Musical Monday #20

This post has been most shamefully ripped off from DunePrincess. While hers was 20 memories for 20 songs, randomly picked by iTunes, I don't have the attention span right now to do that many. Plus it keeps picking songs I can't think of anything to say about, so I'm keeping it to 10 instead. If the songs don't show up as links when you read this, check back later -- I probably still need to upload them.

#1 -- Space Neighbourhood
In a shoebox on top of my shelves, I have this song on CD single. I was 15 when this song came out, according to Wikipedia it reached the lofty heights of #56 in the UK singles chart. Space were a chirpy Britpop band from Liverpool, and among listening to Nirvana and Guns N' Roses, I remember really liking the throwaway poppiness of their music. I expect the humour of their songs was good for me. This song takes me back to being 15 and working for three weeks in a record shop. I wasn't yet 16, and so I wasn't allowed to serve customers (it was something about not being able to prosecute me if I stole from them). Most of the work I did was answering the phone, putting things in alphabetical order and cleaning the cd racks. The only highlight of the job was getting to listen to music all day. Granted, most of the time I didn't get a say in what we listened to, but sometimes I would be given the chance too choose -- and I can remember filing away vinyl singles under the counter, smiling as I listened to the terribly commercial indie/britpop compilation I'd put on. I've often wished my time there had been more like the film Empire Records, instead I spent time scraping chewing gum off the carpet and dusting the CD racks.

#2 -- Dave Addington Up In't Pool
This is a huge leap in time. Technically, this is kind of cheating as it's not really a song. When I was 18 and in my first year at university, I joined a student poetry group. We would meet once a week in a local pub, drink lots of beer, and reading each other our poetry and offer advice. Once a month we'd all go to an open mike poetry night and read there. I still do like to read poetry at open mike nights, and should find one in London.
Each year the poetry society would produce a book of its members work, and sell it. And I think fail to sell any copies except to members and their families. So we decided to do something different -- we would instead make our poetry into songs. Several members of the club were in a band and so we hatched a plan that we'd make a CD of poetry set to different styles of music. It seems fitting that Dave Addington was the President of the group and his poem should be chosen by winamp to be in this list. Dave was someone I very much admired -- he was several years older than me (and probably still is, I'd say) and had been published in some literary magazines. His poetry was very good, and he was a very warm and genuine guy. I also remember that when he was drunk he had all sorts of conspiracy theories about Jim Morrison being assassinated, vampires living in catacombs under Paris and how on the eve of the Millennium our government were going to reveal the existence of UFOs to the public. Several years on, I don't remember any of his poetry, and am glad to have this CD. This poem was about his hometown of Blackpool, Lancashire -- the title of the poem even using the Northern expression "in't" instead of "in the". The story of the recording of this poem was that Dave recorded it on cassette, stoned in his bedroom with his flatmate and fellow poetry society member. When they tried to recreate the sound in the studio so instead found a way to record from the original tape cassette onto the final CD. The song reminds me of that first year being a student, the nights in smoky pubs reading work in progress poems, or the back room of the pub open mike poetry where the heating and power was provided only by a generator.

#3 -- Duncan Sheik She Runs Away
I don't know if she reads this blog, but this song reminds me of Angela -- whom I originally met online. The hows and wheres is quite a long story, but in 2001 entirely by coincidence we were both living in Salt Lake City, Utah. Duncan Sheik I think was her favourite artist back then, and maybe he still is. I'd never heard of him before Angela played me his stuff, and later when I moved back to England she made me a compilation CD. For her 21st birthday, I got us a pair of tickets to see Duncan Sheik play at a local venue. The only problem was, the gig was a few days before Angela's actual birthday -- and probably more than 6 months before mine. This was a problem because if you weren't 21, you weren't getting in. I think that might even have had something to do with why I tried to buy a fake ID when I was in New York that summer. Angela bought a fake ID from a friend of hers, but even with it they wouldn't let her in -- because it didn't have the official hologrammed plastic covering. Angela didn't even drink, so it made no difference to her if they drew a black X on her hands, or even on her head. They still wouldn't let her in. Angela called a friend of hers to see if she wanted a ticket -- figured that someone should get some use out of them, since we wouldn't -- and then we just sat on the pavement outside the bar. At one point before the show Duncan Sheik himself actually came out and had a few pictures taken, I didn't really know him enough to recognise him -- and his appearance had changed enough so even Angela hadn't recognised him. Eventually, we spent the night sitting on the back step of the bar, by the door to the kitchen. From there we could at least hear the music, even if we couldn't see anything. After the show, Duncan was signing autographs and getting pictures taken with fans -- and that was when we realised we'd practically met him before the show. The bouncers were at least generous enough to let Angela inside the doors to have her picture taken with Duncan. She told him how we'd spent the whole night outside by the bins because we weren't allowed in. He said we should have told him, and he would have got the management to let us in. Either way, this song in particular reminds me of that night -- and of the many times Angela and I would sit on the mattress on her floor and she'd play me music.

#4 -- Robyn Hitchcock Raymond Chandler Evening
This song reminds me of being about 15, some time before I even knew it was a song. In James O'Barr's graphic novel The Crow he frequently quoted from artists like The Cure and Joy Division, along with the symbolist poets like Arthur Rimbaud and Charles Baudelaire. Desperate to understand all of the references, I would get books of French poetry out of the library -- but couldn't speak French nearly well enough. I asked my GCSE French teacher to help me with some translations after school -- it makes me smile now, I wonder what she thought of some 15 year old asking her to translate Le Fleurs du Mal for him. She gave me a quite hesitant and literal translation -- before I found you could just get the translated versions instead. The lyrics to Raymond Chandler Evening fascinated me, with verses like:

There's a body on the railings
that I can't identify
And I'd like to reassure you but
I'm not that kind of guy

Back in the days before I -- or anyone I knew -- had the internet at home, I couldn't just google the lyrics and mistakenly thought Hitchcock was a poet and not a musician. Eventually when I got into downloading music, I found the song -- and it's still the only song by Robyn Hitchcock I've ever listened to.

#5 -- Clem Snide Something Beautiful
At the start of the year, I went with Sanyu to see Ben Folds play. Support was from Clem Snide -- who seemed like more of a comedy act than serious musicians, with songs like The Ballad of David Icke (with lines about how the secret reptile rulers of the world took his girl away). This was another of their songs -- about wanting to "break something beautiful". It reminds me in a way of the nihilism of the anarchist Edward Abbey and Chuck Palahniuk -- particular Fight Club where the narrator talks of wanting to destroy something beautiful. Most of all, the song reminds me of a compilation CD I must have made shortly after. I can remember driving to work in the call centre, early in the morning in the winter, and wanting to cry. I can remember driving along the country roads and the rain on the window and the line "you make me want to not turn the wipers on when rain starts to fall". I never said all the songs had happy memories, but I'm happy now to no longer be in that place -- emotionally, and professionally.

