Kafka On The Shore

Kafka On The Shore by Haruki Murakami has to be hands-down the strangest book I have ever read. I love working in a book shop, I get exposed to so many different writers and ideas I probably wouldn't have considered before. Although Kafka is an international best seller, my life and this book were unlikely to ever cross paths.

That, in iself, is not altogether unlike a lot of the novel's plot. In the book, Kafka Tamura runs away from home in order to escape a curse, handed down to him by his Father. Oedipal in nature, characters in the novel draw deliberate comparisons with Greek tragedies and in this way the book follows a very similar sort of path -- certain events are inevitable, and in a way we are all just playing our parts. Running somewhat parallel to Kafka Tamura's storyline is that of an old man named Satoru Nakata. Nakata was among a group of children gathering mushrooms one day on a school trip, towards the end of World War II. A strange silver light was seen in the sky and the entire class fell into a kind of waking sleep, or hypnotic state. Nakata was the only child not to awake shortly afterwards -- and when he did finally awake many weeks later, most of his mental faculties had been lost, and replaced with the ability to talk to cats.

While Nakata is trying to solve the mystery of a lost cat, Kafka is trying to find his long-lost Mum and sister, whom both left when he was a child. It's never explained why he is so keen to find them, when the whole reason he runs away from home is to escape the curse that he is destined to sleep with them both.

The two plot lines alternate with no seeming connection between them for most of the book. At one point a character mentions that in fiction if a pistol should appear then at some point it is going to be fired -- this clearly indicates that the two plots will at some point converge, otherwise they wouldn't both be included.

Among the themes explored in the book is the relationship between reality and dreams -- there seems to be a very flexible boundary between the two, and where one ends and the other begins is never made very clear.

I openly admit that many things in the book confused me. Nakata meets a man who has adopted the persona of Johnnie Walker. Not just the name, but the entire look -- hat, boots and everything else. Johnnie Walker is killing cats, in order to make a flute with their souls -- and he incites Nakata into killing him. Johnnie Walker later appears in one particularly surreal passage involving a crow. The name Kafka means crow in Czech, and the character Kafka seems to have a dissociative identity he refers to as "the boy named Crow". The conflict between the crow and Johnnie Walker could perhaps be interpreted as Oedipul. Who or what Johnnie Walker is is never made clear, other than that he is bad. All the business about the souls of cats and flutes is again never explained. What was achieved by Nakata killing him -- at his request -- is, guess what, never explained.

As if Johnnie Walker isn't confusing enough, later in the novel a truck driver who befriends Nakata meets Colonel Sanders. Like Johnnie Walker, Colonel Sanders has only adopted that persona -- but explains that instead he is a concept. He is also quite bad tempered, and working as a pimp.

If all of this sounds confusing, it is. I did say right away it was the strangest book I've read, but it is also incredibly well written and very engaging. The classical tragedy nature of the story adds symbolism to the strange events -- you don't ask why Nakata would be left able to talk to cats, it is clear that this happens so that he may fulfil a later destiny. Everyone has their roles to play.

The surrealism is welcome, too many books go from point A to point B and tie everything up in a neat little bow.

Sailing towards the edge of the earth

"We're so trapped that any way we could imagine to escape would be just another part of the trap. Anything we want, we're trained to want...Our real discoveries come from chaos, from going to the place that looks wrong and stupid and foolish." -- Chuck Palahniuk

After however-many years of going back and forth, of will-I-won't-I and indecision, I made a decision today. I had the day off work, with it I went to the armed forced careers office, and I signed an application form. It's precisely because being in the military seems to someone of my personality type as wrong and foolish that I am doing it -- because anything you want you are trained to want. I am Columbus sailing towards disaster at the edge of the world.

There is also the eternal dilemma though that I do want it, that I do think it is a good idea. I want to prove something to myself, I want to be part of something larger. My whole life has been mememememe. Oh, poor Jay, he feels abandoned. Poor Jay, he feels neglected. Poor Jay, he's never going to be a movie god or a rock star. I want to devote myself to something bigger than my ego. Of course, by doing so I am obviously also feeding my own ego -- it's all another part of the trap of our culture. I also want to prove something to the rest of the world. I am not a slacker. I want to prove something to the people who say I would never make it through the basic training, or that with a history of depression they will never even accept my application.

The latter is something that I do need to look at -- in filling in the application form which was more like an examination booklet, I hesitated where it mentioned if you have had two or more incidents of deliberate self harm. I can't count the times any more -- but I think my saving grace will be that on the record, there is only one, and that was 5 years ago. I am going to request to see my medical records and correct anything on them I think is incorrect -- like that incident I have reason to suspect was recorded as a suicide attempt, when it wasn't anything even resembling one.

The application process is very long winded and will involve several different interviews, not to mention a physical exam -- for the latter I really have no excuse not to start going to the gym again.

Aside from the marching, the shouting, the wearing a uniform, the following orders and the general fact that it is the military it all seems like a good idea. There would be travel (meet interesting people -- then shoot them!), job security and opportunities to get paid to do things like go rock climbing. And you never know, I might rock that whole uniform look.

So to summarise, I work in a bookshop and have decided it's a good idea if I join the air force. It all makes perfect sense.

Skyways

I don't have much to show for my weekend, but at least this time I remembered to take my camera out with me. I must have taken dozens of shots while out for a short walk on my own, but this has to be one of my favourites.

If I'm feeling so inclined, I may well post others here later.


As promised, and to show I don't *only* use the greyscale filter, I offer more pictures. This is in no way related to not being able to think of anything to write about.

Question

Amanda has asked today -- following a discussion at a party -- if it's true that boys who don't smile have smouldering eyes. I argue not, but I open it up for readers here.



P.S. It's been mentioned that my comments link isn't showing up. Seems to work fine for most of you, but if you can't see it today, send me an email.

Will you take me where you're going if you're never coming back

Shortly before San left for her life-changing trip to Japan this year, I sent her a message. So much of our communications had always been through text message, but now it seems strange -- I've not sent her a text message since April. Anyway, because of the nature of text messages or just how my mind works, the message I sent her was something along the lines of "What if I was not your only friend in this world? Can you take me where you're going if you're never coming back?".

It's a quote from an Eels song, Last Stop This Town -- the song is actually about death (as much of that album is, unfortunately for Mr E), but I liked the idea "will you take me where you're going if you're never coming back" it conveys a whole range of emotions, and expressed a lot for me in a few words.

