Everything
Is arbitrary
A blue sock
Is arbitrary
A blue sock
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
Monday, 27 December 2010
Sunday, 26 December 2010
Chevy Chase
He got his own face tattooed on his face.
The likeness was incredible - you could have sworn you were looking at the real thing.
People commented on it all the time.
"You'd never know he'd had it done" they'd say. "It must have cost him an arm and leg to get someone that good," they'd go.
It really was uncanny. The only problem he had was that it was just one face - a picture not versatile the real thing. He had decided to have his face tattooed whilst smiling and as the years passed he felt it was the right decision. Whilst the skin and muscles under his face would contort as he laughed or frowned or thought or gurned his face would continue to show the portrait of a smiling man.
"Always show the world your best face!" he'd laugh.
As he aged his body withered and sagged but his face stayed exactly the same as the day he'd had the ink put in.
"He doesn't look a day over 25!" they would say in wonder at the nursing home.
He tried to use his youthful looks to attract younger women but was always dissapointed when they ran from his aged body.
"A real freak show down there" they would say to each other and laugh.
This hurt him deeply for he was a sensitive man, but people mistook his tears for tears of joy and why wouldn't they when he was smiling so?
As he reaches his final days, he came to the conclusion his folly was in not getting his body tattooed onto his body.
He whiles away his days cursing the naivety of his youth, smiling always as he does.
The likeness was incredible - you could have sworn you were looking at the real thing.
People commented on it all the time.
"You'd never know he'd had it done" they'd say. "It must have cost him an arm and leg to get someone that good," they'd go.
It really was uncanny. The only problem he had was that it was just one face - a picture not versatile the real thing. He had decided to have his face tattooed whilst smiling and as the years passed he felt it was the right decision. Whilst the skin and muscles under his face would contort as he laughed or frowned or thought or gurned his face would continue to show the portrait of a smiling man.
"Always show the world your best face!" he'd laugh.
As he aged his body withered and sagged but his face stayed exactly the same as the day he'd had the ink put in.
"He doesn't look a day over 25!" they would say in wonder at the nursing home.
He tried to use his youthful looks to attract younger women but was always dissapointed when they ran from his aged body.
"A real freak show down there" they would say to each other and laugh.
This hurt him deeply for he was a sensitive man, but people mistook his tears for tears of joy and why wouldn't they when he was smiling so?
As he reaches his final days, he came to the conclusion his folly was in not getting his body tattooed onto his body.
He whiles away his days cursing the naivety of his youth, smiling always as he does.
Friday, 24 December 2010
Koan
"Consciousness is illusory"
he said, sitting crossed legged on the floor.
"Reality is but a dream," he continued.
He smiled beatifically at me.
I smiled back,
"If that's true it wouldn't matter if you shot yourself right now"
He thought for a second and responded;
"I suppose not."
and then putting a gun to his head he did just that.
I'm still not sure who won.
he said, sitting crossed legged on the floor.
"Reality is but a dream," he continued.
He smiled beatifically at me.
I smiled back,
"If that's true it wouldn't matter if you shot yourself right now"
He thought for a second and responded;
"I suppose not."
and then putting a gun to his head he did just that.
I'm still not sure who won.
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
Poor Vincent
All suicides come back. They're the only ones that do.
I'll point you to the case of Vincent - poor sweet Vincent, so cruel for him to come like he did. Having to see the work of his former self hanging in the galleries; to see it s brilliance lauded in the newspapers and in magazines.
He didn't understand it at all - someone was speaking with a voice that was his own but he had never uttered a word. The whole wide world crying out the genius of this work, so close to his own heart.
No matter how hard he tried to shut it all out, the paintings, with their swirls and their colours, would never leave his mind. He would shut his eyes and see them all. The sunflowers, the chairs, the crows in the night sky - all of them with crystal clarity in his head.
Vincent needed to express himself. His body screamed for him to do it. But Vincent would never paint; what would be the point? Someone else had said it all before. What a waste.
So Vincent sat and waited for something, anything to help him out but there was no use. He needed to paint but he was redundant. So he sat and waited some more.
Until he couldn't bear it anymore.
And, of course, there was no redemption, just another new beginning.
I'll point you to the case of Vincent - poor sweet Vincent, so cruel for him to come like he did. Having to see the work of his former self hanging in the galleries; to see it s brilliance lauded in the newspapers and in magazines.
He didn't understand it at all - someone was speaking with a voice that was his own but he had never uttered a word. The whole wide world crying out the genius of this work, so close to his own heart.
No matter how hard he tried to shut it all out, the paintings, with their swirls and their colours, would never leave his mind. He would shut his eyes and see them all. The sunflowers, the chairs, the crows in the night sky - all of them with crystal clarity in his head.
Vincent needed to express himself. His body screamed for him to do it. But Vincent would never paint; what would be the point? Someone else had said it all before. What a waste.
So Vincent sat and waited for something, anything to help him out but there was no use. He needed to paint but he was redundant. So he sat and waited some more.
Until he couldn't bear it anymore.
And, of course, there was no redemption, just another new beginning.
Thursday, 2 December 2010
Monday, 29 November 2010
Tweedles
Once there was a man who wrote.
There was no question he could write. No one was denying that.
He wrote beautifully, with full mastery of texture and tone. His metaphors were as apt as apt could be. His similes could make you believe that chalk was like cheese and cheese was like chalk.
No one was denying he could write. It wasn't that.
It was once remarked that if he wrote about a painting the next day you would swear you had seen it with your own eyes. He had full mastery of style. Make them laugh, make them cry, scare them out of their wits, fill their hearts with joy, he could do it all.
Everyone agreed he could write. And write well.
His mastery of pace was absolute. His sentence structure was a beauty to behold; delicate or robust, concrete or ethereal - whatever was needed. All would would be placed on the page without a hint of effort. He could be so personal it were as if you were the person who was narrating or so detached it were as if you were God himself looking down at his creation. Stylistically was there nothing he couldn't do.
He could write. It's just he had nothing to say.
Not one thing. No terrors, no desires, no whimsies, no big questions, no nothing. He had such a beautiful tongue but no message to spread.
What a shame.
There was also another man. This man also wrote.
No one said this man wrote well. No one would say that.
He would mangle metaphors so badly you wouldn't have known gold was precious or ice was cold. His characters were walking chunks of exposition, his scene setting was so inept that you had to check whether he had said anything about the location at all, his descriptions were so terrible that you would sometimes wonder if he had ever seen or felt anything.
There was no question his prose was poor. It was as if his tongue had been twain in two.
His writing was wooden and hollow and frequently went nowhere at all. He used ten sentences where one would do and in the next section he would try to let one sentence do the work of twenty .
Nobody would say he was a good writer. Everybody agreed he was bad.
His sentences were muddy when he wanted them to be clear, his meaning obvious from the first word when he wanted it to unfurl over time. It was hard to read a page of his writing without restarting or being bored to tears. His paragraphs frequently made no sense at all.
He couldn't write. But he had the most amazing ideas known to man.
The funniest situations, the scariest scenarios, the most profound questions and ideas, the most interesting characters and motivations - he had it all. He had no tongue but everything to say.
Again, what a shame.
One day these two men met. I won't bore you with the details but just let it be known that they chanced upon each other and in this time they discussed their particular problems.
It was soon discovered that the first man, who, I should hasten to add, was as handsome and striking as they come, had nothing to say. It was, of course, discovered that the second man, who, it goes without saying, was ugly as sin, had no way of saying anything.
These two men soon realised that they were indeed the answer to each other's questions, the end to their predicaments.
I would love to tell you, dear reader, that this story had a happy ending, but, alas I can not.
At no point did I mention that either man was of practical bent; in fact this was not the case at all.
The two men wished to combine their powers, as could be expected . They had decided that they need too combine their two brains - combining the skill of the first with the ideas of the second.
So they ran at each other, as fast as they could, leaning forward and exposing as much forehead as they could.
*BONK*
Their heads clashed together. Slightly dazed they realised that their plan hadn't quite worked so they continued unperturbed.
*BONK*
and their brains were not combined.
*BONK*
and again nothing.
*BONK*
They were both cloudy of vision and dull of mind but their brains still remained as seperate as seperate could be.
*BONK*
They continued.
*BONK*
and
*BONK*
and
*BONK*
*BONK*
*BONK*
*BONK*
.........
Reader,
I would love to tell you this story had a happy ending but alas, I can not.
There was no question he could write. No one was denying that.
He wrote beautifully, with full mastery of texture and tone. His metaphors were as apt as apt could be. His similes could make you believe that chalk was like cheese and cheese was like chalk.
No one was denying he could write. It wasn't that.
It was once remarked that if he wrote about a painting the next day you would swear you had seen it with your own eyes. He had full mastery of style. Make them laugh, make them cry, scare them out of their wits, fill their hearts with joy, he could do it all.
Everyone agreed he could write. And write well.
His mastery of pace was absolute. His sentence structure was a beauty to behold; delicate or robust, concrete or ethereal - whatever was needed. All would would be placed on the page without a hint of effort. He could be so personal it were as if you were the person who was narrating or so detached it were as if you were God himself looking down at his creation. Stylistically was there nothing he couldn't do.
He could write. It's just he had nothing to say.
Not one thing. No terrors, no desires, no whimsies, no big questions, no nothing. He had such a beautiful tongue but no message to spread.
What a shame.
There was also another man. This man also wrote.
No one said this man wrote well. No one would say that.
He would mangle metaphors so badly you wouldn't have known gold was precious or ice was cold. His characters were walking chunks of exposition, his scene setting was so inept that you had to check whether he had said anything about the location at all, his descriptions were so terrible that you would sometimes wonder if he had ever seen or felt anything.
There was no question his prose was poor. It was as if his tongue had been twain in two.
His writing was wooden and hollow and frequently went nowhere at all. He used ten sentences where one would do and in the next section he would try to let one sentence do the work of twenty .
Nobody would say he was a good writer. Everybody agreed he was bad.
His sentences were muddy when he wanted them to be clear, his meaning obvious from the first word when he wanted it to unfurl over time. It was hard to read a page of his writing without restarting or being bored to tears. His paragraphs frequently made no sense at all.
He couldn't write. But he had the most amazing ideas known to man.
The funniest situations, the scariest scenarios, the most profound questions and ideas, the most interesting characters and motivations - he had it all. He had no tongue but everything to say.
Again, what a shame.
One day these two men met. I won't bore you with the details but just let it be known that they chanced upon each other and in this time they discussed their particular problems.
It was soon discovered that the first man, who, I should hasten to add, was as handsome and striking as they come, had nothing to say. It was, of course, discovered that the second man, who, it goes without saying, was ugly as sin, had no way of saying anything.
These two men soon realised that they were indeed the answer to each other's questions, the end to their predicaments.
I would love to tell you, dear reader, that this story had a happy ending, but, alas I can not.
At no point did I mention that either man was of practical bent; in fact this was not the case at all.
The two men wished to combine their powers, as could be expected . They had decided that they need too combine their two brains - combining the skill of the first with the ideas of the second.
So they ran at each other, as fast as they could, leaning forward and exposing as much forehead as they could.
*BONK*
Their heads clashed together. Slightly dazed they realised that their plan hadn't quite worked so they continued unperturbed.
*BONK*
and their brains were not combined.
*BONK*
and again nothing.
*BONK*
They were both cloudy of vision and dull of mind but their brains still remained as seperate as seperate could be.
*BONK*
They continued.
*BONK*
and
*BONK*
and
*BONK*
*BONK*
*BONK*
*BONK*
.........
Reader,
I would love to tell you this story had a happy ending but alas, I can not.
