I hate Christmas. I really fucking do. Apologies for such vehement expletives, on this, the high holiday of cheer, but the whole point of public publishing is honesty, is it not?
Before you condemn me as some heartless 'Scrooge', let me just clarify that I am
actually not an unfeeling, anti-social bitch. (Whoops, I'd better reign this cussing in before I am declared a potty-mouth and completely dismissed) Fact of the matter is that I am VERY feeling, VERY caring, and VERY sentimental. That is exactly why I find Christmas so painfully excruciating on so many levels.
Invariably there will be rows (either between family members or you and your partner) over whether the turkey has been cooked long enough, who ate the last piece of pie, and why Shrek is playing on telly when there is vintage Top of the Pops to be had over on BBC 2. But all this is bearable, and not what causes my heart to plummet and my soul to whither. Being a reflective day, and one where everyone is closeted in with their nearest and dearest, drinking, celebrating, and generally being jolly and stuffing their stomachs to piggish points, there is very little else to distract you when you mind starts wandering and you begin to recall the many Christmases of your life.
Some memories will be brilliant, but some will be sad. The passing of years smacks you straight in the face and there is no way to deny that you are getting older and the magic you remember as a child at Christmas simply can't be recreated…
I happen to be paired with a 'non-magical' partner. By this I mean I am with someone who is the antithesis of wonder and spontaneous joy. He is very pragmatic in his outlook and likes 'to-do' lists and schedules. He quite simply cannot comprehend the nostalgic joy of watching cheesy Christmas movies curled on the sofa drinking wine and feeling all warm and cozy. (He eshews Christmas music for 'Queens of the Stone Age' and will happily bury himself in writing code and generally faffing about on his laptop throughout Christmas day with scant care and concern for the anti-climatic feel he spreads throughout our home.)
Nonetheless this is still not the reason I hate Christmas. I blame it on the diet of happy families and unrealistic expectations that I was raised on in North America. All my favourite television shows, magazines, and general pop culture itself made me believe and hope and expect that one day I too might have loved ones gathered around a fire, laughing, celebrating and generally enjoying life (and each other).
The truth – at least in my family – resembles that not a bit. We all love each other, but find it increasingly impossible to communicate inoffensively. Some of us are too sensitive, and some of us not enough. Some of us perpetuate false empty cheer, getting annoyed by long faces, and others of us can't help but wear sombre smiles and wry grins whilst attempting to simply 'get through it'.
I think the bottom line is that if you are HAPPY in your life, you have friends, a great job, loved ones, and a contented outlook – well then Christmas is just merry-fucking-tastic. If on the other hand you are miserable, lonely, unfulfilled and generally angst-ridden, then Christmas will merely bring out the worst in you and cause you to slide down that slippery slope of nostalgia and regret.
Before you know it you will be staring blankly at the telly, daydreaming all sorts of crazy thoughts, and pouring booze down your throat faster than is sensible in an attempt to anesthetise yourself from feeling…anything.
On that (not) cheerful note, off I pop to begin my day with a big glass of champagne. I don't feel like it, and indeed would rather curl up in my bed with a good book, some heroin, and loud music, but that can't happen so I will do the next best thing and 'play along'- my pragmatic (and utterly OBLIVIOUS) partner looking on absentmindedly and wondering why I ain't full of Christmas –fucking – cheer.
'Merry Whatever' everyone….'Sister Scrooge' xx
Monday, 31 December 2007
Sunday, 18 November 2007
Happy Sunday
You hear nothing from me for ages, and then BOOM - all the sudden the lady comes over all prolific with no less than two entries in under 24 hours. There's a simple explanation: Procrastination.
I should be killing myself packing up boxes, filing my tax return, cleaning flat, making phonecalls, sending emails, paying bills, buying groceries, organising sock drawers...you know, that sort of thing. Instead I find myself glumly hunched over my Mac, lukewarm cappucino to my left (as of yet untouched), and surveying the cold, drab day outside my huge kitchen window.
I actually have so much to do that the temptation to simply bankrupt the day and crawl back into bed with a book looms ever so temptingly in the horizon of possibility. Of course, that's not what will happen. I shall sit here for another twenty minutes or so, head in hands, trying to find a way through the poorly constructed maze which is my mind, and eventually, with a great sigh, I shall push my chair back from the table, click my laptop shut, and shuffle upstairs to get on with it.
I guess it's about that time. Will keep this particular moan short and not so sweet. Somewhere in the back of my mind I'm hatching a plan to treat myself to several episodes of 'Lost' which i've saved up but not had the time to watch. A giant dose of escapism with a sprinkling of organic 'Green & Black's' chocolate is just what the doctor ordered.
Happy Sunday people...
I should be killing myself packing up boxes, filing my tax return, cleaning flat, making phonecalls, sending emails, paying bills, buying groceries, organising sock drawers...you know, that sort of thing. Instead I find myself glumly hunched over my Mac, lukewarm cappucino to my left (as of yet untouched), and surveying the cold, drab day outside my huge kitchen window.
I actually have so much to do that the temptation to simply bankrupt the day and crawl back into bed with a book looms ever so temptingly in the horizon of possibility. Of course, that's not what will happen. I shall sit here for another twenty minutes or so, head in hands, trying to find a way through the poorly constructed maze which is my mind, and eventually, with a great sigh, I shall push my chair back from the table, click my laptop shut, and shuffle upstairs to get on with it.
I guess it's about that time. Will keep this particular moan short and not so sweet. Somewhere in the back of my mind I'm hatching a plan to treat myself to several episodes of 'Lost' which i've saved up but not had the time to watch. A giant dose of escapism with a sprinkling of organic 'Green & Black's' chocolate is just what the doctor ordered.
Happy Sunday people...
Saturday, 17 November 2007
Panic Sets In
I wish I had something interesting to say. As it stands i'm stressed out of my mind trying to do a million tedious but time-consuming tasks these days. I was struck dumb this past week when after countless weeks of hassle, and great expense, I finally managed to secure a new competitive mortgage on my flat...only to discover that my mortgage isn't up for redemption for another year...whoops. "Bye Bye hundreds of pounds...see ya laaaaaater....."
Top of the stress list at the moment though is trying to pack up what feels like millions of personal possessions and getting ready to move into a new place in less than two weeks. When I say 'pack' what i really mean is that this afternoon between reading a really compelling autobiography and doing my second load of washing (rock n' roll i know) I transferred all my belts and scarves and hats into a suitcase. Yep. That's it. (Now if you knew what a fashionista I am and a downright hedonistic clothes-horse, you would understand that this was no small feat...nonetheless it hardly constituted preparation for a giant move - merely an attempt to blot out panic and pretend at being productive.)
At any rate, all my possessions can arrive at the new place in giant bin bags for all I care. A far more worrying dilemma is that the very next morning after the move I'm meant to be on a charter plane to India. I can hear you moaning now, " She's moving into a new place AND has to jetset to Goa to work on her tan before Christmas...must be horrid for her, poor thing"...
But actually it is. First of all, I have not had the time to obsessively do a million sit-ups a day to get in body-baring-bikini shape for major beach action lately...nor have I had my vaccinations sorted so that when a rabid dog bites me I'm not buggered (I actually did almost get bitten by one such foaming-at-the-mouth dog last time I was there so i'm not being a drama queen). I haven't managed to get my Indian visa yet (a feat in itself involving ridiculously long-winded forms to fill out, ugly passport pics to get taken, and puzzling queues to navigate in the early morning) and I'm purposely not allowing myself to imagine the 9+ hour charter flight from hell with annoying fellow passengers.
No, I'm merely trying to work out whether the mad family who are selling us their home will be out on the agreed day, whether they will renege on their word and leave us absolutely NO furniture (thus necessitating Christmas din-din's being eaten on the floor with only a wood-burning fire to give comfort) and whether I am making a huge mistake moving from my central London flat (five minutes walk from Big Ben) to a slightly less central zone 2 (the horror!) location.
Either way it's a done deal, have bankrupted myself in the process, and am paying a premium for a nice enough new home worth probably half of what i'm paying for it, only it's got this amazing balcony off the master bedroom and that's where I'm going to compose my first novel, write a killer track and drink copious bottles of red wine whilst surveying the dirty ol' London.
I've got it all figured out see...
Top of the stress list at the moment though is trying to pack up what feels like millions of personal possessions and getting ready to move into a new place in less than two weeks. When I say 'pack' what i really mean is that this afternoon between reading a really compelling autobiography and doing my second load of washing (rock n' roll i know) I transferred all my belts and scarves and hats into a suitcase. Yep. That's it. (Now if you knew what a fashionista I am and a downright hedonistic clothes-horse, you would understand that this was no small feat...nonetheless it hardly constituted preparation for a giant move - merely an attempt to blot out panic and pretend at being productive.)
At any rate, all my possessions can arrive at the new place in giant bin bags for all I care. A far more worrying dilemma is that the very next morning after the move I'm meant to be on a charter plane to India. I can hear you moaning now, " She's moving into a new place AND has to jetset to Goa to work on her tan before Christmas...must be horrid for her, poor thing"...
But actually it is. First of all, I have not had the time to obsessively do a million sit-ups a day to get in body-baring-bikini shape for major beach action lately...nor have I had my vaccinations sorted so that when a rabid dog bites me I'm not buggered (I actually did almost get bitten by one such foaming-at-the-mouth dog last time I was there so i'm not being a drama queen). I haven't managed to get my Indian visa yet (a feat in itself involving ridiculously long-winded forms to fill out, ugly passport pics to get taken, and puzzling queues to navigate in the early morning) and I'm purposely not allowing myself to imagine the 9+ hour charter flight from hell with annoying fellow passengers.
No, I'm merely trying to work out whether the mad family who are selling us their home will be out on the agreed day, whether they will renege on their word and leave us absolutely NO furniture (thus necessitating Christmas din-din's being eaten on the floor with only a wood-burning fire to give comfort) and whether I am making a huge mistake moving from my central London flat (five minutes walk from Big Ben) to a slightly less central zone 2 (the horror!) location.
Either way it's a done deal, have bankrupted myself in the process, and am paying a premium for a nice enough new home worth probably half of what i'm paying for it, only it's got this amazing balcony off the master bedroom and that's where I'm going to compose my first novel, write a killer track and drink copious bottles of red wine whilst surveying the dirty ol' London.
I've got it all figured out see...
Friday, 2 November 2007
"God Save The Queen...I’m A BRIT At Last!"
Yesterday i offically became a British Citizen. This means that I can vote, go on the dole, get through the fast queue at Heathrow, and moan about how this country is going to the dogs with the best of them. The journey which began a few months ago in front of a dodgy computer in Elephant & Castle, trying to pass a ridiculously detailed citizenship test, ended fittingly in a sweltering hot town hall with sixty other people (mainly Nigerians - but more on that later) singing the national anthem.
We were told to arrive at the Town Hall precisely at 1pm and told we would be out of there around 3:15pm. I realised this was wishful thinking when an hour later i was still jammed in a room painstakingly waiting for my name to be called out so that i could go up to the front, obtain a sticker with my name on it and make sure my outfit pasted muster (apparently no jeans or trainers were allowed and two Afganistani young men were sent home to change as was a Bulgarian fellow).
Luckily sometime around 2:30 a group of us who had recieved our name tags were ushered upstairs for some 'refreshments' and to wait while the rest of the soon to be Brits were checked in. I slunk to the back of the room and buried my head in a book for the next hour or so whilst everyone else partook of the juice being poured from cardboard boxes and watered down coffee...there were even a few biscuits to be had from the look of things...all served with utter contempt by substitue dinner ladies behind a makeshift table.
Soon the room swelled by a ridiculous amount and I realised this was because most people had come with 'guests' and I was starting to feel clautrophobic and was wondering when the hell the ceremony was going to start. It wasn't until 3:30 that we were actually seated and the given a ten minute lecture on how to behave during the ceremony. I would have thought this a pointless exercise, but my fellow passport-hungry peers were nodding with such enthusiasm that perhaps not.
Given that we all had to say our names aloud and then go up and receive our certificate to general applause, have a hand shake with the deputy mayor (a sweet but impossible to understand West Indian man with an indecipherable thick heavy accent) and pose for a picture (which we were told we could purchase later on for £15 to remember our 'special day'), the ceremony dragged on. I used the time to take note of the crazy sounding names and everyones country of origin.