#6 -- The Pixies Here Comes Your Man
In sharp contrast to the last song, this one has only good memories. The Pixies are still way up there on my list of bands I want to see but haven't yet had the opportunity. Now that Smashing Pumpkins and Aerosmith have both been crossed off within a week, it's about time I see the Pixies. Anyway, this particular song reminds me of random late nights after the pub. Sometimes after the pub if we didn't want to go home, we'd listen to music in the car and Nick would drive us to McDonald's to get milkshakes. We were all big fans of this song -- although Nick only knew the Counting Crows cover. But Jon and I would (half-drunkenly) sing along, and I'd do Kim Deal's parts. It's not something we ever do now -- that is, go for milkshakes nor drunkenly harmonise to the Pixies in the car, but it still makes me smile and I still try and sing Kim Deal's parts.

#7 -- Hole Rock Star
When I was about 13, my parents made me get a job -- and so I got a job in the media. I was a regional media distributor. That is, I had a paper round -- delivering a weekly paper to paying customers. I remember one summer night delivering papers down a nearby street, and in particular to two houses next door to each other. It's important the two houses were neighbours, otherwise I probably wouldn't have heard enough of the song for it to pique my interest. I can't remember exactly how old I was when this was -- I had to be younger than 16, because that was when I got a job in a pub instead, and it was before I knew Jon, whom I met when I was perhaps 15. So it makes sense if I say it was around 1995, when I was 14. I heard the opening lines of this song where Courtney Love starts to sing a couple of times and stops, before starting again. It fascinated me and I couldn't tell if it was a CD or a real band playing in someone's house. But I sat on the curb and listened to the song, before carrying on along my way. I didn't know it was Hole that I was listening to back then, and didn't find out for a couple of years. I mentioned that it was before I met Jon, as it turned out to be his house and it was probably his older sister's CD I heard playing. I only found out who the song was by when aged 16 he lent me several albums, Live Through This being among them.

#8 -- The Kinks Sunny Afternoon
I bought a "best of" album for the Kinks based solely on the song Lola, though this is the one winamp has chosen. This song reminds me of a girl named Claire I knew, when I was at school. We were both depressed and liked poetry, she wore a lot of black and liked Sylvia Plath -- but was offended at the suggestion of being a Goth. Anyway, I remember one day -- possibly one of the only times she ever visited my house -- playing her this song, at her request. She liked in particular the last verse:

My girlfriend's run off with my car
And gone back to her Ma and Pa
Telling tales of drunkenness, and cruelty

she said the singer sounded really pissed off about it. I just like the juxtaposition of the narrator of the song's zen-like attitude, and the unfortunate events in his life. It's probably what I liked about it back then, but at 16 I probably wouldn't have phrased it like that.

#9 -- Weezer Buddy Holly
I've mentioned it before, but I have a shameful secret: I used to be emo. Years before I ever heard the phrase, I was listening to Weezer, wearing black eyeliner and wearing black-framed glasses, trying to look like Buddy Holly. I looked more like Where's Wally, I remember -- or I think someone said Woody Allen. Neither was meant or taken as a compliment, these days that would have just made me all the more emo. It's probably a sign of growing up when you stop trying to look like Buddy Holly and start buying Armani frames instead. This song reminds me of all kinds of things at that time -- of wanting to look like Buddy Holly, and before that of thinking I had invented surf punk -- until I heard Weezer, and more accurate to the sound I wanted (the Sex Pistols playing the Beach Boys, or vice versa, I don't remember now), the Ramones.

#10 -- Terrorvision American TV
This song reminds me of the first gig I ever went to; Terrorvision, supported by Feeder. It was at the Cliff's Pavilion in Southend-On-Sea, Essex. I can even tell you it was a Thursday night, because I was 15 years old and had school the next morning. I wore a long-sleeved Nirvana t-shirt, black with the classic yellow smiley on the front. I also remember the gig was in December, and my friend John (not Jon) buying me Terrorvision's debut album Formaldehyde as an early Christmas present. In my Christmas card he wrote:

Put a man on the moon, now ain't too soon
Another Russian spy puts a spanner in and boom
From Washington to Tennessee
We put the bullets in the Kennedys

The verse was from this song -- which now it occurs to me means he must have at least listened to the album, if not copied it, before giving it to me. I don't remember Terrorvision playing it at the gig -- although they must have, it was a single and one of the songs that first made them famous. But either way, the song reminds me of being given the album so I'd know all of the songs they would play, and it reminds me of being 15, wearing my Nirvana t-shirt to my first gig. Picking the right t-shirt is still important when I go to gigs. I am so sad.

What you are

It's been a while since I've had a post on karma. There's been posts on girls and saying yes more and posts on music and posts trying to find out who still reads this, but it's all been quiet on the karma front. Until today.

Karma affects a lot of things I do, and while there is a lot I need to explore and discuss about it, that's not a post for today. However, one of the questions I sometimes have regarding it is if -- like wealth, perhaps -- karma is its own reward? If like Earl Hickey you do good things because you want good karma, does it still count? Is doing good deeds with good intentions acceptable, even if there is a selfish motivation? Does taking a vow of universal compassion count less if you are motivated by the prospect of freeing yourself from the chains of the ego?

I like to think not -- because karma isn't a being, it isn't a sentient thing, but instead more of a natural law of the universal. There isn't some cosmic desk clerk of karma ticking off on a sheet of paper your actions and motivations, rather it is more a kind of extension of Newton's third law -- that every action has a reaction.
If all this is twisting your melon don't fret because I'm going to get to the point.

For some time, I have been considering volunteering in a soup kitchen. Working in marketing -- and the consumer side, at that -- I have felt that I needed to balance the scales. I sometimes feel that marketing, like advertising, is encouraging people to spend money they don't have on things they don't need. If you don't use this toothpaste or wear these clothes people won't like you as much. Naturally, this could be considered a "bad thing" and so for the sake of redressing my karma I need to be doing a "good thing" -- and this good thing I decided should be helping the homeless. I don't believe giving money to people in the street helps them, rather that if you want to help these people then feeding them is a good start.

It was just an idea I'd been kicking about in my head like a half-deflated football when in the spirit of saying yes more I met a group of people calling themselves the First Time Club, and took my clothes off for an art class. Each time they did something for the first time they would sit down afterwards and decide what to do next -- I had to catch a train home after the art class and I missed out on that discussion, but as coincidence would have it they decided on volunteering in a soup kitchen.