Sunday, 7 November 2010
Drift
felt him arrive almost seven years ago now, pushing me gently out of the side of my body.
It was subtle at first; he'd want to do a few things - buy a pair of shoes because they were sensible, occasionally getting a different paper than the usual - and I indulged him a little. It was still my body though, and I'd go out and party, drink, and behave as recklessly as I wanted to. I made my body look young and exciting.
As the years passed he started getting a little more control of the body. - He began saving money to buy a house or "just in case" and he made me avoid friends I'd previously been close to. He started to make the body look less young, less handsome. The hair began to fall off my body's head. He made it flabby and paunchier. It began to ache in its joints.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I began to move out of my body as he slid in.
Occasionally I wrestled control back. Some weekends I'd just sit back and play computer games until Monday. If I wanted to I'd eat M and M's for breakfast.
He was humouring me. The tide had turned. He'd got a gym membership.
He started buying "good wine" and crossing the road when teenagers were near by. He threw out my band t shirts and bought sensible shirts for the office. He voted Tory at a general election. It was his body far more than mine, I gave in, and we drifted along.
Now I've almost completely left. I've fallen out of the side of my body like so many grains of sand, ready to join the desert of the ones who came before. I'll join the one I replaced in the body; the one who changed my body from from a child into a man. The one that changed my body into a teenager; the one that took my body from a baby to a child.
And one day he'll join us.
It was subtle at first; he'd want to do a few things - buy a pair of shoes because they were sensible, occasionally getting a different paper than the usual - and I indulged him a little. It was still my body though, and I'd go out and party, drink, and behave as recklessly as I wanted to. I made my body look young and exciting.
As the years passed he started getting a little more control of the body. - He began saving money to buy a house or "just in case" and he made me avoid friends I'd previously been close to. He started to make the body look less young, less handsome. The hair began to fall off my body's head. He made it flabby and paunchier. It began to ache in its joints.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I began to move out of my body as he slid in.
Occasionally I wrestled control back. Some weekends I'd just sit back and play computer games until Monday. If I wanted to I'd eat M and M's for breakfast.
He was humouring me. The tide had turned. He'd got a gym membership.
He started buying "good wine" and crossing the road when teenagers were near by. He threw out my band t shirts and bought sensible shirts for the office. He voted Tory at a general election. It was his body far more than mine, I gave in, and we drifted along.
Now I've almost completely left. I've fallen out of the side of my body like so many grains of sand, ready to join the desert of the ones who came before. I'll join the one I replaced in the body; the one who changed my body from from a child into a man. The one that changed my body into a teenager; the one that took my body from a baby to a child.
And one day he'll join us.
Monday, 1 November 2010
Questionnaire
"You are hardest on others about the things you dislike about yourself"
She paused and tapped the table with her pen.
What did he want her to answer? She hated these stupid bloody tests - he always said:
"Be honest - that's the best possible answer"
and she used to believe him. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
And then he had used the answers.
So she changed what she said and put a little cross in the box opposite to how she felt.
He had said he knew she was lying.
She put the pen her mouth and sucked the end. Now she didn't know what to do.
The five familiar boxes were staring up at her.
She stared at the white page for a while. The other questions were sitting neatly on the paper waiting for her attention. They all seemed so abstract - as if the page were just a picture of something, the marks having no more meaning than a tiger's stripes.
She smiled and she realised what she needed to do.
Taking the pen of her mouth she set about colouring in all the boxes. It was quite beautiful really.
She paused and tapped the table with her pen.
What did he want her to answer? She hated these stupid bloody tests - he always said:
"Be honest - that's the best possible answer"
and she used to believe him. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
And then he had used the answers.
So she changed what she said and put a little cross in the box opposite to how she felt.
He had said he knew she was lying.
She put the pen her mouth and sucked the end. Now she didn't know what to do.
The five familiar boxes were staring up at her.
Strongly Disagree Disagree Neutral Agree Strongly Agree
She stared at the white page for a while. The other questions were sitting neatly on the paper waiting for her attention. They all seemed so abstract - as if the page were just a picture of something, the marks having no more meaning than a tiger's stripes.
She smiled and she realised what she needed to do.
Taking the pen of her mouth she set about colouring in all the boxes. It was quite beautiful really.
Thursday, 30 September 2010
The Gatekeeper
They told him he was going to be the gatekeeper.
He has since thought that calling it that was just a cruel joke.
When it first started he had been in his room for about a day - it was hard to tell but about a day seemed right to him.
Outside the gatekeeper's room there suddenly showed the room opposite his shifting and another taking its place. He went up to the glass - or plastic - separating the two rooms. He was never sure whether the partition was made of hardened plastic or reinforced glass; he sometimes preferred to think it was one substance, sometimes another - in the end it did not matter but it gave him something to think about.
The other room opposite was around the same dimensions as his room but lacked the bed and books his did.
There was a man in this room,
"thank god!"
this man said.
"what's happening to me?"
The gatekeeper got up to the glass and said
"I don't know. They told me I was the gatekeeper"
The man kept on telling him that he wanted to get out and he had to help him.
The gatekeeper said,
"I don't know how to get through this glass, I'll see if I can do something"
After he said this the other room span round again to show yet another man in another blank room.
What this man said was similar to the first.
The gatekeeper tried to help the new man, he tried using a bed post to smash the glass but it wouldn't budge. The other man was there for about a minute and again the room revolved.
This continued, with a succession of different people saying they needed help and they didn't know what was happening and the gatekeeper trying his hardest find ways to help them.He was continually explaining that this had just started happening and they weren't the first and that they too would disappear after a minute.
This went on for several days, he couldn't be sure.
The gatekeeper grew exhausted of it. He cried, he screamed, he tried to explain that he could not help them. Each time he got the same message from them - the same desperate plea for help and each time he could not help, could not even adequately explain he could not help.
He gave up after a while and tipped his bed to the side and hid behind it.
He read and ignored the ones who cried out for his help.
He wasn't sure how long this went on for.
He grew bored. Where before he had tried his hardest to help the others now he played tricks on some of the visitors.
Sometimes he would jump out from behind the bed just as they were about to leave.
Other times he would tie his bed sheets up to form a toga and jump around his room chanting for as long as he felt like.
The others were never sure about this. The gatekeeper laughed at their reactions. At least they no longer asked for his help when he did this.
For great periods of times the gatekeeper would come out from behind his bed and stare into the other rooms.He would look to see if there were any clues in their blank surfaces, ignoring the shouts of the others, ignoring their gesticulations, just looking at the internal architecture of these continually shifting rooms.
Occasionally the gatekeeper would look for patterns in the people, in their voices, in their movements but he found none.
After a minute they were always whisked away, always replaced.
This was a long time ago now.
The gatekeeper long since stopped worrying about them.
Occasionally he wonders what he must look like them to them, sitting impassively reading his books next to the sign he wrote that reads
IM SORRY I CANT HELP
but mostly he doesn't notice them at all.
He has since thought that calling it that was just a cruel joke.
When it first started he had been in his room for about a day - it was hard to tell but about a day seemed right to him.
Outside the gatekeeper's room there suddenly showed the room opposite his shifting and another taking its place. He went up to the glass - or plastic - separating the two rooms. He was never sure whether the partition was made of hardened plastic or reinforced glass; he sometimes preferred to think it was one substance, sometimes another - in the end it did not matter but it gave him something to think about.
The other room opposite was around the same dimensions as his room but lacked the bed and books his did.
There was a man in this room,
"thank god!"
this man said.
"what's happening to me?"
The gatekeeper got up to the glass and said
"I don't know. They told me I was the gatekeeper"
The man kept on telling him that he wanted to get out and he had to help him.
The gatekeeper said,
"I don't know how to get through this glass, I'll see if I can do something"
After he said this the other room span round again to show yet another man in another blank room.
What this man said was similar to the first.
The gatekeeper tried to help the new man, he tried using a bed post to smash the glass but it wouldn't budge. The other man was there for about a minute and again the room revolved.
This continued, with a succession of different people saying they needed help and they didn't know what was happening and the gatekeeper trying his hardest find ways to help them.He was continually explaining that this had just started happening and they weren't the first and that they too would disappear after a minute.
This went on for several days, he couldn't be sure.
The gatekeeper grew exhausted of it. He cried, he screamed, he tried to explain that he could not help them. Each time he got the same message from them - the same desperate plea for help and each time he could not help, could not even adequately explain he could not help.
He gave up after a while and tipped his bed to the side and hid behind it.
He read and ignored the ones who cried out for his help.
He wasn't sure how long this went on for.
He grew bored. Where before he had tried his hardest to help the others now he played tricks on some of the visitors.
Sometimes he would jump out from behind the bed just as they were about to leave.
Other times he would tie his bed sheets up to form a toga and jump around his room chanting for as long as he felt like.
The others were never sure about this. The gatekeeper laughed at their reactions. At least they no longer asked for his help when he did this.
For great periods of times the gatekeeper would come out from behind his bed and stare into the other rooms.He would look to see if there were any clues in their blank surfaces, ignoring the shouts of the others, ignoring their gesticulations, just looking at the internal architecture of these continually shifting rooms.
Occasionally the gatekeeper would look for patterns in the people, in their voices, in their movements but he found none.
After a minute they were always whisked away, always replaced.
This was a long time ago now.
The gatekeeper long since stopped worrying about them.
Occasionally he wonders what he must look like them to them, sitting impassively reading his books next to the sign he wrote that reads
IM SORRY I CANT HELP
but mostly he doesn't notice them at all.
Deity
He was a terrible deity.
Some people just shouldn't be given the gift of omnipotence and he was one of them. It's not that he was evil or even bad per se ... it was more like there was just so much more that he could have been doing.
"Jimmy" I said to him one day. "You're wasting your powers."
He just looked at me, shrugged and laughed. I wonder if he ever cared about the world's problems or if he was as flippant as this from the off.
Sure, I enjoyed some of his benevolence occasionally, but he was more like a fancy gameshow than a god - a fancy car, a new microwave, that kind of thing.
Once he showed me a press clipping of a horse that had been born with a horn and the face of Mr Magoo. The article called it a "Magoo-nicorn". He thought it was hilarious.
Sometimes he tells me he messes with a single persons life - changes little things they've done, packs them a different lunch, changes the name of their first girlfriend. He told me the names of some of them but it meant nothing to me.
Sometimes I ask him "Jimmy, why do you do this stuff?"
He told me once something about a promise he made to himself a long time ago. Another time he told me that the universe needed a god but wouldn't accept one who actually did anything. Mostly he just sits around drinking beer and watching daytime TV.
Like I said he was a terrible deity.
Some people just shouldn't be given the gift of omnipotence and he was one of them. It's not that he was evil or even bad per se ... it was more like there was just so much more that he could have been doing.
"Jimmy" I said to him one day. "You're wasting your powers."
He just looked at me, shrugged and laughed. I wonder if he ever cared about the world's problems or if he was as flippant as this from the off.
Sure, I enjoyed some of his benevolence occasionally, but he was more like a fancy gameshow than a god - a fancy car, a new microwave, that kind of thing.
Once he showed me a press clipping of a horse that had been born with a horn and the face of Mr Magoo. The article called it a "Magoo-nicorn". He thought it was hilarious.
Sometimes he tells me he messes with a single persons life - changes little things they've done, packs them a different lunch, changes the name of their first girlfriend. He told me the names of some of them but it meant nothing to me.
Sometimes I ask him "Jimmy, why do you do this stuff?"
He told me once something about a promise he made to himself a long time ago. Another time he told me that the universe needed a god but wouldn't accept one who actually did anything. Mostly he just sits around drinking beer and watching daytime TV.