Of the sixty or so of us present the breakdown was as follows: 85% Nigerians, 10% other African countries, 5% other (I was sole Canadian, there was one Aussie, on Kiwi, two Chinese, three Yugoslavians and one Vietnamese...).
All in all I am rather pleased. I've waited many years (almost 13) for this and i can finally cross off 'become a Brit' from my various to-do lists i've had over the years. It's been sheer laziness that's kept me from doing it, but I'm grateful I did at last. Now maybe my accent will come on with leaps and bounds and I'll stop being treated like a damn tourist.
Or maybe not.
We were told to arrive at the Town Hall precisely at 1pm and told we would be out of there around 3:15pm. I realised this was wishful thinking when an hour later i was still jammed in a room painstakingly waiting for my name to be called out so that i could go up to the front, obtain a sticker with my name on it and make sure my outfit pasted muster (apparently no jeans or trainers were allowed and two Afganistani young men were sent home to change as was a Bulgarian fellow).
Luckily sometime around 2:30 a group of us who had recieved our name tags were ushered upstairs for some 'refreshments' and to wait while the rest of the soon to be Brits were checked in. I slunk to the back of the room and buried my head in a book for the next hour or so whilst everyone else partook of the juice being poured from cardboard boxes and watered down coffee...there were even a few biscuits to be had from the look of things...all served with utter contempt by substitue dinner ladies behind a makeshift table.
Soon the room swelled by a ridiculous amount and I realised this was because most people had come with 'guests' and I was starting to feel clautrophobic and was wondering when the hell the ceremony was going to start. It wasn't until 3:30 that we were actually seated and the given a ten minute lecture on how to behave during the ceremony. I would have thought this a pointless exercise, but my fellow passport-hungry peers were nodding with such enthusiasm that perhaps not.
Given that we all had to say our names aloud and then go up and receive our certificate to general applause, have a hand shake with the deputy mayor (a sweet but impossible to understand West Indian man with an indecipherable thick heavy accent) and pose for a picture (which we were told we could purchase later on for £15 to remember our 'special day'), the ceremony dragged on. I used the time to take note of the crazy sounding names and everyones country of origin.
Of the sixty or so of us present the breakdown was as follows: 85% Nigerians, 10% other African countries, 5% other (I was sole Canadian, there was one Aussie, on Kiwi, two Chinese, three Yugoslavians and one Vietnamese...).
All in all I am rather pleased. I've waited many years (almost 13) for this and i can finally cross off 'become a Brit' from my various to-do lists i've had over the years. It's been sheer laziness that's kept me from doing it, but I'm grateful I did at last. Now maybe my accent will come on with leaps and bounds and I'll stop being treated like a damn tourist.
Or maybe not.
Thursday, 4 October 2007
"Tragedy...When the Feeling Comes You Can’t Go On...It’s Tragedy"
Lying in bed the other night with my man, we had a most interesting conversation about how some people are just tragic and/or lead tragic lives, while others seem able to pass through life unscathed and untouched by tragedy altogether – regardless of what hardships they might endure. (Well it WAS interesting until I made a particularly good point and was pleased by the immediate lack of retort – then realised he was snoring.) But I digress. Allow me to explain.
In my mind, tragedy is like a magnet. If you possess certain pre-determined magnetic qualities yourself then you will find yourself at the mercy of all life has to throw at you. You'll be making headway in your life and then one day all of the sudden you'll find yourself yanked cruelly backward as if on a leash. Tragedy is a cruel master, if only because it allows you great swathes of time in which you are not burdened by sadness or riddled with pain. Sometimes you can even feel as though you might be normal and your past has merely been a series of unfortunate events which have conspired to make you miserable for a time.
But alas, tragedy will seek you out when you least expect it and deliver such a devastating blow to your innermost soul that you wonder if this is 'it'…if it is going to be what finally pushes you over the edge and lands you in 'crazy street person' territory (well they had to start somewhere didn't they?). Either you or your fellow tragic loved ones will be pulled down and under, helplessly struggling like doomed carp.
It doesn't seem fair. Others seem to be built a different way and utterly immune to tragedy. As if sporting different circuit boards in their souls they by no means escape hardship (death, disease, disappointment, loss…all those lovely rites of passage). Yet somehow, vast groups of mankind appear to remain free of the tragic element in their lives, and just, for lack of a better term, 'get through it'.
I can't 'get through it…never could. Secretly I am envious and puzzled by those who can. I feel things more than most people. My whole family does. Certain moments and events are painted with such bittersweet strokes that I emerge changed and altered in some way. My life often feels like a Russian novel whilst others appear to be living in a modern day sitcom.
I suspect it has something to do with possessing a higher than average emotional I.Q. That is just a theory of course, but one I'm sticking with as it's the most complimentary. The other possibilities don't bear thinking about thank you very much.
Let me give you an example. Suppose you one day come across an old yearbook. A normal person might reflect on funny or especially poignant memories from that time, while idly wondering what their old mates are up to. Me, well I slip soundlessly into a 'K-hole' of sorts and allow my brain to revisit another time. I thrash soundlessly inside while mentally and emotionally reliving hardcore memories and am thrown off course for the rest of the day.
You see my past is so riddled with tragedy and tragic moments that it's almost like an acid-flashback and the pain is practically as intense as it was when first experienced…just farther away. That is why I have to be careful listening to certain songs at certain times. If I'm not I'll be swept away by lethal tides of nostalgia and longing which prove dehabilatating and render me useless at doing anything but starely fixedly into the distance and trying frantically to reign in my emotions.
Thinking about it, that may be the source of my pathological love of books and movies. I am the ultimate escape artist – always have been. Even as a child I knew that I was in for a wild ride, and I learned early on that if you have nowhere to run then you may as well hide.
So I'm off to do just that. Chapter four....page sixty-three....
In my mind, tragedy is like a magnet. If you possess certain pre-determined magnetic qualities yourself then you will find yourself at the mercy of all life has to throw at you. You'll be making headway in your life and then one day all of the sudden you'll find yourself yanked cruelly backward as if on a leash. Tragedy is a cruel master, if only because it allows you great swathes of time in which you are not burdened by sadness or riddled with pain. Sometimes you can even feel as though you might be normal and your past has merely been a series of unfortunate events which have conspired to make you miserable for a time.
But alas, tragedy will seek you out when you least expect it and deliver such a devastating blow to your innermost soul that you wonder if this is 'it'…if it is going to be what finally pushes you over the edge and lands you in 'crazy street person' territory (well they had to start somewhere didn't they?). Either you or your fellow tragic loved ones will be pulled down and under, helplessly struggling like doomed carp.
It doesn't seem fair. Others seem to be built a different way and utterly immune to tragedy. As if sporting different circuit boards in their souls they by no means escape hardship (death, disease, disappointment, loss…all those lovely rites of passage). Yet somehow, vast groups of mankind appear to remain free of the tragic element in their lives, and just, for lack of a better term, 'get through it'.
I can't 'get through it…never could. Secretly I am envious and puzzled by those who can. I feel things more than most people. My whole family does. Certain moments and events are painted with such bittersweet strokes that I emerge changed and altered in some way. My life often feels like a Russian novel whilst others appear to be living in a modern day sitcom.
I suspect it has something to do with possessing a higher than average emotional I.Q. That is just a theory of course, but one I'm sticking with as it's the most complimentary. The other possibilities don't bear thinking about thank you very much.
Let me give you an example. Suppose you one day come across an old yearbook. A normal person might reflect on funny or especially poignant memories from that time, while idly wondering what their old mates are up to. Me, well I slip soundlessly into a 'K-hole' of sorts and allow my brain to revisit another time. I thrash soundlessly inside while mentally and emotionally reliving hardcore memories and am thrown off course for the rest of the day.
You see my past is so riddled with tragedy and tragic moments that it's almost like an acid-flashback and the pain is practically as intense as it was when first experienced…just farther away. That is why I have to be careful listening to certain songs at certain times. If I'm not I'll be swept away by lethal tides of nostalgia and longing which prove dehabilatating and render me useless at doing anything but starely fixedly into the distance and trying frantically to reign in my emotions.
Thinking about it, that may be the source of my pathological love of books and movies. I am the ultimate escape artist – always have been. Even as a child I knew that I was in for a wild ride, and I learned early on that if you have nowhere to run then you may as well hide.
So I'm off to do just that. Chapter four....page sixty-three....
Saturday, 29 September 2007
Things That Go Bump...
Made the mistake last night in bed of watching 'Stir Of Echoes' - a horror film starring Kevin Bacon. Amazing i know, that I could be scared out of my wits by a film that stars Kevin Bacon - but there you go. Every single time a movie starts and that creepy music begins and the camera starts sweeping across ominous barren landscapes or creepy grandfather clocks or scary house interiors, I know that I should just click the remote control and switch to an old 'Friends' rerun or a music video channel. But i just can't help myself.
You see i LOVE scary movies...but i hate them too. Like rubber-necking a fatal accident on a congested motorway, I just can't help myself from looking. I mean, to be fair, there is only one type of horror movie that i absolutely can't bear and that's the kind that involves supernatural ghosts/demons/other miscellaneous spirits. Anything to do with the supernatural that involves apparitions or deeply evil voices speaking forth from innocent looking kiddies gets me every time.
The problem is that when i find myself alone at night my brilliantly over-active imagination often conjures things up and I find myself imagining I can almost see/hear things that go bump in the night. It's the frustrated actor in me i suppose, but i'll tell you what, the mind is a strange thing and shadows and house creaks at night often fall prey to my strange mental wanderings and i find myself cursing the last horror flick i saw.
Strangely enough, for whatever reason, I find myself able to watch gore or people being sawed up into tiny pieces. I actually sat through 'Hostel' (which I must tell you is only for the strong of stomach) which depicted rather realistic torture scenes and hacking people to death. I was repelled but intrigued. Go figure (maybe i'm a sicko at heart?!)
Anyway, being a fan of Kevin Bacon I allowed myself to watch half of the movie last night, but when the little boy in the film said (in a ominous husky man voice):
"Leave the boy alone and talk to ME"
that's when i switched the telly off and picked up my library book that I've been trying to get through for ages and have renewed three times and stubbornly refuse to give up on. It's by A.M. Homes and is called, 'This Book Will Save Your Life'. Go figure.
You see i LOVE scary movies...but i hate them too. Like rubber-necking a fatal accident on a congested motorway, I just can't help myself from looking. I mean, to be fair, there is only one type of horror movie that i absolutely can't bear and that's the kind that involves supernatural ghosts/demons/other miscellaneous spirits. Anything to do with the supernatural that involves apparitions or deeply evil voices speaking forth from innocent looking kiddies gets me every time.
The problem is that when i find myself alone at night my brilliantly over-active imagination often conjures things up and I find myself imagining I can almost see/hear things that go bump in the night. It's the frustrated actor in me i suppose, but i'll tell you what, the mind is a strange thing and shadows and house creaks at night often fall prey to my strange mental wanderings and i find myself cursing the last horror flick i saw.
Strangely enough, for whatever reason, I find myself able to watch gore or people being sawed up into tiny pieces. I actually sat through 'Hostel' (which I must tell you is only for the strong of stomach) which depicted rather realistic torture scenes and hacking people to death. I was repelled but intrigued. Go figure (maybe i'm a sicko at heart?!)
Anyway, being a fan of Kevin Bacon I allowed myself to watch half of the movie last night, but when the little boy in the film said (in a ominous husky man voice):
"Leave the boy alone and talk to ME"
that's when i switched the telly off and picked up my library book that I've been trying to get through for ages and have renewed three times and stubbornly refuse to give up on. It's by A.M. Homes and is called, 'This Book Will Save Your Life'. Go figure.
Saturday, 22 September 2007
Moronic Morons
It's 1:30am and I'm up with two mentalists having a somewhat moronic conversation about what constitutes a 'moron'. This is somewhat relevant because I was lovingly accusing someone of being a moron and they (rightly so) turned it right back at me and accused ME of being a moron. Upon reflection I had to agree.
A moron is someone who is being a loser but doesn't have to be. Well that's what my definition happens to be anyway. I think though, i'd rather be a moron than a loser because there at least is a nugget of hope in a moron's future, whereas a loser by definition seems to be marked from birth. Again, this is merely my definition.
Why do I and two others find ourselves up in the wee hours of the night discussing something so pointless yet depressing? Well it doesn't help that we're listening to an itunes playlist that borders on suicidal. It also doesn't help that we (okay mainly me) indulged in too many fresh powdered mini donuts about a hour ago and are now coming down off a catastrophic sugar high.
