I read a review of the Spank Rock FabricLive mix, and it was shite. The mix is very good indeed, though, and I can't stop listening to it.
- - - - -
I just remembered that I used to write down stuff that I did. I went to the Synergy Project last Friday, and it was worth writing about. I felt like writing about the top tunes on my ipond instead, as this would be easier, but then I looked at the list and realised that I've already listed it in the paragraph above.
- - - - -
Anyway, I went to the Synergy Project at London Bridge on Friday, and it was quite interesting. Probably not worth writing about.
Tuesday 9 October 2007
Tuesday 18 September 2007
Vagrant fragments
- - - - -
:-D :-D Yes, I'll be a faceless suit. But honey, at least I'll smell nice! :-D :-D
- - - - -
:-D :-D Yes, I'll be a faceless suit. But honey, at least I'll smell nice! :-D :-D
- - - - -
[
Big up Ben.
]
|| We need to clean the streets of Wimbledon: they're filthy! Gum, cigarette butts, piss and vomit stain the streets. Animal behaviour. ||
- > - > - > -
- < - < - < -
- < - < - < -
|| It feels like I'm walking in a different direction, everything looks new and the journey's been slowed down... ||
__________________________
It actually did, you know.
__________________________
I slept and I slept and I slept. And do you know what? I deserved that sleep. I shook off the cobwebs, grabbed my books, and headed off. Phone calls and excitement on The Common. And thoughts. But the wind was blowing so strongly that a lot of thoughts were getting blown away. There was only one place left to go.
"Hey, it's crazy windy out there, you know!" The girl at the pub had a cool haircut and a seriously cool tattoo on her left shin, but most of the other people in there were terribly posh and annoying.
Man we were going insane.
|| The sign at the pub said: please leave as quietly as possible. So James and I tip-toed away from the pub || I looked at the clothes someone was wearing and decided that they were stupid. He must've known, as he looked back at me like I was stupid, and about to be killed. I thought about what he had in his life, and what I had in mine. || The Common was now almost empty. The wind had blown everyone away. ||
"Hey, it's crazy windy out there, you know!" The girl at the pub had a cool haircut and a seriously cool tattoo on her left shin, but most of the other people in there were terribly posh and annoying.
Man we were going insane.
|| The sign at the pub said: please leave as quietly as possible. So James and I tip-toed away from the pub || I looked at the clothes someone was wearing and decided that they were stupid. He must've known, as he looked back at me like I was stupid, and about to be killed. I thought about what he had in his life, and what I had in mine. || The Common was now almost empty. The wind had blown everyone away. ||
- - - - -
Man, I can't face waiting for the bus, we need to eat HERE:
The toilets are so nice.
I can't stop drinking, and I don't particularly want to, either. Look at how pretty the bubble looks:
|| I took a pic of the bubble on the bottle of beer and then the bubble burst. Maybe it was the 'snap' from my cameraphone? ||
- - - - -
These girls should be taught a lesson. Can I just get out my phone and play them my tune? Shall I rap along? Can I do my little dance? DAMN I'm bored of this! Where are we now and where are we heading? DAMN we're close now. Yeah, I love hip hop. And when that music stops: that's when my sadness returns. Don't let it stop. I can't sit in silence. The beats keep the evil spirits at bay.
I know why they do it.
|| The girls were listening to tunes through the speaker of their mobile phone. "I need a miracle, I wanna be your girl." They were singing along. I'm actually surprised that girls think like that, since the girls I know spend their time fighting guys off. But the girls are singing along anyway. ||
- - - - -
Sixtoo is king.
:-(
Thursday 23 August 2007
Busy Fog
My flatmate gave me the heads up about Blind Light, the Antony Gormley exhibition that was open at the Southbank centre, along with the guide to the exhibition and the information that entry was half-price on Mondays. That was enough to get me interested. So, along I went last Monday evening.
I had been told what to expect: statues dotted around the skyline. I approached The Hayward, and saw one of them on the roof of a tall building. It was unnerving. He looked like he was about to jump. I was quite taken aback. Another city worker jumps to his death. But it was just a statue: he wasn't actually a he, and he wasn't going to jump, either.
And then I started spotting more. I headed up the stairs of the building, and completely missed the gallery entrance, but it made no difference, because I was spotting more and more statues. By the time I'd seen about four, all of which were looking at me, I was no longer worried that they were going to kill themselves: I was now feeling uneasy because I was worried they were actually going to kill me. Looking out into the distance, there were more. Snipers, no doubt. I felt very exposed. No no, they were just statues...
I found the gallery entrance, and was greeted with a sign I'd never seen before at an art exhibition: "Tickets are sold out. Due to the popularity of this exhibition, expect queues." It didn't make sense to me. I went in, and stumbled about the place a little before first realising where the box office was, and then where the queue for the box office actually ended. It didn't make much sense. I wasn't in a supermarket: I was in an art gallery: what was with the queue? I took out my little black book and scribbled some nonsense down to pass the time.
The sign had told the truth: there were no tickets left for that evening. After struggling with the concept of time a little, I finally worked out that I'd be able to return to the show on Sunday. I got my ticket. For Sunday, at 2pm.
Of course, 2pm was a terrible time to turn up on Sunday. I woke up on Sunday morning at about 6am, then spent the morning trying to think of things to do to make time pass more quickly. The weather was bleak, so hanging around outside wasn't appealing. Nonetheless, I ended up heading off to Waterloo and hanging around The Southbank for a bit, waiting for 2pm to arrive.
While there, I looked at the Coca-Cola bottle pop art that was on display. I wish I'd taken some notes, as I can't even remember what the exhibition was in aid of. There were some nice colours on display, though. Of course, the graffiti in the mini "skatepark" was far better. There are some amazing grafs down there: you should check them out. And I even saw some artists doing their thing. For the first time, I caught a whiff of the spraypaint they were using. It smelled like it would tear your lungs to pieces if you tried painting over any extended period of time. It's no wonder that some of the artists from the early 80s have a lot of health problems these days...
- - - - -
2pm finally came, and I wandered into the gallery for the main attraction of the day. The place was heaving. There was a monstruous construction called "Space Station" at the entrance. It was very impressive. But the queue for "Blind Light" was even more impressive. This queue must have been about 400m in length, and there was no way I was going to stand in it. "Blind Light" is a big fog-filled glass box. In Gormley's words: "It is very important for me that inside it you find the outside. Also you become the immersed figure in and endless ground, literally the subject of the work." It was a shame that I didn't get to experience the box, but I did enjoy looking at everyone wandering around, finding the walls. They looked like idiots. Thinking about it now, I should've asked them what it was like to be in there. Did they get the full effect, when it was absolutely full of people who had to pass through quickly? I thought about a book by Miguel de Unamuno, "Niebla" (Mist). I was tired, though, so my thoughts didn't get very far.
The gallery was packed: that much was true. Gormley had created an exhibition full of bodies, which in turn had attracted even more bodies. Wandering through "Allotment II" was a slightly stressful affair, akin to trying to get through a train station during peak times. In addition to the 300 life-size concrete boxes that served as abstract representations of actual people, there were at least 50 living, breathing human beings wandering around, knocking on the boxes, stroking the concrete, and discussing what they thought of it all. I personally didn't want to touch the statues, talk about them, or even look at them too closely: to me, they really were like people. I almost apologised when I bumped into one of them.
There was something very disturbing about the exhibition, and I wondered what the children there were thinking of it all. I came to "Critical Mass II": 5 cast iron statues suspended from the ceiling, as if they were being tortured. Very unsettling. The chair that was placed at the foot of the stairs, "where a guard or invigilator might sit" made it all even more unpleasant. The theme of torture continued with "Drawn", a room containing sculptures of the artist himself: "painfully forked caryatids cornered at different angles on the ceiling and the floor". In my tired state, I could sense the distress of the figures. Next door was another main attraction, but again, the queue was too long. I think it was another torture chamber. By now, I was very worn down by the number of people in the gallery. It almost felt like the whole gallery was a torture chamber.
However, I was glad for the company when it came to the final room of my tour: "Matrices and Expansions". This room was full of elaborate constructions of stainless steel tubes, pieces which were "so open in structure as to become almost drawings in space". Bodies were there to be seen, it was just a matter of seeing them. Some little girls were running around excitedly, pointing out to their mum what they'd just seen. It was clear that they were seeing bodies far quicker than any of the adults (I actually failed to see much, even after the girls had pointed out the shapes). And it was really enjoyable to see people under the age of ten finding an art gallery wildly exciting.
As for the piece involving all those statues dotted around London, "Event Horizon"... When you went out into one of the "viewing galleries" you really realised that you were the one being viewed. "The conceit in all this is that in observing the works dispersed over the city these viewers will discover that they are the centre of a concentrated field of silent witnesses - they will realise that they are surrounded by art that is looking at them." I do quite like that idea, and I think that "Event Horizon" was a very good piece.
In all fairness, though, the exhibition was ruined for me simply by the huge number of visitors there. I spent only 40 minutes looking around before deciding that I just couldn't enjoy it properly. I didn't enjoy myself half as much as I had at the Fridfinnsson exhibition the previous weekend, although I did take some thoughts home with me. I headed off home, and then on to while away the afternoon with Jimmy G...
- - - - -
James showed me a great comedy show, "Look Around You". I was met with a great complement to the exhibition that I'd just seen: a sketch about geodermic granititus, or "cobbles": a medical condition whereby the sufferer gradually turns into a pile of rubble. I found this idea, when considered alongside the figures in Gormley's "Allotment II", to be incredibly funny.
Gormley's deadly serious piece, Allotment II (above) was just reduced to nonsense by the work created years earlier by the writers of Look Around You (the pic below isn't actually from the show).
Talk about putting a fresh perspective on the exhibition.
Other reviews about Gormley's exhibition can be found by the dozen if you look around. But there's no real point in reading them, as the exhibition has now closed.
But you'll certainly be interested to hear that Dr Lavender has a Myspace page. Unfortunately, he died from cobbles, but you can add him to your friends list anyway! http://www.myspace.com/dr_lavender
I had been told what to expect: statues dotted around the skyline. I approached The Hayward, and saw one of them on the roof of a tall building. It was unnerving. He looked like he was about to jump. I was quite taken aback. Another city worker jumps to his death. But it was just a statue: he wasn't actually a he, and he wasn't going to jump, either.
And then I started spotting more. I headed up the stairs of the building, and completely missed the gallery entrance, but it made no difference, because I was spotting more and more statues. By the time I'd seen about four, all of which were looking at me, I was no longer worried that they were going to kill themselves: I was now feeling uneasy because I was worried they were actually going to kill me. Looking out into the distance, there were more. Snipers, no doubt. I felt very exposed. No no, they were just statues...