Like I said he was a terrible deity.
Friday, 3 September 2010
Sausage Rolls At The Wake
I hadn't cried at the funeral.
At the wake people were chatting to each other. Some were laughing, some making chit chat, catching up with old friends or family they haven't seen since the last one.
I was talking nervously to a distant relative about what exactly it was I was did and was going to do and half heartedly asking them the same questions. To end the conversation I said
"well, I'm ummm just going to go over to the buffet, hmmm"
more of a stall than anything. I wouldn't be expected to talk when I was consuming food.
I looked at the spread and focused on the sausage rolls. Small and not quite brown, not quite yellow - definitely gray in the middle.
They always stuck me a such a prosaic food to have at events like this. After the catharsis and tears of a funeral you're greeted with "party" food familiar to you from the first gathering you went to as a child. Maybe they're a sure sign, along with seeing everyone else who's mourning, that life goes on, no matter how devastated you are, no matter how much everything hurts.
I had felt nothing all day.
But I continued to stare at the sausage rolls. Lumpen, sweaty and unappealing. They looked pathetic.
And it was like the dam burst inside of me. Whatever I'd been using to hold myself together had been pulled away. I started shaking and walked quickly into the empty room next to the main hall.
I was already crying by the time I slumped down on a chair. It was the first time I had cried in years.I cried for everyone I'd lost and would never see again. I cried for the parts of my life that had gone or changed and for the futility of wanting them back. I cried because I knew that I could never make the time I spent with people any better than it was, I could never have made it any different and I could never get it back.
And eventually I just cried.
It was as if i was sititng comfortably sitting at the back of my head whilst my body went about the business of crying. I began to wonder when I would stop. I knew I could if I wanted to but I was deciding o carry on. I needed to. I disappeared for a while - went for a holiday in my head and came back at a later date.
I don't know how long I'd been sitting there but at some point I had stopped crying. I got up and went to the bathroom to clear myself up. My eyes were red but apart from that my complexionw as normal. I was ok.
I splashed my face with water and returned to the main room. I walked to the buffet and took a plate, loading it with sausage rolls as many as I could. It seemed like the right thing to do.
At the wake people were chatting to each other. Some were laughing, some making chit chat, catching up with old friends or family they haven't seen since the last one.
I was talking nervously to a distant relative about what exactly it was I was did and was going to do and half heartedly asking them the same questions. To end the conversation I said
"well, I'm ummm just going to go over to the buffet, hmmm"
more of a stall than anything. I wouldn't be expected to talk when I was consuming food.
I looked at the spread and focused on the sausage rolls. Small and not quite brown, not quite yellow - definitely gray in the middle.
They always stuck me a such a prosaic food to have at events like this. After the catharsis and tears of a funeral you're greeted with "party" food familiar to you from the first gathering you went to as a child. Maybe they're a sure sign, along with seeing everyone else who's mourning, that life goes on, no matter how devastated you are, no matter how much everything hurts.
I had felt nothing all day.
But I continued to stare at the sausage rolls. Lumpen, sweaty and unappealing. They looked pathetic.
And it was like the dam burst inside of me. Whatever I'd been using to hold myself together had been pulled away. I started shaking and walked quickly into the empty room next to the main hall.
I was already crying by the time I slumped down on a chair. It was the first time I had cried in years.I cried for everyone I'd lost and would never see again. I cried for the parts of my life that had gone or changed and for the futility of wanting them back. I cried because I knew that I could never make the time I spent with people any better than it was, I could never have made it any different and I could never get it back.
And eventually I just cried.
It was as if i was sititng comfortably sitting at the back of my head whilst my body went about the business of crying. I began to wonder when I would stop. I knew I could if I wanted to but I was deciding o carry on. I needed to. I disappeared for a while - went for a holiday in my head and came back at a later date.
I don't know how long I'd been sitting there but at some point I had stopped crying. I got up and went to the bathroom to clear myself up. My eyes were red but apart from that my complexionw as normal. I was ok.
I splashed my face with water and returned to the main room. I walked to the buffet and took a plate, loading it with sausage rolls as many as I could. It seemed like the right thing to do.
Tuesday, 31 August 2010
Quality
Well, that's that then, I thought to myself and smiled.
My proposal was finished. I glanced down at my watch; there were still ten minutes until the taxi arrived.
I took a second to look around my studio. I had taken a long time to make it into the kind of place I wanted to work. I had tried to make it as aesthetically, and I suppose intellectually, pleasing to myself as possible.
The light was flooding in through the window onto the bare floor boards, my full bookshelves were standing nicely against the white walls, the prints of artwork (both famous and obscure) and a few personal photos and posters were decorating the room nicely. Ornette Coleman was playing unobtrusively in the background.
I began to wonder if there really was potential for infinite good in the world? Not moral good but an aesthetic and intellectual "good"? Even if I had access to all that was "good" in the world would I tire of it? I had full dominion over this room and, as much as it was place of creativity and solace for me, I would grow bored of it if I were to spend all my time here.
I thought of all the mediocre and, for want of a better world, shite that flooded the world. The bad tv, films art and music that I was forced to unwillingly consume in my everyday life. Could these be replaced piece by piece for things that were brilliant and inspired? Or was there a limit, defined by our society and understanding of the world, of what could be truly "good"? Was 90% of everything doomed to be rubbish because there was only room for a decent 10%.
Was Robert Pirsig's idea of Quality true? Are things ever genuinely "good" anyway or is it only my own perceptions that make them so. Would some things become "good" if I looked at them long enough? Could anything become "good" if I studied it in enough detail? And what about irony, are things I enjoy because they are "bad" truly good.
I considered all of this and again came back to the rather gloomy thought even if all in the world were artistically "good" I would I still grow weary of it. Maybe I just didn't have an infinite zest for life, maybe I was doomed to be bored.
Anyway, I thought, this an odd thought to be having on such an occasion. I wandered into my bathroom and straightened my tie.
Grabbing my folder I walked to the front door and took a deep breath, silently praying that the executives would like Hippo Gippo.
My proposal was finished. I glanced down at my watch; there were still ten minutes until the taxi arrived.
I took a second to look around my studio. I had taken a long time to make it into the kind of place I wanted to work. I had tried to make it as aesthetically, and I suppose intellectually, pleasing to myself as possible.
The light was flooding in through the window onto the bare floor boards, my full bookshelves were standing nicely against the white walls, the prints of artwork (both famous and obscure) and a few personal photos and posters were decorating the room nicely. Ornette Coleman was playing unobtrusively in the background.
I began to wonder if there really was potential for infinite good in the world? Not moral good but an aesthetic and intellectual "good"? Even if I had access to all that was "good" in the world would I tire of it? I had full dominion over this room and, as much as it was place of creativity and solace for me, I would grow bored of it if I were to spend all my time here.
I thought of all the mediocre and, for want of a better world, shite that flooded the world. The bad tv, films art and music that I was forced to unwillingly consume in my everyday life. Could these be replaced piece by piece for things that were brilliant and inspired? Or was there a limit, defined by our society and understanding of the world, of what could be truly "good"? Was 90% of everything doomed to be rubbish because there was only room for a decent 10%.
Was Robert Pirsig's idea of Quality true? Are things ever genuinely "good" anyway or is it only my own perceptions that make them so. Would some things become "good" if I looked at them long enough? Could anything become "good" if I studied it in enough detail? And what about irony, are things I enjoy because they are "bad" truly good.
I considered all of this and again came back to the rather gloomy thought even if all in the world were artistically "good" I would I still grow weary of it. Maybe I just didn't have an infinite zest for life, maybe I was doomed to be bored.
Anyway, I thought, this an odd thought to be having on such an occasion. I wandered into my bathroom and straightened my tie.
Grabbing my folder I walked to the front door and took a deep breath, silently praying that the executives would like Hippo Gippo.
Monday, 30 August 2010
Discrete Me
It was a few years ago that a past self realised that we were all discrete beings in time.
Actually, my past self put that rather badly, let me rephrase:
Several years ago a past version of my self realised that "I" only exist for one moment in time. A future "me" was not me now. "I" was not continuous through time but there was only a near infinite string of "me" throughout "my" lifespan.
So, (losing all the tedious quotation marks), this past version of myself considered the implications of this. That, although I shared memories with the past me's, I was not them. A considerable number of past me's decided what should be done about this.
As past me's realised that their life, or as it was, the moment they existed in was essentially consequence free they decided that each me that existed should live as viscerally as possible. They savored as much of life as possible.
The only problem with this as no consequences existed all of life suddenly became, in a very real sense, meaningless.
Naturally, they decided that hedonism was the only way, to follow every "whim". The term "whim" of course being a misnomer as they only existed for a moment any thing they desired in that moment would be all that they would "ever", so to speak, want.
I do not feel like "reliving" moments but suffice to say every me made sure that every single iteration of myself had his most immediate desire fulfilled.
Having no responsibilities was, in a sense fantastic, but often they found themselves having to manoeuvre out of an awkward situation a past version of me had got the current version of myself into. It was, I suppose, what happened because every version of me was true to himself.
I have no regrets, as that would be pointless. However I no longer wish to describe how the world works to you. Instead, I am now going to enjoy the way the light shines onto my bed. Cascading brilliantly through the grills in my window and into my cell....
Actually, my past self put that rather badly, let me rephrase:
Several years ago a past version of my self realised that "I" only exist for one moment in time. A future "me" was not me now. "I" was not continuous through time but there was only a near infinite string of "me" throughout "my" lifespan.
So, (losing all the tedious quotation marks), this past version of myself considered the implications of this. That, although I shared memories with the past me's, I was not them. A considerable number of past me's decided what should be done about this.
As past me's realised that their life, or as it was, the moment they existed in was essentially consequence free they decided that each me that existed should live as viscerally as possible. They savored as much of life as possible.
The only problem with this as no consequences existed all of life suddenly became, in a very real sense, meaningless.
Naturally, they decided that hedonism was the only way, to follow every "whim". The term "whim" of course being a misnomer as they only existed for a moment any thing they desired in that moment would be all that they would "ever", so to speak, want.
I do not feel like "reliving" moments but suffice to say every me made sure that every single iteration of myself had his most immediate desire fulfilled.
Having no responsibilities was, in a sense fantastic, but often they found themselves having to manoeuvre out of an awkward situation a past version of me had got the current version of myself into. It was, I suppose, what happened because every version of me was true to himself.
I have no regrets, as that would be pointless. However I no longer wish to describe how the world works to you. Instead, I am now going to enjoy the way the light shines onto my bed. Cascading brilliantly through the grills in my window and into my cell....
The Professor 3
The Professor settled back down into his seat.
The effort he needed to lower himself into the chair made me wince a little. I heard a *pop* or perhaps a *crack* from one of his limbs as he settled himself. I made a mental note to get more exercise and eat better.
"Now where was I?" said the Professor.
"Ah yes.... but before I tell you would you like some cake?"
I looked at the cake. It was a dense fruit cake. I had to admit it looked good.
"Yes, thank you," I said taking a slice. I would go the gym later.
"Well now, in the future they've managed to bottle the truth. Strange concept I know."
The Professor laughed his little laugh and raised his eyebrows to me.
"Yes?"
I replied. The cake was okay, pretty good by the standard of cake here.
"Yes, people often used it to win arguments, you see. For example I was talking to a chap about Humphrey Bogart - wonderful actor old Bogie - and that it was a shame he never won the Oscae for being the best actor.
"Now this chap said to me,
"'We can fix that', and he took down this little blue bottle - about this big - and then he said to me, 'Humphrey Bogart won the best actor Oscar for The African Queen' and drank from the little blue bottle"
"May I have some more cake, Professor?"
