The month of October is dedicated to something called Black History Month. Hmm. I have conflicting thoughts about the concept. Sometimes, I think it's a laudable pursuit, at other times, I feel like it's totally pointless. In all the time I've been here, I've always consciously refrained from taking part in any of the festivities, but this year, in the vane of trying new things etc, I thought I'd go along to a spoken word/poetry slam at the Museum of London. It ended up being very good, even though there wasn't masses of eye candy to feast on (tee hee!!). Why are all the men born short these days? Anyway, moving right along...
Breis, who works in English and Yoruba, both accompanied and accapella, was an amazing performance poet. He had this song where he pieced together snippets of 80s children's TV (kind of like a retrospective), but it was set to real high life music. It was like rapping to a Fela/Sonny Ade/Lagbaja/Black eyed Peas sound track. Hard to explain, but very entertaining. It's also quite funny, because America (the new flatmate) and I owe him a fiver each. We didn't have any cash on us, because queueing at the cash point would have made us late for the show, and we didn't think we'd be buying anything, anyway. But by the time he was done, we had to have his CD, so he gave us a copy each and said we could pay him back whenever his next gig is. We were like, are you sure? And he was like, are you sure, cos it's you owing me! So now we have fivers sewn into the lining of our handbags, so that if we spot him from a mile off, we can mow him down and pay. God forbid that we should be those two chicks who scammed some dude unintentionally!
Then there was Xena Edwards, who sang in Xosa and shared a new poem she's been working on. You could feel her through her work. With her looking like she was on the verge of tears, it was a very moving experience to watch her baring her soul. And she had this funny little instrument as well, which mesmerised you as she played.
Kat Francois made us all laugh with her parodies of the tube in rush hour. Her poems were accessible and funny, and she did these really cool voice manipulations to give life to her performance. She was funny, and I loved, loved, loved her work, but some stuff she did got me thinking. Or as Carrie Bradshaw would say, I couldn't help but wonder...
The only thing that I find a bit naff about all these Black History Month things, is the predictable way in which people use it as a license to level insult at other cultures. There were many anit-white jibes thrown out from the stage, which let's be honest, if the tables were turned, and a white person threw out those kind of jokes, we'd be calling them racist and boycotting their services. Granted, they were jokes, and they were funny, but I'm not sure that it's right to eat our cake and have it, in the respect game. We can't get people to walk on eggshells around us, and then the moment we get a chance, insult them with things that we wouldn't be willing to accept. D'you see what I mean? Only last week, that lady in the Tory party was sacked for a racist comment someone made about her picture. If a white comedian joked about a black person, it would be the world's greatest catastrophe. Yet, our comedians take the mick out of white people all the time, as she did at this event.
Without meaning to sound like I have my priorities screwed up (which I don't), I think it's something that needs to be adressed. Do unto others as you'd have others do unto you...Yes, we have different cultures, and by virtue of that, I know there are things we'll never understand about each other. There are ways in which we have different opinions about things. There are ways in which every group thinks their society/community is slightly superior to others. No one's denying that. My darling Canadian flatmates never got why I had to oil my scalp in the winter. They thought it was gross, whereas, for my tropical body, it was the only thing I could to to make sure I survived a dry minus 40C winter with a strand of hair left in my head, but there you go! I never got why they called their parents friends or tutors by their first name and not aunty/uncle or Mr/Miss/Mrs - I thought it was the height of rudeness, but like I said, there you go! Sure, we're different and all, but if we can't take disrespect, then we shouldn't be so quick to give it! Does anyone else feel like this, or is it just me?
So anyway, while we're on the subject of poetry, here is a poem by someone whose work I love. She's a good friend, and she just captures the meaning of things so well. You can visit her blog to see more. Enjoy!
And Almost At Peace
Don't wonder about me.
Don't mystify your mind with
the dark smoke of my psyche.
And should you decide to take
a swim in the deep dark water
of my personality at dawn,
you will drown, happily,
in the seduction of my melancholy.
But beware, here be sunshine
reflecting off this cavern's gleaming depths.
The energy of happy serenity is a fix I crave.
I waive the right to inhabit this place.
But it's warm and it's home
And every terrible moment is nontheless
comforting in its familiarity.
The question quickly comes: Am I
a single star in this place,
or another dark and glittering diamond?
Deep shit I know, this desire for expression
always verges on the dramatic.
In my cavern, it's silent.
I live, alone. And almost at peace.
See? Told you it was wonderful! Xx
Tuesday, 9 October 2007
Aretha says: R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Friday, 5 October 2007
Hot Wax
They say things have a way of sorting themselves out at the right time. Well, the powers that be must have been interested in my renewed blogging vows of yesterday. During a clean up of my inbox, I came accross this little story, which I knocked together for some random module at uni. I don't know whether I should be sharing this, but I figure if it turned up, it must want to be read. Don't read it if you're squeamish. And if you're my mother, kindly shut down your computer now. No, this does NOT confirm all your suspicions. Haha! It is purely fictional - the product of the mind of a bored, brain-addled, procrastinating student.
Well, here it is. Work with me here folks, I'm digging deep by sharing and all! As usual, feedback more than welcome - whether you loved or hated it, etc etc, you know the score. P. S. Sorry the formating is slightly off. Blogger.com isn't cooperating today...
Inessa looked disgusted. She peered suspiciously down at Chris’s bikini line as Chris tried to avert her gaze. Grey eyes challenged brown ones.
‘Why you leave it so long?’ she wanted to know. ‘Your poosy look like goddamn enchanted forest.’
Chris tried to look sheepish. The last time she’d managed to evoke such passion in her beauty therapist was when she’d walked into The Boudoir for her first ever wax. Inessa had sworn at her in Russian the whole time. First, because she had a few hairs, and second because she usually shaved.
‘Shaving is for heathen man,’ Inessa had preached. ‘Hair on poosy, also, is for heathen man.’ You can’t win with this woman, Chris had thought then.
‘You wax, that’s all,’ supplied Inessa. Chris had made a conscious effort to control her thoughts around her since then.