I found the gallery entrance, and was greeted with a sign I'd never seen before at an art exhibition: "Tickets are sold out. Due to the popularity of this exhibition, expect queues." It didn't make sense to me. I went in, and stumbled about the place a little before first realising where the box office was, and then where the queue for the box office actually ended. It didn't make much sense. I wasn't in a supermarket: I was in an art gallery: what was with the queue? I took out my little black book and scribbled some nonsense down to pass the time.
The sign had told the truth: there were no tickets left for that evening. After struggling with the concept of time a little, I finally worked out that I'd be able to return to the show on Sunday. I got my ticket. For Sunday, at 2pm.
Of course, 2pm was a terrible time to turn up on Sunday. I woke up on Sunday morning at about 6am, then spent the morning trying to think of things to do to make time pass more quickly. The weather was bleak, so hanging around outside wasn't appealing. Nonetheless, I ended up heading off to Waterloo and hanging around The Southbank for a bit, waiting for 2pm to arrive.
While there, I looked at the Coca-Cola bottle pop art that was on display. I wish I'd taken some notes, as I can't even remember what the exhibition was in aid of. There were some nice colours on display, though. Of course, the graffiti in the mini "skatepark" was far better. There are some amazing grafs down there: you should check them out. And I even saw some artists doing their thing. For the first time, I caught a whiff of the spraypaint they were using. It smelled like it would tear your lungs to pieces if you tried painting over any extended period of time. It's no wonder that some of the artists from the early 80s have a lot of health problems these days...
- - - - -
2pm finally came, and I wandered into the gallery for the main attraction of the day. The place was heaving. There was a monstruous construction called "Space Station" at the entrance. It was very impressive. But the queue for "Blind Light" was even more impressive. This queue must have been about 400m in length, and there was no way I was going to stand in it. "Blind Light" is a big fog-filled glass box. In Gormley's words: "It is very important for me that inside it you find the outside. Also you become the immersed figure in and endless ground, literally the subject of the work." It was a shame that I didn't get to experience the box, but I did enjoy looking at everyone wandering around, finding the walls. They looked like idiots. Thinking about it now, I should've asked them what it was like to be in there. Did they get the full effect, when it was absolutely full of people who had to pass through quickly? I thought about a book by Miguel de Unamuno, "Niebla" (Mist). I was tired, though, so my thoughts didn't get very far.
The gallery was packed: that much was true. Gormley had created an exhibition full of bodies, which in turn had attracted even more bodies. Wandering through "Allotment II" was a slightly stressful affair, akin to trying to get through a train station during peak times. In addition to the 300 life-size concrete boxes that served as abstract representations of actual people, there were at least 50 living, breathing human beings wandering around, knocking on the boxes, stroking the concrete, and discussing what they thought of it all. I personally didn't want to touch the statues, talk about them, or even look at them too closely: to me, they really were like people. I almost apologised when I bumped into one of them.
There was something very disturbing about the exhibition, and I wondered what the children there were thinking of it all. I came to "Critical Mass II": 5 cast iron statues suspended from the ceiling, as if they were being tortured. Very unsettling. The chair that was placed at the foot of the stairs, "where a guard or invigilator might sit" made it all even more unpleasant. The theme of torture continued with "Drawn", a room containing sculptures of the artist himself: "painfully forked caryatids cornered at different angles on the ceiling and the floor". In my tired state, I could sense the distress of the figures. Next door was another main attraction, but again, the queue was too long. I think it was another torture chamber. By now, I was very worn down by the number of people in the gallery. It almost felt like the whole gallery was a torture chamber.
However, I was glad for the company when it came to the final room of my tour: "Matrices and Expansions". This room was full of elaborate constructions of stainless steel tubes, pieces which were "so open in structure as to become almost drawings in space". Bodies were there to be seen, it was just a matter of seeing them. Some little girls were running around excitedly, pointing out to their mum what they'd just seen. It was clear that they were seeing bodies far quicker than any of the adults (I actually failed to see much, even after the girls had pointed out the shapes). And it was really enjoyable to see people under the age of ten finding an art gallery wildly exciting.
As for the piece involving all those statues dotted around London, "Event Horizon"... When you went out into one of the "viewing galleries" you really realised that you were the one being viewed. "The conceit in all this is that in observing the works dispersed over the city these viewers will discover that they are the centre of a concentrated field of silent witnesses - they will realise that they are surrounded by art that is looking at them." I do quite like that idea, and I think that "Event Horizon" was a very good piece.
In all fairness, though, the exhibition was ruined for me simply by the huge number of visitors there. I spent only 40 minutes looking around before deciding that I just couldn't enjoy it properly. I didn't enjoy myself half as much as I had at the Fridfinnsson exhibition the previous weekend, although I did take some thoughts home with me. I headed off home, and then on to while away the afternoon with Jimmy G...
- - - - -
James showed me a great comedy show, "Look Around You". I was met with a great complement to the exhibition that I'd just seen: a sketch about geodermic granititus, or "cobbles": a medical condition whereby the sufferer gradually turns into a pile of rubble. I found this idea, when considered alongside the figures in Gormley's "Allotment II", to be incredibly funny.
Gormley's deadly serious piece, Allotment II (above) was just reduced to nonsense by the work created years earlier by the writers of Look Around You (the pic below isn't actually from the show).
Talk about putting a fresh perspective on the exhibition.
Other reviews about Gormley's exhibition can be found by the dozen if you look around. But there's no real point in reading them, as the exhibition has now closed.
But you'll certainly be interested to hear that Dr Lavender has a Myspace page. Unfortunately, he died from cobbles, but you can add him to your friends list anyway! http://www.myspace.com/dr_lavender
Sunday 12 August 2007
Things to do in South West London when you're single
The day made little sense to me. I left the gym early because I felt very faint, then went home and made sure I had a full breakfast. Ever tried scrambled tofu? It's a good vegan alternative to scrambled eggs. Scramble it up with some herbs and pepper and put it on that bagel! I think it's a damn worthy alternative, even if it may seem a little strange.
And I hit my bed after breakfast. I felt utterly muddled. No sleep, though: just a strange drift through an hour, and a lot of moaning and groaning. It was Sunday, and I knew what I wanted to do, but I couldn't work out a way to do it. I wished desperately for things to be different, as if lying there and conjuring vivid images could actually bring my dreams into reality.
Nothing made much sense when I got up again. I stumbled around the flat wondering why I was feeling so out of it.
I did some things, but then I realised that I wasn't doing enough. The day was threatening to pass me by. I needed a plan, but no plan seemed suitable. There was no point in watching a film, as nothing was making any sense. There was no possibility of reading, for exactly the same reason. And nobody was picking up their phone. A good job, mind, as I didn't really know what I was going to say, or why I was phoning them.
I remembered my plan from a couple of weeks ago: there was an exhibition I needed to visit, and it wasn't too far away.
I put some stuff in my bag and headed off. I then decided that I should eat lunch, so I stopped heading off and put my bag down. I ate lunch, then headed off again, to jump on the District Line and head for South Kensington...
- - - - -
The Serpentine gallery is a lovely little building in Hyde Park. The only problem with it is that it's free, which means you risk getting trapped in a gallery with a load of bored children who are only there because their parents are being selfish. Fortunately, even though I saw some kids leaving and entering the building, I couldn't actually find them in the gallery. Maybe I was just imagining it all.
I made a note in my little black book: "Dreams and imagination invading reality." Once again. But experiencing such an invasion is always fun...
The exhibition was by Hreinn Fridfinnsson, an Icelandic artist. And all I'd seen of his work before going there was a cardboard box with a pink interior.
This particular box was giving one of the attendants something to do, because people kept walking into it. It's called "Floorpiece". To alert other visitors that the box was there, and a part of the show, I stood and stared at it for a while. "Allocate your sentiment, and stick it in a box."
There are quite a few reviews of the exhibition out there, although the artist doesn't seem to have made it into Wikipedia yet... A shame, as I want to know more about his little avant-garde group, SÚM, that was mentioned at the entrance to the exhibition. All I know is what I read there: that the group was started in Reykjavik in 1965.
Whatever, Frindfinnsson's work was very thought-provoking and engaging indeed, and the exhibition was very enjoyable. You'd see the label for one of the pieces, and then ask yourself where the devil the actual piece was. Like "Beauty Marks". You read the description and discover that it's made of velvet. But you have to hunt around to find it. Eventually, you might notice a "beauty spot" at the bottom of the pillar, on the other side to the description. There's no way you would have spotted that if it hadn't been for the label. Later in the exhibition, you come across the sign again: "Beauty Marks". But where's the beauty spot this time? I never found it. Was it just a hoax? Maybe beauty spots aren't actually beautiful anyway. Maybe mole-free faces are more appealing.
So there was an element of symmetry to the exhibition. Before coming across the second "Beauty Marks", I came across the second "Pair": a shoe in front of a mirror. It was on the opposite side of the gallery to the first "Pair". Coming across the second pair really did trip me out slightly. Mirrors, when arranged correctly, can really unnerve people, as you know: "los espejos y la cópula son abominables, porque multiplican el número de los hombres."
These weren't the only mirrors, though: "Jar" and "Jars" also used mirrors to create virtual works. The attendant who was watching over the room containing these pieces was thoroughly enjoying himself. Having seen how two glass jars had been positioned to create a column of glass jars that stretched into the infinity of a virtual universe, the attendant was crouching there, trying to find a way to get his hand inside that other world too.
The jars didn't interest me as much as the inside-out house. According to the accompanying text, "The house harbors the whole world except itself". Here was a house, the inside of which was on the outside. So the whole world was, in a way, inside the house. The idea still has me smiling.
- - - - -
The art I saw certainly took me somewhere else. I was in a total daze for the rest of the day. Nodding off on the tube home, I found myself again questioning the whole concept of reality and chronology. I looked out of the window and thought back to the times when I'd seen the same route. Three times. And each time, I had no real idea what I was doing or where I was going. I couldn't even have told you for sure if the route even existed, to be honest. I was so tired that I didn't know if I existed either. Everything seemed so unreal.
I got home and nothing made sense. In the end, I left the flat once more and went for a long walk up the hill and around The Common. My feet hurt, and I was happy that I was finally feeling something other than confusion. I scrubbed, polished and soothed my feet and went to bed, and wondered what had happened that weekend.
I will go back to see that exhibition again, though. It was very very good.
And I hit my bed after breakfast. I felt utterly muddled. No sleep, though: just a strange drift through an hour, and a lot of moaning and groaning. It was Sunday, and I knew what I wanted to do, but I couldn't work out a way to do it. I wished desperately for things to be different, as if lying there and conjuring vivid images could actually bring my dreams into reality.