So anyway, being a moron, i'm going to go to bed. Why subject moronic mutterings to the world at large? I'd best brush my stupid teeth, then pop out my contacts and flick them across the room indifferently before burying my moronic self under my cozy duvet.
All you morons out there, please get in touch. We are going to start a new tribe. The Order of the Moronic Morons. In your application please state which attributes you possess which make you suitabe for inclusion. No need to enclose a picture. Beauty is irrelevant. We are only interested in what lies beneath.
Come all ye who are stupid and weary...we shall talk about conquering the world whilst doing sweet F___ all. Come.
A moron is someone who is being a loser but doesn't have to be. Well that's what my definition happens to be anyway. I think though, i'd rather be a moron than a loser because there at least is a nugget of hope in a moron's future, whereas a loser by definition seems to be marked from birth. Again, this is merely my definition.
Why do I and two others find ourselves up in the wee hours of the night discussing something so pointless yet depressing? Well it doesn't help that we're listening to an itunes playlist that borders on suicidal. It also doesn't help that we (okay mainly me) indulged in too many fresh powdered mini donuts about a hour ago and are now coming down off a catastrophic sugar high.
So anyway, being a moron, i'm going to go to bed. Why subject moronic mutterings to the world at large? I'd best brush my stupid teeth, then pop out my contacts and flick them across the room indifferently before burying my moronic self under my cozy duvet.
All you morons out there, please get in touch. We are going to start a new tribe. The Order of the Moronic Morons. In your application please state which attributes you possess which make you suitabe for inclusion. No need to enclose a picture. Beauty is irrelevant. We are only interested in what lies beneath.
Come all ye who are stupid and weary...we shall talk about conquering the world whilst doing sweet F___ all. Come.
Thursday, 6 September 2007
Heart Ache
This past week I went through a major trauma. A member of my family was suddenly struck ill and my whole world collapsed. In a moment, all the things that had been pissing me off and causing me anxiety ceased to matter. My dwindling bank account? whatever.... My lack of excitement and general boredom with life? whatever... Hurts and grudges borne by others and inflicted by myself? whatever...
Luckily the outcome was positive (well we hope and believe it is) and I've been able to step back, take a deep breath and get my head together. But standing over a hospital bed in Emergency in the middle of the night, it was a different story. I had a real life lesson in what it feels like to have your heart truly 'break'.
It made me realise that when people are going through grief and major trauma and you send a card or ring them on the phone and they seem slightly aloof and withdrawn, it's not because they don't appreciate your thoughfulness. It's because they are in a different time and place to you and the rest of the world. They are existing OUTSIDE time and space in a place where it is hard, if not impossible, for anyone to reach.
Conversations about everyday things seem impossible when you're in that place, and you find yourself guzzling cup after cup of bitter coffee and staring at giant screens playing repetitive CNN through glazed, sleep-deprived eyes. Your stomach feels like it's eating itself and you're either ravenously hungry or unable to eat at all.
Having come out of such a place, without having lost a loved one, I feel like the luckiest person on earth. It feels better than I imagine winning the lottery must feel, and I step back into everyday life a slightly wiser, definately more appreciative, and slightly changed person. I am one of the lucky ones.
10:59 -
Luckily the outcome was positive (well we hope and believe it is) and I've been able to step back, take a deep breath and get my head together. But standing over a hospital bed in Emergency in the middle of the night, it was a different story. I had a real life lesson in what it feels like to have your heart truly 'break'.
It made me realise that when people are going through grief and major trauma and you send a card or ring them on the phone and they seem slightly aloof and withdrawn, it's not because they don't appreciate your thoughfulness. It's because they are in a different time and place to you and the rest of the world. They are existing OUTSIDE time and space in a place where it is hard, if not impossible, for anyone to reach.
Conversations about everyday things seem impossible when you're in that place, and you find yourself guzzling cup after cup of bitter coffee and staring at giant screens playing repetitive CNN through glazed, sleep-deprived eyes. Your stomach feels like it's eating itself and you're either ravenously hungry or unable to eat at all.
Having come out of such a place, without having lost a loved one, I feel like the luckiest person on earth. It feels better than I imagine winning the lottery must feel, and I step back into everyday life a slightly wiser, definately more appreciative, and slightly changed person. I am one of the lucky ones.
10:59 -
Sunday, 19 August 2007
'Calgon...Take Me Awaaaaay'
Things that are bothering me today:
1. The ridiculous house prices in London
2. My current bank account balance
3. The prospect of no holiday in sight
Right now I want to be on a beach somewhere, lying lazily in the baking sun, dozing off to the sound of waves splashing gently on shore, contemplating what i'm going to have for lunch and what i'm going to do for the remainder of the day.
What I do not feel like doing is being stuck for nine hours on a cramped charter flight with a bunch of loud-mouthed chavs wrecking havoc with mini-vodka's and yelping like demented dogs in heat. Sadly, to get to my paradise it often involves surviving the latter.
Nothing makes my heart sink faster than getting to the airport and joining the queue from hell. You know the one. Whole families sitting on the ground, tossing cheesy 'Quaver's' around to each other and already arguing about who gets the window seat. Having your heart sink upon boarding the plane to hear a huge belch from the seat behind, and turning to find a grinning, morbidly obese (no putting the seat back then) woman who is two sheets to the wind thanks to the three beers necked in the restaurant moments before.
I am so scared to go back to our divine retreat in Goa. By all accounts it has become rife with riff-raff. It has become like Benidorm. It is full of track-suited hooligans, pronouncing Indian names incorrectly and badgering away for cheap silver as if they're in East St. market.
You may think I sound like a snob, but it's gut-wrenching to think that your own personal paradise, which holds some of the best memories of your life, may be no more. Once the masses have discovered it - forget it.
Still, on this depressingly rainy Sunday morning I think even I would withstand a flight from hell and a completely commercialised setting for the benefits of some proper sun. I wouldn't even care if the cows which wander the beaches in Goa had 'Burger King' signs etched on their sides.
Today, almost anywhere feels more appealing than 'a summer day which is so clearly not a summer day' in inner-city London. URGHHH.
1. The ridiculous house prices in London
2. My current bank account balance
3. The prospect of no holiday in sight
Right now I want to be on a beach somewhere, lying lazily in the baking sun, dozing off to the sound of waves splashing gently on shore, contemplating what i'm going to have for lunch and what i'm going to do for the remainder of the day.
What I do not feel like doing is being stuck for nine hours on a cramped charter flight with a bunch of loud-mouthed chavs wrecking havoc with mini-vodka's and yelping like demented dogs in heat. Sadly, to get to my paradise it often involves surviving the latter.
Nothing makes my heart sink faster than getting to the airport and joining the queue from hell. You know the one. Whole families sitting on the ground, tossing cheesy 'Quaver's' around to each other and already arguing about who gets the window seat. Having your heart sink upon boarding the plane to hear a huge belch from the seat behind, and turning to find a grinning, morbidly obese (no putting the seat back then) woman who is two sheets to the wind thanks to the three beers necked in the restaurant moments before.
I am so scared to go back to our divine retreat in Goa. By all accounts it has become rife with riff-raff. It has become like Benidorm. It is full of track-suited hooligans, pronouncing Indian names incorrectly and badgering away for cheap silver as if they're in East St. market.
You may think I sound like a snob, but it's gut-wrenching to think that your own personal paradise, which holds some of the best memories of your life, may be no more. Once the masses have discovered it - forget it.
Still, on this depressingly rainy Sunday morning I think even I would withstand a flight from hell and a completely commercialised setting for the benefits of some proper sun. I wouldn't even care if the cows which wander the beaches in Goa had 'Burger King' signs etched on their sides.
Today, almost anywhere feels more appealing than 'a summer day which is so clearly not a summer day' in inner-city London. URGHHH.
Wednesday, 15 August 2007
Thoughts, thoughts, and more thoughts...
Is anyone else out there just plodding through days...in a daze...weeks, months, years whipping by...not a terribly lot to show for it...getting lost in your life? No? Well, that's just me then.
Now I realise that I could simply have my 'negative' head on (I prefer to call it being 'realistic' but whatever) and really my life is utterly fabulous and if only I could nudge the seratonin level up a notch than I'd be happiest lass in the free world. On the other hand, there is also the possibility that I am the only sane one in a world full of deluded fools...happy deluded fools but fools nonetheless. All those happy souls sinking pints in pubs, cuddling up on sofa's with blockbuster dvd's and flexing toned abs on dancefloors everywhere are perhaps the guru's of this age. Eat, drink and be merry, right? Nevermind the 'big' questions of:
What is my purpose in life?
Will I always feel like such a loser?
Will I ever get my break? Any break?
How come some people can make living life look so easy?
Why am I not happy?
How can I make my life count for something?
Does true love really exist?
To what extent am I brainwashed into thinking that I'm a failure when in reality I'm not?
This last question is the most puzzling at present. By all accounts, given that I don't have a flashy career, bucketloads of cash, a charming country home, a calendar packed full of exciting events, fabulous and adoring friends, and a future glistening with potential...surely I should just end it all now and save myself the hassle.
By 'end it all' I don't mean literally - I just mean give up hoping for anything special to happen to me and succomb to that bastard 'mediocrity'. Hand in any and all dreams not pertaining to realistic goals like paying the mortgage and eating five portions of fruit and veg a day, and embrace the stinking mass of humankind just trying to trudge along in life.
Time to hang up the sequin dress and pull out the baggy old tracksuit? Time to embrace being a 'punter' and join the (un)orderly queue of all those who gave up on their dreams?
Ah, if only it were that easy. If only I wasn't petrified of turning into a wretched, despondant drug-adled nasty alcoholic in later years...
Where's that bloody prozac then? Or maybe I just need a good sleep and sunny day. It could be as simple as that. (Mind you, winning the lottery, buying myself an island and turning into a mad recluse for the rest of my life also feels pretty damn appealing at present...donations this way please.)
Now I realise that I could simply have my 'negative' head on (I prefer to call it being 'realistic' but whatever) and really my life is utterly fabulous and if only I could nudge the seratonin level up a notch than I'd be happiest lass in the free world. On the other hand, there is also the possibility that I am the only sane one in a world full of deluded fools...happy deluded fools but fools nonetheless. All those happy souls sinking pints in pubs, cuddling up on sofa's with blockbuster dvd's and flexing toned abs on dancefloors everywhere are perhaps the guru's of this age. Eat, drink and be merry, right? Nevermind the 'big' questions of:
What is my purpose in life?
Will I always feel like such a loser?
Will I ever get my break? Any break?
How come some people can make living life look so easy?
Why am I not happy?
How can I make my life count for something?
Does true love really exist?
To what extent am I brainwashed into thinking that I'm a failure when in reality I'm not?
This last question is the most puzzling at present. By all accounts, given that I don't have a flashy career, bucketloads of cash, a charming country home, a calendar packed full of exciting events, fabulous and adoring friends, and a future glistening with potential...surely I should just end it all now and save myself the hassle.
By 'end it all' I don't mean literally - I just mean give up hoping for anything special to happen to me and succomb to that bastard 'mediocrity'. Hand in any and all dreams not pertaining to realistic goals like paying the mortgage and eating five portions of fruit and veg a day, and embrace the stinking mass of humankind just trying to trudge along in life.
Time to hang up the sequin dress and pull out the baggy old tracksuit? Time to embrace being a 'punter' and join the (un)orderly queue of all those who gave up on their dreams?
Ah, if only it were that easy. If only I wasn't petrified of turning into a wretched, despondant drug-adled nasty alcoholic in later years...
Where's that bloody prozac then? Or maybe I just need a good sleep and sunny day. It could be as simple as that. (Mind you, winning the lottery, buying myself an island and turning into a mad recluse for the rest of my life also feels pretty damn appealing at present...donations this way please.)
Friday, 22 June 2007
Europe Vs. North America
I'm back in Toronto, Canada for my yearly visit. Ever since I left here (in '96) I've managed a trip back at least once a year. Some visits have been amazing and left me wistfully (if briefly) flirting with the idea of coming back here to live...but if I'm truthful, it's easy to don rose-coloured specs when it comes to my home town, simply because I know I don't have to stay here.