‘So why you leave it so long,’ Inessa asked again as Chris swung herself onto the table. The beautician arranged her jars and bottles with a disconcerting calm.
‘Been busy,’ Chris said with an apologetic grin.
‘Obviously not busy with man. Not by the look of such ugliness,’ Inessa replied, at which Chris found herself at a loss for what to say. ‘So,’ the beautician said, stirring her cauldron of hot wax, ‘you want everything bald like usual?’
‘Yeah might as well. I have to redeem myself in your eyes, don’t I?’
‘Yes, you do. Redeem and all clean. And the bottom as well?’ Only Inessa could make an arsehole sound like an hors d’oeuvre. She insisted on saying certain words in her language.
‘Yes, that too, thanks.’
Inessa smeared the wax with a professional hand. It felt warm and soothing on Chris’s skin. She was now a veteran and didn’t wince when the strips were yanked off.
Her sister, Remi, thought she was crazy. First for waxing at all, and then for allowing ‘a sturdy maiden from Eastern Europe’ close to her precious bits with hot liquid and a spatula. Remi was in her final year of medial school and had just completed a dissertation on medicine in communist Russia. Those days were over, yes she knew that, but as far as she was concerned, it would take centuries for the residues of butchery to be purged from their collective blood. Chris asked her how she ever hoped to be a doctor with such obvious prejudice, to which she’d said, ‘Oh I’m not prejudiced, sister me, just very well informed!’
‘Actually,’ Chris said, ‘can you do a palm tree as opposed to all off?’
‘My goodness!’ (In Russian). ‘You want me to shape poosy beard in shape of palm tree?’ Incredulous grey eyes grew very serious and Inessa’s hand moved slowly toward her cheek as though there were magnets in both parts of the body that had chosen that moment to call on each other.
‘Yeah,’ said Chris. ‘With three coconuts. That would be fun, wouldn’t it? Something different.’
Inessa followed the instructions silently, as though she pitied Chris for an inferior state of mind that made her suggest it. Chris wondered why everyone in her life had opinions about what she could and couldn’t do with her own bikini line.
‘Make sure I see you again,’ Inessa warned as Chris paid for her treatment. ‘Six weeks time, and no such dark forest. Please find man so that you will not keep such ugliness in Victoria’s Secret cotton. Swear to me.’
‘Thank you, Inessa, I’ll see you soon,’ Chris said.
‘Swear to me, I said.’
‘I swear, Inessa, that I’ll be back in six weeks for some more pubic redemption.’
Inessa handed her a small bag of mints and disappeared back into a treatment room.
Chris walked out of the salon feeling good. Her session had turned out really well. She enjoyed the feeling of smugness, as though she knew a secret no one else did. She felt like one of those arrogant Persian cats that rich old ladies seemed to like. Without resistance, she welcomed the strut that her walk seemed to have taken on, and the appreciative glances that the energy around her commanded. She was a woman with presence – not in the typical over ambitious way, but in a soft, earnest way. If people had words etched on their foreheads, hers would be contentment. Not arrogance, not humility, just a keen mellow contentment. The very same vulnerability that made one want to protect her clung to the air about her like a sheen that demanded respect of her and of her vulnerability. They were two separate entities. She was a temple of paradoxes, an odd conglomeration of human emotions and character. She was fortunate, not sly, spontaneous, not impulsive, charming but not over-familiar, not insincere. Complex. People inevitably felt drawn to her. In the dice game of favour, she had been lucky. Concessions were made for her where there was no leeway for manoeuvring – Mrs Smith liked her after all. That was proof enough.
*
Femi’s watch said seventeen ten. Chris should be on her way back by now. He wondered if he should call her. He decided not to. She’s said she’d call him when she got back to the office anyway, so he’d just wait, or try to. Waiting patiently was one of those things that somehow, in the allotment of strengths and virtues, he had missed completely. Instead, his pre-infant person had grabbed firmly onto the most feverish and rabid impatience there was. It was born with him, like Chris’s charm. Screw it, why try, he thought, and dialled her number.
‘Are you still undergoing that heinous torture?’ he asked her when she picked up. He never said hi. He had to hit the ground running; start the conversation with deep pulsating energy that prevented him from going through the usual polite conversation rituals. Cut to the chase was his motto.
She giggled. ‘No, I’m done now. And it’s not heinous torture, it’s therapy. What are you doing?’
‘Oh nothing,’ he said. ‘I’m just sitting at my desk gloating. Guess who’s been commissioned to write Jeremiah Rhamsinth’s biography?’
‘Oh, Femz that’s wonderful, you genius. I’m so happy for you.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Which is why I’ve got a table at that Tapas place to celebrate. So if you go home and change, I’ll pick you up at eight.’
‘Femi that’s lovely, but I can’t. Not tonight.’
‘But it’s Thursday, of course you can.’
‘I know what day it is, but I can’t. Femi, I have a date.’
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘I guess I didn’t deserve to be told before now.’ He was slightly surprised by the fact that his voice sounded a little shaky and he felt the need to loosen his tie. ‘But it’s Thursday, Chris! We always hang out on Thursdays!’
‘I know. I’m so sorry Femz.’
‘Are you going to sleep with him, Chris, or is that none of my business?’
He could feel a dark temper making its way over to him, and his spine had taken on that distinct feeling, as though someone were slowly counting his discs like an abacus. ‘Well I hope you have fun. I hope he appreciates the beauty therapy you went through especially for him!’
Chris winced as the line went dead. She didn’t want to hurt him. Maybe she should have told Chuky D she was busy. Maybe she could still cancel. But she knew she wouldn’t, because she was twenty six, four years away from old age. She was the only woman in her family who had seen the other side of twenty one without being summarily married off and impregnated. Her cousins, Moji and Tayo were expecting. Remi too had joined the convivial heraldry; she was kept company by her text books and a glinting rock on her finger. Chris’s conversation with her aunts last week had driven her to set up yet another date – the thirteenth in two months. ‘How are you, my dear?’ they’d wanted to know. ‘Any news?’