Nothing made much sense when I got up again. I stumbled around the flat wondering why I was feeling so out of it.
I did some things, but then I realised that I wasn't doing enough. The day was threatening to pass me by. I needed a plan, but no plan seemed suitable. There was no point in watching a film, as nothing was making any sense. There was no possibility of reading, for exactly the same reason. And nobody was picking up their phone. A good job, mind, as I didn't really know what I was going to say, or why I was phoning them.
I remembered my plan from a couple of weeks ago: there was an exhibition I needed to visit, and it wasn't too far away.
I put some stuff in my bag and headed off. I then decided that I should eat lunch, so I stopped heading off and put my bag down. I ate lunch, then headed off again, to jump on the District Line and head for South Kensington...
- - - - -
The Serpentine gallery is a lovely little building in Hyde Park. The only problem with it is that it's free, which means you risk getting trapped in a gallery with a load of bored children who are only there because their parents are being selfish. Fortunately, even though I saw some kids leaving and entering the building, I couldn't actually find them in the gallery. Maybe I was just imagining it all.
I made a note in my little black book: "Dreams and imagination invading reality." Once again. But experiencing such an invasion is always fun...
The exhibition was by Hreinn Fridfinnsson, an Icelandic artist. And all I'd seen of his work before going there was a cardboard box with a pink interior.
This particular box was giving one of the attendants something to do, because people kept walking into it. It's called "Floorpiece". To alert other visitors that the box was there, and a part of the show, I stood and stared at it for a while. "Allocate your sentiment, and stick it in a box."
There are quite a few reviews of the exhibition out there, although the artist doesn't seem to have made it into Wikipedia yet... A shame, as I want to know more about his little avant-garde group, SÚM, that was mentioned at the entrance to the exhibition. All I know is what I read there: that the group was started in Reykjavik in 1965.
Whatever, Frindfinnsson's work was very thought-provoking and engaging indeed, and the exhibition was very enjoyable. You'd see the label for one of the pieces, and then ask yourself where the devil the actual piece was. Like "Beauty Marks". You read the description and discover that it's made of velvet. But you have to hunt around to find it. Eventually, you might notice a "beauty spot" at the bottom of the pillar, on the other side to the description. There's no way you would have spotted that if it hadn't been for the label. Later in the exhibition, you come across the sign again: "Beauty Marks". But where's the beauty spot this time? I never found it. Was it just a hoax? Maybe beauty spots aren't actually beautiful anyway. Maybe mole-free faces are more appealing.
So there was an element of symmetry to the exhibition. Before coming across the second "Beauty Marks", I came across the second "Pair": a shoe in front of a mirror. It was on the opposite side of the gallery to the first "Pair". Coming across the second pair really did trip me out slightly. Mirrors, when arranged correctly, can really unnerve people, as you know: "los espejos y la cópula son abominables, porque multiplican el número de los hombres."
These weren't the only mirrors, though: "Jar" and "Jars" also used mirrors to create virtual works. The attendant who was watching over the room containing these pieces was thoroughly enjoying himself. Having seen how two glass jars had been positioned to create a column of glass jars that stretched into the infinity of a virtual universe, the attendant was crouching there, trying to find a way to get his hand inside that other world too.
The jars didn't interest me as much as the inside-out house. According to the accompanying text, "The house harbors the whole world except itself". Here was a house, the inside of which was on the outside. So the whole world was, in a way, inside the house. The idea still has me smiling.
- - - - -
The art I saw certainly took me somewhere else. I was in a total daze for the rest of the day. Nodding off on the tube home, I found myself again questioning the whole concept of reality and chronology. I looked out of the window and thought back to the times when I'd seen the same route. Three times. And each time, I had no real idea what I was doing or where I was going. I couldn't even have told you for sure if the route even existed, to be honest. I was so tired that I didn't know if I existed either. Everything seemed so unreal.
I got home and nothing made sense. In the end, I left the flat once more and went for a long walk up the hill and around The Common. My feet hurt, and I was happy that I was finally feeling something other than confusion. I scrubbed, polished and soothed my feet and went to bed, and wondered what had happened that weekend.
I will go back to see that exhibition again, though. It was very very good.
Tuesday 31 July 2007
3 books I've read recently
Beloved (Toni Morrison)
My flatmate from Sicily bought me this as a leaving present, as it was one of her favourite books. She was forever raving on about how good it was: so good, in fact, that she messed up one of her final year literature papers because she was enjoying herself too much writing about Beloved, and she lost track of time completely. My dear ex-flatmate is by no means the only one to promote Toni Morrison, though. Ms Morrison was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1994. So, she came highly recommended.
I started the book when it was given to me all those years ago, but I wasn't grabbed by it, and I gave up after about chapter two. But it would be rude not to read a book that was given to me as a gift, and stupid not to read one that's so critically acclaimed (if only so that I can add a further two cents to any discussion about critically acclaimed literature I might come across...), so I picked it up off my bookcase, and gave it another chance.
Once again, it failed to grab me, but I decided to keep on at it in case I eventually got into the groove. At two hundred pages in (and the book is just over three hundred pages), I still couldn't understand what the big deal was. In one of those beautifully ironic moments, I headed up to Wimbledon Common one evening and jotted down my thoughts on why I didn't particularly like the book.
After finishing my mini critique, I embarked on the final hundred or so pages. And, boy, did the girl shift gears! Yes, the final third of the novel proved to be quite something! You should never speak too soon...
It's a book I can appreciate, but I can't say I'll be rushing to read any more of Toni Morrison's work. Even though it will doubtless be recommended to me by many more people.
- - - - -
I've just leafed through my little black book to see if I wrote any quotes from the novel that I liked. I didn't find any, so here's a quote that's totally unrelated to everything I've just said:
I wrote that on July 14. Just over a week later, the economy certainly did have a heart attack of sorts: $1.3 trillion was wiped off the global equity markets.
- - - -
The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)
Also while in Sicily, I was given a bookmark publicising The Alchemist with the purchase of some books. I kept this bookmark, as it was rather pretty, and I must've seen it on most days of last year, as I used it as a bookmark at work. I quite liked the quotes on the bookmark, even though they were a touch twee.
Indeed, the ideas behind the story are hardly new, and the story isn't told in a particularly new way either. But it is nonetheless quite a lovely story. It's rather philosophical: the healthy dose of positive mysticism that the book offers is clearly the secret of the book's success. And it's very short, too. I've read plenty of books that explore the same ideas, but I did still very much enjoy this one.
Of course, the above quote could be found re-worded in countless other books that deal with the perennial philosophy. But I don't think I'll ever tire of that kind of thing, because I too am an otherworldly mystic.
- - - - -
Well, maybe I too can understand the language of the world, and maybe I was in tune with something deeper when I came up with my little observation of the world economy. I guess my third eye was open at the time...
- - - - -
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (Hunter S Thompson)
This was another book I'd started but not got into. I might even have borrowed it from the library twice, but I never read much. The beginning of the film entertained me greatly, but I don't think I've ever seen the whole film either. Maybe that's because I was always so bombed that I always either ended up sleeping through the film or losing all concentration after the part where the attorney's listening to White Rabbit in the bathtub?!
Whatever, I saw the book on Jimmy's bookshelf on Saturday night, and I grabbed it, knowing full well that I'd absolutely love it. I started it last night, and finished it this evening. Absolutely blinding. The pace is unbelievable, and the story is hilarious.
- - - - -
What did The Alchemist say? You've got to follow the omens? I pulled Fear and Loathing off the bookshelf when I could barely speak or keep my eyes open, and I absolutely loved that book, so maybe that's an omen?
Shit, I'm getting in touch with a friend and going on a ludicrous drugs bender...
My flatmate from Sicily bought me this as a leaving present, as it was one of her favourite books. She was forever raving on about how good it was: so good, in fact, that she messed up one of her final year literature papers because she was enjoying herself too much writing about Beloved, and she lost track of time completely. My dear ex-flatmate is by no means the only one to promote Toni Morrison, though. Ms Morrison was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1994. So, she came highly recommended.
I started the book when it was given to me all those years ago, but I wasn't grabbed by it, and I gave up after about chapter two. But it would be rude not to read a book that was given to me as a gift, and stupid not to read one that's so critically acclaimed (if only so that I can add a further two cents to any discussion about critically acclaimed literature I might come across...), so I picked it up off my bookcase, and gave it another chance.
Once again, it failed to grab me, but I decided to keep on at it in case I eventually got into the groove. At two hundred pages in (and the book is just over three hundred pages), I still couldn't understand what the big deal was. In one of those beautifully ironic moments, I headed up to Wimbledon Common one evening and jotted down my thoughts on why I didn't particularly like the book.
Perhaps [her style is] too human for my tastes - not metaphysical enough, even though the story seems to be about a supernatural being.
After finishing my mini critique, I embarked on the final hundred or so pages. And, boy, did the girl shift gears! Yes, the final third of the novel proved to be quite something! You should never speak too soon...
It's a book I can appreciate, but I can't say I'll be rushing to read any more of Toni Morrison's work. Even though it will doubtless be recommended to me by many more people.
- - - - -
I've just leafed through my little black book to see if I wrote any quotes from the novel that I liked. I didn't find any, so here's a quote that's totally unrelated to everything I've just said:
The world is going to have a heart attact, or the economy is at least. Look at how, year after year, things get more stressed. We're constantly pushing things to a new level.
I wrote that on July 14. Just over a week later, the economy certainly did have a heart attack of sorts: $1.3 trillion was wiped off the global equity markets.
- - - -
The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)
Also while in Sicily, I was given a bookmark publicising The Alchemist with the purchase of some books. I kept this bookmark, as it was rather pretty, and I must've seen it on most days of last year, as I used it as a bookmark at work. I quite liked the quotes on the bookmark, even though they were a touch twee.
Indeed, the ideas behind the story are hardly new, and the story isn't told in a particularly new way either. But it is nonetheless quite a lovely story. It's rather philosophical: the healthy dose of positive mysticism that the book offers is clearly the secret of the book's success. And it's very short, too. I've read plenty of books that explore the same ideas, but I did still very much enjoy this one.
Our life stories and the history of the world were written by the same hand.
Of course, the above quote could be found re-worded in countless other books that deal with the perennial philosophy. But I don't think I'll ever tire of that kind of thing, because I too am an otherworldly mystic.
- - - - -
Well, maybe I too can understand the language of the world, and maybe I was in tune with something deeper when I came up with my little observation of the world economy. I guess my third eye was open at the time...
- - - - -
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (Hunter S Thompson)
This was another book I'd started but not got into. I might even have borrowed it from the library twice, but I never read much. The beginning of the film entertained me greatly, but I don't think I've ever seen the whole film either. Maybe that's because I was always so bombed that I always either ended up sleeping through the film or losing all concentration after the part where the attorney's listening to White Rabbit in the bathtub?!