San and I were talking a little on email today, about music and gigs this summer. San expressed an interest in one particular show -- but then brought up the point: will she even be here? I think technically her obligation to her teaching assistant contract finishes in April, but San said herself that if she comes home for an extended period of time she is worried it will be forever.

This has been playing on my mind in one form or another. Part of me wants to ask maybe what she is running away from (you can't run away from yourself), or what she's looking for. But then part of me asks, isn't she just doing what I keep saying I want to do -- and lack the courage? I say I'm not interested in the material life, that I want to travel, meet people, see all the amazing things this world has to offer. I want to take pictures and listen to stories, I don't care about cars and houses...

At the same time, I tell myself I need to clear my debts, and my dreams are all very nice but completely impractical. I daydream about rescuing sea turtles in Mexico, or spear-fishing in Brazil -- and maybe if you want to, these things are really possible, or maybe it's all well and good for a few years until you realise that time isn't standing still for you and sooner or later "a proper job" will be inevitable if you expect to be able to eat, or whatever. Maybe what it really comes down to is I'm jealous, because I want to have the courage to just stick two fingers up to everything here.

Don't get me wrong, I have no desire to be a teaching assistant. I don't want to teach and aren't a huge fan of kids in general. The kinds of things that do appeal require me to stump up large sums of cash first.

I tell myself the trick is to play the game -- to get the good job, so I then have the money to travel, to embark on volunteer adventures, so that I can meet people and take pictures. But it's a tightrope, especially when what you'd also really like is someone special in your life -- all too quickly one thing can lead to another, and it's not a bad thing, it's just life.

There isn't really a point to any of this. I don't have a conclusion or a happy ending to give to it to resolve it. If San really is ever coming back -- for more than a visit -- only she can decide. And I still need to decide for myself how to get what I should have in my life -- which is becoming a running theme just lately.

"Why dont we take a ride away up high
Through the neighbourhood
Up over the billboards and the factories
And smoke..."

Times Like These

#It's times like these you learn to learn to live again
It's times like these you give and give again
It's times like these you learn to love again
It's times like these, time and time again#
Foo Fighters, Times Like These

In stark contrast to my recent trip to see the Sex Pistols on my own, Saturday was the eagerly anticipated Foo Fighters show at London's new O2 Arena. The O2 Arena is funny, since it started out life as the disastrous Millennium Dome. To celebrate the Millennium an awful lot of money was wasted on building the dome, which as I recall housed only a rather poor sort of exhibition. It will go down in history was one of the worst ideas ever, and popular opinion has largely been that the London Eye was much more sensible. For several years, the fate of the Dome has been open to speculation -- until it seems that someone had the belatedly-good idea of making it into what it is now: the best selling live music venue in the world.

Housing two live music venues along with numerous bars and restaurants, it's hard to see why nobody thought of doing this with it in the first place. The only thing that disturbs me is how much it looks like the Death Star when you look at the floor plan.

Anyway, on Saturday I headed into London with my friends first for dinner and drinks and then the gig itself. We'd talked ages ago of going up early and getting something to eat first, but sometimes with my friends it can be hard to know if this means pub food, Subway or an actual restaurant. With plenty to choose from, we settled on Las Iguanas for its Latin American food. Naturally, it was slightly on the pricey side -- but it was good food.

I'd never been seated at an arena show before -- so it was slightly disconcerting to see how far up we were once we'd found our seats at the back, when I stood up to take off my coat I had to ask someone to hold on to me so I wouldn't worry about falling over the seats in front.

The Foo Fighters show itself was amazing, and definitely among one of their best ever. Joining them on this tour is the legendary Pat Smear -- a founding member, and briefly the second guitarist in Nirvana. I'm willing to bet his presence contributed to the inclusion of some songs from the band's self titled debut album. Among the crowd favourites from the new album, there was the surprise of hearing the band play songs like For All The Cows, This Is A Call and Weenie Beenie -- the latter I haven't heard them play since the V festival, in 1997.

I was slightly disappointed they didn't play MIA, but you can never expect to hear every single last song you want to. The best song of the night for me -- and possibly my favourite of their songs -- was Times Like These. I like the idea of it -- of learning to live and love again. I couldn't even begin to list all of the songs they played -- but it was one of those impassioned performances that are close to a religious experience, with thousands of people all singing along together. It makes you want to hug someone.

The dream

Last week, I had a dream that I had Down's Syndrome. It sounds funny, or stupid, and in the cold light of day it seemed a mixture of both. I tried to talk to my friends about it, but unfortunately only managed to make it sound funny, at first. With a little explaining of how I felt and what I think the dream was about or influenced by, Jon at least could see what I was saying. Nick showed just how clueless he remains when he told us last night that he thought it was so funny he texted all his friends to say that I'd had a dream about having Down's Syndrome and had been apparently "disappointed" because if they'd known my parents would have had an abortion.

It's difficult to explain. For about as long as I can remember, I have felt that I wasn't just "different" to other people, but that there was actually something wrong with me. Growing up, I was always very clumsy -- I'd walk into door frames, had very bad "spatial awareness" and sense of balance. I remain clumsy to this day, but it's not considered an issue now. But as a child it was considered possibly very serious, since I have an uncle with Multiple Sclerosis and I'm told some of the early warning signs are perceived clumsiness.

That might explain why at school I would sometimes be pulled out of lessons to have tests run on me -- to check my hearing, check my balance, check my coordination -- but was never given an explanation at the time. I know so many people have said and will continue to say "I would have asked". I don't know why I didn't ask, didn't demand answers, except that just wasn't me.

I've heard told that as a child I was late to start talking -- again, it was assumed there was something wrong with me. The experts concluded there wasn't, I just didn't feel like talking. I also remember however-many visits to speech therapists -- surely by this time I was talking -- but why I was going, or what it achieved, I can't tell you. Especially as I still can't pronounce my "th" properly ("three" is the same as "free") but that's very much an Essex/London accent anyway.

In later years, there's been emotional problems. There's been depression and god knows what else, and from a medical perspective doctors never really agreed what was wrong with me. I blame it at least in part on a tendency to act out -- if you tell me I'm depressed, I will be. If you tell me I have borderline personality disorder, or bipolar depression, or whatever else label you want to give me, then I will be able to parrot fashion repeat back to you the symptoms, if that's what you want to hear.