It was an added nightmare that she had to keep these furtive jaunts from Femi. He would howl with laughter, that she of all people had signed up to Afrocentricdatingdirect. A lot of their days at university were spent laughing at losers who had to resort to online agencies to meet people.
*
Femi took his feet very deliberately off his desk and concentrated on being thirsty. He knocked back the bottle of Red Bull on his desk. The one person he could call when he was upset was the one that had just upset him, so he called his mother instead.
‘You’re the reason my phone bill is always so crazy,’ he said when she picked up.
‘Hi darling,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘I miss you too. How now?’
‘I’m just finishing at work. I’ll grab a Chinese after.’
‘I wish you’d bother to cook. All our foods are available in London now, aren’t they?’
‘Yeah but Mum, it takes forever. I eat that kind of stuff when I go to the Adebayo’s for the weekend, or if I happen to be near Mama Cass. I’d have Mama Cass everyday actually, but our people don’t do delivery yet.’
‘Hmm,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘Just don’t eat too much of that oyibo food o. It’s the reason they all die of funny old age illnesses that turn the brain to oats and short circuit the whole body.’
‘Mum, you sound like a closet racist.’
‘Just promise me you’ll eat properly.’
‘I promise, Mum,’ he said, thankful that no one had overheard the conversation. Femi couldn’t figure out why from the other side of the Atlantic, she still hounded him about food. He was twenty eight years old for crying out loud, but sometimes, like now, it felt like nothing had changed.
‘Nothing’s changed,’ she said. ‘Your father is still campaigning for a motorbike. I keep telling him that I’ll never forgive him if one day, I get a call to say he’s been impaled upside down on a road side tree with the handle bars sticking out of his ears. He drives that Benz at breakneck speed. Why isn’t that exciting enough for him, eh? Anyway my dear, how is Chris? Send her my love.’
The name made him jump. ‘Oh Chris. Yes, she’s fine.’ They both went silent. Femi could just imagine the smirk on his mother’s face right now. Their families had been friends for years and the two kids had grown up like siblings. They were referred to as ‘you guys’ by everyone. All the people they’d ever dated had been gently made to understand that they were a package deal. Two for one. Buy one get one free. A compulsory third wheel. That’s why he was so upset that she hadn’t mentioned this Chuky D fellow. What the hell kind of person was called Chuky D anyway? None the less, they had a friendship that existed chiefly because it didn’t have to, no one owed the other anything.
Mrs Smith did not buy any of that ‘just friends’ nonsense. Never had. Did everyone think people grew that close for nothing? What type of God did they think she served? She wondered everyday when everyone would quit the platonic hypocrisy and let her throw a real party.
Femi felt a pro Chris rally forming in her lips. He could see the words tumbling over each other in her throat, fighting for the opportunity to jump out and annoy him. He hated the bandwagon and all its propaganda, it made him feel awkward. His mother reminded him of the campaigners for the local government election when he was a child growing up in Lagos. He remembered the minivans stuffed with sweaty, indoctrinated people, wailing into the loudspeakers and urging people on the streets to vote for their party. She was the party. And the minivan. And the screaming people. And the driver.
‘Mum, don’t even start this, now.’ He considered telling her that the said Chris, as they spoke, was getting dolled up to be romanced by some desperado from an ethnic website. Maybe that would shut her up and stop her from calling him Baba-Chris. But he couldn’t, not yet. He had to be sure there was something there before he broke the news to his mother. Briefly, he wondered whose little fantasy he was worried about puncturing by saying it out loud – his or his mothers – but he shoved the thought authoritatively from his mind and told it it didn’t exist. Thought, you don’t exist. Aha!
‘Don’t even what?’ she asked with all the subtlety of the nineteen foot Yucca plant she had growing beside the piano in the living room. She was grateful he couldn’t see her face, even though she knew that he knew exactly what she looked like right now. She could hear the knowledge in his voice. Her carefully plucked eyebrow was smeared precariously on the top right side of her forehead and a shameless smile spread across her face like mayo on a carefully made sandwich – all the way to the edge.
‘Nothing,’ he said smiling and shaking his head. ‘Why do I bother with you?’
‘Because I’m your mother and I’m always right,’ she said, eyeing the clock. ‘Anyway darling, I must go. Your father and I had a little something-something planned for tonight and I have to do my hair.’
Over dinner, Mrs Smith hinted to her husband that the living room could do with some new paint for what she was certain was an approaching wedding. Femi’s voice had given him away; something had upset him and she fervently hoped it was Chris. ‘The only people that can hurt us are the ones we care about,’ she said to Jide, who responded, ‘Lola, leave the children alone and eat your chicken.’
*
The doorbell rang in such a way that he knew it was Chris; she was the only one who could make ringing a doorbell seem like the devil’s work. He buzzed her in by stretching his hand over the back of the sofa he was lying in. His eyes never left the screen, and the rest of his body never moved. It was an accomplished art, necessitated by the riveting nature of television.
‘For someone who’s all slick at work, it’s a pity you morph into a stomach scratching lout when you get home. I thought writers despised TV?’
Femi’s eyes swung round to watch her barge in, poised to re-enter idiot box mode. ‘It’s relaxing,’ he said. ‘Shut up.’
She flung her coat, as of habit, on the black leather armchair by the door. Her shoes were deposited beside the coffee table which was a sheet of oval glass cantilevered from beneath the breasts of a naked metal woman. All the flinging was done while she marched through the living room, in the general direction of the kitchen. By the time she reached Femi, the hat and the gloves had been taken off and thrown just a split second before in a trajectory that ended right in his face. She stopped in the kitchen for a drink and peered inside the cupboards. Orange squash or Ribena? Anyone looking at his cupboards would think they both lived there. He hated ‘kiddie drinks’ but always had a variety in stock because that was all Chris drank. When all their friends had grown out of CapriSonne and High Juice into soft drinks and liquor, Chris had remained devoted to her squashes. The only concessions she made were for sparkling water and white wine. Everything else was categorised as poison. She mixed up her drink and hoisted herself onto the kitchen counter.