For one reason or another, I didn't meet them a second time. I forget why, maybe I was out of town that weekend, or maybe it was because the people I chose as my personal referees for the soup kitchen application didn't ever return the details. Either way, I didn't meet the "club" again and I didn't get to volunteer in the soup kitchen.

Until one day I got an email from the kitchen organiser, asking if I was still interested in volunteering -- now I was working in London again, I told him I definitely was interested. And the subject of referees was brought up again, so I dutifully contacted the people who I'd nominated and asked them if they would mind actually filling in the paperwork this time. They both told me it was absolutely no problem. Weeks passed, and eventually I heard that this time only one of them had returned the reference. So a change was needed, I had to say goodbye to the weakest link (a former employer) and replace them with someone reliable, my friend Calvin. If I'd used him the first time round it would have been a lot quicker, since he received and returned the reference request in a matter of days.

Next weekend I had been planning an impromptu trip up north to England's rainy city Manchester, to see fellow blogger The Wee Italian Chick and crash her birthday party. I'd been looking online at cut price train fares and bus tickets and budget accommodation and was all prepared to go ahead and book it - but I held off when I was reminded next Friday is Jon's birthday. It would be incredibly rude to be out of town on his birthday, so I was holding off for a few days until I knew what plans he was making to celebrate. Then I stumbled across my bank balance. I'm a believer that your bank balance, like your personal potential, is always a lot less than you like to think it is -- and the trick is not to look at it. I looked at it only to see if I had been paid yet, when I discovered that only had I not been paid yet but I was haemorrhaging money -- and had to give up on ideas of going to Manchester.

Rather than lavish her with gifts, Ivonne has asked her friends to instead do three things to make the world a better place. Today I got an email to say my references have been received and I am invited next weekend to attend a training session to work in the soup kitchen -- something I wouldn't have been able to do if I was in Manchester. It seems my karma has worked out there -- instead of partying I will be doing something to make the world a better place. The important thing is, I'm trying to be a better person.

Musical....Wednesday?

I realise I have been neglecting Musical Monday just recently -- my trouble is that during the week I think of lots of ideas for MM posts. I'll be on the train and I'll think how I should do a post about Har Mar Superstar, or I'll be marching up escalators in time with the mp3s on my phone, or smiling to myself on a hot, packed tube train because I love a particular song or am listening to something very silly. And I'll think of doing a themed entry about songs I love listening to while I'm out (Rebellion by Arcade Fire is a great song to walk to) but do I remember to post, or feel like writing when I get to a computer? Do I bollocks. I have taken to writing blog posts in emails to pick up and save later, I also try and stash them away as saved drafts so I can just hit publish later.

Anyway, Musical Monday has been sadly neglected. If you miss my own too much, you can always check out Mez at the start of the week -- her Musical Monday posts are always an interesting read, I've found.

However, this past week has been an extraordinary week for music and I can't justify not posting about it all some time. On Friday night, Calvin and I went to a jazz club at the restaurant where I sort-of work and saw the sublime Ms Claire Martin perform. Strangely, I'm not often a fan of "vocal" jazz. I like to keep it instrumental, with the likes of Miles Davis and Charlie Parker and John Coltrane. I make an occasional exception for Chet Baker, who had a voice that could make a wolverine purr. I have a feeling Claire Martin might actually be very famous in the right circles, she made some offhand reference to preferring the club to Ronnie Scott's, and mentioned forthcoming dates at the Oak Room in New York.

Ms Martin was not just a talented performer, with a voice like warm honey, but she also seemed very warm and genuine. She laughed with the crowd and made small jokes and little comments, and generally just seemed like an incredibly nice person. If you like jazz, and you get the chance to see her perform, do it -- you won't regret it.

Musical Monday was missed this week because I had other musical commitments -- namely, Pearl Jam's only show in Britain this year; one sold-out night at Wembley Arena. The entire standing capacity of the gig was sold exclusively to members of the fan club, who were limited to two tickets each. I heard that anyone who then tried to sell the tickets on ebay had their tickets cancelled and memberships revoked. I am not a member of Pearl Jam's "Ten Club", but I know a man who is. There was little question that Jon would move heaven and earth to secure his pair of tickets, and the boy done good. For the price of them, however, we expected a full Temple of the Dog reunion with a guest appearance from Chris Cornell. Just so you don't get your hopes up like we did; he didn't show; he was probably at home in Paris, busily tending to his Japanese peace lily.

Support for Pearl Jam came from Scottish alt-rockers, Idlewild -- a band I haven't listened to in almost ten years. They were big in the 90's, popular among people not unlike ourselves who were fans of Pearl Jam -- I can remember that Fiona liked them, back when we were dating. If they had supported Pearl Jam at Wembley Arena when I took Fi back in 2000, that would have been about right. I have no idea what the band have done in the meantime, but apparently they have enjoyed a modest success that I have been completely oblivious to. They aren't bad, and I smiled when I recognised some old songs, but they didn't do a lot for me.

Pearl Jam took to the stage after quite a brief set from Idlewild, and although I still uphold they are a legendary band, on Monday they didn't do a lot for me. I commented to a friend the next day that perhaps I should stop going to fan club gigs -- I saw a very exclusive Pearl Jam gig at the Astoria last year, and once saw REM at quite an exclusive concert in Brixton. All three times while I have enjoyed the music, I would have enjoyed it a lot more if I hadn't felt like I'd wandered into the wrong room. I'm a fan...I'm just not a fan club type fan. I'm not the kind of person who claims to be a fan, but only knows Ten -- but I'm also not the kind of person who knows their b-sides and rarities.

I had hoped for various songs during the evening -- Light Years, Thin Air, Push Me Pull Me, Loveboat Captain, Rearviewmirror (in fact, pretty much everything from Vs)...and they didn't play any of it. They did play Given To Fly, which I appreciated, and they did play their cover of Rockin' In The Free World. And it was a good gig, it really was....but I was disappointed.

So it was just as well that Tuesday night we had tickets to see Smashing Pumpkins play Shepherd's Bush Empire. A three-hour set with no support at the small 2,000 capacity venue marked their first show in seven years, ahead of their anticipated headline slot at this summer's Reading festival.

And what a show it was -- even if D'Arcy and James Iha have been replaced. Jimmy Chamberlain was on top form, playing for all he was worth, and Billy Corgan was as good as he has ever been. I'm not a Pumpkins purist, Billy Corgan has been the only consistent member of the Smashing Pumpkins since they were formed, and is reportedly such a perfectionist that he went back and rerecorded Siamese Dream, playing all of the parts on his own. It would have been good to see the "definitive" line up, but you don't turn your nose up at Smashing Pumpkins.