I suppose the fact that I spend most of my time down on the Harbourfront lends itself to idealising this fair city. I'm not so sure the suburbs would hold such appeal (although a private swimming pool and lots of space seem like heaven to me), nor would a backwater town where the only local entertainment is 'karaoke night' in a tragic 'nightclub' cum bar. But down here at Harbourfront with the gorgeous expanse of sparkling blue waters, peacefully gliding sailboats and a becoming promenade, it's hard to think of anywhere else that is this delightful in summer. (Let's not even go into how this heavenly summer paradise turns into a desolate icy wasteland in winter...when it gets so cold sometimes that it hurts to breathe outside. The only thing for it is to get drunk in your basement 'rec room' as often as possible, watch a lot of television and sports, and stuff your face on the plentiful array of junk foods available everywhere.)
In London in the summer, if you can find yourself in a park with some mates and a few bottles of chilled 'Sancerre' then there is no reason not to be utterly blissed out and content. If however, you are commuting on the tube or bus and have to endure stifling journeys twice daily on an overcrowded transport system with your chin wedged right up someone sweaty armpit and inhaling various peoples stale breath - then it is hell. The pollution in summer seems to solidify and at times you feel like you're actually swallowing the car fumes and hot pungeant air. Tourists abound and it's a daily fight to even get near hotspots like Westminster Bridge and Southbank. Italiens, Polish, Japanese and eager Americans all walk six abreast in their sandals and 'crazy' t-shirts, snapping every old building they come across (and believe me there are a few) and paying no heed as to whether there is a huge queue behind them waiting to pass. When you're hot and irritable and need to be somewhere in a hurry it's tempting to fantasise about shoving the odd one onto the road where a crazy London motorcyclist may very well dispense with them. Evil thoughts I know - but living in close quarters with annoying neighbours and oblivious tourists in an overcrowded city often brings out the worst in poeple.
Conversely, it is so refreshing to walk into a store in Toronto and instead of being simply ignored, be greeted with an enthusiastic hello and an offer to help you locate something. Customer service is important here in Canada, but not so in London. There, if you can even get the attention of sales staff, they'll get pissed off if they're interrupted while conversing with a co-worker...that is if they don't just ignore you altogether while you stand there making uncomfortable grimaces and saying 'excuse me' over and over like a twat.
What i always find amusing, everytime i come here, is how locals always ask me where i'm from as they can't 'place' my accent. Basically, just because i don't speak with a Canadian twang they assume I have an accent when in reality i'm just speaking with a 'mid-atlantic' tone. But it must be said that whenever i spend more than a few weeks here, when I go back to London I inevitably speak a little strangely for the first few weeks - this is even more the case when i've been to the deep south of America. For whatever the reason I assimilate North American accents into my voice yet can't for the life of me pass off a realistic British accent. This means that every single time I take a cab in London i invariably get taken round 'the long way' and asked how long i'm visiting for. There are benefits though. If i ever get caught without a valid ticket on a journey in the UK I simply look up innocently, put on the 'twang' and claim to be a naive tourist. Works a treat.
I suppose the fact that I spend most of my time down on the Harbourfront lends itself to idealising this fair city. I'm not so sure the suburbs would hold such appeal (although a private swimming pool and lots of space seem like heaven to me), nor would a backwater town where the only local entertainment is 'karaoke night' in a tragic 'nightclub' cum bar. But down here at Harbourfront with the gorgeous expanse of sparkling blue waters, peacefully gliding sailboats and a becoming promenade, it's hard to think of anywhere else that is this delightful in summer. (Let's not even go into how this heavenly summer paradise turns into a desolate icy wasteland in winter...when it gets so cold sometimes that it hurts to breathe outside. The only thing for it is to get drunk in your basement 'rec room' as often as possible, watch a lot of television and sports, and stuff your face on the plentiful array of junk foods available everywhere.)
In London in the summer, if you can find yourself in a park with some mates and a few bottles of chilled 'Sancerre' then there is no reason not to be utterly blissed out and content. If however, you are commuting on the tube or bus and have to endure stifling journeys twice daily on an overcrowded transport system with your chin wedged right up someone sweaty armpit and inhaling various peoples stale breath - then it is hell. The pollution in summer seems to solidify and at times you feel like you're actually swallowing the car fumes and hot pungeant air. Tourists abound and it's a daily fight to even get near hotspots like Westminster Bridge and Southbank. Italiens, Polish, Japanese and eager Americans all walk six abreast in their sandals and 'crazy' t-shirts, snapping every old building they come across (and believe me there are a few) and paying no heed as to whether there is a huge queue behind them waiting to pass. When you're hot and irritable and need to be somewhere in a hurry it's tempting to fantasise about shoving the odd one onto the road where a crazy London motorcyclist may very well dispense with them. Evil thoughts I know - but living in close quarters with annoying neighbours and oblivious tourists in an overcrowded city often brings out the worst in poeple.
Conversely, it is so refreshing to walk into a store in Toronto and instead of being simply ignored, be greeted with an enthusiastic hello and an offer to help you locate something. Customer service is important here in Canada, but not so in London. There, if you can even get the attention of sales staff, they'll get pissed off if they're interrupted while conversing with a co-worker...that is if they don't just ignore you altogether while you stand there making uncomfortable grimaces and saying 'excuse me' over and over like a twat.
What i always find amusing, everytime i come here, is how locals always ask me where i'm from as they can't 'place' my accent. Basically, just because i don't speak with a Canadian twang they assume I have an accent when in reality i'm just speaking with a 'mid-atlantic' tone. But it must be said that whenever i spend more than a few weeks here, when I go back to London I inevitably speak a little strangely for the first few weeks - this is even more the case when i've been to the deep south of America. For whatever the reason I assimilate North American accents into my voice yet can't for the life of me pass off a realistic British accent. This means that every single time I take a cab in London i invariably get taken round 'the long way' and asked how long i'm visiting for. There are benefits though. If i ever get caught without a valid ticket on a journey in the UK I simply look up innocently, put on the 'twang' and claim to be a naive tourist. Works a treat.
Sunday, 10 June 2007
EUROVISION HELL...LOSING IT
Okay, so how do you explain this? It's been ages since i've had the time to sit down and pound out (mentally and on my poor battered synth) a new tune - despite my constant desire and best of intentions. Stupid stuff like banking blunders, nasty ebay sellers, dire mobile phone customer service operators, etc. keep stealing my precious leisure time...not that there is even that much to begin with!
Telly series come and go (yes, alright, i confess - none too proudly - that i'm a pathetic telly addict), seasons do the same, and right when strawberries are back in season I'm reminded that life is just slipping away...and me with it. Which brings me to my point. You know how many inspired artists always say that their ideas just 'popped unbidden' into their heads? Well, it's a feeling I relate too as that has always been the case with me. 99% inspiration and 1% perspiration (which could explain the plethora of musical tracks lying resolutely on my hard drive and the lack of any record deals.....but i digress).
I awoke this morning with a start to realise that the 'gods' of artistic inspiration are angry with me. No, they're pissed actually. I know this because I awoke to a fully formed 'Eurovion-esque' Turkish/Maltese melody along with equally revolting accompanying lyrics in my head. The more I tried to block the cheese-tastic euro beats pounding away merciously in my brain, the more they took over and new and more grotesque lines wrote themselves line after line.So, I'm going to do what any other self-respecting telly head would do in my position. I'm going to go shove some m&m's down my throat, inhale a giant cappucino and flip on E4 to see the latest Big Brother shananigans until my head returns to normal. If it doesn't, then at least I'll enjoy my sugar comedown whilst watching unfortunates even stupider than myself. Adios.
Telly series come and go (yes, alright, i confess - none too proudly - that i'm a pathetic telly addict), seasons do the same, and right when strawberries are back in season I'm reminded that life is just slipping away...and me with it. Which brings me to my point. You know how many inspired artists always say that their ideas just 'popped unbidden' into their heads? Well, it's a feeling I relate too as that has always been the case with me. 99% inspiration and 1% perspiration (which could explain the plethora of musical tracks lying resolutely on my hard drive and the lack of any record deals.....but i digress).
I awoke this morning with a start to realise that the 'gods' of artistic inspiration are angry with me. No, they're pissed actually. I know this because I awoke to a fully formed 'Eurovion-esque' Turkish/Maltese melody along with equally revolting accompanying lyrics in my head. The more I tried to block the cheese-tastic euro beats pounding away merciously in my brain, the more they took over and new and more grotesque lines wrote themselves line after line.So, I'm going to do what any other self-respecting telly head would do in my position. I'm going to go shove some m&m's down my throat, inhale a giant cappucino and flip on E4 to see the latest Big Brother shananigans until my head returns to normal. If it doesn't, then at least I'll enjoy my sugar comedown whilst watching unfortunates even stupider than myself. Adios.
Thursday, 10 May 2007
okay, so here is what i was wondering...my favourite stephen king novel is actually a short story called, 'the long walk' wherein a group of people prepare to walk a race which only one of them can win. i first read it in university and i remember feeling so INSPIRED when i finished it. it was like a clarion call to arms to those of us who had deep, passionate dreams we wanted to fulfull and who viewed the world as limitless in possibility and didn't truly know the realities of scope. i felt like the story was meant as a personal message to me and swore that i would never forget how i felt and would never, ever stop trying to achieve my dreams.
well it just so happens that there are three things i have always wanted to do since i can remember (around age 5 is when i first recall that distinct hunger that came from deep inside...standing in the school playground vowing never to have an 'ordinary' job like my teacher, but to make songs, write books and be an actress. Those three things have always been what i desire most. However as the years have progressed i've fallen a bit out of love with acting (all that waiting around, the almost impossibility of getting hired in the UK when i steadfastly cling onto my north atlantic accent, and the distaste of imagining all the lewd love scenes i might have to grimace through while 'paying my dues'.....so no...i put that to one side.) As for the writing, although i've kept journals my whole life, and indeed have gotten a few pieces published here and there, i feel that writing is something i shall do until the day i die and I do not really feel like devoting every waking hour to painstakingly carving out the plot of a novel i might lose interest in halfway through.
No, music is my baby. It's the thing that makes me feel most alive, most real, and quite simply, most happy. All my life i've been making up songs - when i was a child i would relish the times i was alone in the house so i could play at being on an imaginary stage and belt out my recent compositions. ( I would like it to be noted however that i never, ever, attempted dance moves..even from that early age hop-stepping around, gyrating and general sexy lewd manoeverings were never my thing. Girl band fodder i am not!)
I am however, one of those people who have had a soundtrack accompany them throughout their lives. i never just went grocery shopping. i always had a tape player/cd player/mini disc/ipod jammed into my ears and would keep time with the drums and bass as i went about my life. Music makes the world truly 3D. It gets me high. It keeps me sane. It moves me like nothing else can, or ever will.
So anyway, recently i re-read 'The Long Walk' and it kind of freaked me out. The story hadn't changed, but i had. The flush of anticipation upon finishing it was exchanged for a deep-seated feeling of dread. I'm older, wiser, and more jaded. My naivety has been somewhat replaced by realism. Is it too late? When is it too late? But you know what......?
If one person - preferably someone i don't even know...might one night, play one of my songs and feel something...anything...then i will have succeeded. Then I will somehow be connected to all that music (and the musicians) who have sustained me and my spirit over the years. That's all i want.
oh yeah, and a big fat record deal so i could produce my songs properly also wouldn't go amiss :)
better sign off before i get too heavy (but maybe it's too late for that)
laters
me
well it just so happens that there are three things i have always wanted to do since i can remember (around age 5 is when i first recall that distinct hunger that came from deep inside...standing in the school playground vowing never to have an 'ordinary' job like my teacher, but to make songs, write books and be an actress. Those three things have always been what i desire most. However as the years have progressed i've fallen a bit out of love with acting (all that waiting around, the almost impossibility of getting hired in the UK when i steadfastly cling onto my north atlantic accent, and the distaste of imagining all the lewd love scenes i might have to grimace through while 'paying my dues'.....so no...i put that to one side.) As for the writing, although i've kept journals my whole life, and indeed have gotten a few pieces published here and there, i feel that writing is something i shall do until the day i die and I do not really feel like devoting every waking hour to painstakingly carving out the plot of a novel i might lose interest in halfway through.
No, music is my baby. It's the thing that makes me feel most alive, most real, and quite simply, most happy. All my life i've been making up songs - when i was a child i would relish the times i was alone in the house so i could play at being on an imaginary stage and belt out my recent compositions. ( I would like it to be noted however that i never, ever, attempted dance moves..even from that early age hop-stepping around, gyrating and general sexy lewd manoeverings were never my thing. Girl band fodder i am not!)