I was watching the movie Garden State earlier this evening. In the movie, Zach Braff's character has been on medication constantly since he was a child and no longer feels anything -- until he goes home for his mother's funeral and stops taking his medication.

I have gone cold turkey from various medications myself in the past and it was not fun. In fact, it was about as fucked up as it has been possible to feel. I once had a psychiatrist cancel my prescription for anti depressants because he felt it hadn't been firmly established if I might be bipolar in which case the medication I was taking would have been completely wrong. The unfortunate thing was, I wasn't given anything else and he never returned my phone calls -- let alone make a second appointment -- so I felt like I was left to fend for myself. Anyway, the point is that it can be positively dangerous to just stop taking these kinds of medications and you should not do so without consulting your doctor who would advise you on how to gradually cut down.

The film has nothing of this -- it showed nothing of the soaring feeling of complete indestructibility I would first feel when I quit the meds, this giving way quickly to a spiralling depression and a desire to really hurt myself. Zach Braff's character seems to instead slowly begin to feel all kinds of things again, in what appears to be a smooth and almost seamless transition. I know, it's a movie -- it's not meant to be taken literally. But it annoyed me.

My dream was about feeling like there was something wrong with me. It was about finding out there was something wrong with me -- of always suspecting, and then finding out it had been kept a secret. And I do know almost for a fact that my Dad at least would consider abortion to be the kinder option for a child with Down's Sydrome -- I have no idea how well educated about the subject he is, but I remember him telling me before that the children you see with the condition are a very lucky minority who are able to live an almost normal life -- and that instead 99% of people born with the condition are so severely handicapped... Well, you get it by now.

Even if I didn't explain it very well, even if I made it sound funny at first because I didn't know how else to bring up with my friends a lingering feeling of distress from a dream, I was fucking insulted to hear Nick say how he was texting his friends about it, because it was so funny. Sometimes I think I should tell my therapist about the violent thoughts that boy inspires in me, almost without effort on his part.

As a post script... I don't know. I grow and I prove things to myself -- passing my driving test was one of the biggest achievements in my life, since my instructor when I was 17 gave up on trying to teach me. He said he had "run out of ideas to help [me]" -- but at 25 I sure showed him when I did pass my test. I'd had an instructor who wouldn't give up on me, and helped me to believe in myself. And I realised that even if I do walk into door frames and bang my head when I pick up the post off the mat, that I can still drive a car perfectly well. I am trying to rewrite the story that is my life, or who I am, in so many ways -- but clearly some issues remain in that old subconscious mind.

John Hegley

In keeping with my attempts to write about a range of subjects and mediums, this post is about the poet, comedian and musician John Hegley.

I'm not his biographer, if you want to find out about the early years of his life in a bungalow in Luton you'll need to go elsewhere. All I'm really interested in today is the man and his words.

I've seen it said that John Hegley is too funny to ever really be taken seriously as a poet, but at the same time too talented a poet to be considered a comedian -- he exists in several worlds all at the same, without seeming to want to settle for just one.

John Hegley's poems were first introduced to me by the infamous Kath -- who is more or less responsible for my whole poetry liking, along with getting me to listen to Radiohead, wear eyeliner and love Manchester. She has a lot to answer for besides this, too, but it's all been said before and this isn't a post about girls.

When Kath first sent me John Hegley I think she told me that they were amusing, but that the poems also had a sort of deeper meaning to them. She didn't mean deeper as in spiritual or philosophical, but literally there was more than just what you saw on the surface -- like so many, Hegley sometimes uses humour to approach a serious subject. If you can cover yourself with humour sometimes you can sneak up on thinking about a more serious point without realising until it's too late.

Lost Going To Shropshire was hardly a poem with a serious message -- but it wasn't just to be thrown away, either. Hegley says himself in the poem that he likes ambiguity, and clearly he is very bright since he likes to play with words. Take for example his short poem, The Play

Yesterday i went to see a play in my friend’s car
It was by an experimental group
Who do plays in people’s cars

It makes you smile, but you realise it's a subtle joke about the use of grammar. In his poem Mad Mum Hegley slowly reveals small pieces of information about a scene -- a scene which starts simply with someone pushing a pram and saying "my little baby", but before too long you find out it's neither a woman, nor really a baby. And although it's funny, you also realise there's a point in there about mental health. Perhaps unlike his poem/diary entry which reads "In the doctor's reception the sign read: 'Are you looking after someone over 65 with mental health problems?'. I read the sign as 'Are you looking for someone over 65 with mental health problems?'.

There are several immediately identifiable themes I can pick out running through John Hegley's work. I think the clearest of these would be dogs. There's Death of a Dog -- not surprisingly about the death of his dog, but in many ways a typical Hegley poem in that it's both funny and serious and sad and it makes you think. When distraught about the death of his dog, the young protagonist remembers something he'd read that posed the idea that if you lived forever there would be no point in trying to do anything -- because you'd be able to do everything an infinite number of times. There's too many poems for me to try and remember about his dogs specifically -- but dogs also crop up in some unusual places in his poems.

Apparently a committed Christian, Hegley also has poems about Jesus. Normally, the mention of Jesus makes me a little twitchy but he usually manages to refrain from being preachy. In Look Dad, Hegley writes about Jesus' joy of walking on water ("walking on water is God's gift to me") -- in a very funny and likeable way. He lapses briefly into French (as he sometimes does, as a nod to his own French Dad), but also throws in a reference to dogs. In Jesus Isn't Just For Christmas Hegley asks if Jesus had a dog, with the strange line of questioning:

Did he have a dog? And was it disaster?
Breaking all its legs and going round in plaster,
Swallowed by the water, following its master,
Sinking like a stone, only sinking somewhat faster."

It makes sense knowing John Hegley that he would wonder if Jesus had a dog -- but the rest of is just so far off the wall. But it works.

It's a relatively serious poem -- but Hegley injects his own humour into it. The poem ends with the lines "No trial, for whatever it is the lad done -- if that's a Good Friday, I wouldn't want a bad one". It makes me laugh, but when you stop laughing you do stop to think for a minute.