"Help yourself, my boy!" the Professor exclaimed, leaning forward and slapping his legs.
"So then we watched a little clip of Humph accepting the Oscar. Then this chap told me that he was the world press up champion, took a sip from the bottle and proceeded to do a thousand press ups in two minutes. He barely broke a sweat! Needless to say I was delighted - clapping and whooping and laughing... congratulating him."
This cake wasn't really sitting right on me. Maybe I shouldn't have gone for the second slice, the first was good but maybe if I had left it a minute I would have felt full. I always did this, thought I needed more food than I did.
"After that I did ask him about some of the implications of their wonderful discovery - what about children or people who wouldn't use it properly?"
The Professor smiled at me.
"Well, he replied that the nanny state was a thing of the past - and he said this was a good thing too, which I wasn't too sure about myself - and that it was only partial truth that they had in the bottles, anyway. The real undiluted truth was kept safe under lock and key"
"Oh," I said. I had definitely had to much cake, no doubt about it, and I was feeling a little tired. I'd go to the gym another day, when I was feeling a hundred percent, no use in pushing myself too hard.
The effort he needed to lower himself into the chair made me wince a little. I heard a *pop* or perhaps a *crack* from one of his limbs as he settled himself. I made a mental note to get more exercise and eat better.
"Now where was I?" said the Professor.
"Ah yes.... but before I tell you would you like some cake?"
I looked at the cake. It was a dense fruit cake. I had to admit it looked good.
"Yes, thank you," I said taking a slice. I would go the gym later.
"Well now, in the future they've managed to bottle the truth. Strange concept I know."
The Professor laughed his little laugh and raised his eyebrows to me.
"Yes?"
I replied. The cake was okay, pretty good by the standard of cake here.
"Yes, people often used it to win arguments, you see. For example I was talking to a chap about Humphrey Bogart - wonderful actor old Bogie - and that it was a shame he never won the Oscae for being the best actor.
"Now this chap said to me,
"'We can fix that', and he took down this little blue bottle - about this big - and then he said to me, 'Humphrey Bogart won the best actor Oscar for The African Queen' and drank from the little blue bottle"
"May I have some more cake, Professor?"
"Help yourself, my boy!" the Professor exclaimed, leaning forward and slapping his legs.
"So then we watched a little clip of Humph accepting the Oscar. Then this chap told me that he was the world press up champion, took a sip from the bottle and proceeded to do a thousand press ups in two minutes. He barely broke a sweat! Needless to say I was delighted - clapping and whooping and laughing... congratulating him."
This cake wasn't really sitting right on me. Maybe I shouldn't have gone for the second slice, the first was good but maybe if I had left it a minute I would have felt full. I always did this, thought I needed more food than I did.
"After that I did ask him about some of the implications of their wonderful discovery - what about children or people who wouldn't use it properly?"
The Professor smiled at me.
"Well, he replied that the nanny state was a thing of the past - and he said this was a good thing too, which I wasn't too sure about myself - and that it was only partial truth that they had in the bottles, anyway. The real undiluted truth was kept safe under lock and key"
"Oh," I said. I had definitely had to much cake, no doubt about it, and I was feeling a little tired. I'd go to the gym another day, when I was feeling a hundred percent, no use in pushing myself too hard.
Interview
Q:
It was a brave decision to make the narrator someone who couldn't write very well...
A:
Well the post modern audience is used to conceits such as the unreliable narrator, accounts written in dialect and "difficult" - put that in quotation marks would you - works such as Ulysses and Gravity's Rainbow. So I thought "why not go the whole hog?!" and make it as realistic as possible. So I decided to make the writing genuinely bad and see if my audience would take the plunge and follow me.
Q:
You seem very keen that this "badness" infuse every part of the writing.
A:
Oh yes, I made sure that nothing of note really happens to my protaganist and all the banal incidents that do occur aren't brought to life - or imbued with any depth or poignancy - by the power of the prose. I wanted to make my narrator a very dull, very uninteresting person - I wanted the audience to question why such a person would even feel she had a story to tell.
Q:
The character is a working class teenage girl. Is this any commentary on gender, class or youth?
A:
I know I'll be accused of misogyny here but it always seems to me women have little of note to say and neither do teenagers. I'm joking of course.
Q:
Quite. Did you feel uncomfortable at all writing this as a man?
A:
No, not at all. I'm a chronicler of life and life as lived whether male, female, rich or poor, young or old.
Q:
So is there any part of you in Chianti?
A:
Well the passages where she repeatedly and ineptly badmouths people for very poorly described and dubious reasons are based on people from my own life. Haha.
Q:
For me the end, in particular, feels very unsatisfying.It doesn't even seem to make any commentary on what's gone before - even in it's own poorly defined terms. The whole piece just seems to be utterly pointless and, perhaps, even a slap in the face for those who've bothered to invest their time in reading it. It just seems to peter out without resolving what little has been explored previously...
A:
Yes, beautiful isn't it?
It was a brave decision to make the narrator someone who couldn't write very well...
A:
Well the post modern audience is used to conceits such as the unreliable narrator, accounts written in dialect and "difficult" - put that in quotation marks would you - works such as Ulysses and Gravity's Rainbow. So I thought "why not go the whole hog?!" and make it as realistic as possible. So I decided to make the writing genuinely bad and see if my audience would take the plunge and follow me.
Q:
You seem very keen that this "badness" infuse every part of the writing.
A:
Oh yes, I made sure that nothing of note really happens to my protaganist and all the banal incidents that do occur aren't brought to life - or imbued with any depth or poignancy - by the power of the prose. I wanted to make my narrator a very dull, very uninteresting person - I wanted the audience to question why such a person would even feel she had a story to tell.
Q:
The character is a working class teenage girl. Is this any commentary on gender, class or youth?
A:
I know I'll be accused of misogyny here but it always seems to me women have little of note to say and neither do teenagers. I'm joking of course.
Q:
Quite. Did you feel uncomfortable at all writing this as a man?
A:
No, not at all. I'm a chronicler of life and life as lived whether male, female, rich or poor, young or old.
Q:
So is there any part of you in Chianti?
A:
Well the passages where she repeatedly and ineptly badmouths people for very poorly described and dubious reasons are based on people from my own life. Haha.
Q:
For me the end, in particular, feels very unsatisfying.It doesn't even seem to make any commentary on what's gone before - even in it's own poorly defined terms. The whole piece just seems to be utterly pointless and, perhaps, even a slap in the face for those who've bothered to invest their time in reading it. It just seems to peter out without resolving what little has been explored previously...
A:
Yes, beautiful isn't it?
Saturday, 28 August 2010
The Writer
I met him a couple of years before he died.
My agent mentioned that he knew him and, as I'd always been a great admirer of his work, I asked if he could arrange for us to meet.
It was a few weeks after this when I walked into the slightly-up-market pub where we had agreed to have lunch.
I recognised him immediately. His hair was white and slightly thinning on the top compared to the full dark head he had in the photos on his dust jackets but it was him alright.
He was immaculately turned out in a perfectly suit, in fact I'd go as far to say he looked dapper.
I filled my lungs slowly as I prepared to meet him...
Now, no matter how old I get or how many people I admire I meet I have to withhold the instinct to embarrass myself with over the top gushing admiration for these people, especially after a drink or to. The technical term for this is to be a "fan boy". The term itself is, I suppose, unrefined and I always wish to impress my heroes - or at the very least not act like a complete idiot.
With this in mind I approached his table. On seeing me he got up, greeted me by name and shook my hand. I have to admit I was thrilled.
We exchanged some pleasantries, talked about my agent and commented on the weather, laughing how it's the English cliche that we talk about the weather and that we talk about the fact we talk about the weather and wondered if we now reached a third stage of Englishness were we talk about the fact we talk about the fact we talk about the weather.
I felt as if I'd sufficiently broken the ice and as I'd shared a few gin and tonics with him I decided to tell him how much I admired him,
"You know you've always been hero of mine, a huge, huge influence. I suppose I just wanted to say "thank you!". You could always, always make me laugh"
He looked at me, slightly downcast.
Sighing, he said
"humour, yes I suppose I could always do humour"
I nervously laughed,
"Come on, you're selling yourself a bit short there. I think your one of the finest comic writers that's ever lived."
"Well, I could always make them laugh, but I could never make hem cry."
"Still," I replied. I looked down at my drink, the bubbles in the tonic had settled around a piece of lime.
He took his drink and sipped it slowly. I noticed how old his hands looked, papery almost translucent, the veins bulging out from underneath.
"You're still a relatively young man - so I suppose that might be enough but I look at my life and all I see is failure."
Again he sighed, a defeated hmmmppph, coming from his nose.
"Yes I could do comic prose but I could never make a character real. Early on I figured that they don't have to BE real I could just make them seem real and that would be enough. Plink, plonk, ploof and 'Hey Presto' a character is born."
He sipped at his drink again.
"Well I thought that was enough then but as I grew older it began to gnaw on me and eat at me and I eventually realised that I have been no more than a charlatan, dazzling people with words. I could never conjure up a world, I could never make something solid and concrete.
"I reread my old words and I see through the tricks to the hollowness that lies with in. I can't see the places I describe, I can't smell them."
I swallowed my increasing embarrassment and decided that he was a maudlin drunk,
"But you're just to close to your own work, you could never possibly see it through the eyes of others..."
I tried,
"Even so, all I can see is my failures I look at the writers I admired when I was a young man. I have never written Little Women, never written Hamlet, never written the Catcher in the Rye. Failure. Failure. Failure"
I can't clearly recall how the rest of the conversation went but I now that it wasn't too long before I made my excuses and said I had a prior appointment and had to leave. I slipped into the gents on the way out and as I was urinating considered, a tad blurrily I must admit, that it was sad and perhaps a little pathetic that this person who had given me and so many others so much pleasure was sulking because he wasn't every writer who ever lived, wasn't a master of every possible style of writing - that he wasn't essentially God.
As I returned to the bar and went to leave I saw him laughing with the barman.He looked over and I swear there was a twinkle in his eye.
I walked into the day and couldn't be sure that the joke wasn't on me. I've tried to avoid meeting my heroes ever since.
My agent mentioned that he knew him and, as I'd always been a great admirer of his work, I asked if he could arrange for us to meet.
It was a few weeks after this when I walked into the slightly-up-market pub where we had agreed to have lunch.
I recognised him immediately. His hair was white and slightly thinning on the top compared to the full dark head he had in the photos on his dust jackets but it was him alright.
He was immaculately turned out in a perfectly suit, in fact I'd go as far to say he looked dapper.
I filled my lungs slowly as I prepared to meet him...
Now, no matter how old I get or how many people I admire I meet I have to withhold the instinct to embarrass myself with over the top gushing admiration for these people, especially after a drink or to. The technical term for this is to be a "fan boy". The term itself is, I suppose, unrefined and I always wish to impress my heroes - or at the very least not act like a complete idiot.
With this in mind I approached his table. On seeing me he got up, greeted me by name and shook my hand. I have to admit I was thrilled.
We exchanged some pleasantries, talked about my agent and commented on the weather, laughing how it's the English cliche that we talk about the weather and that we talk about the fact we talk about the weather and wondered if we now reached a third stage of Englishness were we talk about the fact we talk about the fact we talk about the weather.
I felt as if I'd sufficiently broken the ice and as I'd shared a few gin and tonics with him I decided to tell him how much I admired him,
"You know you've always been hero of mine, a huge, huge influence. I suppose I just wanted to say "thank you!". You could always, always make me laugh"
He looked at me, slightly downcast.