I am however, one of those people who have had a soundtrack accompany them throughout their lives. i never just went grocery shopping. i always had a tape player/cd player/mini disc/ipod jammed into my ears and would keep time with the drums and bass as i went about my life. Music makes the world truly 3D. It gets me high. It keeps me sane. It moves me like nothing else can, or ever will.
So anyway, recently i re-read 'The Long Walk' and it kind of freaked me out. The story hadn't changed, but i had. The flush of anticipation upon finishing it was exchanged for a deep-seated feeling of dread. I'm older, wiser, and more jaded. My naivety has been somewhat replaced by realism. Is it too late? When is it too late? But you know what......?
If one person - preferably someone i don't even know...might one night, play one of my songs and feel something...anything...then i will have succeeded. Then I will somehow be connected to all that music (and the musicians) who have sustained me and my spirit over the years. That's all i want.
oh yeah, and a big fat record deal so i could produce my songs properly also wouldn't go amiss :)
better sign off before i get too heavy (but maybe it's too late for that)
laters
me
TREADING WATER
I've been quiet for awhile. A combination of having had a lot going on in my personal life and not feeling like i've had anything terribly important to say. I'm going through my 'Treading Water' phase at the moment. Don't misunderstand - i'm not saving the world or busy volunteering at a charity...nor am I out caning it every night or working too hard at a job i despise. No, i'm simply caught up in the prickly business of living. And not doing terribly well at it in my opinion.
There is one interesting thing I've realised. When i was younger, I felt utterly swept away on tides of emotions. I'm sure some of it was hormonal, chemical, substance-induced, whatever....But I was also more prone to turbulant tossing and turning if circumstance had been kind/unkind to me. I literally felt like a helpless prisoner and just tried my best to stay above water so to speak, and ride the waves. These days though, I am so self-aware (not entirely a good thing, but whatever) that I know what phase I'm in when I stop and think about it. That's why I mentioned earlier that I'm in my 'Treading Water' phase. This particular part of my unique (possibly warped) cycle, indicates that I currently have no energy for pursuing new things/friends/endeavors at the moment. I don't just mean that I'm devoid of physical energy, but that emotionally and mentally I've navel-gazed myself into a familiar hole and now, much like a disgruntled polar bear i've got to wait out the hibernation until i feel ready to tackle the world again.
This stage could last hours, days or weeks. I've really no idea. Sometimes, not dissimiliar to that old game of 'Snakes n' Ladders' I can slide down to the depths suddenly and without warning (ie. get some bad news...experience a big personal setback). Or coversely a set of steps might magically appear before me (an unexpected windfall....a great job...some amazing news) lifting me immediately out of this place into the better and far happier land of 'Anything Might Happen."
This is my favourite place. It's where I feel most amazing, and wait for good fortune to find me. I am at my most 'smile-iest', i exude confidence (if for no other reason than I AM confidant), and I notice that people are more drawn to me because I'm radiating such positive energy.
And therein lies the crux. Just like you need money to make money, you need a bit of good fortune or good luck to kickstart an otherwise humdrum life. Maybe it's an amazing job you aren't necessarily qualified for that you somehow manage to bag...or maybe you meet the most amazing person completey as a fluke and realise that they are the 'soulmate' you've never believed existed...or you're cleaning out your drawers and come across an envelope stuffed full of notes that you completely forgot you had...or your agent rings you out of the blue with an amazing job which will pay you a fortune and turn you into a player once again....or.....or just something which takes your from your current mundane state and turns you into a 'contender'. In literature I believe it's referred to as, 'Fortune smiling down upon you'.
Is it selfish to wish for more than you have? Certainly in this day and age it is. There are starving, tortured souls scattered around the world. But by the same token, there are individuals around the globe who are living fulfilled, captivating lives. They are making a difference, meeting extraordinary people, seeing their dreams come to fruition, or maybe even just having so much fun it's criminal. It really depends on where you want to place yourself on the human map. Do you want to carve out a cosy, comfy existence for yourself...a niche where you and your mates can block out the rest of the world, drink wine and proliferate on all things amusing and strange? Create your own 'Neverland' and coast through life blissfully chilled with the psychological buffer of lots of friends and lots of laughs? Nice one...you're lucky if that's an option.
Maybe you want to sell up, consolidate your life and take off on an amazing journey around the world...becoming someone of no fixed address and no idea where you'll be in five years (let alone five months). If this is so, then I salute you. There is a big old world out there with more adventures than you could ever experience in a million lifetimes, so you may as well tuck in and get started.
Perhaps you are in a job or career where you've smashed the glass ceiling and are flying high into the unknown and are in a position to do better than you ever imagined you could. You're a mover and shaker set to acquire riches, win that coveted title, or retire early; maybe even start up your own successful business....the stratosphere awaits and in that case what is there to say but 'go for it'.
There are a million possible outcomes for even the most mundane of lives. It's the duty of each of us to find our own way and pursue our own inevitable destiny. Only some of us don't believe in that, and merely try and survive this life. Others believe in 'it' when we're young and slowly the reality of life beats it out of us until we no longer remember ever believing in more than we can see in front of our eyes. Still others will always be aware of a niggling feeling deep inside. Some inkling of burning dissatisfaction which will remain with us till the day we die. That 'could have been/would have been/should have been' other destiny which our lives merely alluded to but never fully explored. This could end up being tragic unless you learn to live with it or reconcile yourself to never knowing and no longer caring.
As for me, I fall into the broad category of 'tortured artist' (sigh) but am filed deep down into my own sub-section of tragi/comic angst. Yes, I'm a cliche. I'm a living breathing 'wannabe'....but I don't wannabe anybody but the person I'm supposed to be. Only sometimes it all gets too exhuasting and confusing and I feel like I really can't be bothered ('Treading Water'). As i've mentioned in earlier blogs, I've had the same dreams since i was five years old, and I have no real excuse for not achieving them. In my case ignorance would be bliss, but given that I am devoid of such an excuse than I'll just have to hobble along, hoping for a bit of good fortune, a helping hand, a kindred spirit to bolster my faith, some sign that i'm on the right path and everything will work out in the end. I'll try and 'keep the faith' regardless of the fact that I sometimes feel like holding my breath till i pass out.
There is one interesting thing I've realised. When i was younger, I felt utterly swept away on tides of emotions. I'm sure some of it was hormonal, chemical, substance-induced, whatever....But I was also more prone to turbulant tossing and turning if circumstance had been kind/unkind to me. I literally felt like a helpless prisoner and just tried my best to stay above water so to speak, and ride the waves. These days though, I am so self-aware (not entirely a good thing, but whatever) that I know what phase I'm in when I stop and think about it. That's why I mentioned earlier that I'm in my 'Treading Water' phase. This particular part of my unique (possibly warped) cycle, indicates that I currently have no energy for pursuing new things/friends/endeavors at the moment. I don't just mean that I'm devoid of physical energy, but that emotionally and mentally I've navel-gazed myself into a familiar hole and now, much like a disgruntled polar bear i've got to wait out the hibernation until i feel ready to tackle the world again.
This stage could last hours, days or weeks. I've really no idea. Sometimes, not dissimiliar to that old game of 'Snakes n' Ladders' I can slide down to the depths suddenly and without warning (ie. get some bad news...experience a big personal setback). Or coversely a set of steps might magically appear before me (an unexpected windfall....a great job...some amazing news) lifting me immediately out of this place into the better and far happier land of 'Anything Might Happen."
This is my favourite place. It's where I feel most amazing, and wait for good fortune to find me. I am at my most 'smile-iest', i exude confidence (if for no other reason than I AM confidant), and I notice that people are more drawn to me because I'm radiating such positive energy.
And therein lies the crux. Just like you need money to make money, you need a bit of good fortune or good luck to kickstart an otherwise humdrum life. Maybe it's an amazing job you aren't necessarily qualified for that you somehow manage to bag...or maybe you meet the most amazing person completey as a fluke and realise that they are the 'soulmate' you've never believed existed...or you're cleaning out your drawers and come across an envelope stuffed full of notes that you completely forgot you had...or your agent rings you out of the blue with an amazing job which will pay you a fortune and turn you into a player once again....or.....or just something which takes your from your current mundane state and turns you into a 'contender'. In literature I believe it's referred to as, 'Fortune smiling down upon you'.
Is it selfish to wish for more than you have? Certainly in this day and age it is. There are starving, tortured souls scattered around the world. But by the same token, there are individuals around the globe who are living fulfilled, captivating lives. They are making a difference, meeting extraordinary people, seeing their dreams come to fruition, or maybe even just having so much fun it's criminal. It really depends on where you want to place yourself on the human map. Do you want to carve out a cosy, comfy existence for yourself...a niche where you and your mates can block out the rest of the world, drink wine and proliferate on all things amusing and strange? Create your own 'Neverland' and coast through life blissfully chilled with the psychological buffer of lots of friends and lots of laughs? Nice one...you're lucky if that's an option.
Maybe you want to sell up, consolidate your life and take off on an amazing journey around the world...becoming someone of no fixed address and no idea where you'll be in five years (let alone five months). If this is so, then I salute you. There is a big old world out there with more adventures than you could ever experience in a million lifetimes, so you may as well tuck in and get started.
Perhaps you are in a job or career where you've smashed the glass ceiling and are flying high into the unknown and are in a position to do better than you ever imagined you could. You're a mover and shaker set to acquire riches, win that coveted title, or retire early; maybe even start up your own successful business....the stratosphere awaits and in that case what is there to say but 'go for it'.
There are a million possible outcomes for even the most mundane of lives. It's the duty of each of us to find our own way and pursue our own inevitable destiny. Only some of us don't believe in that, and merely try and survive this life. Others believe in 'it' when we're young and slowly the reality of life beats it out of us until we no longer remember ever believing in more than we can see in front of our eyes. Still others will always be aware of a niggling feeling deep inside. Some inkling of burning dissatisfaction which will remain with us till the day we die. That 'could have been/would have been/should have been' other destiny which our lives merely alluded to but never fully explored. This could end up being tragic unless you learn to live with it or reconcile yourself to never knowing and no longer caring.
As for me, I fall into the broad category of 'tortured artist' (sigh) but am filed deep down into my own sub-section of tragi/comic angst. Yes, I'm a cliche. I'm a living breathing 'wannabe'....but I don't wannabe anybody but the person I'm supposed to be. Only sometimes it all gets too exhuasting and confusing and I feel like I really can't be bothered ('Treading Water'). As i've mentioned in earlier blogs, I've had the same dreams since i was five years old, and I have no real excuse for not achieving them. In my case ignorance would be bliss, but given that I am devoid of such an excuse than I'll just have to hobble along, hoping for a bit of good fortune, a helping hand, a kindred spirit to bolster my faith, some sign that i'm on the right path and everything will work out in the end. I'll try and 'keep the faith' regardless of the fact that I sometimes feel like holding my breath till i pass out.
WHY CAN'T I BE YOU...LALALALALALALALA
he other day I was in a department store, strolling around, ipod plugged in, minding my own business - when all the sudden I was interrupted by an over-eager, lipglossed and cherry-cheeked lass trying to block my way and gesticulating wildly. I popped out my left earphone and this rather cheeky girl asked if I wanted to try out a 'new look'. Umm...no i didn't. Why oh why do cosmetic companies hire garish looking girls to flog premium beauty products? And why on earth would I let someone who looks like a demented clown loose on MY face?
Along the same lines, I fail to see how people are taken in by chubby telly-stars flouting 'get-fit' videos. Even the ones who are working a new, 'improved' body are taking the piss given that they've either been airbrushed within an inch of their lives, have just had liposuction, or have been on a ridiculous slim-fast starvation diet and will beef up again twice as large while their dvds are still selling at Woolworths. And there will be millions of dejected suburban housewives chugging away in their front rooms, pressing rewind and munching on jaffa cakes, wondering why they're not looking like their favourite star yet?
All the magazines these days are filled with images of celebrities going about their lives with rather nice clothes, expensive sunglasses and sumptious arm candy in form of handbags costing as much as secondhand cars. Fair enough if you suffer envy once in awhile for such nonchalont wealth on parade - that's normal enough. But to envy such vacuous, trite 'celebra-sluts' their lives and personas, and try to emulate them in every way going is a bit sad methinks. I mean, all these stupid perfumes that come out (every celebrity worth their weight in botox have one) are simply a marketing tool devised to make an overpaid famous sort even MORE wealthy. The scents are rank and not a little tacky. Not the best way to relieve yourself of £29.95.