Another theme that crops up with some regularity in Hegley's work is that of family. He has songs about growing up in his Luton bungalow with his siblings, about his Mum living in a mobile home, poems about the birth of his daughter (in The New Father's Mistake he mistakenly thinks the midwife has given a questionnaire meant for his wife to him, for him to fill out)-- and he has diary entries which are a kind of poetic prose about his Dad, when he was growing up. I think with a Christian perspective, the role of his Dad (his Father, as it were) is very important -- since he also becomes in a way your model for God. Maybe I'm just speaking for me, but if from a young age you hearing about "God the Father" you automatically associate the two. Whether this is good or bad I will reserve judgement on for another day.

John Hegley also likes potatoes. I don't know why, but he has various poems mentioning potatoes -- and at least one in French (French Potato Poem).

Words, the written page, don't do justice to John Hegley. You can read and enjoy his books like Dog and The Sound of Paint Drying (among many other fine works) but like anyone, you have to see him live to fully appreciate it. You have to see which poems are also songs -- as with Eddie Don't Like Furniture -- and see John Hegley rocking out a ukulele solo, you have to hear the rhythm, the tone of voice and the sardonic humour.

Unlike most poets, John Hegley is often touring -- or appearing once a month at a club in Kings Cross. If you like comedy, if you like poetry, or if you just want to be entertained he will satisfy you and more. I wish I could post every one of his poems here -- instead I can make some selected works available on request, and have uploaded some MP3 files of a couple of his performances. If you don't have the attention span for the first, I have also extracted a couple of shorter pieces from it.

John Hegley 1
John Hegley 2
Pear Shaped
Jesus Isn't Just For Christmas

Lostnesses

Lost Going to Shropshire
by John Hegley

Just out of Euston
On a trip to Shrewsbury
Changing at Crewe
The announcement, “If anybody has lost anything
Please contact the guard at the back of the train”.
I like the ambiguity,
Just as I like the ambiguity in art, dance and poetry.
Passengers invade the vestibules
To check their luggage.
I imagine a queue forming at the train’s back,
With various lostnesses:
I’ve lost a glove.
I’ve lost a gland.
I lost fourteen nil at blow football in my time.
I’ve lost the ability to live purely in the moment.

Somewhere on my way back from Brixton on Thursday night, I lost my scarf. I had a brief panic on Friday morning when I thought I had lost my wallet as well, so I'm glad in a way it was only my scarf. I've also started wearing the warm, brown coat my brother gave me last year that was temporarily mislaid at a comedy club in Portsmouth.

I am punishing myself for losing the scarf by going without one for a week, so I can learn to look after my things better and really appreciate them. Though the loss of a fairly unremarkable Gap scarf has given me the opportunity to buy this one from Etsy. I've been wanting an excuse to buy it for ages, ever since it was recommended as a potential gift for my brother's birthday.

I'll post pictures once it arrives.

quasi-Musical Monday

Way back in the day, one of my favourite bloggers used to include with posts the occasional "hottie of the day". I was going to make a Musical Monday post about this artist, until I remembered that I don't actually like her music. I like her voice, and I think she's hot -- but I don't listen to her music by choice.

So anyway, call this what you like -- hottie of the day, or a quasi-Musical Monday, but I give you Katie Melua.

"If you were a piece of wood, I'd nail you" -- you said it, Katie

Sex Pistols, Brixton Academy (and everything related)

We left off on our story of this intrepid adventurer and narrator last week with me holding a pair of Sex Pistols tickets and nobody to go with.

My friend Dominic that I know from volunteering was actually very excited and eager to go -- but unfortunately he couldn't get the night off work. At the last minute, my friend Christina (whom I don't think I've ever mentioned here before) contacted me via Facebook to say she really wanted to go, but didn't know anyone to go with. I felt a little bad for not asking her originally, but didn't think we really knew each other well enough to be going to a gig together, just the two of us.

But considering she spent most of the day with only Rhys when we all went to see Aerosmith in Hyde Park, she's not someone who gives that kind of thing any thought. In the end, it was a similar story for her though -- she couldn't get the night off. And I stuck the ticket on Ebay.

I actually put it on Ebay before I heard from Christina for definite, but gave it a reasonably high "buy it now" price. I figured if Christina was unable to go I could then drop the price right down to get a sale. What I hadn't bargained on was being unable to change that later because there were bids on the ticket. Or in this case, one single, solitary bid of a pound.

Naturally, I just logged in with my alternative ebay account and bid on my own auction to raise the stakes a bit.

The bid-snipers came out in the closing minutes, and in the end one user in particular won the auction for a massive £21. Almost half price, it was a whole £19 less than I am paying for the ticket -- but beggars can't be choosers.

Once the auction ended I started emailing the buyer to arrange details for how to pay me and how I would give them their ticket. The buyer turned out to be a young lady named Jools who was very grateful for the ticket and on exchanging numbers to arrange to meet with the ticket on Thursday night, we spent much of Wednesday night having conversations via text.

I wondered if perhaps I wouldn't be seeing the band on my own after all, and although we knew nothing about each other, thought perhaps there could just be the beginnings of something more.

Fast forward to Thursday night: I finish work and walk into the storms ravaging England. Luckily for me the rains had lessened considerably from earlier in the day -- but Jools was apparently not so lucky. I called her when I arrived in Brixton and she told me she'd had to go home to change, as she'd been soaked. But she gave me directions to the bar where we were to meet.

Finding the bar was no problem, but I hesitated before walking in. I was dressed in my old torn jeans, Zero t-shirt and black leather jacket -- through the window of the bar I could see the clientèle in suits. But with the alternative being wait outside in the cold and the rain, I held my head up high, walked in and ordered myself a beer.

Within seconds I was having second thoughts about Jools, when I noticed the bar's rainbow flags. Still, although I don't much go in for the gay scene I know that I can walk into almost any gay bar in London and be certain that unlike a lot of places the staff will be friendly and I won't get any trouble.

I stood at the bar and read my book for an hour before Jools arrived. I was just finishing my second drink when my phone started to ring -- I picked it up and answered, and noticed Jools walking in.

The signs should have been obvious to me sooner -- the fact that she was new to Ebay when she bought the ticket, and confessed to being thrown by setting up a Paypal account, there should have been alarm bells ringing. I wondered if not unlike the bus-stop girl she might be a teenager. What I didn't expect was a 50 year old.