Whatever, I saw the book on Jimmy's bookshelf on Saturday night, and I grabbed it, knowing full well that I'd absolutely love it. I started it last night, and finished it this evening. Absolutely blinding. The pace is unbelievable, and the story is hilarious.
- - - - -
What did The Alchemist say? You've got to follow the omens? I pulled Fear and Loathing off the bookshelf when I could barely speak or keep my eyes open, and I absolutely loved that book, so maybe that's an omen?
Shit, I'm getting in touch with a friend and going on a ludicrous drugs bender...
Thursday 26 July 2007
Sí, tampoco los muertos retoñan, desgraciadamente..
I remember the evening last year when I bought the Burial album, and I put it on when I went to bed, and I just couldn't believe that somebody had recorded sounds quite like the ones I was hearing. The album seemed suspended, I didn't know where it began or where it ended, I didn't know when I was awake or when I was asleep.
When I got up the next morning, the world was drizzly, but I felt comfortable, with that melancholy, introvert, curious yet unimpressed interest in life and everything that was going on, the sensation that everything was utterly absurd. I had the perfect album for the life I was living. Drizzly South London beats in a drizzly South London town. I headed in to Croydon, lost among sounds of ghosts from the past... It was like this kid had just dug up all the graves, only to throw dirt back over them again. Those drums, those vocals, and that mood he was capturing. How could it be done?
That was the day that things changed.
And now he's come back with some more beats, and it's all coming back to me again. The rain is with us once more, the drizzle has come back to accompany the beats, as once more I find myself stepping out and wandering around town, lost in a world of mystery and emotion...
Burial is just bloody amazing.
And, yeah, El-B is totally ill too, and blatantly the grandfather of everything that's great about the London Underground.
- - - - -
The only thing that I know of that compares to this kind of stuff is the work of Juan Rulfo.
When I got up the next morning, the world was drizzly, but I felt comfortable, with that melancholy, introvert, curious yet unimpressed interest in life and everything that was going on, the sensation that everything was utterly absurd. I had the perfect album for the life I was living. Drizzly South London beats in a drizzly South London town. I headed in to Croydon, lost among sounds of ghosts from the past... It was like this kid had just dug up all the graves, only to throw dirt back over them again. Those drums, those vocals, and that mood he was capturing. How could it be done?
That was the day that things changed.
And now he's come back with some more beats, and it's all coming back to me again. The rain is with us once more, the drizzle has come back to accompany the beats, as once more I find myself stepping out and wandering around town, lost in a world of mystery and emotion...
Burial is just bloody amazing.
I discovered EL-B and garage at the same time. I heard his Brandy remix, then “Buck n Bury” and “Passage of time” - and I hadn’t even heard “Stone Cold” yet, though I’d heard of Groove Chronicles on something else I didn’t like. Then I heard “Stone Cold” and I was just like “fuck…”
And, yeah, El-B is totally ill too, and blatantly the grandfather of everything that's great about the London Underground.
- - - - -
The only thing that I know of that compares to this kind of stuff is the work of Juan Rulfo.
Sunday 22 July 2007
Pete's rock and roll Sunday
What a sensible day I've had... Check out what I've done with myself:
- Got up just after 6
- Put a load of washing on
- Went for a swim
- Had breakfast for the first time in weeks. Yummy.
- Went to Sainsbury's
- Cleaned the fridge
- Bought a blender, chopping boards, a sabatier knife, and wooden spoons
- Made lunch (I got to use the stuff I bought)
- Washed the dishes
- Put on another load of washing
- Did some brainwork
- Ironed my shirts
- Went to the park to identify trees
I think I need a drug habit or something. This sort of sensible Sunday is just not on. I reckon if I had a garden, I'd have probably done some gardening too.
- - - - -
Still, the tunes I bought yesterday are very exciting indeed.
- Got up just after 6
- Put a load of washing on
- Went for a swim
- Had breakfast for the first time in weeks. Yummy.
- Went to Sainsbury's
- Cleaned the fridge
- Bought a blender, chopping boards, a sabatier knife, and wooden spoons
- Made lunch (I got to use the stuff I bought)
- Washed the dishes
- Put on another load of washing
- Did some brainwork
- Ironed my shirts
- Went to the park to identify trees
I think I need a drug habit or something. This sort of sensible Sunday is just not on. I reckon if I had a garden, I'd have probably done some gardening too.
- - - - -
Still, the tunes I bought yesterday are very exciting indeed.
Friday 20 July 2007
hilvanando el hilo de la vida
The first colleague I talked to today said to me: “Pete, you seem totally out of it these days!” And I was slightly taken aback by the comment, because I’ve been feeling as sharp as a samurai sword this week. Mind you, I have been far out, lost in a world of thought that’s located far far away from wherever my body may find itself. Such dislocation is what permits me to leave my body in a trance-like state on the running machine, with no mind in control to say: “Stop, I think you need to save the energy for something else”.
But this afternoon, I realized that my colleague had been right. I suddenly noticed I was pretty much floating, and I thought back to this morning. What madness. All sorts of things had been flying around my head. I was full of randomness.
* * * * * earlier today * * * * *
"I used to think
As birds take wing
They sing through life
So why can’t we?"
This morning I have been unable to work: I can’t keep my eyes from the rain outside. It’s quite spectacular. The rain always fills me with an urge to do I don’t know what: just as quickly as the rain hits the ground, my consciousness becomes awash with far-flung ideas and inspirations. Generally, I am possessed with the urge to sing in Italian, though I don’t know which song to sing. This morning, the rain took me back in time, and I felt the urge to send a message in Portuguese. While in Lisbon all those years ago, we witnessed some of the most insane downpours Portugal had ever seen. The dainty little town seemed like it was going to be washed away – I was almost expecting it to vanish like a chalk painting on a pavement. You know, like what happens in Mary Poppins, after they've sung supercalifragilisticexpialidocious at the races...
Heavy rain and thunder is the weather at its most passionate. It’s something to behold. “Pioggia” certainly does sound as wet as today looks.
But it’s dark. It’s so very dark. Como pode o céu estar escuro como se fosse noite? It’s the end of July. A guy from work is getting married. Just like the rhyme:
“Mary said ‘Aye’ with a twinkle in her eye
And they both got married at the end of July”
Even though the end of July should be wonderfully sunny and pleasant, I like this weather. When the rain stops and the sky clears, the sun will return. We're getting truly bipolar weather at the moment, and bipolar weather feeds creativity.
* * * * * fin * * * * *
I headed to the toilet for a quick snooze. I really did float away. And when I came out, the sun was shining very brightly indeed. I read what I wrote this morning: I had been right. I surprised even myself.
All you need are wacky ideas.
But this afternoon, I realized that my colleague had been right. I suddenly noticed I was pretty much floating, and I thought back to this morning. What madness. All sorts of things had been flying around my head. I was full of randomness.
* * * * * earlier today * * * * *
"I used to think
As birds take wing
They sing through life
So why can’t we?"
This morning I have been unable to work: I can’t keep my eyes from the rain outside. It’s quite spectacular. The rain always fills me with an urge to do I don’t know what: just as quickly as the rain hits the ground, my consciousness becomes awash with far-flung ideas and inspirations. Generally, I am possessed with the urge to sing in Italian, though I don’t know which song to sing. This morning, the rain took me back in time, and I felt the urge to send a message in Portuguese. While in Lisbon all those years ago, we witnessed some of the most insane downpours Portugal had ever seen. The dainty little town seemed like it was going to be washed away – I was almost expecting it to vanish like a chalk painting on a pavement. You know, like what happens in Mary Poppins, after they've sung supercalifragilisticexpialidocious at the races...
Heavy rain and thunder is the weather at its most passionate. It’s something to behold. “Pioggia” certainly does sound as wet as today looks.
But it’s dark. It’s so very dark. Como pode o céu estar escuro como se fosse noite? It’s the end of July. A guy from work is getting married. Just like the rhyme:
“Mary said ‘Aye’ with a twinkle in her eye
And they both got married at the end of July”
Even though the end of July should be wonderfully sunny and pleasant, I like this weather. When the rain stops and the sky clears, the sun will return. We're getting truly bipolar weather at the moment, and bipolar weather feeds creativity.
* * * * * fin * * * * *
I headed to the toilet for a quick snooze. I really did float away. And when I came out, the sun was shining very brightly indeed. I read what I wrote this morning: I had been right. I surprised even myself.
All you need are wacky ideas.
Thursday 5 July 2007
"Room to rent: would suit holistic therapist"
I picked up my pizza and was walking home, when I walked passed a sign that struck me as being slightly humorous:
"Room to rent: would suit holistic therapist"
It took me a while to work that one out.
Anyway, let's go back in time a little. Back to before I picked the pizza up...
- - - - -
I was in the pizza joint, waiting for my dinner. I was starving and I started drifting off...
I found myself at the pizza joint in Palermo that was just down the road from where I lived. Glory days! A pizza joint about 30 seconds from my front door! I thought about how, here in Wimbledon, I phone up to order, and they say: "yes mate, 15 minutes!" and it ends up taking them 25 minutes, while in Palermo I'd just rock on in there and order, and I'd have something delicious within 7 minutes at most.
I used to pass the time with my little black book. It was a different little black book to the one I have now, of course, but it was still a little black book. The happy fat man asked me one day:
- Ma stai sempre scrivendo... Che scrivi?
- Ehi, scrivo molte cose... Scrivo su di te, caro amico!
- Scrivi su di me? Come mai?
- Perché sei l'amore della mia vita!
- Ma che c'entra l'amore?!?!
- Tu sei l'uomo chi mi fa tante belle pizze, allora tu devi essere l'amore della mia vita!
- Bah!
And he turned and continued with his pizza making. What a happy fat man. And there was I, a terribly unhappy thin boy, capable of being cheered up only by eating pizza every evening, scribbling inconsequential words down in my little black book to pass the time.
I really did eat pizza every evening out there. I rotated the pizzerias, so that they didn't get suspicious of my behaviour. There was another one, my second favourite, a little bit further from my flat. Real good. Another happy fat man cooked the pizza - he was the original happy fat man out there. It was the way he'd say to me: "origano?" as if it were something truly dirty and forbidden. And I'd get excited. But not quite as excited as I'd get if I said "pepperoncino!" They served the most amazing delicata there - the cherry tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella were to die for... He used to give me a knowing smile as he boxed up the pizza, as if to say: "This is the closest to magic you'll ever get." I'll never forget the day he pulled out the pizza and I just said "BUONA!" and he looked very proud indeed. He was all: "Allora, ti piace la pizza?!"