Then something happened that in all their lives, had never happened before. Femi had perfected the art of lying peacefully side by side on the sofa with his remote control. Even when he did change the channels, he never made mistakes with the buttons, so this had to have been deliberate. She had just jumped off the counter to find out what the novel sound of the TV going off in the middle of a match was about, when he appeared in the kitchen doorway.
They had made up their differenced after the Chuky D incident last week. Chuky D had turned out to be a short, provincial man with a nasal accent and an inordinate amount of vowels in his surname. All night he had lectured her on his views on ‘a woman’s place’ (pronounced by him as airwoomanzplerze) while downing pints of lager and wagging his leg. Try as she might, she couldn’t imagine sacrificing her future a villager just because she was ageing.
‘I have an idea,’ Femi was saying as she tuned back into the now. She also wondered why he was looking like that. It wasn’t his proximity to her that felt weird, after all, it was a small kitchen, but today he looked shy almost, and it was not a look she was accustomed to seeing on his face.
‘Quit the weird face and confess your sins,’ she said, and then discovered that apart from all else he was fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt. ‘What trouble are you in now?’
‘I know about the dating agency that you signed up to on the sly – ’ he held up his hand to stop her from interrupting, ‘and my Mum is always singing your praises, so what about it?’
She touched a hand to his forehead. Perhaps he had residual malaria parasites in his blood from his last trip home that were just waking up. ‘What about what?’
He pinched her nose. ‘Don’t be dense, Chris. What about us. You and Me?’
Well it’s about time, she risked thinking, and immediately regretted it. What if he happened to pick it up? Out loud, she said, ‘Where’s this coming from?’
‘Here,’ he said, pulling a soppy face and placing a hand on his chest.
‘No,’ she said, laughing. ‘You’re such a weirdo!’ But the declaration sounded feeble because he was now standing in front of her and it was the most awkward moment of their entire lives. She picked up her glass and led the way to the living room. It was all getting a bit too hot and heavy. She wanted to turn the TV on again, to add some noise, and to be in a larger space where she could lie to herself better.
‘Did I shock you?’ he asked, from inches behind her. ‘But you know me, Mr Direct.’
‘We don’t have to, you know, do kissey kissey just yet, do we?’ she asked, suddenly nervous. Then she stubbed her toe on the metal woman’s bottom and sent Ribena flying all over the light grey carpet.
‘No, Chris,’ he said, laughing hysterically. ‘We can just be us for now, while we try and rescue my flat from your blackcurrant destruction.’ He pulled her into a bear hug. ‘Just think about it, hmm?’
‘Promise you won’t say anything to your Mum yet, Femi, and don’t let her sniff it out of you.’
‘What’s with you women and making people promise?’
‘Femi this is so strange.’
‘Is that a yes?’ he asked
She hissed. ‘Who’s being dense now?’
He smiled. ‘So. Here we are.’
They both stared blankly at the carpet stain and for the first time, Chris wondered what on earth she would say next.
Thursday, 4 October 2007
Overcoming Boredom!
As I walked into work, I phoned my parents as per usual. It’s now part of my routine – phone them when I get off the train, and talk to them until I get to the office. It’s a feat that corroborates the commonly known fact that only women can multi task. I can’t imagine a guy trying to balance the phone in the crook of his neck, and negotiate the self service check out at Tesco, scroll through menus, bag items, count out change, or enter pin numbers, all at the same time.
Anyway, I told them about how I’ve been planning to delete my blog. Bad idea... ‘WHY?’ they screamed, ‘But it’s brilliant, we love your blog!’ and I gave them my quintessential answer: ‘Because I’m bored, it’s so over, this era has come to an end!’
Luckily, my parents know me well, and they knew what to say to stop me from deleting The Half Inch Fount for good. Bargaining didn’t work: ‘OK fine, I won’t delete it, I’ll just take it off the public domain for a while until I figure out what to do’ fell completely flat. My mother has now threatened to get on a plane and come all the way over here because she thinks I’m having a pre-quarter life crisis! My father is on the phone to the travel agents. Calm down mes parents, I’m good.
But seriously, like my old folks said, you gotta learn to deal with boredom sometimes, I suppose. It just means you need to think more laterally, more creatively, about the task at hand. If they abandoned their business every time they got bored, where would we be?
So the good news is, The Half Inch Fount isn’t going anywhere. Plus, I went on the site meter and was absolutely blown away by the number of people who visit here. People from The States, Peru, Ireland, Nigeria, Argentina, Columbia, Saudi Arabia, Brazil, Ghana, France, Australia, Mexico, Turkey, Canada and here in the UK. Thank you to everyone who visits regularly. It’s lovely to have such an exotic, eclectic readership. In the light of all the support…Boredom? Never heard the word!
Big kisses to everyone!
Thursday, 27 September 2007
Involuntary Voyeurism
It’s been five days in the new place. So far so good. Anyway, you know how they say each house has its own night time sounds? Usually, its things like creaking floorboards or dripping taps or trees scraping against a window. In this new place however, it’s not so much the sounds as the sights that are proving to be a startling experience.
The other day, America and I were having a glass of wine and a chat in the kitchen. When I looked up, I found that I had a clear long view into the kitchen across the street. I think there is an unwritten rule that blinds aren’t allowed on kitchen windows on our street or something. So anyway, you can imagine how shocked I was to find that the man in the kitchen across the street, was standing there cooking in his altogether. Yes, he was cooking…naked. Heaven help us! For modesty’s sake (ours not his) we picked up our glasses and went into the living room where thankfully, the blinds were drawn.
Similarly, the day after that, another guy in another window in another flat decided to do his washing up in a stripey blue apron, and nothing else underneath. Of course, we only found out there was nothing underneath, when he turned round to open his fridge and his clenched bare rump glared back at us from across the street. Have we unknowingly moved into nudist territory? Is stripping down to basics some sort of weekend therapy for overworked yuppy alpha males? Why must they be naked in the only blind-less room in their house, the kitchen, for crying out loud? Is there some male perspective to this that I don’t get? Surely they know they can be seen…Thank goodness for the wholesome view of the park on the other side of the house – at least we have other viewing options when these men decide to expose themselves.