On Wednesday night when we'd been texting she'd made some comment like "I wonder what the crowd will be like?", and I'd replied saying I expected they would be older than the band. She probably smiled to herself about that, at the time (although she's not older than the band).

It turns out Jools had never been to this bar before and didn't know it was a gay bar, but if I had put any thoughts of something more between us out of my head earlier, they now positively dropped and rolled in their hurry to get out.

As it happens, Jools was very good company. She was both very grateful for the ticket and extremely generous (though she could have been more generous and given me the face value), buying me drinks and not even questioning why I was on my own. I'd probably said in the auction's item description I was on my own.

I was introduced to her friends as they arrived -- just as Jay, the nice guy that had sold her the ticket -- who were all of a similar age, but also it seems in their own ways quite successful. Although what she does now, I don't really remember apparently Jools used to be someone very important in the media with a close and long-running professional relationship with a certain radio DJ and television presenter. Maybe this person is in my life not for personal reasons but professional ones?

Looking back, I wish perhaps Jools and her entourage had been a little less generous with the drinks. We didn't bother watching the Cribs who were supporting, and although I lost track how much I drank that night, some rough calculations since then have suggested it was something like 6 or 7 pints, more or less on an empty stomach.

As for the gig itself, we were stood at the absolute very farthest back wall of Brixton Academy. We could see the stage, but I don't think I got a glance of Johnny Rotten all night. The band were good -- very bloody good, consider it's been thirty years since Never mind the Bollocks was released -- and Johnny Rotten remains as funny as ever, in his very strange posh/cockney way. Despite being so good "considering" they weren't amazing. They played their songs well and with passion, but I don't know... It just wasn't spectacular. That said, I never expected the band to be amazing -- they never were, what they were was incredibly influential and a sort of catalyst for the times -- for the whole movement. And I wanted the chance to see the original band playing their own songs -- it's one thing to hear records, to hear live records, to hear bands playing Pistols covers, but it's something else to hear Johnny Rotten singing, right there.

Getting home was naturally a struggle because the Victoria line -- the only Tube line to Brixton -- was closed, and buses were running instead. Jools sent me off after a bus, and the rest of the journey home was a bit of a blur. I got off the bus somewhere around Leicester Square, since I knew the area from when I worked there and sort of stumbled along to Liverpool Street and to the train home. Jon had kindly agreed to pick me up -- even though it was gone 1am by the time I got the station -- and I was barely through the door at home before I was bent over the toilet...

I woke up on Friday with the bedroom light still on. Even when I shifted the worst of the hangover with pain killers, caffeine and sugar the day was not fun.

Still, it's very punk.

Be careful what you wish for

I mentioned in my recent post the idea of attracting people into my life -- whether intentionally or unintentionally, and there was also the issue of not being able to make them do anything. Because even if you could, it's not such a great idea. You'll find ideas like this cropping up in various belief systems -- that you might have more power than you realise, but messing with someone or their free will really is not such a hot idea.

I've always thought you should be careful what you wish for, because you might get them. People disagree with me on this one, and maybe I should think more of crossing those bridges if I come to them -- but either way, it's just how I tend to approach these things.

What could be a case in point. It's no secret that I've wanted someone in my life for however-long now. I've tried the usual things -- placing ads online, meeting girls at punk gigs, all the rest, with very limited success. I have recently been trying to focus my positive thinking in this direction -- whether it's a matter of attracting love to me because I think it, or because I am happy and confident (two words that I have rarely used about myself before, but I am really feeling it a lot more often now) it probably doesn't matter. But as I say, you have to be careful.

I think it was Monday morning I was standing at the bus stop, trying to keep warm -- the usual stamping feet and blowing on hands and hoping the bus turns up this week. I'd noticed when I was walking to the town there had been a teenage girl walking a short distance in front of me, and paid no attention. When I got to the bus stop she arrived shortly after me, because either I'd walked faster or she'd walked a different way at the end. I wasn't paying much attention, just looking idly around at the other people. I saw this blonde girl and my first thought was "She's wearing way too much makeup". Maybe I was looking a little too long, maybe I had a faint, amused smile on my face as I looked at her. But she noticed. I thought I was going to get a "Wot you lookin' at?" sort of response, but instead she said hi to me. Slightly surprised, I said hi back.

The following few days I've seen her again. It turns out she lives over the road to me, I'd never noticed. I didn't realise the girls who lived there were even old enough to go to college. She has progressed in a few days to making a point of saying hi to me when she gets on the bus, walking home and talking away to me in the evening when we get off at the same spot, and last time I saw her actually choosing the seat next to me on the bus. Choosing the seat next to me, and not being content with just a smile and a nod in greeting but wanting me to actually take out my earphones and say hi to her properly. And perhaps even being a little sulky that I was reading my book the whole way home. When we got off the bus she said to me sorry, she hadn't been ignoring me, she could just see I had been reading. Haha, I miss those kinds of head games. In conversation I have established that she's about 17, and despite her attentions says she has a boyfriend. I also know she has been talking about me, because she asked didn't I used to be a policeman.

How she knows this is complicated, but one time Nick was round my house, watching a video when there was a knock at the door. The lady from over the road that I'd never actually spoken to but would smile and wave to in the street explained that she had just reversed into the side of my car. Except it wasn't my car at all, but Nick's car. Nick who had decided parking directly opposite her drive was a sensible thing to do. And so it was in his discussions with her about it all that it must have come up what he did for a living. He's the kind of person that has to tell you, it's a power thing.

So fast forward several years, and for this girl to bring up in conversation that she thought I was a policeman suggests to me that she has talked about meeting me. I didn't hesitate to put her straight that I was not now and never have been a policeman, nor would I want to be. And tried to explain who Nick was.

So, okay -- great, I can attract people to me, I can attract attention to myself. But I need to maybe work on it so it's not from 17 year olds who wear too much makeup and think I'll be impressed if they tell me they want a motorbike. This is what I mean about being careful what you wish for -- the "request", the idea, the thought needs to be more finely tuned.

Looking in from the outside

Have you ever tried to imagine how your life would seem to an outsider? I mean, sure we all blog around here and so we all present our lives to outsiders -- but it's our picture being shown. We choose how it appears to others. Do you ever imagine what someone else would make of it? I'm sure it crosses everyone's mind once in a while -- you're out with friends, and for a second while everyone is talking and laughing you sort of step back out of yourself and try to look at it from above, to see what it looks like.