Happy fat man number three was the least happy of them all. I never formed any sort of relationship with him, or his pizza, the base of which was terribly tough. You really would hurt your fingers trying to cut it. He wasn't even happy. Just a fat man. No stories to tell here.
Of course, then there was the happy fat girl. She had a smile to die for. She was like a playful little cat. She really was a happy girl, but I didn't rate her pizza much either. This girl would cook the pizzas when their resident happy fat man was away (he was the happy ugly fat man, and he rarely said a word). You've never seen tits like hers - I mean, I don't think I have, anyway. They were quite possibly the biggest on the island, which is saying something. Her name? Giusy! Yes, that's pronounced "juicy." When she told me that, I almost laughed out loud. Maybe I did. I often felt bad for not going there very often, because she was always happy to see my flatmates and me if any of us ever passed her by.
I can't remember the names of any of these pizza joints, which makes me slightly sad. Of course, for the restaurant where "l'amore della mia vita" worked, I translated the menu. They rewarded me with a free pizza. One day, I shall return...
"Room to rent: would suit holistic therapist"
It took me a while to work that one out.
Anyway, let's go back in time a little. Back to before I picked the pizza up...
- - - - -
I was in the pizza joint, waiting for my dinner. I was starving and I started drifting off...
I found myself at the pizza joint in Palermo that was just down the road from where I lived. Glory days! A pizza joint about 30 seconds from my front door! I thought about how, here in Wimbledon, I phone up to order, and they say: "yes mate, 15 minutes!" and it ends up taking them 25 minutes, while in Palermo I'd just rock on in there and order, and I'd have something delicious within 7 minutes at most.
I used to pass the time with my little black book. It was a different little black book to the one I have now, of course, but it was still a little black book. The happy fat man asked me one day:
- Ma stai sempre scrivendo... Che scrivi?
- Ehi, scrivo molte cose... Scrivo su di te, caro amico!
- Scrivi su di me? Come mai?
- Perché sei l'amore della mia vita!
- Ma che c'entra l'amore?!?!
- Tu sei l'uomo chi mi fa tante belle pizze, allora tu devi essere l'amore della mia vita!
- Bah!
And he turned and continued with his pizza making. What a happy fat man. And there was I, a terribly unhappy thin boy, capable of being cheered up only by eating pizza every evening, scribbling inconsequential words down in my little black book to pass the time.
I really did eat pizza every evening out there. I rotated the pizzerias, so that they didn't get suspicious of my behaviour. There was another one, my second favourite, a little bit further from my flat. Real good. Another happy fat man cooked the pizza - he was the original happy fat man out there. It was the way he'd say to me: "origano?" as if it were something truly dirty and forbidden. And I'd get excited. But not quite as excited as I'd get if I said "pepperoncino!" They served the most amazing delicata there - the cherry tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella were to die for... He used to give me a knowing smile as he boxed up the pizza, as if to say: "This is the closest to magic you'll ever get." I'll never forget the day he pulled out the pizza and I just said "BUONA!" and he looked very proud indeed. He was all: "Allora, ti piace la pizza?!"
Happy fat man number three was the least happy of them all. I never formed any sort of relationship with him, or his pizza, the base of which was terribly tough. You really would hurt your fingers trying to cut it. He wasn't even happy. Just a fat man. No stories to tell here.
Of course, then there was the happy fat girl. She had a smile to die for. She was like a playful little cat. She really was a happy girl, but I didn't rate her pizza much either. This girl would cook the pizzas when their resident happy fat man was away (he was the happy ugly fat man, and he rarely said a word). You've never seen tits like hers - I mean, I don't think I have, anyway. They were quite possibly the biggest on the island, which is saying something. Her name? Giusy! Yes, that's pronounced "juicy." When she told me that, I almost laughed out loud. Maybe I did. I often felt bad for not going there very often, because she was always happy to see my flatmates and me if any of us ever passed her by.
I can't remember the names of any of these pizza joints, which makes me slightly sad. Of course, for the restaurant where "l'amore della mia vita" worked, I translated the menu. They rewarded me with a free pizza. One day, I shall return...
Friday 29 June 2007
My last day in Aphrodite Hills
So I finished my final session in the gym and got changed, only to discover that I'd forgotten a change of shirt… I wandered out of the Spa bare-chested, feeling like a total idiot. I simply couldn't wander around like some trashy Brit tourist. I'd just have to buy a shirt from somewhere. Style was not an option: I needed any shirt I could find that didn't make me look like a complete dweeb. I wandered into a store self-consciously, not even looking at the girl behind the counter, and headed straight for the t-shirt rack.
I considered a trashy "Italia" football / basketball sleeveless vest type thing for a few moments, because it was cheap and because it said "Italia" on it. Then I opted for a strange bright orange creation: it didn't seem too great at the time, but it would do.
In my bright bright colours, my bro decided that I looked like a kid with special needs - one who has to wear bright colours so that he's highly visible to his carers…
I like my orange t-shirt, though. I now have some shorts and a belt that complement it very well too :-)
Pete gets walked on for fun
After punishing myself physically for quite a few weeks, I decided it was finally time to take myself for a massage. I browsed through the bewildering array of massages on offer at the Spa, and chose to book myself in for a Thai back massage. How exciting…
I packed some dashing pants to wear, but they gave me some special pyjamas to wear for the session instead. A little on the large side, but they had a drawstring so it was okay. I left the changing rooms, with no idea where I'd find my masseuse. I found her, though. Without even looking, I found her. I could feel her presence. She was just sitting there peacefully, and her aura was reaching out to me.
So I met the little Thai girl: she was very sweet but she didn't speak much English. In true Oriental style, she called me "Mr Peter." I liked that. She took me down the stairs and into a peaceful little room.
- Have you done this before? She asks.
- No, this is my first time, I reply. I think I looked slightly embarrassed at this point, but she gave me a look to say: "It's okay, I'm used to this." She seemed slightly nervous and embarrassed too, which put me at ease.
She took my robe and asked me to lie down. I had absolutely no idea what to expect. Then it all started. She got to work on my heels and calves, exerting quite a bit of pressure, and I'm thinking "She's quite strong for such a little thing…" And then: "Hell, she must me kneeling on me or something, this is getting intense…"
Now, the only massage I'd ever received up until this point was from Louise the Warrior Princess, a big strong girl who really quite hurt me when she started rubbing my neck one evening. Louise told me that it was supposed to hurt. An unreliable source told me that, no, massages aren't supposed to hurt. Whatever, I'd come to the conclusion myself that some massages were designed to hurt, and others weren't. As this little Thai girl continued her work, I realised that I'd let myself in for a massage that was REALLY going to hurt…
There's a thin line between pleasure and pain, and my Thai friend was clearly a master of walking this line. She was no longer kneeling on me - she really was walking all over me, walking straight along that thin line. Unsure of whether to gasp in pain or moan in ecstasy, I just kept my mouth shut and tried to focus on something else. I could just hear Louise's voice in my head, telling me again: "It's supposed to hurt, Pete! But it feels good afterwards..." Yes, my body was in a room in Aphrodite Hills, but my being had been transported back in time, to a bar in Valladolid. The chakras were being opened, and I was travelling through time and space...
The chakras were being opened, and the energy was being released: before I knew it, my arms had turned completely numb. I had no idea what she was doing, but I sensed she was experiencing some difficulties. My back was clearly a mass of trapped energy and pent-up stress.
Are you okay? She asks. I detected concern in her voice.
- Yeah! I gasp.
And so it continued… Having my butt grabbed was wonderful, but having her dig her elbows into my back was pretty painful. I was eventually asked to sit up and cross my legs. That was when she started giving me Spock pinches to the neck. Was the procedure ever going to get any easier for us, or was everything she did going to be painful?!
The end finally came: she pulled out her finishing move… A full-nelson! There I am, trapped in a full-nelson, and this girl gets her knee up into my side and just twists me. All I can hear is Vince McMahon screaming "Oh my! How much more punishment can he take?! He's gotta tap sometime!", and I'm trying hard not to laugh. My back clicked, then she twisted me the other way.
- Would you like to lie down now? She asks. Finally, the treatment's over.
- Yep, I'll just have a little rest
- Okay, I'll go get you some water
And I just lay there for a while, thinking: "That was amazing, I want a little Thai girl to do that to me every day…" She returned with my water, and I took it humbly: I'd been completely at the mercy of this girl for 20 minutes, and I felt like I was a slave on a ship being granted a sip of water to prevent death by dehydration.
- The muscles in your back are very… She started, unable to remember the correct English word
- Tense? I say.
- Yeah, tense, you need to come for therapy more often...
I really do.
I packed some dashing pants to wear, but they gave me some special pyjamas to wear for the session instead. A little on the large side, but they had a drawstring so it was okay. I left the changing rooms, with no idea where I'd find my masseuse. I found her, though. Without even looking, I found her. I could feel her presence. She was just sitting there peacefully, and her aura was reaching out to me.
So I met the little Thai girl: she was very sweet but she didn't speak much English. In true Oriental style, she called me "Mr Peter." I liked that. She took me down the stairs and into a peaceful little room.
- Have you done this before? She asks.
- No, this is my first time, I reply. I think I looked slightly embarrassed at this point, but she gave me a look to say: "It's okay, I'm used to this." She seemed slightly nervous and embarrassed too, which put me at ease.
She took my robe and asked me to lie down. I had absolutely no idea what to expect. Then it all started. She got to work on my heels and calves, exerting quite a bit of pressure, and I'm thinking "She's quite strong for such a little thing…" And then: "Hell, she must me kneeling on me or something, this is getting intense…"
Now, the only massage I'd ever received up until this point was from Louise the Warrior Princess, a big strong girl who really quite hurt me when she started rubbing my neck one evening. Louise told me that it was supposed to hurt. An unreliable source told me that, no, massages aren't supposed to hurt. Whatever, I'd come to the conclusion myself that some massages were designed to hurt, and others weren't. As this little Thai girl continued her work, I realised that I'd let myself in for a massage that was REALLY going to hurt…
There's a thin line between pleasure and pain, and my Thai friend was clearly a master of walking this line. She was no longer kneeling on me - she really was walking all over me, walking straight along that thin line. Unsure of whether to gasp in pain or moan in ecstasy, I just kept my mouth shut and tried to focus on something else. I could just hear Louise's voice in my head, telling me again: "It's supposed to hurt, Pete! But it feels good afterwards..." Yes, my body was in a room in Aphrodite Hills, but my being had been transported back in time, to a bar in Valladolid. The chakras were being opened, and I was travelling through time and space...
The chakras were being opened, and the energy was being released: before I knew it, my arms had turned completely numb. I had no idea what she was doing, but I sensed she was experiencing some difficulties. My back was clearly a mass of trapped energy and pent-up stress.