My mum is hilarious. The only comment she made concerning these exhibitionists when I complained to her, was that they should be very careful, lest they sit down to tuck into a fry up one Sunday morning, and discover they have extra protein, as it were, on their plate. She has since gone catatonic on the subject, and America and I are trying to master the art of averting our gaze…
Tuesday, 25 September 2007
Moving House
Forgive me, blog, for I have sinned and fallen short. I have abandoned thee.
Now that’s over with…
I moved house last weekend. Bloody nightmare, you say? Yes, I know. I swore I was going to make this painless – pack way in advance, move things gradually, and all that jazz. Of course, no such thing happened. I was up until 6 am on Saturday night, shoving things into boxes, and alternating between shame and pride. It took two massive daddy cartons to pack my shoes. I spent half the time loving every single pair as I packed, and the other half cussing myself for being such a cliché – the girl with lots of shoes – how boring! It didn’t help that by the time I got to packing laundry, I had run out of boxes, and I had to stuff my grubby clothes into black garbage bags. Somehow, I’m sure they’ll never forgive me for the indignity of it.
So…the movers turned up on my doorstep at 7am as planned, one blonde Johnny Depp and his Bald Friend with large calves and hairy legs. It was the most random experience ever, driving round London on a quiet Sunday morning, sandwiched between two Polish guys in the front seat of their Luton truck, listening to them slagging off their manager, and wondering what the Carrot & Strawberry juice they were drinking tasted like. I really must have ‘Agony Aunt’ emblazoned on my forehead. On one hour’s sleep, my good manners were facing some measure of challenge. It was all I could do not to say, ‘Do I look like I care about your manager?’ I stuck my sunglasses on and tried to smile. They were alright, I was just really tired and emotional. You know, leaving behind my old familiar space and going to inhabit a new one…
They carried my stuff up the three flights of stairs in the new place, while I lounged in the sofa and told them where to put stuff. Seeing the new place again cheered me up. My new flatmate (let’s call her America) and I decided we’d give them something to eat and drink as they’d done a brilliant job. While I warmed the patties and poured the juice, she headed off to the bathroom where she had been changing the toilet seat when I arrived – God forbid that we should sit on a seat that some unknown couple had warmed before us.
Just as she took the old seat off and began to screw the new one on, blonde Johnny decided he had to use the toilet. He was in there for ages, and we felt like revoking our offers of goodwill. He was obviously making doo-doo. In our toilet. Some random stranger with manky dreads and spittle in the corner of his mouth was doo-dooing in our toilet. It might be no big deal to you, but bear in mind that we are a pair of obsessive compulsives – completely anal about cleaning and germs and dirt. We were there from 6pm on Friday night when we got the keys, till nearly 3am on Saturday morning, wiping down every conceivable surface with anti-bacterial potions and scrubbing. So what if the estate agents had it professionally cleaned? If you want something really clean, clean it yourself – bleach is a rhema word.
Luckily, America hadn’t screwed on our new seat when blonde Johnny’s bowels broke loose, so when he was done, she went back in (surgically gloved) to continue her seat replacement mission.
Meanwhile, upstairs, I sat down with them to do the figures and give them their cheque. After they thanked me profusely for the tip, blonde Johnny proffered his hand to say thank you. I shook his hand, because I couldn’t not, even though I hate shaking hands, and all I wondered was whether he’d washed his hands after his doo-doo. It sounds terrible, now that I’m reading what I’ve written, but I really do hate shaking hands. Refer to Terror on Tuesday Morning if you’re looking for an example of why…
Turns out he did wash them. I consulted with America later, and she confirmed that when she entered the bathroom after his stint there, she sniffed the air to see whether she’d catch a whiff of lingering handwash, and she did. Phew. Oh no, we sound terrible but we’re really friendly, promise!
Anyway, I’ve nearly finished unpacking, and I’ve decided on a bedroom décor theme. Yaay! How does Sound of Music meets Brick Lane sound? Brilliant, in my estimation – a perfect marriage between old school splendour and new school edge. Let’s see if I have the dedication to follow it through…
Any moving dramas you'd like to share, anyone?
P. S. I fear for the day my sister reads this. She already thinks I need cognitive behavioural therapy.
Wednesday, 5 September 2007
Happy Birthday to Me
I was sitting at my desk minding my own business when reception called to say I had a package. Turned out to be a massive bunch of flowers, those lovely long necked lillies, no less, which I happen to love. They always make the room smell so good! You naughty people that sent em, you know who you are, thank you, thank you, thank you. You really what-did-you-doed-me (inside joke, never mind if you don't get it...). I forgive you for the embarassment of staggering all the way from reception with flowers eclipsing my face and all the curious stares.
And then, an email went round, announcing that I've been upgraded from intern to actual employee. Am I happy or what? I guess it doesn't suck so much to have to work on your birthday when good stuff just keeps pouring in. Now I really have something to celebrate this weekend. Woo hoo!
Story, story? Story! Once upon a time? Time, time!
Self Deception, from Google Images
For years, there have been debates over the writing of fiction, given the dictionary definition of the word. Is it possible for a story to be completely fictional, can stories directly inspired by an author’s experiences also constitute fiction, if the work is saturated with the author’s experience but portrayed in made-up circumstances, does it become fiction with breadth or thinly veiled autobigraphy?
The debate goes on…
Meanwhile, in Poland, author Krystian Bala has been jailed for 25 years after police found that his novel, published a few years ago, is actually an account of a murder he committed.
In a random internet discussion, a police officer found that the book being talked about bore striking resemblance to an unsolved case back at headquarters, put two and two together, launched an investigation, and boom, case solved! The novelist was the murderer…thank God this particular po-po happened to be a book geek, huh? The original news story is here if you’d like to read it.
In the light of this, skeptics of the ‘purity of fiction’ appear to have been proven right – ain’t no story like a true story. And it makes me wonder about writers and this whole writing business, whether it be poetry, prose, drama or songs: who are we kidding? We’re not making things up, we’re yanking things out of the core of our beings, reaching out from internal discomforts, and begging, pathetically, to be listened to. The reason we insist it’s all made up, is that in our glittering mental images of ourselves, there’s no room to acknowledge the neediness and insecurity that’s mirrored back to us on paper.