Go one step further though -- often we write about our countries, our cities -- but how would someone coming in from outside see it all? I've written at some length about my impressions and feelings surrounding England, and being English, but I've rarely stopped to think what someone else would make of it all. Where would they begin?

Early this year, when Dune Princess was planning a trip to Europe, the two of us made plans to meet up in Barcelona. Plans got as far as booking the hostel, before she had to postpone her plans. We said we'd do it next year instead -- and this time, there was some plans of her seeing England too, on a whistle-stop road trip of the country. Circumstances got involved and it looked likely the whole trip would be cancelled again -- until Dune Princess took matters in her own hands, and decided she was coming to London and that was the end of it. Flights were booked, visas arranged.

Being the kind of guy that likes to make online friends into real life friends, and having a "mi casa es su casa" approach to friendship, I have invited the amiable Ms DP to stay for a while. Now, of course, I often catch myself thinking what someone would make of my family, of the town where I live, or of my friends -- although China Blue can probably go some way to answer that last one, having met them.

I wonder what an Australian will make of the South East of England in February, having come from Brisbane in the summer. I rack my brains to try and think of any odd cultural things that you wouldn't expect to know about -- like how DP has already mentioned the TV licence. It's not the first thing you think of, but you can get in a lot of trouble for owning a television without a licence. When I was in Utah, I was surprised by how shocked people were by jaywalking. It wasn't even a term I had heard in England, but I'd never before run into any difficulties with the approach that if there is nothing coming (or if it's far enough away) you can cross the road -- regardless to what the lights say.

I've been asked if we say thank you to bus drivers, and if we make conversation with checkout chicks in supermarkets. The answers being yes, and sort of. It depends. Customers for the most part don't make conversation with me. Some seem to want to ignore me even when I attempt to make conversation. Others see it not as being polite but rather an invitation to stay and chat. An old lady was buying an Ian Rankin crime novel the other day and I made some wholly untrue statement like "I'm looking forward to reading this one myself". That was it, she was off, telling me about authors she liked, authors she didn't like, and one particular author who she thought was "too personal" and didn't like the sexual detail they included. I totally did not need to hear that, but at least she didn't describe it.

While at once trying to put myself in the place of someone new to it all, I'm also trying to make mental lists of things to do/see. Obvious things like the Natural History Museum, and the British Museum -- and personal favourite things like Camden Lock, and Spitalfields, and bars in Shoreditch that are like the south of France. And of course, Southend sea front. Not to mention the South coast by Portsmouth, and all manner of other places both popular and historical or just unique to my country. Of course, she has lists of her own of all the places she wants to see, so it's just as well she plans to stay in the country for at least six months.

It's helped to give me some extra added motivation to try and get some kind of better-paid career -- it would be ideal if by some miracle I could afford to move out by around the time of her visit. In the meantime, I will have to prep my friends on things like how cool and popular I am...

Tuesday, November 6

Copied from my paper journal

Tuesday, November 6
12pm -- [book shop] staff room

I'm a little disturbed by the coincidences in my life. How far does coincidence exist, and how much am I influencing "reality"? A friend sent me a copy of Conversations With God as a gift. Today, the first customer enquiry I deal with is asking for the same book.

Earlier today, I mentioned by former-colleague Ross in a comment. And today he comes into the store.

Can I have anything I want? How does it work -- I didn't expect or want these things. What do I want? Success, a partner? Maybe certain people. And you shouldn't try and attract specific people into your life.

Monday catch-up

It's been a little while since I actually updated anything properly about my life. I mean, I have shared some brief flashes of insight and talked at some length about books, films and music -- but what's actually going in my life?

Work is fine. There isn't much more to say about it than that -- I was reflecting today how I am far, far happier in this job than I was last year, in the call centre. I was looking at the calendar to see when Christmas was and when I'd probably have to work (probably any day that's not actually a national holiday) and it didn't fill me with dread and disgust. Sure, work is work -- it's a bit of a drag at times, and I get frustrated when I do something wrong, but generally it's alright. I continue to enjoy the people I work with, there is nobody I'd say I dislike which is a huge help.

I sometimes feel like I don't know enough about books and what's new out and whatever else. I certainly don't know enough about where books are in the store, particularly ones on display in the shop window! But every now and then a customer comes along that I can really help. Last week, there was an old lady in a mobility cart who wanted a poetry anthology, featuring Rudyard Kipling's poem If. I explained without a specific title to search for, I wouldn't be able to tell her what we had in stock -- but from my personal knowledge of poetry, I could guarantee we would have at least one such anthology. Unfortunately for her, the poetry was upstairs -- and she didn't seem keen on taking the lift.

Since it was quiet, I volunteered to go find her a book myself -- since I knew it would take me all of about a minute. The first book I picked up was a specific anthology of Rudyard Kipling. Good enough, sure -- but I could do better. I then found an anthology called something like Britain's best Loved poems -- a collection of popular works about Britain. It had the poem she wanted, and seemed to have an interesting variety, plus it wasn't expensive.

Other remarkable incidents have involved someone who didn't know the author or title, but wanted books about a female detective agency in Africa. I showed her exactly where to find Alexander McCall Smith's books. Another customer only vaguely knew the title of their book -- but by chance I was able to tell them they wanted He's Just Not That Into You and it would be under Popular Psychology. Today a customer started talking to my colleague with a vague enquiry about the short stories of Alexei Sayle. She said that she'd looked on Amazon and been unable to find any books. Off the top of my head, I said there are two I own personally -- The Dog Catcher and Barcelona Plates, but he's undoubtedly written more. Although I wasn't able to say without checking if he would be listed under fiction or humour.

It's times like that I can look like I know what I'm talking about. Other times, someone starts asking about a racing driver's autobiography that's in the window and I don't have a clue what they're talking about. Generally, I like the work, since I like books and I like trying to help customers (so long as they're nice to me).

I got a phone call today from a temp agency with regards to a permanent copy writer job in Essex. In Fact, it's in the same town where I worked in the call centre -- so I am willing to bet it will be for one of the companies in the two buildings where I worked. Suits me though -- so long as I'm not in the call centre, it wasn't such a horrible place to work. The only thing that makes me hesitate was the recruiter seemed to think the pay was quite poor -- I told her I wouldn't take less than £15k a year -- I'm a post-graduate, ferchrissake, with about 18 months combined experience working in the media. I should be asking for a good £10k more than that in London. Anyway, she still seemed concerned, so we shall see. It would be a good starting position, and can't pay worse than the book shop.