Are you okay? She asks. I detected concern in her voice.
- Yeah! I gasp.
And so it continued… Having my butt grabbed was wonderful, but having her dig her elbows into my back was pretty painful. I was eventually asked to sit up and cross my legs. That was when she started giving me Spock pinches to the neck. Was the procedure ever going to get any easier for us, or was everything she did going to be painful?!
The end finally came: she pulled out her finishing move… A full-nelson! There I am, trapped in a full-nelson, and this girl gets her knee up into my side and just twists me. All I can hear is Vince McMahon screaming "Oh my! How much more punishment can he take?! He's gotta tap sometime!", and I'm trying hard not to laugh. My back clicked, then she twisted me the other way.
- Would you like to lie down now? She asks. Finally, the treatment's over.
- Yep, I'll just have a little rest
- Okay, I'll go get you some water
And I just lay there for a while, thinking: "That was amazing, I want a little Thai girl to do that to me every day…" She returned with my water, and I took it humbly: I'd been completely at the mercy of this girl for 20 minutes, and I felt like I was a slave on a ship being granted a sip of water to prevent death by dehydration.
- The muscles in your back are very… She started, unable to remember the correct English word
- Tense? I say.
- Yeah, tense, you need to come for therapy more often...
I really do.
Pete meets Take That
I dreamt that I met Take That. How mad was that? It was the take that of old, back when Robbie was in the band and Howard had dreads. Does Howard still have dreads? To be honest, I have little idea: I'm just guessing that he'll have chopped them off by now.
But, whatever, here I am in my dream, I'm sitting in some dingy little room where there's only one table, and Take That come in and sit down. And I suddenly think: "Hang on, they're Take That, aren't they?" Sure enough, I look across the table, and Robbie's smiling at me. I'm all: "Alright?" And he goes: "Yeah." I'm thinking that this is a bit of a strange situation, but anyway, I turn to my right, and there's Howard. I say to him: "You alright?" He smiles and nods in return.
So I'm a bit confused at this point: I'm sitting in a dingy little room, minding my own business, when Take That come in and sit down with me. I figure: "They must be doing a show here in a bit or something, I'd best leave them to it…" So I get up and make my way out. At this point I realise that I'm only wearing a towel, but for some reason, I don't really mind.
I leave through what must be the back door to the place, and I look up the walkway, up towards a crowd of screaming girls, who are all trying to get through the door to see Take That. I'm utterly perplexed by this point: I have no idea what's going on - what are Take That doing in my dream, why am I wearing only a towel, and why is it so darn dingy in my dream (it's kind of like Blade Runner)?! I just sort of stand around, looking at the posters on the side of the venue, thinking about the absurdity of the situation for a few minutes, and then my dream changes shot: there's a guy and a woman - they must be Take That's management or something - and they're talking about me, all: "He was very relaxed around the band, he's cool, we should let him in to be a part of all this."
The couple invite me back inside, and tell me to follow them. Take That aren't there any longer: they must have gone off to get ready. This management couple lead me into a large auditorium, with really steep steps down to the bottom, and there's a load of activity going on all the way down the steps to the arena. I'm following this couple down the steps, and my main concern at this point is that my towel may come off at any point. Why couldn't they give me some clothes before letting me join them to help set up the show?!
The next bizarre twist: this auditorium is being used as a TV studio of sorts. To get to where we're going, we have to pass Jon Snow, who's reading a report for the Channel 4 News. My two 'friends' go on ahead of me, and step carefully over the cables and stuff, right past Mr Snow, who doesn't look amused that people are walking between him and the camera. I have no choice but to follow, but I can't step quite as carefully as the other two, as I'm wearing only a towel, so my legs are restricted in their movement. I don't want to disrupt Mr Snow AND flash him at the same time. That would be overly rude.
As it turns out, I can't step carefully enough, and I nudge one of the cameras as I step by. This is terrible, I hear the producers cry: the news report they're filming is going out live, and I've just messed things up for them… I continue hurriedly down to the bottom of the steps, where the Take That management team are sitting playing Pong. No lies: they're there, with an Atari 2600, playing Pong, having a great time. They've already forgotten about me.
Unfortunately, the Channel 4 News producer hasn't forgotten about me, and he's coming down the stairs, with an incredulous look on his face, which I read to mean "I can't believe that these two have brought this boy in here with them: he's only wearing a towel, and he's just ruined our transmission!"
Whatever, that was my dream. I can actually understand where most of the elements of the dream came from. Can you?
My stomach has shrunk, and now I can't get drunk
Starve yourself for two weeks and lay off the alcohol, and you'll have a real difficult time trying to party, I can tell you… Last night was my cousin's 21st, so I felt the need to try and celebrate with him - I'd forget my hardcore regime for just one night. Bring on the champagne! Bring on the quesadillas! Go on, bring on the beer! Bring on my mozzarella sandwich and chips! Yep, bring on the shandy!
But, boy, I was in no state to handle this. About one bite into the sandwich, and I was stuffed. My stomach must be about half the size it was when I came out here. I said: "Sorry, Chris, I just can't do it!" Far from having a party, I was on the brink of throwing up and then falling asleep. Poor Chris: it was his 21st, all he wanted to do was get slaughtered and hit on women, but nobody was up for getting drunk with him, and there were no women about whatsoever.
I didn't mind, though. I was full of food, and heading home for a nice sleep.
- - - - -
Go on: starve yourself for two weeks and lay off the alcohol!
There was a magazine cover that intrigued me on holiday, but I never looked beyond the front cover. Oh no, after looking through a magazine only to find that the Paris Hilton cover story only warranted a few paragraphs of information I already knew (and it's not like I'm a celebrity gossip expert), I doubt I'll ever look inside another gossip mag again.
Anyway, this magazine... It was telling all the girls "drop a dress size in a week!" I swear it was a week. I was thinking: "How the hell could you do that, other than by buying a dress from a different store?"
I never read it. I had much more interesting things to read...
But, boy, I was in no state to handle this. About one bite into the sandwich, and I was stuffed. My stomach must be about half the size it was when I came out here. I said: "Sorry, Chris, I just can't do it!" Far from having a party, I was on the brink of throwing up and then falling asleep. Poor Chris: it was his 21st, all he wanted to do was get slaughtered and hit on women, but nobody was up for getting drunk with him, and there were no women about whatsoever.
I didn't mind, though. I was full of food, and heading home for a nice sleep.
- - - - -
Go on: starve yourself for two weeks and lay off the alcohol!
There was a magazine cover that intrigued me on holiday, but I never looked beyond the front cover. Oh no, after looking through a magazine only to find that the Paris Hilton cover story only warranted a few paragraphs of information I already knew (and it's not like I'm a celebrity gossip expert), I doubt I'll ever look inside another gossip mag again.
Anyway, this magazine... It was telling all the girls "drop a dress size in a week!" I swear it was a week. I was thinking: "How the hell could you do that, other than by buying a dress from a different store?"
I never read it. I had much more interesting things to read...
Sunday 24 June 2007
Blogger is very clever - I'm in Cyprus right now, so when I came to this site, everything was in Greek. I logged on, and quickly used my knowledge of interface design to find the drop-down menu I could use to change the language. Now THAT is impressive. No, not my ability to navigate in completely foreign scripts, but the ability of Blogger to be designed in such a user-friendly fashion. I mean, just like that, the language of the script changed completely. Breathtaking. Give it a try for yourselves. It's rare that a computer program will impress me, but Blogger just seems to get better and better...
- - - - -
I had to come in from outside, because it was getting dark. I sat down with a head full of ideas, and no sooner did I start getting them all out onto paper, then the light faded. I then wandered around the romantically-lit grounds of the Aphrodite Hills resort in search of a proper light source beneath which I could write. I finally found one, though it was in the middle of the main thoroughfare between the hotel and the restaurant area. I was able to sit and write stuff, but every now and again my concentration would be broken by some terribly overweight women. Seriously, I don't know what it is about this place... I've spent a week wondering why the gym was so empty, and why the portions of food they serve in the restaurants are so large, but I think I know the answer now.
Whatever, eventually an absolutely gorgeous couple walked by. The guy smiled at me, and when I saw the girl he was with, I realised exactly why he was smiling. My eyes nearly popped out of their head, I nearly stood up to say "Good Evening!" But I just finished my paragraph, closed my book, and headed to the hotel to sneak in some free time on this supposedly very costly internet terminal...
- - - - -
I have only four pages left in my diary, and I could fill them very quickly. That is why I've had to resort to Blogger. I'm now worried that I won't find another book to write my thoughts down in before I get back to England. Whatever will I do if such a case arises? Will I resort to writing graffiti on the rocks that lie about Aphrodite Hills? Will I use up every last sheet of toilet paper in the house, and start screaming because my pen is clogged up with tissue? Or will I just get out the Henna and start writing on everybody I meet?
- - - - -
I've been distracted too many times by too many things this evening: this blog was never going to go anywhere, and it's just been totally derailed anyway...
- - - - -
I had to come in from outside, because it was getting dark. I sat down with a head full of ideas, and no sooner did I start getting them all out onto paper, then the light faded. I then wandered around the romantically-lit grounds of the Aphrodite Hills resort in search of a proper light source beneath which I could write. I finally found one, though it was in the middle of the main thoroughfare between the hotel and the restaurant area. I was able to sit and write stuff, but every now and again my concentration would be broken by some terribly overweight women. Seriously, I don't know what it is about this place... I've spent a week wondering why the gym was so empty, and why the portions of food they serve in the restaurants are so large, but I think I know the answer now.
Whatever, eventually an absolutely gorgeous couple walked by. The guy smiled at me, and when I saw the girl he was with, I realised exactly why he was smiling. My eyes nearly popped out of their head, I nearly stood up to say "Good Evening!" But I just finished my paragraph, closed my book, and headed to the hotel to sneak in some free time on this supposedly very costly internet terminal...
- - - - -
I have only four pages left in my diary, and I could fill them very quickly. That is why I've had to resort to Blogger. I'm now worried that I won't find another book to write my thoughts down in before I get back to England. Whatever will I do if such a case arises? Will I resort to writing graffiti on the rocks that lie about Aphrodite Hills? Will I use up every last sheet of toilet paper in the house, and start screaming because my pen is clogged up with tissue? Or will I just get out the Henna and start writing on everybody I meet?
- - - - -
I've been distracted too many times by too many things this evening: this blog was never going to go anywhere, and it's just been totally derailed anyway...
Wednesday 13 June 2007
Lego!
I came home today and started heading up the stairs, when out of the corner of my eye I caught glimpse of a Lego logo (a Lego logo? Rogo bogo!). What was this doing in our paper recycling bin?