With a back catalogue as big as theirs, there was no way they could have played absolutely everything I wanted to hear -- that would have involved playing at least Siamese Dream and Pisces Iscariot back-to-back, and large parts of Melon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. Just the same, they didn't shy from playing the hits -- Today, Cherub Rock, Disarm, Bullet with Butterfly Wings, Tonight Tonight, Zero, Thirty-Three, Stand Inside Your Love, along with the powerhouse of a single Tarantula, and several songs from their new album.

It was just amazing, and I know that Sunday night at Reading this year might just be that much better than Pearl Jam's performance last year...

Taking stock

Between the stats I get from my comments, Statcounter and Technorati, I'm not really clear who still reads this blog.

This isn't a request for more comments -- though do feel free to leave a comment, they are always appreciated -- it also isn't a threat (or promise) to stop writing if nobody is reading. I will keep posting here whatever, I was writing before I had any readers or friends online -- but I would still like to do a quick head count.

Who is still around? Statcounter tells me my visitor numbers have been dropping, although comments on the usual posts seem fairly static, so aside from the usual google hits, I would like to find out who is still an active reader. Among the handful Technorati says link here, who is just being polite and who is still a visitor? Do me a favour and just let me know if you actually read this, enquiring minds want to know how many readers I really do still have.

And while you're at it, please mark my guestmap (if you haven't already). I don't care if it's your first time here, if you came here looking for Jessica Simpson porn, or if you're a once regular reader who is now lurking because if you don't have anything nice to say you'll say nothing at all. But please do mark the map.

Post Crossing

Jamie directed me here, who in turn had been turned onto it by Ash. I don't have a link for Ash any more, he was an old diary-x person, but I expect he still has dozens of blogs or journals or whatever about the place under various names.

San used to compulsively collect postcards, it used to drive me mad. She didn't care if they were interesting-looking, she didn't even do anything with them – she'd just get handfuls of postcards wherever they were free, and then dump them in a drawer. I was always telling her to do something with them or get rid of them, she wasn't even properly collecting – she was just hoarding, it made no sense. I used to suggest mounting one of each into a scrapbook or something, so she could at least admire them later. I don't know what if anything she ever did with them.

PostCrossing is a project allowing people to exchange postcards with strangers around the world. If San still has those postcards, she'll have the last laugh – it's just right for someone who has thousands of cards already stashed away.
I sent my first card off to Finland yesterday, and am excited to think I will be receiving cards in return. I'm a huge geek, but I really love getting post.

As I receive postcards, I'll scan the images and post them on here.

Jazz clubs

On Friday night, me and Calvin went to a jazz club at the restaurant where I kind of work. The operations manager had got me complimentary tickets, so we enjoyed some good food and great music. What amused was towards the end of the night I politely asked our waitress for the bill. She replied that she had been informed my table was complimentary, and there was no bill. Sure this was a mistake, I told her I was under the impression the table was booked free of charge -- but that was as far as it went, and if she wouldn't mind checking again for me.

It might seem ridiculous to talk your way into paying for your meal, but I am sure now I was correct -- and if I had allowed them to mistakenly not charge me for the meal, I expect it would have caught up with me. I know it would have done, after all -- copies of complimentary bills have to go to the press office where I'm working, and I would have got into trouble if it was thought that I had acted improperly. It's like how I will contact people I've wronged in the past to try and make things right, part of being sure to at least try to do the right thing.

Interview fun times

In between the usual work this week, I had two job interviews -- which as ever were a whole world of fun times. Because I didn't want them to interfere with my actual work, I arranged them both for 8.30 in the morning -- though on different days, I'm not a complete idiot. Despite some suggestions to the contrary.

Thursday morning's interview was in the B2B Technology (BizTech) sector, for an up-and-coming, hot new agency. Because they're still just starting to blazing their trail through the industry, they're looking to take on a whole bunch of people. One of those people could have been me.

The agency weren't too far from where I'm working, and I found the building without too much trouble, and was on time. Go me. I pressed the buzzer to be let in, waited, and just as someone answered about 10 buses all drove past so I tried to shout above the noise. Something must have got through as they buzzed me in. As the door clicked shut behind me I remembered how I'd been told to take the lift entrance because the office was on the fifth floor. No lift here, maybe I have to go up the stairs a bit first?

Let's rethink where I said I wasn't stupid, as I merrily trooped up the stairs, all the way to the fifth floor. I got the agency, the door was locked, but somebody inside noticed me and let me in -- they probably had been waiting on the other end of the office, by the lift. I was slightly early, so I sat and pretended to read a newspaper while they prepared themselves for me. And note when I say "pretended to read" I don't mean I mimed reading a paper, there actually was a real paper I was holding, I just wasn't really focusing on what it said.

The interview itself was pretty short. The nice interviewer lady admitted she couldn't find my CV and just asked me to tell her about myself. What bugs me is when I'm trying to tell them all succinctly about my history to date and they keep interrupting and taking me off on tangents.

Let's skip ahead, we don't need to hear about all the question and answer bullshit. The interview itself was incredibly shot, since after telling them about me and them telling me about who they are, it seemed quite clear they had never read my CV. Because I had no previous tech experience -- especially not any BizTech experience -- there was nothing there for me. Nothing. If I even had some consumer experience in the tech field they might have been able to work with it, but they pretty much told me straight out they had nothing for me. It seems they only interviewed me because I came highly recommended.

Sure, I'm a great guy. I'm funny, I'm smart, I'm spectacular in bed. But what the hell does a recommendation mean if they are going to waste everyone's time interviewing you for a job they have no intention of considering you for? On the positive side, they were very nice to talk to -- I had been worried that although I'm like a frigging Jedi master of PR these days, I didn't know enough about tech. It wasn't a problem there. I also think that should I ever be in a position where I do have some experience, they would probably consider me and meet me again.

I took the lift back down. It was one of those old wire cage lifts, where you heave open the doors manually and shut them behind you. I wished I had taken my camera. And that was Thursday. I was out of there within 30 minutes total.

Friday's interview I didn't even want to go to. I didn't want the stupid job. It was an interview for a position working in the financial services sector, and was going to last two hours because they also wanted me to take part in an assessment. It was for as junior position as it is possible to be, yet they still want you to do an assessment first. I only agreed to have my CV sent to them in the first place because the recruitment consultant rang me up while I was trying to work and I just wanted to get him off the phone.

So anyway, again Friday I find the place and am on time. This might sound obvious, but it doesn't always happen, so I'm pleased when I can get it right. Ran into a girl in reception who was also there for an interview, she asked me if I was there for the graduate program too? That explains all the assessment bullshit then. Before too long, we're taken upstairs to our respective meeting rooms.