In other news, winter is closing in -- it's now like the middle of the night when I get home just after 5pm, and I've started needing my scarf in the mornings. This morning was one such crisp morning, and it was nice -- I don't mind the cold if I can wrap up warm. Since today is November 5, there was also a distinct lingering smell of gunpowder in the air, and the occasional split and soggy rocket lying in the gutter. I didn't bother going to any organised display this year, I wasn't that interested. I'd wanted to go to the cinema that night -- but it seems nobody else was interested in that.

Speaking of uninterested, a friend asked me last week if I wanted two tickets to see the Sex Pistols. At first I said I'd have to think about it, but then I thought I should say yes more -- and how many opportunities like this do you get? So I said yes. I'm now £80 lighter for a pair of tickets (or will be, eventually, since I'm paying him back in weekly instalments because I'm poor) and a week later no closer to finding anyone that wants to go with me. To be fair, a few people have said they would have liked to go, but can't -- Jon said he'd try (even though I don't think he was that interested) but has been unable to get time off work. A guy I know from volunteering was very keen to come -- but likewise couldn't get the night off. I even asked Laura, whom I used to work with -- she said she was broke, but seemed interested. But it turns out she's in Scotland for the rest of the week. China Blue would probably have come -- since she likes to say yes more -- but unfortunately for me, she's on holiday somewhere hot and sunny.

My first choices of invitees all turned me down flat: I met Claire at a punk gig! But she wasn't interested. Pete plays in punk bands! But says the Sex Pistols aren't really his thing. I don't get these people. I think I must have eventually asked everyone in my phone's address book. I even emailed Tony Wright from Terrorvision and Laika Dog. It's not quite as random as it sounds, he and I have exchanged emails in the past and he added me as his friend on Facebook a while back. It would be perhaps the absolutely strangest night ever if I should happen to end up going with him, but he probably thinks I'm a mentalist. That or that Brixton is a bit too far from Yorkshire for a night out.

And to close, I watched a DVD at the weekend called What The Bleep Do We Know!? that had been exhaustively recommended to me. It's about Quantum Physics, but also the nature of the universe and how we directly influence the universe and reality and pretty much how we get the reality we choose. It sucked. It was one of the biggest piles of crap I have ever seen. The arguments or points of view about how influence reality and stuff was all very interesting, I give it that -- but it tired to have some kind of storyline which was awful and occasionally would start using animations that were patronising and irritating. These two parts combined to annoy me so much that I didn't get that much out of the whole point of it. If there is a book it was based on, I might read that instead.

Musical Monday #29

I did a Musical Monday post about Terrorvision ages ago -- but the trouble is, on reading it again, it just wasn't good enough. I wanted to post today about their offbeat, fans' favourite b-side of a song Tea Dance. But I haven't done the band justice, previously, so please forgive me -- I'm going to try this one again.

Terrorvision made it big with their debut album Formaldehyde, all the way back in 1993. The early years of a decade are always slightly confusing, because there is so much carried over from the last one -- so although by 1993 alternative rock was making increasingly bigger waves, there was still a lot of the 80s about it. In many ways, Formaldehyde was a classic debut album -- it had some great songs, and this album in particular promised so much of the band with thought-out lyrics and some catchy hooks. But the main thing a debut does is promise -- it hints at greatness, at what a band can achieve together, given time.

The single My House remained until the end a live favourite also set the tone for many later catchy slightly-pop/rock songs, like Oblivion and Perseverance, and it was no doubt this mixture of a sense of humour with the obvious rock edge that scored for the band a major label record deal. I think Tea Dance perhaps appeared on the original indie-label release of the album, and certainly was on their first EP, but was later dropped. I read the lyrics to the song one day without having heard it, when they were published in the band's fanzine at the time Northern Scum.

I quoted the band last time and I will again -- they say now they were always too busy having a good time to take themselves too seriously. Sometimes now I wonder if perhaps they didn't take themselves quite seriously enough. I'd like to ask them.

Formaldehyde was followed by the iconic How To Make Friends and Influence People -- a very appropriate title for a second album, especially one that really did make the band friends. Easily the heaviest of all their albums, combining the hard rock Alice What's the Matter and Pretend Best Friend with the great doo-wop singalong, Oblivion), the band had made it -- their music videos suddenly had budgets, and their gigs were probably as big as they ever got. Until the end, anyway -- their "Take the Money and Run" tour probably rivalled the success.

I couldn't tell you how long it was between the second and third albums -- but the problem with Terrorvision was always that it was too long. The fans of their albums stuck around, but any casual listeners that had like one song or another or seen them at a festival had usually forgotten all about them by the time their next album or next hit single came along.

True to their word for a band that didn't take themselves too seriously, Terrorvision followed How To Make Friends with a James Bond-themed album, Regular Urban Survivors which they said was the soundtrack to the film they wanted to make. The album had a mixed reception among earlier fans, since the harder rock edge had mellowed out a bit -- but the 90s were flying by, and anything else would have sounded out of place. Although I liked the suitably laid-back Easy , singles like Bad Actress and Celebrity Hit List never really did it for me -- although the band had one of their biggest commercial success with the song Perseverance. Everyone was singing that "whales and dolphins" song, Tony Wright presented Top of the Pops, and there was a special edition of Kerrang! magazine dedicated to them one week. "Brit Rock" the magazine called them; "Britpop with balls".

But it went nowhere. The band just sort of went quiet. I saw them live for the first time in the December of 1996, which I think was just after the album came out -- but nothing else on it was as big as Perseverance.

I wonder now if their next album Shaving Peaches would have been enough for the band if it hadn't featured a somewhat random album track called Tequila. The band had again achieve moderate chart success with the song Josephine, and it was one of their best songs, to my mind -- clever, and catchy without being all-out pop. The band apparently had filmed a dark and David Lynch-esque video for the song, but didn't like it -- so Tony Wright came up with a new one, which involved running round a race track in Madrid. In drag. It was a pun on "drag racing", since the song is about a sex change.