Let's get one thing straight you famous folk out there: "I do not want to smell like you, dress like you, talk like you, act like you or live your life!" Once in awhile it would be nice to have nothing more to worry about then fitting into skinny jeans and dining in public whilst consuming no more than 35 calories. But i do not buy into the fact that now you're famous I should want to BE you.
But hey - the big house, personal chef and first class flight tickets? Sure - hand 'em over.
Along the same lines, I fail to see how people are taken in by chubby telly-stars flouting 'get-fit' videos. Even the ones who are working a new, 'improved' body are taking the piss given that they've either been airbrushed within an inch of their lives, have just had liposuction, or have been on a ridiculous slim-fast starvation diet and will beef up again twice as large while their dvds are still selling at Woolworths. And there will be millions of dejected suburban housewives chugging away in their front rooms, pressing rewind and munching on jaffa cakes, wondering why they're not looking like their favourite star yet?
All the magazines these days are filled with images of celebrities going about their lives with rather nice clothes, expensive sunglasses and sumptious arm candy in form of handbags costing as much as secondhand cars. Fair enough if you suffer envy once in awhile for such nonchalont wealth on parade - that's normal enough. But to envy such vacuous, trite 'celebra-sluts' their lives and personas, and try to emulate them in every way going is a bit sad methinks. I mean, all these stupid perfumes that come out (every celebrity worth their weight in botox have one) are simply a marketing tool devised to make an overpaid famous sort even MORE wealthy. The scents are rank and not a little tacky. Not the best way to relieve yourself of £29.95.
Let's get one thing straight you famous folk out there: "I do not want to smell like you, dress like you, talk like you, act like you or live your life!" Once in awhile it would be nice to have nothing more to worry about then fitting into skinny jeans and dining in public whilst consuming no more than 35 calories. But i do not buy into the fact that now you're famous I should want to BE you.
But hey - the big house, personal chef and first class flight tickets? Sure - hand 'em over.
THE EYES HAVE IT
THE EYES HAVE IT
I find myself thinking about 'eyes' tonight. It's extremely difficult to hide your true self when someone is looking deep into your eyes. Maybe that's why so many rock stars wear shades. It's not just the 'cool factor' - it's the desire to keep the most real and vulnerable side of yourself hidden from adoring fans and nosy journalists. It would also explain why peoples eyes often dart about when they're lying or are nervous.
I have this horrible problem whereby when i'm speaking passionately about something close to my heart, a bit of sentiment creeps out unbidden from my eyes and if the person i happen to be speaking with is observant, they are likely to catch a glimpse of my vulnerability. But vulnerability and emotion doesn't always come via ones peepholes I suppose.
A few years back I was at a Morrissey concert and was taken aback by the sheer number of fans who had paid their respect by wearing flowers in breast pockets and sporting rather elaborate quiffs. Some fans looked like builders and others like office geeks, but the sincere flattery displayed was as intense in either case. Their devotion was laid bare with almost a cathartic element to it. Idol worship normally acted out behind bedroom doors with hairbrush 'mics' was on show for all to see .
For some, showing up at a Morrissey concert dressed like their hero is akin to letting someone catch a glimpse of real emotion in their eyes. It's no less potent - betraying a touching devotion and vulnerability. Maybe they lack the words to aptly convey their adoration. Or maybe cloning themselves after him is the best way they can honour him and the poignant memories of their youth which are conjured up when they hear his songs.
You'll never find me playing 'ecstatic punter' or waving a lighter in the night air while a heartfelt ballad is being played out on stage. Nor will you ever catch me paying homage to my musical heroes in any outward, fashionista-type way (though i don't look down on those who do). No, you're much more likely to find me mesmerised with a far-away look in my eyes while listening to my favourite songs. It's my Achilles heel. My weak point. Damn those eyes...
I find myself thinking about 'eyes' tonight. It's extremely difficult to hide your true self when someone is looking deep into your eyes. Maybe that's why so many rock stars wear shades. It's not just the 'cool factor' - it's the desire to keep the most real and vulnerable side of yourself hidden from adoring fans and nosy journalists. It would also explain why peoples eyes often dart about when they're lying or are nervous.
I have this horrible problem whereby when i'm speaking passionately about something close to my heart, a bit of sentiment creeps out unbidden from my eyes and if the person i happen to be speaking with is observant, they are likely to catch a glimpse of my vulnerability. But vulnerability and emotion doesn't always come via ones peepholes I suppose.
A few years back I was at a Morrissey concert and was taken aback by the sheer number of fans who had paid their respect by wearing flowers in breast pockets and sporting rather elaborate quiffs. Some fans looked like builders and others like office geeks, but the sincere flattery displayed was as intense in either case. Their devotion was laid bare with almost a cathartic element to it. Idol worship normally acted out behind bedroom doors with hairbrush 'mics' was on show for all to see .
For some, showing up at a Morrissey concert dressed like their hero is akin to letting someone catch a glimpse of real emotion in their eyes. It's no less potent - betraying a touching devotion and vulnerability. Maybe they lack the words to aptly convey their adoration. Or maybe cloning themselves after him is the best way they can honour him and the poignant memories of their youth which are conjured up when they hear his songs.
You'll never find me playing 'ecstatic punter' or waving a lighter in the night air while a heartfelt ballad is being played out on stage. Nor will you ever catch me paying homage to my musical heroes in any outward, fashionista-type way (though i don't look down on those who do). No, you're much more likely to find me mesmerised with a far-away look in my eyes while listening to my favourite songs. It's my Achilles heel. My weak point. Damn those eyes...
WHO LET HER OUT?
The other day i was baking a lemon poppyseed cake from scratch and as i transferred it piping hot from the loaf tin onto a plate (because i had slightly overcooked it and didn't want it to get any harder) it fell apart into pieces. I had a huge strop and slammed my fist on the kitchen counter before storming off to have a HOT, HOT bath - scalding in fact. My bad mood lasted around 18 minutes or so, and as I sat fuming in the bath, skin red and no doubt drying out at an alarming rate - i realised that I had serious problems if a failed cake could send me plunging into the depths of despair.
Now in all fairness, a lemon poppyseed cake is fairly involved to make. You have to painstakingly grate the lemon rind (such a pain as you often catch your skin on the grater and it really kills - not to mention how dreadfully slow and thankless a task it is), then squeeze fresh lemon juice, and measure all sorts of piddly measurements for the other ingredients - it calls for 1 and a half eggs and that is such a bitch to do!
All in all, even if it did take over an hour to prepare, the fact that it had fallen to pieces and then i had quickly followed suit, would mean that i was either a) suffering from a severe eating disorder whereby the sense of anticipation cut cruelly short by the destruction of a much longed-for treat meant that i came unhinged and should therefore be closely observed for other signs of anti-social behaviour ....OR..... b) I was projecting my anger and/or disappointment about something else onto my failed cake and was therefore only marginally disturbed and should be approached with bemusement not caution.
A few days later i found myself in Covent Garden queuing up to use the Lloyds cash machine and there were two queues to choose from and i chose what i thought to be the shorter one when in fact i got stuck in the slowest queue I've ever been in(!) behind two sets of equally annoying tourists (one an Italian mother/daughter combo who looked like they may have well been the village idiots and didn't have either a grasp of the concept of pressing buttons on a machine or indeed the fact that money should be withdrawn in ONE go not several withdrawals of £20...I lost count).
As the other queue moved briskly along I could feel my blood pressure rising and I began to get more and more annoyed, but was too stubborn to change queues, even though people would walk by, stand behind me for a few minutes then change to the other queue, take out their money and walk away, smiling at me sympathetically. Bottom line was when i FINALLY got to the front of my queue I had completely lost the plot and was muttering under my breath about how moronic the people in front of me were - using rather imaginative but horrific terminology, and I was attracting a few stares so maybe it was slightly more audible than i thought, but i didn't care. I realised i was looking like a crazy person as I withdrew my money and stomped off - but i was too far gone to put a halt to it. Clearly, again I had to conclude that I was either a lunatic or merely projecting some internal frustration onto some hapless (and terribly annoying) tourists who may have been unthoughtful but surely didn't deserve the death penalty.
I suppose it must be said that underneath my usual chilled, slightly cynical but nonetheless harmless exterior, lurks a lot of displaced passion which needs an outlet. I need to do the creative equivalent of a bungee jump. I need to throw caution to the wind and allow the pieces of my life to rain down on my head in little shreds which i can then use to paper mache together something incredible. I need to write a new song. It might well be time to move from electro to heavy metal.
Now in all fairness, a lemon poppyseed cake is fairly involved to make. You have to painstakingly grate the lemon rind (such a pain as you often catch your skin on the grater and it really kills - not to mention how dreadfully slow and thankless a task it is), then squeeze fresh lemon juice, and measure all sorts of piddly measurements for the other ingredients - it calls for 1 and a half eggs and that is such a bitch to do!
All in all, even if it did take over an hour to prepare, the fact that it had fallen to pieces and then i had quickly followed suit, would mean that i was either a) suffering from a severe eating disorder whereby the sense of anticipation cut cruelly short by the destruction of a much longed-for treat meant that i came unhinged and should therefore be closely observed for other signs of anti-social behaviour ....OR..... b) I was projecting my anger and/or disappointment about something else onto my failed cake and was therefore only marginally disturbed and should be approached with bemusement not caution.
A few days later i found myself in Covent Garden queuing up to use the Lloyds cash machine and there were two queues to choose from and i chose what i thought to be the shorter one when in fact i got stuck in the slowest queue I've ever been in(!) behind two sets of equally annoying tourists (one an Italian mother/daughter combo who looked like they may have well been the village idiots and didn't have either a grasp of the concept of pressing buttons on a machine or indeed the fact that money should be withdrawn in ONE go not several withdrawals of £20...I lost count).
As the other queue moved briskly along I could feel my blood pressure rising and I began to get more and more annoyed, but was too stubborn to change queues, even though people would walk by, stand behind me for a few minutes then change to the other queue, take out their money and walk away, smiling at me sympathetically. Bottom line was when i FINALLY got to the front of my queue I had completely lost the plot and was muttering under my breath about how moronic the people in front of me were - using rather imaginative but horrific terminology, and I was attracting a few stares so maybe it was slightly more audible than i thought, but i didn't care. I realised i was looking like a crazy person as I withdrew my money and stomped off - but i was too far gone to put a halt to it. Clearly, again I had to conclude that I was either a lunatic or merely projecting some internal frustration onto some hapless (and terribly annoying) tourists who may have been unthoughtful but surely didn't deserve the death penalty.
I suppose it must be said that underneath my usual chilled, slightly cynical but nonetheless harmless exterior, lurks a lot of displaced passion which needs an outlet. I need to do the creative equivalent of a bungee jump. I need to throw caution to the wind and allow the pieces of my life to rain down on my head in little shreds which i can then use to paper mache together something incredible. I need to write a new song. It might well be time to move from electro to heavy metal.
HERE'S ONE I THOUGHT UP EARLIER
OK, here's a little thought. Might be total bollocks but at the moment i'm sticking with it. You know how there is a general concensus out there that 'true artists' can only create when they are miserable/tormented? I grew up thinking that, and i suppose most everybody else did too (hence the prevalence of black garb amongst youth of a certain age and the unrequited love directed toward bands like The Cure, Nine Inch Nails, Morrissey, etc...when you're seveneen)
Anyway, for me it was true to the extent that i only finally got serious about making music when i was in a really dark place. It was what 'saved' me at that particular time. I won't be so melodramatic as to imply that i was headed towards an overdose, or fashioning nooses out of old bedclothes in my spare time. I was merely depressed. Not enought to warrant a prescription for Zoloft, but nonetheless I was merely 'getting through the days' and wishing my life away. Nothing particularly excited me and I sought invisibility on every level. Cut myself off from former friends, dove into the imaginary world cococted by literature and film, and generally went about like a giant LOSER (this isn't a view in retrospect - i was keenly aware of how lame i was at the time and didn't give a damn).