I was interviewed separately by two different people, both quite pleasant. Same old question and answer about my experience, what I've done where and all the rest. Second interviewer explained how junior the position is -- no contact with either press or clients, or presumably the outside world -- and asked me with my background would this not be a step backwards? I'd already worked out for myself that this time I really was over-qualified. If they're only recruiting let's say 10 people -- they are going to take the 10 with degrees in marketing or whatever but no actual experience, looking for their first jobs.

Nonetheless, I assured them that because I was changing industry sectors and leaving the consumer side of the force behind me, what I wanted really was a junior, entry-level position where I could prove myself, work my way up through the ranks with my hard work. I don't know if they went for it. I did mean it though -- unlike some agencies, they claim to promote on merit. With previous jobs I've missed out on for being apparently over-qualified there has been an understanding that promotion would come only after 12 or 18 months -- which is not the case with this agency, and that could work out well for me.

The assessment side of it was a bunch of tests -- organise a bunch of tasks in order of priority, reformat a table to make it suitable for a client to see, fairly straight-forward stuff. And that was pretty much it.

I got lost after leaving the offices -- probably because I was talking to my Dad on my mobile, trying to give him tech support on why the broadband wasn't working. I kept walking for a while, in the hope it would magically transform itself into the right place or a tube station, but when it didn't I gave up and took the bus. I like bus journeys. You can't be in a hurry and they're no good if there's like any traffic, at all, but I like being able to sit by the window and stare out at the world going by.

Kath

Kath.

Kath is, more than anything else, history. But with the recent talk of Electro girls, I wanted to write about someone good.

A long, time ago, before everyone here had internet access, before MP3 players and really properly before mobile phones, there was teletext. An "information service" on the television, not so different to the internet in some ways -- and, yes, I know it still exists -- but does anyone ever use it? Anyway, it was before internet personal ads and whatever, and how I came to meet Kath was through an advert for penpals. It seems so quaint now, that we would handwrite letters to one another and send them through the post.

Kath and I had a shared love of things like music, writing, and reading, and so I guess letter writing came naturally out of that. And talking about music. One of the things I am most grateful to Kath for is poetry. Before Kath, poetry was something I had only ever studied in school -- obscure, pretentious works with convoluted meanings and symbolism and analysed half to death. She introduced me to reading poetry just to enjoy it.

This mostly came through the poems of John Hegley; equal parts comedian, poet and musician -- and someone I take great pleasure in turning other people on to. She also introduced me to the work of two of my favourite poets, Carol Ann Duffy and Simon Armitage. She introduced me to sitting on the floor of bookshops and reading. Getting in the way.

I was 17 and life was good. It seems like that now, anyway. I was in the first year of my A-Levels, and looking back I probably was not taking them as seriously as I should have been -- it was a bit like being a student, life was a blur of missing classes, underage drinking in the park on sunny days, playing pool and going to gigs. Kath encouraged me to wear black eyeliner and to paint my nails -- and advised me against it when my friends tried to convince me to paint my nails red.

I remember telling Kath the first time I kissed a girl, named Michelle -- and yes, alright I know 17 was a bit late for that, shut up. And telling her about how it didn't lead to anything. I remember this because she told me "Michelle needs to be told to appreciate you. I know I would, if you were mine" or words to that effect. It caught me by surprise a bit.

Kath was the first girl to ever tell me she loved me. And she meant it, which was helpful -- back in the days when I didn't think people would lie about that, but whatever. We never dated, we never kissed, we never even said the words out loud to each other. But she did tell me she loved me, and sometimes would tell me in Spanish (te quiero, she would say -- although she was from Lancashire, not Spain). Although these feelings were there, it was sort of decided that there was nothing that could be done about it, and she dated other people.
I probably would have dated other people, but I was never very popular.

In time, things between us changed. Anyone who has read this blog or any of its previous incarnations for any length of time will know I have a history of depression -- I hope now that the serious attacks will remain history, but that's not a subject for discussion today.

I don't remember if my moods changed first or if things in my life changed, but I became increasingly depressed. At the time, I felt like she rejected me. I felt like when I needed her she wasn't there, and that she hadn't been able to handle how I was. I felt like she only loved some idealised version of me, and when confronted with the whole me, with my moods and everything else, the illusion was shattered.

Now I see things differently. I think it's more likely I shut her out, pushed her away, refused to let her in or acknowledge how she felt. I would have kept pushing her away until she finally went away, and I was proved right and could convince myself anyone who loved me would leave me. I had problems, and she genuinely cared but she probably didn't know what to say or how to help.

We didn't lose touch altogether, although there were long periods without contact. I felt rejected by her, she was the first girl to love me and the first to break my heart - and even now sometimes when I'm rejected I'll just consider it a rehash of that same old story. I think later she had problems of her own, and didn't feel close enough to me to share them with me or I was too busy chasing her, to try and win her back.

The time periods are hazy now. Over the years, how long would pass without contact, before I would break the silence in one way or another? I don't know any more. Occasional meetings over the years, and emails replacing letters. I forget now how long it's been since we last spoke. I don't know when we last emailed each other, or why it would have stopped -- but sometimes the gaps stretch out until they become permanent silences. Sometimes the attempts at staying in touch just felt forced, like we had nothing in common any more, we didn't know who the two people were that used to be so close. I know she was sorry for hurting me, and that she never meant to -- but that she couldn't ever go back to how she used to feel, couldn't even imagine who she was back then.

I don't know where she lives any more -- if she ever left the north to seek fame and fortune in London, but now and then, I still half expect to see her - at festivals, at poetry readings... It could be that sometimes we are both in the same place at the same time and just looking past each other. I found her profile on MySpace ages back, and think I requested to be added as a friend. If I did, the request was never granted. In the spirit of detachment, I won't ever try and win her back or try and re-establish contact - I should have let her go a long time ago. I just saw a girl on the Tube the other day who reminded me of her, inspired me to write about someone I liked.

Dumped before the first date!

Yes, it's true -- any moral confusion there might have been for me about the possible implications of dating Electro Girl were resolved when she unceremoniously dumped before our first date.

Apparently, Ultra didn't "approve of [my] open suggestiveness on a first date".

Yes, it's okay to tell me you were banking on staying the night at my place after a club -- but it is too "openly suggestive" to offer to cook her dinner, even if when asking you acknowledge it might be a little forward of you to do so.

The best part is -- the bit that really makes me laugh -- is she went on to tell me "it's not you, it's me" (does *anyone* ever believe that line, even if it's true?) and that she'd like to remain friends.

I guess I'm just not down with the kids.

She was a mistake. I don't regret it, but in the spirit of openness and "say yes more" I gave her more time and consideration than I now think she deserved.

Sticks and stones may break my bones (but whips and chains excite me)

I'm so easily amused, I wanted to write this post just because the title makes me laugh. As ever with these stories (the guns, the bomb, the revolution) it starts with a girl.