I remember hearing the band play Tequila live (and I particularly fondly remember a girl in silver PVC trousers, who was bouncing around next to me during the song) and thinking it would be a popular song for the band -- but among existing fans. Then Mint Royale got hold of the song, remixed it, and before you know it the band were being told by Radio DJ Zoe Ball that if they didn't release it as a single then she would do it herself. They obliged, and it was a big a song as any they ever did -- and remains popular now, although of course most people don't remember who it was by, or that the band ever had any other songs.

Their last proper album (that is, not a greatest hits or unreleased tracks compilation) was Good To Go -- perhaps an appropriate album for a final album. It's odd, the band were dropped by EMI right after their biggest commerical success with Tequila, and the band actually played Reading Festival that year without having a current record deal. They released their final album on a different label, and then subsequently called it a day. Although it seems like it wasn't so much their choice -- the band had limited success with the album's first single, D'Ya Wanna Go Faster and when they came to release Fists of Fury they couldn't get it played. Radio 1 refused to play it and said the band were no longer "relevant" (although they later gave plenty of airplay to the Gerry Halliwell song Scream if you wanna go faster). Perhaps they took exception to the band's video, parodying Madonna.

Officially, it seems that's really the end of the story. There was a farewell tour, Tony formed Laika Dog, and the other members formed their own bands, and occasionally even now there's a handful of one-off Terrorvision gigs -- though I doubt there will ever be a full-fledged reunion or another album.

To end, I return to the start -- Tea Dance is a simple song about a couple who meet years after a break up, and find that they still like each other. It's a quiet, and straight forward song -- but it makes me smile. My favourite line that sums it all up for me: "Well me, yeah, I got hitched -- and, yeah, we're still friends. I don't see her often, still I get the kids at weekends".

Bloggin' up tha riot

"Imagine trying to telephone your grandmother, and over the telephone explain to your grandmother how to set the video recorder if you knew that she didn't have a video recorder, but she did have a cake."

That was how Dave Gorman likened trying to explain to an elderly creationist in San Diego the concept of Googlewhacking -- and it was a similar experience trying to explain to my therapist was a blog is.

He encourages me to write, to write pretty much anything, although he likes to suggest compulsively writing letters to newspapers. It was only this week when he asked me directly if I have been writing that I told him I blog. He was very curious, naturally having heard a lot about blogs but not being able to understand in theory what one was. I explained the idea of journalling online, and how for me this is the main idea behind blogging.

But it's also more than that, it's a place where I try to employ my creative writing skills and sometimes techniques I learned as a journalist. I write primarily for own peace of mind, but also try to write for an audience -- I want what I write to be readable, engaging and interesting, at least some of the time. And moving forwards I try to write about the things I am passionate about, and not just moan that I don't know what I'm doing with my life, or complain about girls I've never met that wouldn't agree to marry me.

The trouble is, blogging isn't simply journalling and trying to explain about alternative news sources, industry-insider blogs and bloggers who want to be columnists/novelists -- or even bloggers who already are -- is all quite difficult when the person you are talking to has no real idea what a blog is to begin with.

Enduring Love

Unfortunately, this is not a post about the Ian McEwan novel -- nor of the quite lacklustre film adaptation.

Instead, while talking to my therapist last night we somehow got on to the topic of love -- in the round about ways our discussions tend to have. Wholly and entirely unrelated to any concepts of love specifically, I told him how I sometimes worry that my presence in other people's lives will be a negative one -- and especially so if they like me.

I told him of the feelings of discomfort I've had in previous relationships where I felt the other person liked me more than I liked them, and of other relationships where I've been let down gently because they just didn't care for me enough.

It seems like sometimes we have ideas or expectations for what we think we should be feeling in a situation, and it for me at least it can get in the way of just living in the moment.

I remember however-many hundreds of years ago when I was dating Fiona and sometimes feeling like a phony because I didn't think I felt as strongly about her as she did about me. Similarly, San and I broke up any number of times when one or other of us would decide we didn't feel strongly enough about the other person to be in a relationship.

My therapist made a very strange comment about how he didn't really believe in "love" -- I expect he meant the "chocolate boxes and roses" red lace cards sort of interpretation of love. He said something like how do you even define love anyway? Far from being stumped by this question, I'd actually given the whole subject a lot of thought in the past when I have loved, been loved, and thought I loved various people.

I define love as a passionate affection.

It sounds quite simple, but the words to me have a depth of meaning. For example, passionate can mean several different things all at once -- it can mean sexual as well as an intensity of emotion, and very subtle nuances all in between. This definition applies to the many different kinds of love I can feel -- I can say that I love my brother (despite our difficult relationship), that I love my parents. I also love my cat, love my friends and in the past have loved certain individuals. All of these I would say were passionate affections -- each in subtly different ways, but no less deserving of the title of love.

Years ago when San and I were going through some sort of difficult period, we broke up when she said she didn't love me, or wasn't sure if she did. That was when I went away and tried to define love, came across the "passionate affection" definition and suddenly had a revelation. I realised that through nobody's own fault, the passion had gone for her -- there was just affection, and that wasn't enough. On similar occasions I'd tried to argue that I thought she did love me, even if she didn't define it as such -- but not then. Other times, San would counter the argument with one consisting of didn't she deserve to feel love -- to find someone she loved. There are no counter arguments to this.

The last time we broke up it was again because she didn't love me, and although she had been telling me she did for a little while, she hadn't meant it for some time. It seems funny that some people would never dream of faking an orgasm would tell you they loved you when they didn't.

My therapist mentioned that he'd been married twice, approaching now his third marriage. I asked when you marry someone don't you promise to love them? Seems a little odd to marry -- three times, at that -- and not mean it when you say you love them. Which is why I think it's the romanticised, Valentines sort of love he was talking about.

Either way he helped me to get some of my previous relationships and friendships and everything in between into a better perspective. I think the general argument was stop over-thinking things and lighten up (even if it was never phrased as such). Getting hurt is perhaps the only guarantee you have -- but it doesn't negate the whole thing. You can't stop someone else from being hurt, you take responsibility for yourself and your own feelings -- and so should they. This responsibility also means you can't stop someone else being hurt, so don't sweat it.

He showed me that so long as you don't deliberately set out to mislead or hurt someone else, you can only be yourself.

And from there, just let the chips fall where they may.



I also had a discussion with my therapist about blogging, but I think that deserves a post all of its own.