I walked over and, joy of joys - it was the Lego magazine! Well, I was happy, but then I felt sad for the poor boy who hadn't received his magazine. But I looked at the address, and it was addressed here, so I had no way of taking it to its rightful owner.
If anyone knows a Joseph Parkin, get in touch with me so I can give him his magazine. Until then...
Anyway, I used to be in the Lego club too, I used to spend all my time building really cool things with Lego, I used to just sit in my own little world, elaborating my space station, listening to Radio 1. I used to look with envy and curiosity at some of the models in the Lego Club magazine - the Master Builder pages. I wanted to be a Master Builder too, but I didn't have as much Lego as these other guys. I remember the tea-stirring machine: as I child of seven I sat there and studied this picture, and then finally somebody bought me a motor and I made my own tea-stirrer. But it was useless, it just splashed the tea all over the place! I didn't quite know it then, but I needed gears...
Of course, these days, I spend my days in the abstract world of computer code, perfecting marvellous trading systems, and I look with envy and curiosity upon the code of the master builders of the software world - the guys who have their own consultancies, and who write the books...
I have a new book, it excites the life out of me. Among other things, this book claims to contain "an abstraction for treating objects uniformly that doesn't have a physical counterpart". Wow! This leapt out at me as being the single most exciting thing I'd come across since the mind-blowing literature of Macedonio Fernández, a man who laboured to find a way to use language to take us to a place that bore no traces of reality whatsoever.
And that's my little journey of thought for today.
I walked over and, joy of joys - it was the Lego magazine! Well, I was happy, but then I felt sad for the poor boy who hadn't received his magazine. But I looked at the address, and it was addressed here, so I had no way of taking it to its rightful owner.
If anyone knows a Joseph Parkin, get in touch with me so I can give him his magazine. Until then...
Anyway, I used to be in the Lego club too, I used to spend all my time building really cool things with Lego, I used to just sit in my own little world, elaborating my space station, listening to Radio 1. I used to look with envy and curiosity at some of the models in the Lego Club magazine - the Master Builder pages. I wanted to be a Master Builder too, but I didn't have as much Lego as these other guys. I remember the tea-stirring machine: as I child of seven I sat there and studied this picture, and then finally somebody bought me a motor and I made my own tea-stirrer. But it was useless, it just splashed the tea all over the place! I didn't quite know it then, but I needed gears...
Of course, these days, I spend my days in the abstract world of computer code, perfecting marvellous trading systems, and I look with envy and curiosity upon the code of the master builders of the software world - the guys who have their own consultancies, and who write the books...
I have a new book, it excites the life out of me. Among other things, this book claims to contain "an abstraction for treating objects uniformly that doesn't have a physical counterpart". Wow! This leapt out at me as being the single most exciting thing I'd come across since the mind-blowing literature of Macedonio Fernández, a man who laboured to find a way to use language to take us to a place that bore no traces of reality whatsoever.
And that's my little journey of thought for today.
Tuesday 29 May 2007
fast ramble
There's no point in trying to sleep right now, it's pointless. Look at the moon tonight: lunatic alert...
So I shouted "FUCK OFF!" down the phone and hung up. Talk about the wrong day to talk to me about the wrong things. But I couldn't get a grip - oh no, of course not - a session at the gym which should've left me begging for mercy had gone absolutely no way to towards taking my edge away, and it was clear I had more energy than was physically possible to use up, or mentally possible to tolerate. The last thing I needed was someone intentionally pressing the wrong buttons and seeing just how haywire they could send me.
I put on some extra layers to protect myself against the moon's chilling stare, grabbed my walkman, and went walkies.
The moon was just so bright, and there was no hiding from it. I can no longer remember exactly what I was thinking about, all I know is that there was a whirlwind of energy and emotion tearing up my mind, and the only thing that could support me was the music, which just drove me on. I soon found a song that managed to soothe me, and I then found the hill that would try to wear me out. But there's no way to wear me out when the moon shines like that - I start making my way up the hill and I just will for it to become steeper, it could become vertical but I'd probably still just steam right up it, oblivious to the laws of traction and gravity, lost in a heady mix of excitement and despair. There isn't a town big enough to challenge me when I need to walk off the mania: nowhere can beat me.
When you feel manic like this, the energy is without comparison. It just wants to break out of you - you want it to break out of you, you want to pull your skin off and let it all out, you can see that moon glowing, and you know that there's an equally bright glow inside of you, trying desperately to get out, you get the feeling that if you were to chop your hand off, an immensely bright light would shine out of the stump, perhaps bright enough to destroy anything it shone on; you get the urge to smash everything around you, but you can't, and you know that if you started you wouldn't be able to stop anyway, and you feel as if you've got enough energy to smash everything in the whole world, and then the world itself, just give me a hammer and the opportunity to do so and I'll do it, AND IT STILL WON'T BE ENOUGH TO CALM ME DOWN.
Eventually, you've walked so far and churned through so many thoughts that there's no option but to admit that you no longer know what you're doing, and you just have to start making your way home. Walk on the opposite side of the pavement in case you stumble across any of the thoughts you discarded on the outbound journey, try to find a tune that will help bring you back down, try desperately to control the mania before you get back to the confines of your home and you have to settle down.
It's futile: time will beat you. Time can tick on and on - it doesn't need to sleep. It will laugh at you as it watches you try to sleep. It will call you back from your bed, knowing that you'll need to check up on it to see just how desperate your situation is. While others sleep soundly, you'll be further tormented by horrible thoughts and fears, and you'll never tire of thinking of these ideas, because the moon's still watching you, and you're still full of manic energy. Thoughts fly past at an alarming rate, you try desperately to catch them but they're all fleeting, just teasing and tormenting your brain.
The only option left is to try and focus somehow and write things down, anchor the emotion to a blank page somehow... But the supernatural forces just laugh at your pitiful attempt to represent them.
And that's the story of my evening.
So I shouted "FUCK OFF!" down the phone and hung up. Talk about the wrong day to talk to me about the wrong things. But I couldn't get a grip - oh no, of course not - a session at the gym which should've left me begging for mercy had gone absolutely no way to towards taking my edge away, and it was clear I had more energy than was physically possible to use up, or mentally possible to tolerate. The last thing I needed was someone intentionally pressing the wrong buttons and seeing just how haywire they could send me.
I put on some extra layers to protect myself against the moon's chilling stare, grabbed my walkman, and went walkies.
The moon was just so bright, and there was no hiding from it. I can no longer remember exactly what I was thinking about, all I know is that there was a whirlwind of energy and emotion tearing up my mind, and the only thing that could support me was the music, which just drove me on. I soon found a song that managed to soothe me, and I then found the hill that would try to wear me out. But there's no way to wear me out when the moon shines like that - I start making my way up the hill and I just will for it to become steeper, it could become vertical but I'd probably still just steam right up it, oblivious to the laws of traction and gravity, lost in a heady mix of excitement and despair. There isn't a town big enough to challenge me when I need to walk off the mania: nowhere can beat me.
When you feel manic like this, the energy is without comparison. It just wants to break out of you - you want it to break out of you, you want to pull your skin off and let it all out, you can see that moon glowing, and you know that there's an equally bright glow inside of you, trying desperately to get out, you get the feeling that if you were to chop your hand off, an immensely bright light would shine out of the stump, perhaps bright enough to destroy anything it shone on; you get the urge to smash everything around you, but you can't, and you know that if you started you wouldn't be able to stop anyway, and you feel as if you've got enough energy to smash everything in the whole world, and then the world itself, just give me a hammer and the opportunity to do so and I'll do it, AND IT STILL WON'T BE ENOUGH TO CALM ME DOWN.
Eventually, you've walked so far and churned through so many thoughts that there's no option but to admit that you no longer know what you're doing, and you just have to start making your way home. Walk on the opposite side of the pavement in case you stumble across any of the thoughts you discarded on the outbound journey, try to find a tune that will help bring you back down, try desperately to control the mania before you get back to the confines of your home and you have to settle down.
It's futile: time will beat you. Time can tick on and on - it doesn't need to sleep. It will laugh at you as it watches you try to sleep. It will call you back from your bed, knowing that you'll need to check up on it to see just how desperate your situation is. While others sleep soundly, you'll be further tormented by horrible thoughts and fears, and you'll never tire of thinking of these ideas, because the moon's still watching you, and you're still full of manic energy. Thoughts fly past at an alarming rate, you try desperately to catch them but they're all fleeting, just teasing and tormenting your brain.
The only option left is to try and focus somehow and write things down, anchor the emotion to a blank page somehow... But the supernatural forces just laugh at your pitiful attempt to represent them.
And that's the story of my evening.
Wednesday 23 May 2007
Document your life
Dubstep has now taken over my life so much that I struggle to spell the word "base", and even when I read the said word, I see it written as "bass".
Well, maybe that's an exaggeration... Anyway, shall we get to my point?
- - - - - -
Se fai il mio nome non ci sono più...
That is: "If you say my name, I no longer exist..." One for anyone who's seen La Vita è Bella there ;-)
Well, that's the quote that leapt into my head with a purpose towards the end of last year. I was sitting there trying to solve a coding problem, and getting nowhere. I wrote the problem down, and no sooner had I started writing than I saw the solution. My new technique for solving coding problems? If I'm stuck with a problem, then I write it down. As if by magic, on the journey from the inexistent world of my mind into the realm of harsh and tangible existence, the problem will be solved.
But it's not magic - I mean, clearly the resolution has a lot to do with the verbalisation process. Unlike silence, maybe saying the name of a problem won't make it disappear - forget the Italian riddler and all the Schopenhauerian bullshit idealist philosophy that forms the framework around which La Vita è Bella is based, and think of the words of Mr. Logic himself, good old Bertie Russell:
"The greatest challenge to any thinker is stating the problem in a way that will allow a solution"
I'm getting carried away with quotes here; let me pull the focus back to what I was heading for...
DIARIES.
I've kept a running commentary on my experiences, emotions, dreams, ambitions, fears and philosophies for the past 7 years now, and what for? Mainly to just pass the time, because life is dull and writing is one of my favourite forms of entertainment. Partly as an outlet, to tell myself the things I can't tell anyone else. But my scribblings are more than just a log of a sometimes exciting, often depressing life. History books are written not just so that we can fantasise about the past, but so that we don't forget what happened, and so that we can learn from experience. We sometimes refer to diaries as being memoirs, and indeed these books also serve as very useful aides-mémoire. Language betrays the fact that memory and experience are inextricable.
I'll digress to give another work-related anecdote: last week, I took a problem to the team that was responsible for solving such problems. I said: "This problem cropped up a few weeks ago, so you must know how to fix it," and the guy said: "Yeah, I went out of the room, and when I came back, John had fixed it, but I don't know what he did, and he's on holiday at the moment." I laughed, and said: "Next time you solve a problem, write down the answer!"