Ultra is one of those people who are hard to figure out – she plays her cards very close to her chest, so it can be difficult to get a handle on who she really is. She calls herself 'Ultra' although her name is really Sofia, and I asked her if she was an "Electro Girl". In my case, it was a reference to The Mighty Boosh 'Electro' episode, where Vince forms a band with two electro girls called Ultra, and Neon. She didn't seem to pick up on the reference, although I still have my suspicions it's where the name came from –- because of my love of random trivia.

In this case, the random trivia extends to knowing that the girls who played Ultra and Neon in the programme are real-life musicians, in a an Electro pop outfit called Robots In Disguise. I mentioned knowing of their work to Ultra, and she seemed pleased –- though I made sure to clarifiy I didn't really get into their music, but I knew of them, I'd downloaded some songs a while back. The name seems too big a coincidence to not be connected.

Sometimes now when I'm talking to someone new, when we're still in that "getting to know you" stage, I like to throw in random or challenging questions. Rather than the standard "what do you do for fun", I've found a good question to ask people is "what's the most personal thing you're willing to admit to?". It's sufficiently subtle enough to not be too personal, after all you aren't actually asking them a personal question, and they can decide the "most personal" thing they're willing to admit is their favourite colour, if they're so inclined. Sometimes, though, it throws the doors wide open, like it did with Ultra. Suddenly we were talking about fetish clubs and spanking midgets and who knows what else.

I've said that she's difficult to know, and it's true -– I sometimes wonder how much of who she is or what she says is just for show, and how much is really her. She'll tell me something like how she's going to pose for an erotic life drawing class, and ask me if I'd ever consider it – already done the whole life drawing class thing last year, I tell her. Or she'll ask me if I'd ever consider a threesome, and I'll happily discuss the preferred male/female mix. It's really not going to shock me. It's perhaps a little uninspiring that for her 'personal' was automatically interpreted as 'sexual'. It can be used as a front to stop people getting to know the real you.

But we talked about fetishes, or kinks, or whatever you want to call it. I'm not going into too much detail here, but if you would rather not hear anything about this, you'd probably do best to stop reading this post altogether. For the rest of you, be reassured this is never going to get graphic. But, in the right situation with the right person I would say I am rather partial to a spot of tie me up, tie me down. Also blindfolds do a lot for me – because, I think, I have bad spatial awareness so have no idea where I am if I can't see. People close to me also soon learn that I am inclined to bite.

I actually bite people in a whole range of situations – if, for example, someone keeps prodding me and I warn them to stop it, or I'll bite them, I will carry out that threat. I expect Freud would call it an oral fixation (yes, I do bite my nails, and yes I do chew pens) but I can think of situations where I would affectionately gnaw someone's shoulder, or situations where one might be so inclined to bite a partner's neck. Then there's hair-pulling, too... But moving swiftly on, I'm a pretty open minded kind of guy.

Ultra seems surprised when she mentions places like Torture Garden or Coffee, Cake and Kink that I know them. Know of them, at least, not know them from having personally visited. I didn't know the Circus Revue Soho when she mentioned wanting to go. It's strange, because I wanted to go on a date in Shoreditch -- so I don't quite get how one was suggested in place of the other. But say yes more, right? She would probably get on with my Goth friend Owen from university -- when I wanted to go to the Union and drink snakebite and black, he wanted to explore abandoned buildings and drink cheap, fizzy wine.

I asked a friend if he knew of the place, and he had a look on google and sent me some links. From his response I knew it wouldn't be safe to open the links in work, and he mentioned that one of them made specific reference to a big transvestite night (a big night for transvestites, not a night for big transvestites -- we're not talking about Rik Waller in a mini skirt here). Other links made reference to torture and pole dancers. I pictured people hanging on meat-hooks.

She said I'd need to be glam for it, referred me to the myspace of someone named Malcolm Pate for inspiration, and mentioned since I'm bisexual I should have no problem with makeup. That amused me, and I asked if all bisexual men wear makeup? Perhaps she just meant that I wouldn't be worried about people getting 'the wrong idea'. Anyway, it's been years since I've worn black eyeliner, but for a night out like that, it probably wouldn't be nearly edgy enough. And that's a good point -- more than anything else, I thought what on earth would I wear to a place like that? I've since researched it a little further and found it's not all that extreme -- what Ultra wanted to go to seems to be more of an electro DJ night, with someone from Torture Garden on the decks. I told her I had no problem with going, but had no idea where I was going to get anything 'glam' to wear by then. It would most likely involve a trip to Camden, but also possibly a crash diet for me -- to get that 'heroin chic' look.

I also had no idea how I was supposed to get home at 4am after the club, and asked her if crashing at her place was an option -- no funny stuff. She said she had been banking on crashing at mine, since she can't get home either. For the record, she never actually asked me if that would be okay, and is yet to actually tell me where she lives.

There's a lot she hasn't told me. She made some references to work recently, and I asked her what she did -- she joked about being an escort, and the subject was changed. She asked me if I was on facebook one day, and after I told her my name, I looked her up. Maybe she didn't think I would, but I discovered a couple of items she hadn't told me -- like that she's 18, and at boarding school. Maybe that changes things, or should do. I have a feeling in this case for her "work" might well be a euphemism for "studying", or exams.

I wonder how much what she says is maybe just for attention -- and what this might have to do with her age. Because of the conflict of where the hell we were meant to stay the night after the club, it's been postponed. I took a rain check on a proposed Coffee, Cake and Kink date one night week because I'd been out late the night before (see last post), and besides hadn't been clear we had definitely arranged it. Since then she's suggested she'd be too busy to see me any time over the next weeks.

From here, who knows where. I haven't really "invested" anything in her emotionally at this stage, having only spoken to her a couple of times and not met I am still reserving judgement.

Public transportion is like bartering for your sanity

In terms of ideas I've had, it was not a very sensible one.

I'd been talking to a particular blogger for a short while, and had commented that when she was visiting London (from New York) we should meet up, and I'd buy her a pint. As far it goes, that part was perfectly reasonable. I like meeting new people, making new friends -- I also like making online friends into real-life friends, and of course I like drinking. All of those points made it a very fine idea, indeed.

The only trouble was, that with only a week in my fair city Elizabeth was determined to cram as much into her days as she could -- so the days were filled with culturally enlightening activities like museums and galleries and places of historical interest, and the evenings were taken up by plays. This meant her time was accounted for until about 10.30pm every evening -- which even if I was still in the city was after my last train home. Before she left New York, Elizabeth told me she hoped I wouldn't be too disappointed if we didn't get the chance to meet.