Apparently, Krystian Bala killed Dariusz Janiszewski because he suspected the ad agency exec was having an affair with his ex-wife. Now picture Mr Bala at his book launch, being interviewed (hypothetically of course!)
Interviewer: Mr Bala, what inspired your new book? How did you come up with the concept?
It would be bullshit if he said anything other than…
Mr Bala: This dude was messing with my wife, and I got insanely jealous so I popped him off and chucked him in the river. This book was the only way I could deal with it and face the pain.
You and I know though, that this soul-baring scenario could never happen. He denies all charges of murder as we speak, just as the rest of us gloat at our character’s failings, and rejoice in their not being our own.
On the flipside, I could just be giving him the benefit of the doubt with all this romanticised nonsense. What if he's just a twisted sicko who found a way to get his vengeance on his wife's alleged lover, and make some cash to boot? I guess we'll never know.
Hmm.
Tuesday, 4 September 2007
Sunday, 2 September 2007
Dumb Ventures Promote Dumb Lectures
'These pictures' refers to the atrocious sketches of the three witches in Macbeth which Classical Comics publishing in early 2008. As you've probably guessed, I agree with the latter part of the introductory paragraph. This move to turn great pieces of literature into comics is sad, very sad, and I'll tell you why.
Thursday, 30 August 2007
Losing my Nerve and Feeling Melancholy
Maybe I could use a pen name. You know, make up a name for myself. But then I can't, because that would make mockery of Mummy and Daddy and Grandpa C and Grandma O and all the other literary/artistic/creative people in my family. What would all their hard work mean if I just discredited it by attributing my work, on recognition, to names that bear no relation to theirs? In case you haven't noticed, I hold legacy and family values in very high esteem.
Another problem. If I used a pen name, I'd feel like an incredible fraud. I'd feel like I never really wrote any of it, that I found an old manuscript somewhere written by this other anonymos person with the strange name and tried to pass it off as mine. A pen name wouldn't match up with the name on my phone bill, my bank account, my passport - it wouldn't be congruent with the name I've written carefully on every text book and exercise book throughout my school career. It would have no context and no history. The work wouldn't be something I created so I wouldn't be able to take ownership of it.
So I can't use a pen name, you see. But I still don't want to show my work to anyone. Why the hell can't I have my cake and eat it. I don't like this grown up world where you have to rationalise things and make concessions for your ambitions. I feel like throwing the mother of all tantrums and perhaps I will. Then when I'm done, I'll suck it up, stick on some massive sunshades so that no one will see me, then go and post the damn thing. (This is the part where frustration with myself is directed at the work itself).
On the flipside, I have the book launch all planned - the guest list, the venue, the concept, everything, and I can assure you it's FABULOUS. I even know what I'm going to wear and how the photos of the event look. I have a whole marketing plan for the book mapped out. I know what the competition prizes will be. I've had long, stimulating conversations with the people at the book signings. Told you I'm a weirdo.
Jeez, oh man, I have problems!
Friday, 17 August 2007
Terror on Tuesday Morning!
So it came time to say goodbye. I was struggling not to cry, being the pathetic cry baby that I am. Just to delay the final moment a bit longer, we went to the loo. Funny how even at that time of the morning, you still have to queue for the women’s loos…I swear, we spend to much time in there, it’s embarrassing. Anyhow, while I was standing there thinking of how I really shouldn’t give in and cry, this woman walked out of one of the cubicles. I recognised her uniform to be a Wetherspoons one.
To my near heart attack shock, she walked out of the cubicle, after I had heard various forms of scraping and groaning, and just sauntered out of the bathroom. SHE DIDN’T WASH HER HANDS!!! Oh my goodness, I was instantly awake. I thought I would faint. I thought of all the meals I’d eaten at various Wetherspoons pubs, and all the future meals I was likely to have there, and then I felt sick because clearly, they could very well have been handled by an urban savage who doesn’t know that it’s UNACCEPTABLE not to wash your hands after you’ve been to the loo.
You don’t expect that I swallowed my shock did you? As soon as I had finished (and washed my hands twice to make up for her lack of personal hygiene) I marched straight into the Wetherspoons and reported her to her manager. I also reported her to the bathroom cleaning lady who tut-tutted. I was being stroppy, you say? I beg to differ. There are very few things more disgusting/repulsive/unforgivable/offensive/torture-worthy than a fully grown woman who has poor standards of hygiene. Eww. I feel sick just recounting this. This is how it went:
Me: Err, hi, are you the manager?
Manager: That’s me!
Me: Hi, sorry, this is going to sound weird, but I was just in the bathroom, and one of your staff – that lady wiping tables over there – she didn’t wash her hands when she finished in there.
Manager: Well I can safely tell you that the first thing she did when she got behind the bar was wash her hands; it’s part of our staff policy to wash hands as soon as we get behind the bar.
Me: That’s fair enough, I appreciate that, but you have to understand that for your customers, it doesn’t inspire confidence in your company to see such poor standards of personal hygiene from the staff of a food serving establishment. I’m now having convulsions thinking of the number of times I could have been served a pint or a steak or a chocolate cake by someone who went to the loo, amid gurgly noises, and didn’t wash her hands…I feel defiled!
Manager: Yeah, I understand, but she definitely washed her hands.
Me: Well, I just thought you should know.
Manager: Thanks, I’ll still speak to her about it, though.
Me: Thanks!
And I left. Guess who’s not going to Wetherspoons anytime soon? One because, I’ve been to Wetherspoons countless times, and the staff don’t always wash their hands once they get behind the bar, whatever the company thinks its policy is. I’d know if they did; it’s the sort of thing I notice. Two, because last time my sister and I had their breakfast, the eggs were flaming orange and I’m now inclined to think (in retrospect) it’s because they were contaminated. So what makes this time any different? Why should I believe that she washed her hands when she got behind the bar. After all, the poor manager had to say that, it was his get out of jail free card.