Anyway, back to diaries as aides-mémoire... We write down our problems. Writing them down may solve them, but it usually doesn't: life problems, being trapped in the insanely complex web that is reality, are generally more complicated than simple logical conundrums, which stick out like a sore thumb in the smooth world of ideals. However, even if it won't solve the problem instantly, writing a life problem down is often the first step towards tackling it. Writing the solution down is the really crucial part. Why is it the case that most of us are more capable of remembering a problem (so capable of remembering the problem, in fact, that we return to it over and over again - that is, we repeat the same mistakes), than we are at remembering the solution?!
I'll put it together for you now. I was on my way home recently, and I felt rubbish. I was so tired and fed up that I couldn't even write to pass the time, so I just read my diary instead. And, bizarrely enough, among the entries that made me go "Whoah!", "Really?", "Oh yeah, I remember!", and "Did it really go on for so long?", I found a few pages that made me sit up and pay attention. There in front of me was the solution I didn't know existed. I found the answer last year - in fact, I must've found the answer many years ago, but I seem destined to forget it perpetually. Whatever, my little book of memoirs told me how to proceed. I went home and thought about what I'd read. I mean, I must write stuff down because it has some importance to me. Maybe last August's Pete was right - maybe I should take his advice?
Well anyway, I took that advice, and I got right back on top of things.
Still, you can take a horse to the water but you can't make it drink. And I'd probably never drink that water if it wasn't for some really special influences, who make me feel like it's all worthwhile ;-)
- - - - -
(How long before I crash again?! Give it a couple of weeks... Questa vita è assurda! ASSURDA!!!)
Well, maybe that's an exaggeration... Anyway, shall we get to my point?
- - - - - -
Se fai il mio nome non ci sono più...
That is: "If you say my name, I no longer exist..." One for anyone who's seen La Vita è Bella there ;-)
Well, that's the quote that leapt into my head with a purpose towards the end of last year. I was sitting there trying to solve a coding problem, and getting nowhere. I wrote the problem down, and no sooner had I started writing than I saw the solution. My new technique for solving coding problems? If I'm stuck with a problem, then I write it down. As if by magic, on the journey from the inexistent world of my mind into the realm of harsh and tangible existence, the problem will be solved.
But it's not magic - I mean, clearly the resolution has a lot to do with the verbalisation process. Unlike silence, maybe saying the name of a problem won't make it disappear - forget the Italian riddler and all the Schopenhauerian bullshit idealist philosophy that forms the framework around which La Vita è Bella is based, and think of the words of Mr. Logic himself, good old Bertie Russell:
"The greatest challenge to any thinker is stating the problem in a way that will allow a solution"
I'm getting carried away with quotes here; let me pull the focus back to what I was heading for...
DIARIES.
I've kept a running commentary on my experiences, emotions, dreams, ambitions, fears and philosophies for the past 7 years now, and what for? Mainly to just pass the time, because life is dull and writing is one of my favourite forms of entertainment. Partly as an outlet, to tell myself the things I can't tell anyone else. But my scribblings are more than just a log of a sometimes exciting, often depressing life. History books are written not just so that we can fantasise about the past, but so that we don't forget what happened, and so that we can learn from experience. We sometimes refer to diaries as being memoirs, and indeed these books also serve as very useful aides-mémoire. Language betrays the fact that memory and experience are inextricable.
I'll digress to give another work-related anecdote: last week, I took a problem to the team that was responsible for solving such problems. I said: "This problem cropped up a few weeks ago, so you must know how to fix it," and the guy said: "Yeah, I went out of the room, and when I came back, John had fixed it, but I don't know what he did, and he's on holiday at the moment." I laughed, and said: "Next time you solve a problem, write down the answer!"
Anyway, back to diaries as aides-mémoire... We write down our problems. Writing them down may solve them, but it usually doesn't: life problems, being trapped in the insanely complex web that is reality, are generally more complicated than simple logical conundrums, which stick out like a sore thumb in the smooth world of ideals. However, even if it won't solve the problem instantly, writing a life problem down is often the first step towards tackling it. Writing the solution down is the really crucial part. Why is it the case that most of us are more capable of remembering a problem (so capable of remembering the problem, in fact, that we return to it over and over again - that is, we repeat the same mistakes), than we are at remembering the solution?!
I'll put it together for you now. I was on my way home recently, and I felt rubbish. I was so tired and fed up that I couldn't even write to pass the time, so I just read my diary instead. And, bizarrely enough, among the entries that made me go "Whoah!", "Really?", "Oh yeah, I remember!", and "Did it really go on for so long?", I found a few pages that made me sit up and pay attention. There in front of me was the solution I didn't know existed. I found the answer last year - in fact, I must've found the answer many years ago, but I seem destined to forget it perpetually. Whatever, my little book of memoirs told me how to proceed. I went home and thought about what I'd read. I mean, I must write stuff down because it has some importance to me. Maybe last August's Pete was right - maybe I should take his advice?
Well anyway, I took that advice, and I got right back on top of things.
Still, you can take a horse to the water but you can't make it drink. And I'd probably never drink that water if it wasn't for some really special influences, who make me feel like it's all worthwhile ;-)
- - - - -
(How long before I crash again?! Give it a couple of weeks... Questa vita è assurda! ASSURDA!!!)
Sunday 13 May 2007
Dolphins are gay sharks?
A bit more exploring in the world of facebook...
- - - - -
It seems that whenever anyone on facebook does anything, all their friends are told... I think that's a bit obtrusive, but anyway... I will actually stop blogging if I find that every time I post something, everyone gets informed, because it's gonna piss you all off eventually. I mean, jesus, people get notified if someone comments on a blog too. Was this site designed for people with "big things" to say or something?!
- - - - -
I love this "Poke..." option they've given us. It brings back terrible memories of a game they used to play called "Poke Pete!", whereby people used to just poke me for fun... Can someone poke me on here someday? I want see what it feels like.
- - - - -
Am I in control of whose picture appears where on my page? The beauty of myspazz is that you can play with everyone by promoting or demoting them in your friends list. Here, I think that whoever was active last appears at the top of the list.
- - - - -
I absolutely love the way that you can tell everyone how you know someone else. It's the option "We hooked up" that I like the best. Give the world a list of all the people you've slept with!
- - - - -
Anyway, basta, I'm off to see if there are any settings I can play with. Heck, they've got a developer's guide for me to get my teeth into...
- - - - -
It seems that whenever anyone on facebook does anything, all their friends are told... I think that's a bit obtrusive, but anyway... I will actually stop blogging if I find that every time I post something, everyone gets informed, because it's gonna piss you all off eventually. I mean, jesus, people get notified if someone comments on a blog too. Was this site designed for people with "big things" to say or something?!
- - - - -
I love this "Poke..." option they've given us. It brings back terrible memories of a game they used to play called "Poke Pete!", whereby people used to just poke me for fun... Can someone poke me on here someday? I want see what it feels like.
- - - - -
Am I in control of whose picture appears where on my page? The beauty of myspazz is that you can play with everyone by promoting or demoting them in your friends list. Here, I think that whoever was active last appears at the top of the list.
- - - - -
I absolutely love the way that you can tell everyone how you know someone else. It's the option "We hooked up" that I like the best. Give the world a list of all the people you've slept with!
- - - - -
Anyway, basta, I'm off to see if there are any settings I can play with. Heck, they've got a developer's guide for me to get my teeth into...
Saturday 12 May 2007
Yet another!
This is probably the tenth blog I've created in my short little life - well, maybe the fifteenth, actually. I just can't get enough. You know I write shit everywhere and anywhere, I just love to experiment with different environments, different spaces, different audiences...
Just wait until I get cracking on some homebrew apps, and I link up my phone to my ds, and link that to my blog, which will be linked to I don't know where, but we'll start with Facebook...
Facebook. Right, it looks a bit slicker than myspace. But it seems like this is where the grown-ups hang out. I'm not sure if I'm comfortable with mingling with serious types, I prefer wild and crazy youngsters who don't know where they'll be sleeping or working come tomorrow...
Still, the only real thing I'm not feeling about Facebook at the moment is that I don't get to see my little myspace honey when I log on...
- - - - -
I'm not even going to think about defining different personas for my various online spaces - I'm pete, wherever I am, and pete is always changing, and he's always about 20 different people.
- - - - -
More thoughts about Facebook:
It's a bit strange to see all these notes like: "so and so is now friends with so and so". Still, it might prove useful.
What I really want to see is shit like:
"So and so has just got paid, and he's happy"
"So and so and so and so reckon that so and so is a knob for what he did last night"
"So and so has just had a massive fight with so and so, and so and so says that they're not talking any more"
"So and so and so and so and so and so have got together to form a new boyband called SoAndSo"
That would make my day. Still, it would never happen. How many people have you ever met called "So and so"?
Maybe out in South East Asia, who knows?
- - - - -
Know what else made my day?
Nada, bitches!!! We make our own days.
- - - - -
I'm now going to check out how this blog links to Facebook. If it works the way I want it to, then the guys behind Facebook have succeeded in giving me the one feature I always wanted myspazz to have :-D
Just wait until I get cracking on some homebrew apps, and I link up my phone to my ds, and link that to my blog, which will be linked to I don't know where, but we'll start with Facebook...
Facebook. Right, it looks a bit slicker than myspace. But it seems like this is where the grown-ups hang out. I'm not sure if I'm comfortable with mingling with serious types, I prefer wild and crazy youngsters who don't know where they'll be sleeping or working come tomorrow...
Still, the only real thing I'm not feeling about Facebook at the moment is that I don't get to see my little myspace honey when I log on...
- - - - -
I'm not even going to think about defining different personas for my various online spaces - I'm pete, wherever I am, and pete is always changing, and he's always about 20 different people.
- - - - -
More thoughts about Facebook:
It's a bit strange to see all these notes like: "so and so is now friends with so and so". Still, it might prove useful.
What I really want to see is shit like:
"So and so has just got paid, and he's happy"
"So and so and so and so reckon that so and so is a knob for what he did last night"
"So and so has just had a massive fight with so and so, and so and so says that they're not talking any more"
"So and so and so and so and so and so have got together to form a new boyband called SoAndSo"
That would make my day. Still, it would never happen. How many people have you ever met called "So and so"?
Maybe out in South East Asia, who knows?
- - - - -
Know what else made my day?
Nada, bitches!!! We make our own days.
- - - - -
I'm now going to check out how this blog links to Facebook. If it works the way I want it to, then the guys behind Facebook have succeeded in giving me the one feature I always wanted myspazz to have :-D
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