Sighing, he said
"humour, yes I suppose I could always do humour"
I nervously laughed,
"Come on, you're selling yourself a bit short there. I think your one of the finest comic writers that's ever lived."
"Well, I could always make them laugh, but I could never make hem cry."
"Still," I replied. I looked down at my drink, the bubbles in the tonic had settled around a piece of lime.
He took his drink and sipped it slowly. I noticed how old his hands looked, papery almost translucent, the veins bulging out from underneath.
"You're still a relatively young man - so I suppose that might be enough but I look at my life and all I see is failure."
Again he sighed, a defeated hmmmppph, coming from his nose.
"Yes I could do comic prose but I could never make a character real. Early on I figured that they don't have to BE real I could just make them seem real and that would be enough. Plink, plonk, ploof and 'Hey Presto' a character is born."
He sipped at his drink again.
"Well I thought that was enough then but as I grew older it began to gnaw on me and eat at me and I eventually realised that I have been no more than a charlatan, dazzling people with words. I could never conjure up a world, I could never make something solid and concrete.
"I reread my old words and I see through the tricks to the hollowness that lies with in. I can't see the places I describe, I can't smell them."
I swallowed my increasing embarrassment and decided that he was a maudlin drunk,
"But you're just to close to your own work, you could never possibly see it through the eyes of others..."
I tried,
"Even so, all I can see is my failures I look at the writers I admired when I was a young man. I have never written Little Women, never written Hamlet, never written the Catcher in the Rye. Failure. Failure. Failure"
I can't clearly recall how the rest of the conversation went but I now that it wasn't too long before I made my excuses and said I had a prior appointment and had to leave. I slipped into the gents on the way out and as I was urinating considered, a tad blurrily I must admit, that it was sad and perhaps a little pathetic that this person who had given me and so many others so much pleasure was sulking because he wasn't every writer who ever lived, wasn't a master of every possible style of writing - that he wasn't essentially God.
As I returned to the bar and went to leave I saw him laughing with the barman.He looked over and I swear there was a twinkle in his eye.
I walked into the day and couldn't be sure that the joke wasn't on me. I've tried to avoid meeting my heroes ever since.
Train
A photographer is seen concentrating intently; they are taking a picture of the open face of a book. We can not see what the book is but we infer from the photographer's face that they want to bring out the beauty in the open page itself; the effect of the light hitting the paper. We consider that it may even be a 2 page short story that could be read on the photograph.
Further back in the scene we see a second photographer photographing the first. Their look is less studied than the initial photographer's but they seem alert none the less. From the second's body angle and camera position we assume that they are trying to trying to capture the whole of the first in their shot, allowing us to see the photographer's concentration and passion from their body and a sideshot of their face.
Just in front of the photographers are a film crew that are documenting the whole process. They are two people; one operating the camera and a second whispering quietly to them. The second is the director. The director is wearing a baseball cap. We see that the camera is moving slightly around the scene, but we do not know what it is focusing on. We think that this may or may not be in their finished film and that it will probably come together in editing.
A television news crew is reporting on this. There is a team of three people here. A presenter is standing in front of camera narrating what is occurring. The presenter smiles and their body language suggest they have just told a joke. We can see the words "Back to the Studio" being mouthed.
Far away a newspaper runs an article on this scene. A journalist tries to describe the events in a clear, precise manner as possible. They look to us to be slightly haggard. Their subeditor changes a few paragraphs, deletes a few, and then places it for publication in the paper.
In front of a glowing laptop a blogger reads this article in the digital equivalent of the newspaper. They write a little read piece critiquing the article's bias and style and also the whole situation described with in.
Elsewhere a writer types out this whole chain events and publishes it in a book. We assume that this is what is being photographed initially by the first photographer. But then we would wouldn't we?
Further back in the scene we see a second photographer photographing the first. Their look is less studied than the initial photographer's but they seem alert none the less. From the second's body angle and camera position we assume that they are trying to trying to capture the whole of the first in their shot, allowing us to see the photographer's concentration and passion from their body and a sideshot of their face.
Just in front of the photographers are a film crew that are documenting the whole process. They are two people; one operating the camera and a second whispering quietly to them. The second is the director. The director is wearing a baseball cap. We see that the camera is moving slightly around the scene, but we do not know what it is focusing on. We think that this may or may not be in their finished film and that it will probably come together in editing.
A television news crew is reporting on this. There is a team of three people here. A presenter is standing in front of camera narrating what is occurring. The presenter smiles and their body language suggest they have just told a joke. We can see the words "Back to the Studio" being mouthed.
Far away a newspaper runs an article on this scene. A journalist tries to describe the events in a clear, precise manner as possible. They look to us to be slightly haggard. Their subeditor changes a few paragraphs, deletes a few, and then places it for publication in the paper.
In front of a glowing laptop a blogger reads this article in the digital equivalent of the newspaper. They write a little read piece critiquing the article's bias and style and also the whole situation described with in.
Elsewhere a writer types out this whole chain events and publishes it in a book. We assume that this is what is being photographed initially by the first photographer. But then we would wouldn't we?
Friday, 20 August 2010
Match
Jonathan clears his throat and begins
"Well good evening, we've got a treat for you tonight in this metaphysical bout! Your about to see Love vs. The Id and it promises to be a real humdinger. Joining me in the commentary box is Mark"
"Hello," says Mark.
"Previous form suggests this should be an easy victory for Love, who's sheer size and experience should see it through but, some critics say The Id, who has been a-her a-her rampaging recently could surprise us all. Mark?"
Mark glares at Jonathan with barley veiled contempt and begins to speak:
"Well Jonathan, I think it's definitely going to be a lot closer than some people have predicted. The Id's a feisty little creature, especially with no Superego tonight to keep it in check, and Love is looking a little long in the tooth..."
In the stadium a sizable crowd has gathered. In one corner of the pitch sits a grotesque parody of human being - 4 feet tall, grey and slimy, grinning and eyes darting about, to and fro. In the other a giant amorphous pink cloud is settling down.
A whistle blows.
The Id rushes forward and leaps upon Love. We see the glint of a tiny pecker and the creature begins to rapidly hump the cloud.
"skkrrrreeeeeeee, skrrrreeeeeeee"
it is heard yelling. After a few seconds it jumps off of Love.
Panting, the Id watches with vague curiosity as floaty pink Love swells slightly and births a number of ,what appear to be, slightly smaller pink Ids.
The Id turns to run but the new born pink Ids are almost upon it.
Teeth gleeming, they begin humping and biting into the Id and each other, desperately screaming until there is only a grey-pink gooey mess left on the floor
Up in the commentary box Jonathan says, "Back to the studio, Gary?"
Gary looks to the camera and grimaces,
"Well I have to say that really wasn't the best metaphorical battle we've seen... Alan?"
The Alan sitting furthest right responds,
"Ohhh" he says, "It was terrible from both sides. Where was the characterisation? There's three thousand years of written and oral tradition to draw upon for love and it comes out as pink fluffy cloud? Awful, just awful."
The camera pans back to Gary who is leaning across with a serious look on his tanned face.
"and The Id?"
Alan rolls his eyes,
"The Id. The Id came out as Gollum today! I wouldn't be surprised if Freud's turning in his grave! I mean the subect's hackneyed and cliched enough as it is without the addition of the poor display seen today."
Gary then directs the conversation to the other Alan who is sitting in the middle of the studio, his legs thrust as wide apart as his shiny trousers will allow him.
"What about the climax, Alan? It all felt a bit rushed to me"
"Well Gary, rushed is the right word. Seeing the little fellas come out like that, it was far too quick a wrap up in my opinion. And Freud would not be happy with any of it."
"So not enough development for you then, Alan?"
"Not at all."
Alan, sitting on the far side of the room, interjects.
"The end was a very, very poor allegory for jealous love as well"
Gary gestures to the other Alan to confirms this.
"Definitely," the other says nodding his head.
The camera pans to Gary who has slumped on his chair, all the life taken from him as the piece begins to collapse under it's own lack of relevance.
"Good night" he mumbles as the scene fades to black.
"Well good evening, we've got a treat for you tonight in this metaphysical bout! Your about to see Love vs. The Id and it promises to be a real humdinger. Joining me in the commentary box is Mark"
"Hello," says Mark.
"Previous form suggests this should be an easy victory for Love, who's sheer size and experience should see it through but, some critics say The Id, who has been a-her a-her rampaging recently could surprise us all. Mark?"
Mark glares at Jonathan with barley veiled contempt and begins to speak:
"Well Jonathan, I think it's definitely going to be a lot closer than some people have predicted. The Id's a feisty little creature, especially with no Superego tonight to keep it in check, and Love is looking a little long in the tooth..."
In the stadium a sizable crowd has gathered. In one corner of the pitch sits a grotesque parody of human being - 4 feet tall, grey and slimy, grinning and eyes darting about, to and fro. In the other a giant amorphous pink cloud is settling down.
A whistle blows.
The Id rushes forward and leaps upon Love. We see the glint of a tiny pecker and the creature begins to rapidly hump the cloud.
"skkrrrreeeeeeee, skrrrreeeeeeee"
it is heard yelling. After a few seconds it jumps off of Love.
Panting, the Id watches with vague curiosity as floaty pink Love swells slightly and births a number of ,what appear to be, slightly smaller pink Ids.
The Id turns to run but the new born pink Ids are almost upon it.
Teeth gleeming, they begin humping and biting into the Id and each other, desperately screaming until there is only a grey-pink gooey mess left on the floor
Up in the commentary box Jonathan says, "Back to the studio, Gary?"
Gary looks to the camera and grimaces,
"Well I have to say that really wasn't the best metaphorical battle we've seen... Alan?"
The Alan sitting furthest right responds,
"Ohhh" he says, "It was terrible from both sides. Where was the characterisation? There's three thousand years of written and oral tradition to draw upon for love and it comes out as pink fluffy cloud? Awful, just awful."
The camera pans back to Gary who is leaning across with a serious look on his tanned face.
"and The Id?"
Alan rolls his eyes,
"The Id. The Id came out as Gollum today! I wouldn't be surprised if Freud's turning in his grave! I mean the subect's hackneyed and cliched enough as it is without the addition of the poor display seen today."
Gary then directs the conversation to the other Alan who is sitting in the middle of the studio, his legs thrust as wide apart as his shiny trousers will allow him.
"What about the climax, Alan? It all felt a bit rushed to me"
"Well Gary, rushed is the right word. Seeing the little fellas come out like that, it was far too quick a wrap up in my opinion. And Freud would not be happy with any of it."
"So not enough development for you then, Alan?"
"Not at all."
Alan, sitting on the far side of the room, interjects.
"The end was a very, very poor allegory for jealous love as well"
Gary gestures to the other Alan to confirms this.
"Definitely," the other says nodding his head.
The camera pans to Gary who has slumped on his chair, all the life taken from him as the piece begins to collapse under it's own lack of relevance.
"Good night" he mumbles as the scene fades to black.
The Professor 2
"Now in the future", the Professor explained, "they've found out that everyone has one talent that is unique to them and them alone."
"Oh yes?" I said, stifling a yawn. I was sure they had turned up the heat from my last visit.
"Could I have a biscuit?"
"Help your self, dear chap," the Professor shuffled in his seat.
"You see, they find your DNA and encoded in it is this information. Apparently some type of giant computer works it out. Now I never got to properly discuss the philosophical implications of it but apparently there's 3 schools of thought about it."
The professor paused to drink his tea. I dunked a biscuit into mine. They always made the tea how the Professor liked it, far far too milky. I was going to have a word with them next time.
The professor slurped, put his cup down and continued.
