, it says "thank you for not sharing".

People have been asking me recently how I am, how I feel. The truth is, I don't really feel anything: I touch the fire and it freezes me. This is a long way from the intense, broiling depression that consumes you, it's not even a quiet desperation or even exactly unhappy. It's just not really anything. I haven't talked about my feelings because I don't know what to say, I don't talk much because I have nothing to offer anyone except my own confusion.

In January, I rejoined the gym. I was frustrated at becoming increasingly unfit, and having lost all the gains I made when I was visiting a few times a week. Less than two months later, and I can both see and feel the difference. Slightly leaner, slightly firmer, and not feeling nearly quite as podgy. You decide to get into shape, so you visit the gym three times a week, and you're pushing yourself constantly. It becomes its own reward. So why can't other areas of our lives be like this?

I make grand decisions; be more confident, be more positive. But I need some kind of emotional or mental workout, or just have no idea how I am supposed to get the rest of my life in some kind of order. I say I will focus on one thing at a time, maybe work out what I am meant to be doing with my career, or work out how I am going to move out of here, then once one thing is on track, start another plate spinning; maybe start looking for another girl.

I suppose the trouble is not knowing what you want. I want to be creative, I want to be an artist, I want the respect of the people who have passed through my life. When people ask me what I'm doing, or when they hear about me, I want them to be pleased -- he knew what he wanted, and he went out and got it.

It's strange, I still think back to teachers I had when I was 18 and I think "I want them to be proud of me" or the university lecturer who helped me on my dissertation, or even the parents of ex-girlfriends. I want them to say "I always knew he'd be someone". These people probably don't even remember me, but I still want their approval. I just don't know how.

I know ultimately it's up to me -- just like nobody else can make me get into shape, or get into shape for me, but at least it's fairly clear how to go about it. But instead of feeling depressed, instead of wanting to cry or scream or anything else, I just don't feel anything.