And so it was the days passed before I hit upon the idea of "hey, I could always meet you after a play". Although as soon as I said it struck me as illogical. It would be late, she would be tired from her action-packed day, it would possibly already be after closing time in the pubs by the time we met, it was after my last train home, I had work the next morning -- and what the hell was I going to do for the five hours between finishing work and meeting up?

But by the time it rolled around to Tuesday morning I knew I had to make a decision either way. Elizabeth had left it in my hands, and stressed there was no pressure to see her. I knew it made no sense at all, I asked a magic 8 bell if we would meet up and I was told it was "doubtful". I did what anyone would do in my situation; I said fuck it, let's meet up anyway. Before Danny Wallace, I might have let it pass -- but I remembered Say yes more and knew if I didn't go, I'd regret it.

They say it's better to regret something you have done, than something you haven't. I've often questioned this line of thinking; say you're drunk and your car is outside. It's cold and raining and a long walk home. Or you could just take the car. You know you shouldn't, but it would probably be okay... In this case -- I think it would be better to have a long, cold, miserable walk home and regret that you didn't do it, than to drive home, crash, kill someone, and regret that you did.

However, that has no relevance at all to my story. I told Elizabeth I would meet her, and the rest of the logistical details I considered my problem.

Tuesday morning, I took my car to a nearby town and left it at the station there -- this afforded me a couple of hours longer in the city, so long as I made that last train home, shortly after midnight. Knowing that the pubs might be closed or close to time by the time we met, I also sent a message to AQA to ask them where I could fine late bars near to the station, to which I might take a girl. Their responses were largely unhelpful -- of the three suggestions made, one was a takeaway, and one was a strip club. The third was accurate enough, but it was badly rated in reviews.

The day passed as normal and I'd given some vague thought as to what I might do to pass the time in the evening. I figured, it's a big city there should be plenty I can find to do. Galleries, museums, small independent cinemas... The first two choices were quickly exhausted, since it seems they don't open past 6pm. The cinema -- whether it was small and independent or not -- could have been a good idea, but could I find a single film I wanted to see at a convenient time? Could I bollocks. I wanted to see The Future is Unwritten, but it started either half an hour before I left work or at 8.30, which was too late for a film with a running time over 2 hours. I tried to but a ticket to see Black Snake Moan, but strangely the cashier told me it wasn't showing at his theatre. I say this is strange, I only asked for a ticket because I had just looked at their board and seen what time it was showing. But it wasn't like he could sell me a ticket for a film they didn't have, so there went that idea.

I decided to splash out and spent a whole £1 on an hour's internet access in a cafe. Sure, I have internet access at work, but it's monitored and restricted and is via some old version of Internet Explorer. It's not the same as the freedom to view any site you want. Plus I usually have work to do. So I read my emails and caught up on blogs and all the usual stuff. Near the end of my time, my mobile rang -- it was Elizabeth. But shortly after she established where I was, she was cut off. I waited to see if she would call back, but she didn't. Duh, I thought, she was probably cut off because she has no money -- so I called the number back. No answer. I finished up what I was doing, and left. I tried calling a few times more, but with the same

Almost all the ideas I had to pass the time were met with similar outcomes to the cinema. I passed a bar on my way to the station with a sign proclaiming beer and a burger for a fiver. At first I walked passed, but then I stopped -- that would be a good idea, so I went back. I searched the pub for the toilet before I was going to sit down -- since I wouldn't be able to get up and leave my bag later. I couldn't find it. I searched everywhere. I asked the bar staff and was directed up a flight of stairs to another bar, and there was only one door; to the Ladies. I did another circuit of the bar, and gave up on that.

So I went to Camden Lock, figured I would wander round the markets. I love Camden lock -- it's so full of life, you wander round all the food stalls and the sellers are all shouting to you, trying to get your attention, trying to convince you to buy your Vietnamese noodles from them and not the seller next door. It's a great idea if it's a Saturday afternoon -- not surprisingly, they close in the evenings. All the stalls, deserted and locked down. Metal gates across the doorways to the indoor market. The fortune tellers have all gone home.

Fine, then. I remembered a pub in Camden I had been meaning to go to -- so I found my way there, figured I would maybe get something to eat and stay awhile. The pub was small and cramped, and standing at the bar I discovered I had no actual money on me. I left, at first to find a cash machine and then decided not to bother going back and just carry on, along my way. I had a better idea, there's my favourite pub in Kings Cross, with the large comfortable chairs and the good food and friendly staff: I would go there.

Rather than a quiet Tuesday evening where they might be grateful for someone coming in and buying a meal, they were having some kind of cabaret/disco night. There was loud music and flashing lights, the place was crammed full of people in suits or dressed like Liza Minnelli -- no chance of relaxing in a chair and reading my philosophy book there. Dejected, and quite hungry by now, I wandered back down the road.

I bought KFC from a restaurant near the station. The restaurant had only perhaps three seats in the window, and they were all taken -- so I got it to take away, without giving consideration to where I would eat it. I ended up taking it to the station. It's strange, train stations have a certain smell. Not the smell of piss and sweat -- or not just that -- but something else, I can't quite define. But a smell that reminded me of all the times I spent at university, hanging around train stations in Derby, Birmingham, Euston. I found some plastic seat opposite the departures board, and watched as the station filled with people, and then emptied as people caught their trains home.

You can't hang around too long in Kings Cross without being offered drugs, sex or just accosted by a random freak. A random freak asked me where the nearest church was, I just told him I didn't know. I felt bad afterwards, I did know -- and if I hadn't been eating, I would have taken him there, even if he most likely wanted to confess to a brutal murder or something.

After dinner I had a much better idea: Covent Garden. There's always stuff going on in Covent Garden, as there is in Leicester Square. But it seems always is an exaggeration. There was nothing going on, and I got lost. It's not easy to get lost there, but if you're me you can get lost anywhere -- I just was unable to get back to the tube, I'd end up walking in circles round the piazza. So I walked. I walked to Trafalgar Square, past Charing Cross -- noticing the hotel I was meant to meet the joournalist at that time a couple of weeks ago -- and eventually just decided to catch a tube to Earl's Court where I was to meet Elizabeth.

I knew I would be well early, but figured I could check out where I was meant to meet her, and then look for somewhere to go for a drink. Elizabeth had wanted to go to somewhere near Liverpool Street, so I could be sure of catching my train home and wouldn't have to sleep rough in the station. But I didn't like the idea of her travelling across the city, late at night, on her own. Especially since her Mum didn't know where she was or who she was meeting. The gentlemanly thing to do was to drink near her hotel, I could take care of myself.