"Now you see the first school of thought said it was the proof of existence of god, the second that it was just a quirk of nature, something to do with humanity's extreme adaptability and the third were merely miffed that their... that their talents were so useless! haha!"
My biscuit had broken off in the cup. Great. I'd have to talk to them about that as well.
"Oh?" I said in way of response.
"Yes, you see the man who did me, terribly nice chap, said it turns out he would be the world's greatest twenty-a-side mile-long-pitch football player, or something similar, exact physiology for it apparently. Except he said that no one would ever want to play a sport like that, of course.
"Now he also showed me that some people believed that their purpose was to use their talents . They had a kind of tv show for performing their talents, forget what it was called, it wasn't that popular. The clip I saw had a man eating a freshly ploughed field. Took him days apparently."
The Professor grinned and looked me in the eye. Leaning forward he placed his hand on my knee.
"As for my talent, well..." he laughed "well, best to keep some things to yourself."
and with this he sat back in his chair.
"Shall we get some more tea?" he asked.
"Actually I'll see to that" I replied and raised myself out of my chair.
"Oh yes?" I said, stifling a yawn. I was sure they had turned up the heat from my last visit.
"Could I have a biscuit?"
"Help your self, dear chap," the Professor shuffled in his seat.
"You see, they find your DNA and encoded in it is this information. Apparently some type of giant computer works it out. Now I never got to properly discuss the philosophical implications of it but apparently there's 3 schools of thought about it."
The professor paused to drink his tea. I dunked a biscuit into mine. They always made the tea how the Professor liked it, far far too milky. I was going to have a word with them next time.
The professor slurped, put his cup down and continued.
"Now you see the first school of thought said it was the proof of existence of god, the second that it was just a quirk of nature, something to do with humanity's extreme adaptability and the third were merely miffed that their... that their talents were so useless! haha!"
My biscuit had broken off in the cup. Great. I'd have to talk to them about that as well.
"Oh?" I said in way of response.
"Yes, you see the man who did me, terribly nice chap, said it turns out he would be the world's greatest twenty-a-side mile-long-pitch football player, or something similar, exact physiology for it apparently. Except he said that no one would ever want to play a sport like that, of course.
"Now he also showed me that some people believed that their purpose was to use their talents . They had a kind of tv show for performing their talents, forget what it was called, it wasn't that popular. The clip I saw had a man eating a freshly ploughed field. Took him days apparently."
The Professor grinned and looked me in the eye. Leaning forward he placed his hand on my knee.
"As for my talent, well..." he laughed "well, best to keep some things to yourself."
and with this he sat back in his chair.
"Shall we get some more tea?" he asked.
"Actually I'll see to that" I replied and raised myself out of my chair.
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
The Seven Basic Plots
In which the seven basic plot types are described. Try and think of any story you can and see which one they fit into. You'd be surprised how snug that fit is!
1.Bob loses his Keys
Bob returns home and when he goes to open the door he realises his keys aren't there. Bob sits down, later passing out from fatigue and eventually dies from malnutrition.
Examples:
Citizen Kane, The Odyssey, Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure
2.Bob finds his keys
Very similar to 1. but Bob finds his keys after looking in his pockets. Bob then proceeds to eat a roast chicken dinner with his family.
Examples:
Se7en, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Transformers
3.Bob has no problems with his keys
Again almost identical to plot 1. except that Bob uses the time not wasted looking for his keys to read some mainly inconsequential letters before his roast chicken dinner.
Examples:
Fargo, Ulysses, Hamlet
4.Bob has someone else's keys
Bob goes to open the door and finds that he has keys that are not his own. This leads to half an hour of mystery and intrigue, in which he tries to figure out the labyrinthine mystery that ensues. This is purely internal and is only portrayed through Bob's actions and expressions outside of his front door. He then remembers these are his wife's keys he borrowed and opens the door to enjoy a cooling roast chicken dinner.
Examples:
The Rock, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Pinocchio
5.Bob has no keys
In a scenario similar to plot 1 we see Bob go to open the door but he has no keys. He sits down and appears to be passing out from fatigue at which point it is revealed he is wearing a straight jacket and rocking back forth in a padded room.
Examples:
Casablanca, The Canterbury Tales, Pride and Prejudice
6.Bob makes a list, eschewing plot and character development
A more recent post-modern development, with some literary precedent, Bob gets to the door takes out a pen and paper and creates a list which has little in the way of narrative thrust but instead is intended to convey mood and texture. Bob again passes out from fatigue and eventually dies from malnutrition.
Examples:
Dialogues, East Enders, The X Files
7.Whack a mole attack!
The least used but conversely most popular plot type; these describe, in very precise detail, the game of whack a mole.
Oedipus Rex, Titanic, The Audacity of Hope
1.Bob loses his Keys
Bob returns home and when he goes to open the door he realises his keys aren't there. Bob sits down, later passing out from fatigue and eventually dies from malnutrition.
Examples:
Citizen Kane, The Odyssey, Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure
2.Bob finds his keys
Very similar to 1. but Bob finds his keys after looking in his pockets. Bob then proceeds to eat a roast chicken dinner with his family.
Examples:
Se7en, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Transformers
3.Bob has no problems with his keys
Again almost identical to plot 1. except that Bob uses the time not wasted looking for his keys to read some mainly inconsequential letters before his roast chicken dinner.
Examples:
Fargo, Ulysses, Hamlet
4.Bob has someone else's keys
Bob goes to open the door and finds that he has keys that are not his own. This leads to half an hour of mystery and intrigue, in which he tries to figure out the labyrinthine mystery that ensues. This is purely internal and is only portrayed through Bob's actions and expressions outside of his front door. He then remembers these are his wife's keys he borrowed and opens the door to enjoy a cooling roast chicken dinner.
Examples:
The Rock, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Pinocchio
5.Bob has no keys
In a scenario similar to plot 1 we see Bob go to open the door but he has no keys. He sits down and appears to be passing out from fatigue at which point it is revealed he is wearing a straight jacket and rocking back forth in a padded room.
Examples:
Casablanca, The Canterbury Tales, Pride and Prejudice
6.Bob makes a list, eschewing plot and character development
A more recent post-modern development, with some literary precedent, Bob gets to the door takes out a pen and paper and creates a list which has little in the way of narrative thrust but instead is intended to convey mood and texture. Bob again passes out from fatigue and eventually dies from malnutrition.
Examples:
Dialogues, East Enders, The X Files
7.Whack a mole attack!
The least used but conversely most popular plot type; these describe, in very precise detail, the game of whack a mole.
Oedipus Rex, Titanic, The Audacity of Hope
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
MacArthur Park
"Now as you understand,"
said MacArthur, his white coat flapping as he walked,
"The thought experiment room is very expensive and your publisher has told me to remind you of this."
The thought experiment room was the very latest in writing technology. It could be used to accurately create any theoretical situation which the writer could then use as research material for their latest work.
"Ok," replied Park, rubbing his eyes. "I want to see what happens when a person meets themselves."
"Right," MacArthur replied. "That's easily doable..."
"And I don't want anything left to chance, make them two versions of me and make them have today fuzzed out a bit, so they don't both just say 'uh I was just having breakfast and now I'm here' and make it so they both come in at opposites sides of a symmetrical room...."
"That's all very doable Mr Park. Will you follow me to the Control Room, please?"
MacArthur and Park ascend a set of grilled stairs to the control room.
Once in the control room they looked down upon a blank white room with 4 doors.
"It will begin shortly, Mr Park. Do you have your note book ready?"
"It's all up here," Park said, tapping his index finger against his temple.
Down in the room two men enter, identical to each other and Park up in the control room.
Their eyes blink in unison and a look of confusion and disbelief soon appears on their faces.
"Hello"
"Hello"
They both raise their left arm and briefly afterwards wince.
"So it's not a mirror then. What's happening?"
"So it's not a mirror then. What's happening?"
The men stand roughly 10 feet apart and both grasp their chins. We can but assume their mind is racing.
"I can't remember how I got here..."
"I can't remember how I got here..."
and a joint look of realisation appears on each man's face.
"The fucking thought experiment room. I'm a fucking clone"
"The fucking thought experiment room. I'm a fucking clone"
Both men unhappily walk back to the side of the room they originally came from and slump against the wall, placing their heads in the arms. This continues for some time.
Back in the Control Room, MacArthur turns to Park.
"Is there anything else you would like us to do?"
"Well, now that you mention it... could you introduce a couple more clones?"
"Certainly, Sir"
At right angles to the slumped Parks two more Parks enter the room.
Blinking with disbelief they first notice themselves and the other two Parks slumped on the floor.
The other two Parks look up to their rights then their lefts and say
"Don't bother. It's the Thought Experiment Room."
"Don't bother. It's the Thought Experiment Room."
"Oh..."
"Oh..."
say the other two Parks and they themselves slump on the walls they entered from. Again this continues for some time.
Back in the Control Room Park says to MacArthur,
"Could we have it so that 4 enter the room every couple of seconds?"
"Certainly," MacArthur replies and if we didn't know any better we'd say he rolls his eyes.
In Thought Experiment Room 4 new Parks enter. They have a bemused look first seen on the first two Parks and then repeated on Parks 3 and 4.
The 4 previous Parks look up and open their mouths
"Th.."
"Th.."
"Th.."
"Th.."
They begin to utter when 4 more Parks enter the room banging into the 4 Parks who had just entered.
All 12 Parks in the room are now confused.
The First 4 Parks are heard to sigh, something that would be inaudible were it not for the fact it had been quadrupled.
The 8 Parks who have recently entered are startled and confused. They face the Park who has just entered from the same door as them and all have a look of fear on their faces.
Before they can talk another 4 Parks enter the room.
The second 4 Parks that entered the room scream.
"WHATS GOING ON"
"WHATS GOING ON"
"WHATS GOING ON"
"WHATS GOING ON"
as they are butted forward by the arrival of another 4 Parks. The other standing Parks are still confused and becoming increasingly wedged in.
The first 4 Parks are observing this; their faces almost blank with a slight look of disdain.
Things quickly descend into pandemonium. Various groups of Parks can be heard screaming
"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!?"
Other's still
"GET OFF ME!"
After one minute the room has 124 Parks in various states of distress, several pushing others over and others crawling around a mimic of 3 further Parks in the room.
From the control room Park comments to MacArthur
"There's quite a beautiful symmetry to the squabbling and crawling."
"Hmmmm," MacArthur replies
At the minute and a half point the first 4 Parks have moved from their state of annoyance and have actively started scrambling for the doors. They find themselves impeded by the Parks that are already there and the constant influx of new Park.
After 2 minutes there is barely enough room for standing let alone the patches of mirror image fighting that have occurred. The whole room resembles a grotesque, squirming game of "pile on".
Now, dear readers, having a delicate sensibility I will not go into great detail of what happened next but suffice to say the room got very full indeed.
In the control room MacArthur turns to Park,
"For the structural integrity of the room we must end the experiment now"
"Fine," says Park smirking.
MacArthur speaks into Walkie Talkie.
"We're going to need the fork lift and hoses down there again," he says.
And more quietly
"Bloody typical, bloody typical."
said MacArthur, his white coat flapping as he walked,
"The thought experiment room is very expensive and your publisher has told me to remind you of this."
The thought experiment room was the very latest in writing technology. It could be used to accurately create any theoretical situation which the writer could then use as research material for their latest work.
"Ok," replied Park, rubbing his eyes. "I want to see what happens when a person meets themselves."
"Right," MacArthur replied. "That's easily doable..."
"And I don't want anything left to chance, make them two versions of me and make them have today fuzzed out a bit, so they don't both just say 'uh I was just having breakfast and now I'm here' and make it so they both come in at opposites sides of a symmetrical room...."