Notice to people out there – if I catch you being a dirty urban savage, I will report you! You can’t poison the rest of us who enjoy eating out, just because you can’t be bothered to do the right thing. And rinsing your finger tips under a cold tap isn’t enough either. You need to WASH those hands under a HOT tap with SOAP! And then you have to hold your hands up and not touch anything, like surgeons when they’re scrubbing in for surgery. Any questions on how to do this can be answered by watching a few episodes of Grey’s Anatomy or any other medical dramas. Parents, please teach your kids these things, or else, they’ll be judged for being lax and germ-ridden.
Uuuuugh. I am so grossed out. I shall stop typing now because I feel myself getting meaner and more disparaging….Maybe I’ll put together an alternative guide to dining in London. It’ll be called Where Not to Eat Because You Are Likely To Get Popped Off By Malicious Pathogens, and the list will be the names of restaurants where I’ve spied on the staff and discovered their appalling habits. Any establishment that doesn’t appear on the list, people will know it’s safe to eat at (for the time being, at least, or until I catch them trying to kill off their clientele with toilet bacteria). Good idea, don’t you think?
Sunday, 12 August 2007
On Books That Challenge You
Anyway, back to Kingsolver and Hamid. I think what I enjoyed most about their books is that they've done something different with first person narration. The prose was beautiful but not contrived, poetic without being ridiculous. Kingsolver narrated the story of the undoing of an American Baptist family in the Belgian Congo, by giving each of her characters their own unique voice with which to tell their story. The overall effect was of sitting round a table at some family's reconciliation meeting, getting their different perspectives on what they went through. Because each of them used their own lingo, and explained their thoughts and feelings, we got valuable insights into the character's motivations, which as I've mentioned before, is very important.
Hamid's book appealed to me simply because I have a particular fondness for eavesdropping on stranger's conversations. I love sitting on the bus, in a restaurant, on a plane listening to what the people around me are talking about, how they're saying it and guessing at why they're saying it to whom they're saying it to. (You don't get to judge me, by the way!) So we see Changez, the protagonist sitting at dinner with someone, telling him about his life in America, how came to fall out of love with the country, or possibly, how the country fell out of love with him. It felt like I was sitting at the table next to them, listening. The setting is Lahore, the two are eating dinner, but at the same time, it's New York, because the stories of his youth (which he's telling) transport us back there with confidence, mastery, and a little bit of nostalgia. It's a brilliant twist at the end, when the talk turns to secret plots and conspiracies, that the unnamed dinner guest pops off Changez. Everything is implied of course, it's all very poetically done, but I felt awed and excited at the end at how it all worked together.
Another theme that ran through both books, was the concept of 'otherness' in societies; what constitutes it, what perpetuates it, whether it can be overcome, and if so, how. The Price family kids in The Poisinwood Bible were set apart from their peers at school because they were labelled the preacher's kids. In Kilanga, in the Belgian Congo, they were set apart because they were the only white family for miles around. The local people of Kilanga and the Prices found each other equally strange until they learnt to identify common factors in culture: love, respect, generosity, patience, and use those to guide their relationship. In The Reluctant Fundamentalist, Changez was one of a few non-white students in his class at Princeton. When he was headhunted by the valuation company Underwood Sam, there was him from Pakistan, and Wainwright, from Jamaica, both trying to navigate the balance between who they were as proud young men from elsewhere, and how that fitted into the cosmos of work life, New York, and America after September 11.
Both books, without making a song and dance about it, tackle what it means to be a stranger in societies other than one's own, how extended abscence from one's place of birth and prolonged residence as a foreigner changes one's perspectives, and by default, allocates psychological/emotional energy to seeking out exactly who one is, what one believes and why. In the light of how the world is today, the Global Village, for lack of a better term, things like this are worth thinking about, and not just in a token, flippant way.
On that note, I'd like ot hear what you all think about issues to do with diaspora, otherness, and culture, in whatever form they occur. Also, what role do you see books/literature/creative arts playing in such issues? Should they tackle those issues full on, as a stated premise, or should it be done more subtley?
Wednesday, 8 August 2007
Rosbif
Here's the very humble beginning of a short story. This is hugely experimental for me in every way. 1) I never share work 2) Especially not on the internet and 3) This is the first time I'm attempting to use a male protagonist. So on that note, while you lot clap and cheer me on, this is it, provisionally called Rosbif:
If this were one of his films, Russ would instruct his camera man to treat the lady with procedural filmic respect; the kind where they view her from down up. From her ankles, up along a long thigh, to her neatly nipped waist, to her proverbially heaving bosom, to the base of her throat, to archly pursed lips, to the large wateriness of her eyes, oh! And this is why he was shocked. Because her clean little feet, coaxed into those brown wedge sandals, contrasting delightfully with the metal leg of the chair she had them wound around, did not prepare Russ in anyway, to reach the top of the shot, and find at the end of his visual appreciation, she was nothing but an urban savage. The red of her nails, the red of the meat, red flashed in the eyes of a gouging beast…
He retched onto the floor.
There’s nothing more repulsive than the sight of a woman eating meat.
*
‘You alright there, sir?’
Blink. ‘Yes, thanks. Quite alright. Just fine, thank you. Thank you.’
The waiter hesitated. The eye of his manager was upon him. Customer service, customer service, ringa-ringa-rosied around his psychology like the proceedings of a ritual and prevented him from jumping out of his skin. Vomit, eugh! ‘Are you sure, sir? I’ll just get you a glass of water while I get something to clean that up.’
Russ watched the waiter leave, and concentrated on the departing sound of creaking shoes. Then, on the approaching sound of cumbersome, chaffing thighs. He found it more productive, given the circumstances, not to dwell on the fact that he was the afternoon’s spectacle. People would go home and say, ‘So I was in this lovely little bistro in Russell Square today and this dude went and lost it all over the floor…’
Consider words like Disgusting, Revolting, Gross, Pathetic. It occurred to Russ; that people might speak those words later on in the day and remember his face, his favourite jeans, the sight of his elbows towering high in the sky as he rested his palms on his thighs and the revolt of his stomach shot the projectile toward the ground.