My luck changed, as near Earl's Court station there was a pub -- just your average, run of the mill pub. No cabaret nights, no elaborate floor plans, just a place where I could get a drink and read my book. So I did just that. Although it's difficult to concentrate on Berkeley's Treatise Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge when you're sat in a pub, waiting for someone. Unexpectedly, after a short while my phone flashed up I had voicemail -- when I checked it, Elizabeth had called a while earlier to say she was out of the theatre earlier, and to just wait where we agreed as soon as I got the message. This could have been at least half an hour earlier, and by the time I got the message it was about time to meet anyway. I only assume she called when I was somewhere underground.

But we met, and we went back to the pub, and it was good times. We had a (grossly-overpriced) pint each, and just chatted about everything and nothing -- while both keeping an eye on the time, since we had to allow me at least half an hour to get to my train. The company was good, and absolutely worth spending all night wandering aimless and lonely around the city.

Predictably, we managed to get lost after leaving the pub as Elizabeth tried to find Gloucester Road station which would mean I didn't have to change trains. We never did find it, despite her tendency to start swearing in a bad British accent when stressed and asking directions from people in a corner shop who probably couldn't speak English anyway.

Our meeting was even worth missing my train home -- luckily I found there was a train later than the one I thought was the last. I eventually made it home, and our meeting was worth getting to bed just after 2am and getting up less than five hours later. Elizabeth made her way back to New York without event -- and I certainly don't regret a minute of it. Next time, though, I hope we'll spend a day together.

Given up fags and drugs now, baby

Sometimes it's all very well realising "Oh, I have issues with attachment", but where do you go from there? Especially if you don't want to become attached to the idea of detachment. But like anything, I guess it's one step at a time -- if you can recognise it you can begin to change it.

We were in the pub the other day, when Nick turned to me and asked if he could get my opinion on something. I gave him the standard response of "[shrug] You can try" which usually confuses people who don't know me very well, him included. He told me that someone on Facebook had told him they wanted to buy some of his photos, and wanted to know from me how much he should charge. What, like there's some set amount? I told him that it really depended on how they wanted them -- canvas prints obviously cost more than normal ones, and then there's sizes to consider, not to mention posting costs. He said none of that mattered, because they didn't want it printed -- only the image. This I found very strange, and told him to make absolutely clear they weren't buying the rights to his pictures, and even then I'd be concerned that if it's someone you just sort-of know online then what is stopping them from printing and selling them -- once they have the image? He didn't think it was likely, but mentioned that further to this they are willing to pay him to take more pictures of London.

My first emotions I think were anger and probably jealousy. I was angry that I can't just have something that's mine, without someone like him coming along and trying to crash my party. He's one of those people that if you mention you like a band's new single will then go out and buy their entire back catalogue and tell everyone what a big fan he is. I felt like I had mentioned something I was trying to do, and he wanted to make it his thing instead. And yeah, I guess it was all just jealousy. But I remind myself that I shouldn't be attached to the identity of "artist". What is it Yoda says, attachment leads to jealousy? For a muppet, there was a lot of Zen wisdom to him.

I am sure the world is plenty big enough for us both to be able to take photographs if we are that desperate. I need to remind myself why I do it, to just dig stuff -- like the picture a couple of weeks back of the sun shining through the branches of the tree. I was standing out on the fire escape at work today, and looking around I decided that it would make a good picture -- so I'm taking my camera tomorrow.

In non-Zen related news, work is good. I'm all self employed and stuff. People ask me what I do for a living and I now tell them "I'm a freelance PR consultant", which basically means nobody would give me a permanent job. I'm thinking freelancing might be the way to go, if I can be sure of semi-regular work -- at least for the summer, so I can have mini jaunts to Europe. But we shall see, right now I need to get my finances straightened out a bit.

I really don't have anything interesting to add to this, which is quite sad. I was thinking of adding a paragraph about a girl, but I'm going to hold off on that for a little while until I know what to say.

The art of giving up

The picture taken on a beach, celebrating Australia Day, apparently captures simmultaneously fireworks, lightning and the McNaught comet. I don't care that the picture isn't entirely as it appears*, it's beautiful to look at.

This post today started with no real focus to it, other than to "share" some items I have found, or have been sent -- like this article, lovingly sent by a friend following the last post. However, along the way writing it -- as is often the case -- it's become something more.

The art of giving up: for those among you with short attention spans, or who just don't like following links in case they lead to goatse, the piece can be summarised with a few choice, inspiring and easy-to-digest quotes that will hopefully serve as appetisers, for the rest of the piece.

"life is a process of letting go of your own ego, or letting go of your attachments...When the idea of self (ego) is attached to the object of enjoyment, you lose the ability to see it for what it is.

"It is also common to see aspiring artists, musicians, and actors entirely drop their activities once they come to a conclusion that they are not going to make it. At that point, it becomes clear that the driving force behind their creative pursuits was not their enthusiasm or passion, but their attachment to the idea of becoming someone. Or, it is also possible that whatever enthusiasm they had was overwhelmed by their fear of failure. Ironically, I believe that, if you can give up the idea of “making it,” you would have a better chance of actually making it."

I had never realised it, but what I was expressing in my last post and what I have expressed in so many posts without knowing, is I have a kind of addiction to attachment.

I develop strong attachments to all sorts of things, and all manner of issues can suddenly be explained by this -- particularly my illogical reactions. I develop attachments to items of clothing, hence when I lost my "favourite" jacket last year I was upset (and when I thought I lost the coat my brother gave me earlier this year). I also have favourite t-shirts, favourite items of jewellery and favourite pairs of jeans. I wrote about death a few posts ago, and I wrote about how for years as a child I remained distraught over the death of our pet cats. Again, an almost-irrational attachment. It would be no surprise to anyone that I appear to harbour attachments to people -- I remain close friends with my exes and remain attached to past crushes. I also develop attachments to jobs, or workplaces -- to the point where I find myself crying with disappointment when I don't get a permanent job.

There's the more destructive things I have got attached to, as well -- alcohol, self harm, depression, buying new things and even the emotional and chemical cocktail of love and sex. And aren't we all? If not those exactly, then at least attached to our identities -- as writers, or whatever -- or attached to individuals, to blog comments, or just to attention.

My fear of failure, my drive to consider myself an artist to assign myself an identity, are an attachment to the self. And this is where the article really sparks my interest:

"Zen Buddhism is a process of detachment. It is so concerned with attachment that, one is discouraged from being attached to the very idea of detachment, and I can see why; because attachment actually has positive, useful functions. In this sense, Zen is not a process of detachment, but simply an understanding of what attachment is."

Zen teaches us that the self is an illusion, and in some parts a cause of suffering -- the erroneous belief that we are all separate, perhaps in a way the belief that we are all beautiful and unique snowflakes. What this tells me is my attachment to my "self", my identity becomes too attached to my ego and through the fear of not making it, and so not being "someone", I risk it all.

I feel inspired.

*if you can't be arsed to follow the link it is described as a "three-photograph panorama".