"That's all very doable Mr Park. Will you follow me to the Control Room, please?"
MacArthur and Park ascend a set of grilled stairs to the control room.
Once in the control room they looked down upon a blank white room with 4 doors.
"It will begin shortly, Mr Park. Do you have your note book ready?"
"It's all up here," Park said, tapping his index finger against his temple.
Down in the room two men enter, identical to each other and Park up in the control room.
Their eyes blink in unison and a look of confusion and disbelief soon appears on their faces.
"Hello"
"Hello"
They both raise their left arm and briefly afterwards wince.
"So it's not a mirror then. What's happening?"
"So it's not a mirror then. What's happening?"
The men stand roughly 10 feet apart and both grasp their chins. We can but assume their mind is racing.
"I can't remember how I got here..."
"I can't remember how I got here..."
and a joint look of realisation appears on each man's face.
"The fucking thought experiment room. I'm a fucking clone"
"The fucking thought experiment room. I'm a fucking clone"
Both men unhappily walk back to the side of the room they originally came from and slump against the wall, placing their heads in the arms. This continues for some time.
Back in the Control Room, MacArthur turns to Park.
"Is there anything else you would like us to do?"
"Well, now that you mention it... could you introduce a couple more clones?"
"Certainly, Sir"
At right angles to the slumped Parks two more Parks enter the room.
Blinking with disbelief they first notice themselves and the other two Parks slumped on the floor.
The other two Parks look up to their rights then their lefts and say
"Don't bother. It's the Thought Experiment Room."
"Don't bother. It's the Thought Experiment Room."
"Oh..."
"Oh..."
say the other two Parks and they themselves slump on the walls they entered from. Again this continues for some time.
Back in the Control Room Park says to MacArthur,
"Could we have it so that 4 enter the room every couple of seconds?"
"Certainly," MacArthur replies and if we didn't know any better we'd say he rolls his eyes.
In Thought Experiment Room 4 new Parks enter. They have a bemused look first seen on the first two Parks and then repeated on Parks 3 and 4.
The 4 previous Parks look up and open their mouths
"Th.."
"Th.."
"Th.."
"Th.."
They begin to utter when 4 more Parks enter the room banging into the 4 Parks who had just entered.
All 12 Parks in the room are now confused.
The First 4 Parks are heard to sigh, something that would be inaudible were it not for the fact it had been quadrupled.
The 8 Parks who have recently entered are startled and confused. They face the Park who has just entered from the same door as them and all have a look of fear on their faces.
Before they can talk another 4 Parks enter the room.
The second 4 Parks that entered the room scream.
"WHATS GOING ON"
"WHATS GOING ON"
"WHATS GOING ON"
"WHATS GOING ON"
as they are butted forward by the arrival of another 4 Parks. The other standing Parks are still confused and becoming increasingly wedged in.
The first 4 Parks are observing this; their faces almost blank with a slight look of disdain.
Things quickly descend into pandemonium. Various groups of Parks can be heard screaming
"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!?"
Other's still
"GET OFF ME!"
After one minute the room has 124 Parks in various states of distress, several pushing others over and others crawling around a mimic of 3 further Parks in the room.
From the control room Park comments to MacArthur
"There's quite a beautiful symmetry to the squabbling and crawling."
"Hmmmm," MacArthur replies
At the minute and a half point the first 4 Parks have moved from their state of annoyance and have actively started scrambling for the doors. They find themselves impeded by the Parks that are already there and the constant influx of new Park.
After 2 minutes there is barely enough room for standing let alone the patches of mirror image fighting that have occurred. The whole room resembles a grotesque, squirming game of "pile on".
Now, dear readers, having a delicate sensibility I will not go into great detail of what happened next but suffice to say the room got very full indeed.
In the control room MacArthur turns to Park,
"For the structural integrity of the room we must end the experiment now"
"Fine," says Park smirking.
MacArthur speaks into Walkie Talkie.
"We're going to need the fork lift and hoses down there again," he says.
And more quietly
"Bloody typical, bloody typical."
Monday, 16 August 2010
Diary
Friday 13th August
As ever it's too fucking hot and it's too loud in my flat. Banging and a distant radio that's what my head is. When this all ends...
Heat Death - It seems like such a gloomy way for the universe to end. Maybe it's just the apocalypse for the modern age. Lives are so filled with ennui that it makes sense that the end of the world wouldn't be bang and a crash or even a wimper but just a kind of petering out. All argument's settled, all heat the same, a big nothing.
Saturday 14th August
I must reclaim the narrative, a new age demands a new armageddon. Not burning out, not fading away, but we can't just go back to the big crunch or armed angels. We need to move forward and find something more in tune with the modern age...
As ever the constant buzz of the neighbourhood makes it hard for me to think. Oh well, never mind, another day.
Sunday 15th August
Walking to the shops to get some milk and it struck me. Why don't I combine the crunch and the jaded boredom of the world into Idea Death? Not only are there no new ideas coming into the world but the old ones could contract into one single unbreakable idea....
Oh for fuck's sake. I'm finding it hard to concentrate again, the radio (next door is it?) seems to have become louder each day. I think it's teaming up with the heat to oppress me.
"Heaven Is A Place on Earth"
It certainly is.
Monday 16th August
Back to work. Heat wave shows no sign of abating and as ever my ideas seemed to have stopped. Over the weekend I'll change the world, come Monday and I can barely stay awake until five. Yawn.
They're playing that fucking song again.
Tuesday 17th August
7 coffees this morning. I couldn't sleep last night, too hot. When I did fall asleep I dreamt Belinda Carlisle was in the room trying to crawl on top of me.
It's probably because half the kids on the bus today were singing Heaven is A Place on Earth. Another 80's revival, culture eating itself, what happened to the Grime they used to listen to on their mobile phones?
Head under the pillow and an early night.
Wednesday 18th August
I told my coworker today about me not sleeping again last night. I told her it was too hot for me and that the neighbour's stereo was blasting out that song again and again.
She'd always seemed alright before. Well better than the rest of the office, I even had a soft spot for her, was considering asking her out for drink. and who knows?
But she said,
"the world's alive, with the sound of kids, on the street outside"
and started laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Fuck her.
I am taking 3 nytol tonight and couple of whiskies so at least I'll get some sleep.
Friday 20th August (am)
Oh god, I must've slept through Thursday. The BBC news channel tells me it Friday anyway.
It's now 4 in the morning and I am surprised I'm still alive. I must have sweated out a stone in weight and my room is like furnace.
The neighbour's still have that stupid fucking song on and I still feel as tired as I did on Wednesday. I'll have to tell work I had 24 hour flu or something.
Friday 20th August (pm)
I started explaining to my line manager about the flu and she didn't even seem to have noticed I wasn't there. Just shrugged and told me to report it to HR. Friday, as usual, seemed like it was going to be interminable meeting day. I thought that it'd be fine because at least I didn't need to do any work.
At 10 we had a meeting on the new housing project and when the blue prints were brought out my coworker started giggling. I looked down and it was the sheet music to "heaven is a place on earth". They all thought it was fucking hilarious.
They then all started singing. 10 adults with a million pound budget pissing about, real fucking mature.
I said I was still too ill and made my apologies and left.
A 2 hour cold shower and I almost feel alive. Tonight I sleep on the sofa.
Saturday 21st August
I think I'm going insane. Another sleepless night. Feel drowsy as hell after necking a handful of valium which again failed to send me to sleep.
BBC News told me "Heaven is a Place" is now the biggest selling single of all time and was re-entering the charts at number 1.
Fine, fine, fine it's annoying but who gives a shit right.
But then I'm sure I heard the lyrics slipping into the other news items. Creepy, right? urrrrrggg.
I am going to the park.
Sunday 22nd August
I talked to my mother about it. She tells me to drink hot milk and buy a fan. I tell her I'll give it a go.
I confess to her that I think I'm going insane and that the song had something to do with it. She said it was just a fad and that it would go away and I needed to relax. She was humming it though. I heard her.
Monday 23rd August (am)
I can't go to work. Not today.
They were fucking blasting it out of loud speakers this morning. The fire engines slowly driving along the streets, spraying kids with water so they didn't dehydrate and screeching it out at top volume. SHUT THE FUCK UP BELINDA SHUT THE FUCK UP.
I don't care if you're spinning with the stars above and NO ONE ELSE SHOULD EITHER. THE FUCK.
Monday 23rd August (pm)
The neighbours must have all gone out for the afternoon as I got a couple of hours peace. I did a crossword from my old book.
The floor was rumbling a little and a few of the clues were references to the song but all in all it was the most restful I'd felt in weeks. I thank the god of small mercies.
Tuesday 24th August
I was going to go to work today but after watching the news I just couldn't do it.
They spent an hour, I swear it was an hour, analising the lyrics.
Then there was song and dance show with 40 women dressed as Berlinda Carlisle high kicking about. They just looped the song for the duration over the show. over and over.
I phoned work to let them know I wasn't coming in. I heard the hold music and hung up.
I can feel the rumbling through the floor as well.
Wednesday 25th August
I slept but I don't know for how long. The rumbling's more intense now and the
water's stopped working in my flat.
I went to the shop to buy some milk, get some food, get something - I don't know.
The street's were empty and I would love to say I enjoyed the peace and quiet but it's managed to lodge itself in my head now.
The shop was bare. Literally bare apart from some smashed biscuits on a shelf and a couple of bags of flour.
I asked the shop keeper what was going on but he was pretty incoherent. I couldn't make anything out apart from snippets of the song. I'm pretty sure he said a whole sentence but it was only "You pull me close and we start to move".
Its got to the point where I wouldn't even have cared if he'd've had some milk.
I now huddled in the bath, were at least the porcelain seems cool.
Thursday 26th August
I try to leave my bed but the song is literally weighing me down. I look around the room and it seems far less solid. The rumbling's much louder now, I can almost make it out. I fear I know what it is.
Friday 27th August
It's fine now. I'm not afraid.
Saturday 28th August
I'm not afraid anymore.
Sunday 29th August
Ooh, baby, do you know what that's worth ?
Ooh heaven is a place on earth
They say in heaven love comes first
We'll make heaven a place on earth
Ooh heaven is a place on earth
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NOGEyBeoBGM&feature=related
As ever it's too fucking hot and it's too loud in my flat. Banging and a distant radio that's what my head is. When this all ends...
Heat Death - It seems like such a gloomy way for the universe to end. Maybe it's just the apocalypse for the modern age. Lives are so filled with ennui that it makes sense that the end of the world wouldn't be bang and a crash or even a wimper but just a kind of petering out. All argument's settled, all heat the same, a big nothing.
Saturday 14th August
I must reclaim the narrative, a new age demands a new armageddon. Not burning out, not fading away, but we can't just go back to the big crunch or armed angels. We need to move forward and find something more in tune with the modern age...
As ever the constant buzz of the neighbourhood makes it hard for me to think. Oh well, never mind, another day.
Sunday 15th August
Walking to the shops to get some milk and it struck me. Why don't I combine the crunch and the jaded boredom of the world into Idea Death? Not only are there no new ideas coming into the world but the old ones could contract into one single unbreakable idea....
Oh for fuck's sake. I'm finding it hard to concentrate again, the radio (next door is it?) seems to have become louder each day. I think it's teaming up with the heat to oppress me.
"Heaven Is A Place on Earth"
It certainly is.
Monday 16th August
Back to work. Heat wave shows no sign of abating and as ever my ideas seemed to have stopped. Over the weekend I'll change the world, come Monday and I can barely stay awake until five. Yawn.
They're playing that fucking song again.