One day i happened to wander over to the Yamaha CS1x keyboard my partner had lying around the spare room, and i absentmindedly started playing with the keys and messing around with the effects. It amused me. Then suddenly as if i'd been smacked in the face, a tuneful melody started playing inside my head, and i found myself writing a song. It later became a tune called 'Aching Hearts' (haha...sounds like it was a soppy ballad but actually it was a rather 'Pet Shop Boys-ish' sounding electro treatise against sex, violence, fame and money....but i digress)
The point i'm trying to make (and rather clumsily at that) is that music swooped back into my life just when i needed it, and i spent the next two years doing very little else but writing songs. I'd barely finish the next one when i would hurriedly move onto the next tune waiting to be made. I was exhausted and couldn't keep up with the creative assembly queue in my head sometimes. I began to go days in my pajamas, matted hair and subsisting on crunchy nut cornflakes and sweets. The curtains would stay drawn, and only occasionally would i take a break, put my feet up, and watch the world go by on the busy street outside my window. The 'real world' ceased to interest me at all. All i cared about was beats, strings, vocals and transposing the music in my head into cakewalk on my computer.
It was a huge technological learning curve and I never quite mastered it, but I did produce a lot of songs in that time - some of which are still my favourites.
Eventually I created myself into a happy place, and for awhile I resurfaced in the real world again - content somewhat and full of pride for what i'd accomplished. Even if no one had heard the songs, I enjoyed listening to them and they made me feel good.
I noticed that I had gone from extremely miserable to extremely fulfilled and had barely noticed the transition. It was easy to create in this state as well, as i was spurred on by my personal satisfaction and desire. So began the seeds of my theory:
It is easiest to create artistically when you are either miserable/tormented OR ecstatically happy/successful.
It's the land of mediocrity which saps your energy. It's rhyming the words 'love' with 'above'. It's strumming another major chord. sipping yet another cup of sugary lukewarm tea and looking out your sunny window wishing you were picnicing in the park. It's realising that you're working on an average sounding song, with average (boring) lyrics, and feeling uninspired. That's when the muse disappears and you question everything and cruise monster.com for some 'creative job' which will net you loads of cash and make you forget that you haven't produced anything worthwhile in quite some time and aren't likely to...ever again.
So maybe if you can figure out how to surf between the agony and the ecstacy you'll have it made. Or made I'm completely wrong and just ranting because it's midnight, i can't sleep and i'm loving the hypnotic tip-tapping of my brand spanking new Apple Macbook. Hmmm..
Anyway, for me it was true to the extent that i only finally got serious about making music when i was in a really dark place. It was what 'saved' me at that particular time. I won't be so melodramatic as to imply that i was headed towards an overdose, or fashioning nooses out of old bedclothes in my spare time. I was merely depressed. Not enought to warrant a prescription for Zoloft, but nonetheless I was merely 'getting through the days' and wishing my life away. Nothing particularly excited me and I sought invisibility on every level. Cut myself off from former friends, dove into the imaginary world cococted by literature and film, and generally went about like a giant LOSER (this isn't a view in retrospect - i was keenly aware of how lame i was at the time and didn't give a damn).
One day i happened to wander over to the Yamaha CS1x keyboard my partner had lying around the spare room, and i absentmindedly started playing with the keys and messing around with the effects. It amused me. Then suddenly as if i'd been smacked in the face, a tuneful melody started playing inside my head, and i found myself writing a song. It later became a tune called 'Aching Hearts' (haha...sounds like it was a soppy ballad but actually it was a rather 'Pet Shop Boys-ish' sounding electro treatise against sex, violence, fame and money....but i digress)
The point i'm trying to make (and rather clumsily at that) is that music swooped back into my life just when i needed it, and i spent the next two years doing very little else but writing songs. I'd barely finish the next one when i would hurriedly move onto the next tune waiting to be made. I was exhausted and couldn't keep up with the creative assembly queue in my head sometimes. I began to go days in my pajamas, matted hair and subsisting on crunchy nut cornflakes and sweets. The curtains would stay drawn, and only occasionally would i take a break, put my feet up, and watch the world go by on the busy street outside my window. The 'real world' ceased to interest me at all. All i cared about was beats, strings, vocals and transposing the music in my head into cakewalk on my computer.
It was a huge technological learning curve and I never quite mastered it, but I did produce a lot of songs in that time - some of which are still my favourites.
Eventually I created myself into a happy place, and for awhile I resurfaced in the real world again - content somewhat and full of pride for what i'd accomplished. Even if no one had heard the songs, I enjoyed listening to them and they made me feel good.
I noticed that I had gone from extremely miserable to extremely fulfilled and had barely noticed the transition. It was easy to create in this state as well, as i was spurred on by my personal satisfaction and desire. So began the seeds of my theory:
It is easiest to create artistically when you are either miserable/tormented OR ecstatically happy/successful.
It's the land of mediocrity which saps your energy. It's rhyming the words 'love' with 'above'. It's strumming another major chord. sipping yet another cup of sugary lukewarm tea and looking out your sunny window wishing you were picnicing in the park. It's realising that you're working on an average sounding song, with average (boring) lyrics, and feeling uninspired. That's when the muse disappears and you question everything and cruise monster.com for some 'creative job' which will net you loads of cash and make you forget that you haven't produced anything worthwhile in quite some time and aren't likely to...ever again.
So maybe if you can figure out how to surf between the agony and the ecstacy you'll have it made. Or made I'm completely wrong and just ranting because it's midnight, i can't sleep and i'm loving the hypnotic tip-tapping of my brand spanking new Apple Macbook. Hmmm..
THE CULT OF CELEBRITY
I've been thinking lately about how the majority of people are envious of the rich and famous. It's just the way it is. Celebrities are paraded in front of us like choice meat: strutting down red carpets, being whisked past the hordes into first-class by over-eager assistants, being given preferential (and dare i say deferential) treatment at the hands of practically everyone, and having their airbrushed physiques laid out tantalisingly in magazine spreads for us to pore over and envy.
The most minute and mundane details of their uber-exciting lives are recounted and recalled with irrepressable glee by awestruck writers.
"Nicole Richie shaves her own legs"
"Gwyneth Paltrow is plagued with ingrown toenails."
"Madonna's son eats sugary lollipops"
As amusing as the celebrity world can be (it's all those divine dresses, embarrassing pics and outrageous rumours which i personally fall prey to) it is in reality terribly vacuous.
I daresay that for the most part, more fun is to be had at a raucous dinner party with ones oldest and best mates than most of these 'pay and display' PR functions where an obligatory grand entrance is made before pocketing a hefty sum, striking a pose and scuttering away with a goodie bag.
Doctors for instance (and i'm not just saying this because my darling dad is an orthopaedic surgeon) spend years eshuing frivolity and hedonism in favour of studying and research and the dreaded interning. Yes, they are eventually monetarily rewarded - but nowhere near the amount a young starlet is paid to flash her cosmetically enhanced bosum on celluoid for ten seconds.
One of the songs I have up on myspace ("I'm All Over You") is not an ode to an ex-boyfriend, but rather the plea of a deluded fan to his/her celebrity idol. The idea came about after reading HEAT magazine one day (yes - guilty as charged - need it for the tv listings innit) and an article about how some fans were let down by not getting an autograph from their beloved movie star.
Ah there's the rub. It's not enough to produce decent music/films/art/fashion/etc. for your adoring public. You also have to look amazing, be accessible, yet still maintain that air of the unattainable. Perch seductively on your pedastal but make sure to hop down now and again for a bit of hokey-pokey with the great unwashed. A thankless job. At least they get handsomely paid for it.
The most minute and mundane details of their uber-exciting lives are recounted and recalled with irrepressable glee by awestruck writers.
"Nicole Richie shaves her own legs"
"Gwyneth Paltrow is plagued with ingrown toenails."
"Madonna's son eats sugary lollipops"
As amusing as the celebrity world can be (it's all those divine dresses, embarrassing pics and outrageous rumours which i personally fall prey to) it is in reality terribly vacuous.
I daresay that for the most part, more fun is to be had at a raucous dinner party with ones oldest and best mates than most of these 'pay and display' PR functions where an obligatory grand entrance is made before pocketing a hefty sum, striking a pose and scuttering away with a goodie bag.
Doctors for instance (and i'm not just saying this because my darling dad is an orthopaedic surgeon) spend years eshuing frivolity and hedonism in favour of studying and research and the dreaded interning. Yes, they are eventually monetarily rewarded - but nowhere near the amount a young starlet is paid to flash her cosmetically enhanced bosum on celluoid for ten seconds.
One of the songs I have up on myspace ("I'm All Over You") is not an ode to an ex-boyfriend, but rather the plea of a deluded fan to his/her celebrity idol. The idea came about after reading HEAT magazine one day (yes - guilty as charged - need it for the tv listings innit) and an article about how some fans were let down by not getting an autograph from their beloved movie star.
Ah there's the rub. It's not enough to produce decent music/films/art/fashion/etc. for your adoring public. You also have to look amazing, be accessible, yet still maintain that air of the unattainable. Perch seductively on your pedastal but make sure to hop down now and again for a bit of hokey-pokey with the great unwashed. A thankless job. At least they get handsomely paid for it.
WASTED YOUTH PART 2
So i wrote that little 'rhyming thot' the other night before bed. Did it in about 5 minutes - stream of consciousness kinda thing - not meant to be 'Dylan-esque' or anything ;)
I guess i've been consumed with thoughts of regret, hindsight, nostalgia, aching for that time of no responsibility when i was only accountable to my parents. When the world was helpfully marked out in 'easy to navigate' structures: go to uni, party, discuss bollocks at great length (and rather earnestly), buy clothes, smoke fags, drink, dance dance dance, daydream, flounce around in ridiculous fashion (and fashions), travel, meet anyone and everyone, have adventures....ahh, there's the rub.
I think i've just had a 'Eureka' moment. I think that's what is bothering me these days. I crave adventure and excitement. I want to have an unguessable outcome to my days. I want to wake up and not be sure where i'm sleeping that night, who i'll see, and what i'll get up to (and no - this does not mean i hanker for homelessness...just realised i sound like a middle-class moaner).
What i'm trying to say (and not terribly well) is that i crave SOMETHING. I want to be surprised, I want to have my head turned, i want to be confounded. I want to feel that flush of wonder like i used to feel when i was really young.
In those days i felt like my future stretched endlessly out before me. I decadently put goals aside, making a mental note to get back to them when i had finished having fun and really indulging myself in every way. I travelled the world for two years, i rode a motorbike all across India, i basked in foreign sunsets, i danced years away in nightclubs, I 'played' at being an adult in various jobs and professions (everything from advertising to encyclopedia salesperson to actress to 'media babe' (haha) - my last and final professional incarnation.
Now i am (cough) an aspiring musician. I say aspiring because i reckon until I get an album out to the world that that is what i'll only ever be. It's not that i need fame or recognition to validate my music - more like i'd feel vindicated and finally feel the glow of accomplishment and satisfaction that comes from being able to eek out a living (even if it turns out to be modest) from doing what i love...and what i feel i was meant to do.
So i'll plod on...navel gazing from time to time...and hope that in the words of my wise old ma, "The best is yet to come".
I guess i've been consumed with thoughts of regret, hindsight, nostalgia, aching for that time of no responsibility when i was only accountable to my parents. When the world was helpfully marked out in 'easy to navigate' structures: go to uni, party, discuss bollocks at great length (and rather earnestly), buy clothes, smoke fags, drink, dance dance dance, daydream, flounce around in ridiculous fashion (and fashions), travel, meet anyone and everyone, have adventures....ahh, there's the rub.
I think i've just had a 'Eureka' moment. I think that's what is bothering me these days. I crave adventure and excitement. I want to have an unguessable outcome to my days. I want to wake up and not be sure where i'm sleeping that night, who i'll see, and what i'll get up to (and no - this does not mean i hanker for homelessness...just realised i sound like a middle-class moaner).
What i'm trying to say (and not terribly well) is that i crave SOMETHING. I want to be surprised, I want to have my head turned, i want to be confounded. I want to feel that flush of wonder like i used to feel when i was really young.
In those days i felt like my future stretched endlessly out before me. I decadently put goals aside, making a mental note to get back to them when i had finished having fun and really indulging myself in every way. I travelled the world for two years, i rode a motorbike all across India, i basked in foreign sunsets, i danced years away in nightclubs, I 'played' at being an adult in various jobs and professions (everything from advertising to encyclopedia salesperson to actress to 'media babe' (haha) - my last and final professional incarnation.