Tuesday 17th August
7 coffees this morning. I couldn't sleep last night, too hot. When I did fall asleep I dreamt Belinda Carlisle was in the room trying to crawl on top of me.
It's probably because half the kids on the bus today were singing Heaven is A Place on Earth. Another 80's revival, culture eating itself, what happened to the Grime they used to listen to on their mobile phones?
Head under the pillow and an early night.
Wednesday 18th August
I told my coworker today about me not sleeping again last night. I told her it was too hot for me and that the neighbour's stereo was blasting out that song again and again.
She'd always seemed alright before. Well better than the rest of the office, I even had a soft spot for her, was considering asking her out for drink. and who knows?
But she said,
"the world's alive, with the sound of kids, on the street outside"
and started laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Fuck her.
I am taking 3 nytol tonight and couple of whiskies so at least I'll get some sleep.
Friday 20th August (am)
Oh god, I must've slept through Thursday. The BBC news channel tells me it Friday anyway.
It's now 4 in the morning and I am surprised I'm still alive. I must have sweated out a stone in weight and my room is like furnace.
The neighbour's still have that stupid fucking song on and I still feel as tired as I did on Wednesday. I'll have to tell work I had 24 hour flu or something.
Friday 20th August (pm)
I started explaining to my line manager about the flu and she didn't even seem to have noticed I wasn't there. Just shrugged and told me to report it to HR. Friday, as usual, seemed like it was going to be interminable meeting day. I thought that it'd be fine because at least I didn't need to do any work.
At 10 we had a meeting on the new housing project and when the blue prints were brought out my coworker started giggling. I looked down and it was the sheet music to "heaven is a place on earth". They all thought it was fucking hilarious.
They then all started singing. 10 adults with a million pound budget pissing about, real fucking mature.
I said I was still too ill and made my apologies and left.
A 2 hour cold shower and I almost feel alive. Tonight I sleep on the sofa.
Saturday 21st August
I think I'm going insane. Another sleepless night. Feel drowsy as hell after necking a handful of valium which again failed to send me to sleep.
BBC News told me "Heaven is a Place" is now the biggest selling single of all time and was re-entering the charts at number 1.
Fine, fine, fine it's annoying but who gives a shit right.
But then I'm sure I heard the lyrics slipping into the other news items. Creepy, right? urrrrrggg.
I am going to the park.
Sunday 22nd August
I talked to my mother about it. She tells me to drink hot milk and buy a fan. I tell her I'll give it a go.
I confess to her that I think I'm going insane and that the song had something to do with it. She said it was just a fad and that it would go away and I needed to relax. She was humming it though. I heard her.
Monday 23rd August (am)
I can't go to work. Not today.
They were fucking blasting it out of loud speakers this morning. The fire engines slowly driving along the streets, spraying kids with water so they didn't dehydrate and screeching it out at top volume. SHUT THE FUCK UP BELINDA SHUT THE FUCK UP.
I don't care if you're spinning with the stars above and NO ONE ELSE SHOULD EITHER. THE FUCK.
Monday 23rd August (pm)
The neighbours must have all gone out for the afternoon as I got a couple of hours peace. I did a crossword from my old book.
The floor was rumbling a little and a few of the clues were references to the song but all in all it was the most restful I'd felt in weeks. I thank the god of small mercies.
Tuesday 24th August
I was going to go to work today but after watching the news I just couldn't do it.
They spent an hour, I swear it was an hour, analising the lyrics.
Then there was song and dance show with 40 women dressed as Berlinda Carlisle high kicking about. They just looped the song for the duration over the show. over and over.
I phoned work to let them know I wasn't coming in. I heard the hold music and hung up.
I can feel the rumbling through the floor as well.
Wednesday 25th August
I slept but I don't know for how long. The rumbling's more intense now and the
water's stopped working in my flat.
I went to the shop to buy some milk, get some food, get something - I don't know.
The street's were empty and I would love to say I enjoyed the peace and quiet but it's managed to lodge itself in my head now.
The shop was bare. Literally bare apart from some smashed biscuits on a shelf and a couple of bags of flour.
I asked the shop keeper what was going on but he was pretty incoherent. I couldn't make anything out apart from snippets of the song. I'm pretty sure he said a whole sentence but it was only "You pull me close and we start to move".
Its got to the point where I wouldn't even have cared if he'd've had some milk.
I now huddled in the bath, were at least the porcelain seems cool.
Thursday 26th August
I try to leave my bed but the song is literally weighing me down. I look around the room and it seems far less solid. The rumbling's much louder now, I can almost make it out. I fear I know what it is.
Friday 27th August
It's fine now. I'm not afraid.
Saturday 28th August
I'm not afraid anymore.
Sunday 29th August
Ooh, baby, do you know what that's worth ?
Ooh heaven is a place on earth
They say in heaven love comes first
We'll make heaven a place on earth
Ooh heaven is a place on earth
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NOGEyBeoBGM&feature=related
Saturday, 14 August 2010
The Professor
The Professor paused for a second to sip his tea and continued,
“But the theatre is alive and well in the future, you understand, my dear boy.”
I scratched my left earlobe and wondered if, I too, would have white hair sprouting from my nose when I was an old man and, more importantly, if I would choose to do anything about it.
“Of course it’s changed and adapted, which is all to be expected. The theatre is an alive art form! We don’t have all the women’s parts played by young boys nowadays do we? Of course not, haha!”
I glanced at the Professor’s “time machine”. It looked suspiciously like a bicycle attached to a gong.
“So,” I said, “how has it changed, Professor?”
“Well, you see they no longer have one person playing a part. It’s quite refreshing really. The norm is to perform a play – Hamlet say or Oedipus Rex, those were the two I saw - where most of characters are played by ten or so people and the major characters by up to a hundred.”
“Really?” I replied.
“Yes and you see, the technical part is getting them all to move in the same way and say their lines at the same time. Naturally the stages are now huge things, quite a sight really.”
The Professor seemed to be in full steam now, I could almost hear his arms creaking as he gesticulated.
“But the real beauty is getting the emotional nuance of a scene across with a hundred voices going. That’s where the real skill lies. It’s really quite a sight, one hundred people delivering Hamlet’s famous soliloquy to one hundred Yoricks. It brought a tear to an old man’s eye I must confess.”
And with this he ran out of steam. Staring into his cup of tea he seemed lost in his own personal reverie.
I stretched my arms out and yawned. Mad as a box of toads the Professor, and I still had forty minutes left of my visit.
Found Story
This story is made up exclusively of short (some might say very short) quotes from famous, non famous, distinguished and undistinguished people.
And also the talking voice from a Mac computer.
The End.
And also the talking voice from a Mac computer.
The End.
Friday, 13 August 2010
The Dentist
When the letter fell into my hall two weeks ago I immediately opened it.
The letter read,
"Dear Mr ______, it is time for your bi-annual dental check up. Your appointment with _____ is at __.__ on _____"
Two weeks!
Sometimes something strikes me and I felt it then. A fully formed plan; a beautiful project.
Two weeks seemed precisely the right amount of time for the plan to come to fruition and if I avoided talking to other people during this period there would be no way any one could find out and spoil it.
I knew it would require dedication and dedication is what I gave it.
On this first morning I was nervous. I wasn't sure if it would be possible to do it. But through trial and error and perseverance I got there.
I tried several methods preliminarily but I soon found that the best way was to apply the smallest amount of pressure onto the toothpaste tube and then to scrape a ball bearing's worth onto the very end of my toothbrush.
I would then use a sliver of mirror to look at each tooth individually I would start at my upper left third molar. Using tiny rhythmic strokes I would carefully clean the inside of the tooth for 2 minutes, making sure that no part of it was missed. Then I would move onto outer part and repeat the process. The hardest part, of course, was making sure that the next tooth, in this instance the second molar, was untouched. But with concentration and steady hands I could manage to leave the others untouched.
But what of my enemy, saliva? It could spread the tooth paste around which would ruin everything.
I soon realised that if I let my mouth hang open for 15 minutes beforehand and for the duration of the process it would dry out satisfactorily. This caused my jaw to ache chronically but with no effort comes no reward.
Obviously I couldn't leave any toothpaste on the tooth, the consequences of it contaminating neighbouring teeth were far too great.
So I would then take the toothbrush, wash it and dry it. The newly dry toothbrush would then be used to wipe off any excess toothpaste. I would repeat the wiping, washing and drying process three times on the tooth after it had been cleaned to my satisfaction.
After this I would move onto the upper left first molar (of course avoiding the upper left second molar), then the upper left first premolar, then the upper left lateral incisor, moving onto my upper right central incisor, the upper right canine, the upper right second premolar and finally the upper right second molar.
I decided right at the start, for I could hardly change my mind in such matters, that my bottom teeth would be done in the opposite way. So I started on the bottom right lower second molar and continued in a similar manner.
The whole process took 2 hours and was repeated 3 times a day. I impressed even myself with my dedication.
I decided that I would remove anything from my diet that wasn't high in sugar. I began dining exclusively on boiled sweets. I did this for the first week but I soon found my budget dwindling and began eating a pound of granulated sugar a day instead.
Half my teeth have begun to ache nicely.
So today is the day and now I clothe myself in preparation for when the dentist peers into my mouth...
¿@
A man walks over to where his companion is sitting and takes a seat opposite him.
Adjusting his tie he speaks:
-I am proposing a new form of fiction. One that is entirely concept based.
Man 2 looks at him.
-Yes?
He replies
-Yes.
Man 1 continues.
-As a society haven't we moved beyond the base notions of cause and effect? Do we really require a character to have a revelation to get to the concepts underneath? Or any characterisation what so ever?
Man 2 again looks at Man 1.
-Hmmmmm
He replies.
Man 1
-Therefore, I propose that we merely present the concept itself. There will be no unecessary character devolopment, no tedious description but instead the short precise deriptions of pure idea.
CHOOSE YOUR OWN ENDING:
a)
Man 2 utters a small but audible sigh and then responds,
- But that's ridiculous. There;s a reason that stories develop the way they do. It's in our very nature to be interested in things that have a beginning, middle and end. It's how our memory works, what separates us from animals. In fact you must have heard the truism that there are only 7 basic stories.... etc. etc.
b)
Man 2 looks at Man 1 over his previously unmentioned glasses and replies,
Righto, But didn't Borges pretty much do that already? And B.S. Johnson spent his whole life railing against the novel.
c)
Man 2 gets up and says
-Bollocks.
and with that Man 2 exits the scene never to be seen again.
Adjusting his tie he speaks:
-I am proposing a new form of fiction. One that is entirely concept based.
Man 2 looks at him.
-Yes?
He replies
-Yes.
Man 1 continues.
-As a society haven't we moved beyond the base notions of cause and effect? Do we really require a character to have a revelation to get to the concepts underneath? Or any characterisation what so ever?
Man 2 again looks at Man 1.
-Hmmmmm
He replies.
Man 1
-Therefore, I propose that we merely present the concept itself. There will be no unecessary character devolopment, no tedious description but instead the short precise deriptions of pure idea.
CHOOSE YOUR OWN ENDING:
a)
Man 2 utters a small but audible sigh and then responds,
- But that's ridiculous. There;s a reason that stories develop the way they do. It's in our very nature to be interested in things that have a beginning, middle and end. It's how our memory works, what separates us from animals. In fact you must have heard the truism that there are only 7 basic stories.... etc. etc.
b)
Man 2 looks at Man 1 over his previously unmentioned glasses and replies,
Righto, But didn't Borges pretty much do that already? And B.S. Johnson spent his whole life railing against the novel.
c)
Man 2 gets up and says
-Bollocks.
and with that Man 2 exits the scene never to be seen again.
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