Now i am (cough) an aspiring musician. I say aspiring because i reckon until I get an album out to the world that that is what i'll only ever be. It's not that i need fame or recognition to validate my music - more like i'd feel vindicated and finally feel the glow of accomplishment and satisfaction that comes from being able to eek out a living (even if it turns out to be modest) from doing what i love...and what i feel i was meant to do.
So i'll plod on...navel gazing from time to time...and hope that in the words of my wise old ma, "The best is yet to come".
WASTED YOUTH
WASTED YOUTH
I want to be eighteen again
I want to be a flirt
Flaunt long tanned legs
And puff on fags
Date a lot of jerks.
I want to be eighteen again
Survive on three hours sleep
Drink cheap lime vodka alcopops
Go out and pull out all the stops
Not look before i leap.
I wish i was eighteen again
I had so much damn fun
I'd do it better this time though
With hindsight many more oats i'd sow
Youth's wasted on the young.
I want to be eighteen again
I want to be a flirt
Flaunt long tanned legs
And puff on fags
Date a lot of jerks.
I want to be eighteen again
Survive on three hours sleep
Drink cheap lime vodka alcopops
Go out and pull out all the stops
Not look before i leap.
I wish i was eighteen again
I had so much damn fun
I'd do it better this time though
With hindsight many more oats i'd sow
Youth's wasted on the young.
MAKE ME A BRIT
Well i took the first step today in becoming a proper British citizen. Have been a Londoner for 13 years now and have been too lazy/busy to bother getting one of them pretty red burgundy passports...until now. Not really sure what prompted this sudden pragmatic behaviour - rather unusual for me - but i suspect it had something to do with one too many hideous experiences at Heathrow/Gatwick customs. While everyone else whips through the EU/UK queues, I get jammed amongst hordes of wide-eyed American youths who smack me with their over-loaded 'backpacks' and earnest Canadians with flag emblems sewn onto their fleeces - their big white toes jutting petulantly out of newly-purchased birkenstocks. They are harmless enough but not when you've been crammed in economy with the Great Unwashed for 9 hours.
So off i went to Elephant & Castle shopping mall today (that place alone deserves an entire novel), where up on the top level is a dodgy looking place called 'The Sunrise Academy'. Academy is a bit optomistic. More like a stuffy, depressing waiting room for Hell. It was full of a dozen or so confused looking people waiting to take the 'Life in the UK Test'. I paid my £34 (it had to be in cash and i didn't have it so bolted out the door, ran to Tesco's, grabbed some easter creme eggs and stood in an static queue for 10 minutes before giving up on the cashback idea and racing to a machine outside. Slipping in right before the doors locked, I was mildly amused to note that we test-takers were subjected to a clumsy version of 'musical chairs' in an attempt to keeping cheating at bay. No offence to anyone there, but i reckon i was the one to cheat off of - the rest of them seemed to have difficulty responding to the roll call.
I was finished the 45 minute test in 7 minutes - and that included going back over my answers twice. I have to say, it wasn't the easiest test i've ever taken. I had to memorise a load of boring bollocks last night about this wonderful country. I bet you, like myself, were unaware that the Welsh like to open their back doors and let out the OLD 'New Year' before opening their front doors and letting in the NEW New Year...fascinating stuff. You'll be pleased to know that i passed, but am now cursed with a throbbing brain full of rather boring statistics about civil servants and women in the workforce (yawn).
Maybe i'll be able to incorporate some of the stuff i learned into a number one pop single. Maybe i can sell it on to someone like Charlotte Church. She's a ballsy girl and is fairly good at singing 'odd pop'. Caught a bit of her show tonight simply because i was unable to move from the sofa (that would be too many self-congratulatory Godiva truffles i consumed on account of my passing my Life in the UK Test....well of course i passed it - i'm not a moron). Darling Charlotte can talk a mean streak, though she was sporting some rather huge, ill-fitting trousers tonight....couldn't take my eyes off of them. But who the hell am i to talk? She's fabulously wealthy, has travelled the world, met everyone who is worth meeting on this planet of ours and has pretty much accomplished more so far in her short life than most of us ever would - even if we were cats (follow me here..the nine lives thing...). Still, shame about the trousers. Someone should shoot the stylist. I'm off to bed. Did you know that the Scottish Parliament has 129 members?
So off i went to Elephant & Castle shopping mall today (that place alone deserves an entire novel), where up on the top level is a dodgy looking place called 'The Sunrise Academy'. Academy is a bit optomistic. More like a stuffy, depressing waiting room for Hell. It was full of a dozen or so confused looking people waiting to take the 'Life in the UK Test'. I paid my £34 (it had to be in cash and i didn't have it so bolted out the door, ran to Tesco's, grabbed some easter creme eggs and stood in an static queue for 10 minutes before giving up on the cashback idea and racing to a machine outside. Slipping in right before the doors locked, I was mildly amused to note that we test-takers were subjected to a clumsy version of 'musical chairs' in an attempt to keeping cheating at bay. No offence to anyone there, but i reckon i was the one to cheat off of - the rest of them seemed to have difficulty responding to the roll call.
I was finished the 45 minute test in 7 minutes - and that included going back over my answers twice. I have to say, it wasn't the easiest test i've ever taken. I had to memorise a load of boring bollocks last night about this wonderful country. I bet you, like myself, were unaware that the Welsh like to open their back doors and let out the OLD 'New Year' before opening their front doors and letting in the NEW New Year...fascinating stuff. You'll be pleased to know that i passed, but am now cursed with a throbbing brain full of rather boring statistics about civil servants and women in the workforce (yawn).
Maybe i'll be able to incorporate some of the stuff i learned into a number one pop single. Maybe i can sell it on to someone like Charlotte Church. She's a ballsy girl and is fairly good at singing 'odd pop'. Caught a bit of her show tonight simply because i was unable to move from the sofa (that would be too many self-congratulatory Godiva truffles i consumed on account of my passing my Life in the UK Test....well of course i passed it - i'm not a moron). Darling Charlotte can talk a mean streak, though she was sporting some rather huge, ill-fitting trousers tonight....couldn't take my eyes off of them. But who the hell am i to talk? She's fabulously wealthy, has travelled the world, met everyone who is worth meeting on this planet of ours and has pretty much accomplished more so far in her short life than most of us ever would - even if we were cats (follow me here..the nine lives thing...). Still, shame about the trousers. Someone should shoot the stylist. I'm off to bed. Did you know that the Scottish Parliament has 129 members?
GOODBYE NINE TO FIVE...HELLO AFTERNOON MOVIE
I remember when i had a 'real' job. A full-time, salary paid into bank account, show up for 8 hours a day JOB. It was in music television, it was creative, and for the most part i enjoyed it. But I was always distinctly aware, for the five whole years that i worked there, that it was NOT what i was meant to be doing. I'd spend countless hours logging interview footage from intellectual morons, vacuous dollybirds, 'taking-themselves-too-seriously Artistes' and so called musicians who hadn't even written their own songs yet waxed (un)prolific about how 'all-consuming' it was being a musician. Every sentence was peppered with "Ah...Ya know....Well...Like". Yawn.
I'd have to put catchy, enticing promo's together to lure unsuspecting teenagers and wasted, 'sound-turned-off-but-gyrating-pelvis-in-technicolour' twenty-something viewers into tuning in for yet another 'Britney Spears Weekend' or a compelling 'Ronan Keating' special. I started to make my pieces quite ironic, taking the piss out of these artists in my own sneaky way, and yet i was never called on it. I grew to exploit this even further and put hidden messages in - either lyrically in the promo soundtracks or visually in footage i had shot myself and snuck in. Still i never got caught. I soon grew very bored indeed.
I remember my last official day at work. No one knew it was my last day of work. I don't think even i suspected that it was. But the incompetant moron i called my boss finally stepped over the line one day and surprising myself as i did so, i calmly but furiously walked out of that office forever.
I initially felt high - elated even. If i recall correctly, 'You Got the Love' by Candy Station was pounding through my earphones as i exited the building and jumped on the tube. I was a hero of the oppressed. I was acting with integrity. I was...well, i was out of a job.
I won't bore you with the details but i went through hell for a few months, then emerged out the other side with two choices: get another job OR pursue my dream. Easy. Choose the impractical but oh-so-artistically-fulfilling option.
Do i ever regret it? Not yet. Somedays it's hell. I have a creative block, my computer erases a piece i've been painstakingly working on, i suddenly decide i hate a song i thought i loved, or maybe i just get BORED and LONELY. It's so trite but it's true. What often sustains me is something i read on an obese woman's t-shirt at Disneyland Florida when i was a kid: "If it were easy everyone would be doing it". It may have taken a few reads navigating her enormous and wonky cleavage, but it left a huge imprint on me.
Maybe it's true that there are those lucky few who just happen to get 'discovered' by a hotshot agent while working in a bar and become a Hollywood star. Maybe there are those lucky bands who can barely play their instruments but are 'discovered' by an enthusiastic Record Exec who just happens to duck into the little pub they're playing. For such a rare occurance you do hear a lot of these 'success stories'. But for those of us who haven't just 'happened' to have been discovered yet, well, i think tenacity is the name of the game. Good old perseverence. IF you love it, IF you're good at it, and if you absolutely HAVE to do it or you'll never truly be happy, then i reckon (perhaps foolishly) that something will happen. Do it or die trying, I say.
Sometimes i go for walks and see other people on the streets, strolling somewhat aimlessly like myself...or lone souls with laptops quietly tapping away in various Cafe Nero's (i can't tell you how many hundreds of loyalty cards i've gotten through by now...my local barrista is a good mate now) and i wonder "are you all like me? have you stepped off the straight and narrow and are in this giant waiting room of uncertainty? are you skint? are you full of both self-doubt and uncompromising belief? Do YOU regret it?"
Answers on postcards please...
I'd have to put catchy, enticing promo's together to lure unsuspecting teenagers and wasted, 'sound-turned-off-but-gyrating-pelvis-in-technicolour' twenty-something viewers into tuning in for yet another 'Britney Spears Weekend' or a compelling 'Ronan Keating' special. I started to make my pieces quite ironic, taking the piss out of these artists in my own sneaky way, and yet i was never called on it. I grew to exploit this even further and put hidden messages in - either lyrically in the promo soundtracks or visually in footage i had shot myself and snuck in. Still i never got caught. I soon grew very bored indeed.
I remember my last official day at work. No one knew it was my last day of work. I don't think even i suspected that it was. But the incompetant moron i called my boss finally stepped over the line one day and surprising myself as i did so, i calmly but furiously walked out of that office forever.
I initially felt high - elated even. If i recall correctly, 'You Got the Love' by Candy Station was pounding through my earphones as i exited the building and jumped on the tube. I was a hero of the oppressed. I was acting with integrity. I was...well, i was out of a job.
I won't bore you with the details but i went through hell for a few months, then emerged out the other side with two choices: get another job OR pursue my dream. Easy. Choose the impractical but oh-so-artistically-fulfilling option.
Do i ever regret it? Not yet. Somedays it's hell. I have a creative block, my computer erases a piece i've been painstakingly working on, i suddenly decide i hate a song i thought i loved, or maybe i just get BORED and LONELY. It's so trite but it's true. What often sustains me is something i read on an obese woman's t-shirt at Disneyland Florida when i was a kid: "If it were easy everyone would be doing it". It may have taken a few reads navigating her enormous and wonky cleavage, but it left a huge imprint on me.
Maybe it's true that there are those lucky few who just happen to get 'discovered' by a hotshot agent while working in a bar and become a Hollywood star. Maybe there are those lucky bands who can barely play their instruments but are 'discovered' by an enthusiastic Record Exec who just happens to duck into the little pub they're playing. For such a rare occurance you do hear a lot of these 'success stories'. But for those of us who haven't just 'happened' to have been discovered yet, well, i think tenacity is the name of the game. Good old perseverence. IF you love it, IF you're good at it, and if you absolutely HAVE to do it or you'll never truly be happy, then i reckon (perhaps foolishly) that something will happen. Do it or die trying, I say.
Sometimes i go for walks and see other people on the streets, strolling somewhat aimlessly like myself...or lone souls with laptops quietly tapping away in various Cafe Nero's (i can't tell you how many hundreds of loyalty cards i've gotten through by now...my local barrista is a good mate now) and i wonder "are you all like me? have you stepped off the straight and narrow and are in this giant waiting room of uncertainty? are you skint? are you full of both self-doubt and uncompromising belief? Do YOU regret it?"
Answers on postcards please...
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