And in all the commotion that he was determined not to take any notice of, the scarlet woman sat there staring at him. Just impudently looking on, while she masticated her meat and scribbled in her notepad, like she was on celestial business. That word, that filthy word, surely, must have been coined with unsavoury connotations in mind. He stared back down at the floor, contemplating the offerings of his gut. It would serve her right, Russ thought, if he scooped them up with his side plate and novelly conditioned her hair.
***
And there you have it folks. That's most of what I've got for this one so far. Bear in mind that it hasn't been edited or worked on - this is th rough deal. I have a few other ideas, but thy need a bit of mulling over. Feedback and constructive criticism are very welcome, as are any questions/guesses on where you think the story might be going...
Tuesday, 31 July 2007
Living Dangerously
So I'm working up the courage to post some actual work on this blog i. e. I'm toying with the idea of posting a short story, or excerpts of a short story and not just opinion articles. But I'm still thinking about it, I'm not sure. The only reason I've mentioned it is so that I'll be forced to actually do it because now I feel like I've semi made a commitment.
Tick tick tick tick tick
OK, mind made up now. I shall post the beggining of a short story I just started working on. It's all going to be very fresh and very raw because I literally only got the idea (for the story and for sharing its creation) last week. But anyway, it'll be a little journey with me on a work in progress. It'll also be a new experience for me because I'm intensely shy about sharing and I like to pretend I'm not working on anything so I don't have to show it to anyone.
Also, I'm working now so there'll be no sitting up all night writing and re-writing because I have to be alert in the mornings. I won't be able to deliver a dazzling piece of glory, boom, all at once. Unless I post one I've already written (and here's one I made earlier)...no. It's all about the process. We shall see it unfold together, and it would be lovely to hear any feedback or any crazy guesses on where you think the story might be going based on the first snippets.
Bedtime for me now (*sulk*) but see you again soon.
xx
Monday, 30 July 2007
The Big Bong and Other Nonsense
Hands up who thinks journalism has gone to the dogs? Ah, I’m glad to see you all agree. Last week, the front pages of most of the newspapers were awash with cries of angst from petulant journalists. Apparently, some MPs and other people in positions of power took drugs in their youth. Big freaking deal; I don’t see how that’s newsworthy. And I don’t see how it has any bearing on their trying to enforce new drug laws now. If they were caught rolling spliffs in between sessions at parliament, and found to be passing laws based on fantabulous ideas their stoned minds came up with, then we’d have a problem. If they were eating magic mushroom risottos at lunch or using cocaine as sweetener for their lattes, then we would have every right to call them hypocrites. But for stuff they did at uni? Give them a break, guys. They weren’t responsible for the country back then; they were just students. Now that they’ve successfully waded through experimentation and found the ambition which has landed them in positions of responsibility, there are plenty of other things, I’m sure, that would have looked better on the front pages. Cue the violins…
I’m asking special permission from the powers that be, to line up every single person that slandered the poor Jacqui Smith, gag them with cold oats, jab them with truth serum, and then interrogate them as to their hallucinogenic past (or present, as the case may very well be). I’d then take their inevitable confessions of guilt, plaster them all over the front pages, and call the journalists themselves hypocrites, for calling other people hypocrites, because they spent their days at uni doing exactly what they’re trying to crucify other people for. The only hypocrites here, are the people pointing fingers. Arguably, journalists are also people in positions of power – they inform and shape opinion everyday. If they stopped ‘dabbling’ in weed thirty odd years ago, would they think it was fair for the public to cast aspersions on their morals today? Probably not. So why are they whining?
And this is not by any means, in support of drugs, please remember that. It’s just me observing, that the death toll in Iraq has obviously sky rocketed to a level that’s ubiquitous enough to be boring, the property ladder is not any easier to get onto – nothing to report there, crime has gone both up and down – they can’t decide which is which. The press has tired of its usual contingency-plan, space-filling material, so they now need to work retrospectively, to dredge up ancient personal history, which wasn’t anymore relevant to anything then than it is to anything now.
Now that ‘offenders’ are older and wiser, they have every right to try to reclassify the offence, because they have the benefit of experience. Been there, done that, know better. Who knows how many people will be saved by its being a more serious offence? Some people simply won’t touch it because they don’t want to get into trouble. It is actually responsible of them to try to address the issue. Imagine if in a few years from now, eight year olds were puffing lye in the toilets. The journalists would have a field day about how the government didn’t make enough of an effort blah blah blah. Imagine what a lame excuse it would sound like if Jacqui et all said, ‘Sorry, we felt it would be hypocritical to enforce weed laws because we smoked it as teenagers and hance didn’t feel we had a right to stop others from doing so.’ Imagine the very same journalists calling them lax lazy buggers, crying about abandoned duties to society etc. So why is it that when they are actually trying to do their duty, they get attacked?
Another stupid moment in journalism was in the Telegraph two weeks ago, when an article proclaimed that students in Tony Blair’s school were expelled or suspended for posting a clip of themselves on YouTube smoking weed. If I worked at No10, I would sue for defamation/slander/libel/the whole lot, just on principle. a) The fact that his children attend(ed) the school, doesn’t mean that he owns it and b) his kids weren’t even involved in the incident in anyway. They just used his name, as a hook for a negative story, which, in the light of his recent stepping down, is as tasteless a crime as speaking ill of the dead, if you get my drift. Was it really necessary to include the Blairs when there was no connection in any way?
Before my grandma retired, she worked as a broadcast journalist, and made history by being the first woman in Nigeria to run a TV station. She knows a thing or two about journalism. Her theory is this: opinion is free, but fact is priceless. We were equally appalled by the two stories I mentioned above. How did they pass the whole line of command and get into the papers as they were? Why didn’t the editors do something? I know we’ve come a long way from then, but in Grandma’s day, you’d have been fired for attempting to pass off such conjecture as journalism. What’s happening is that the type of reportage used to cover whimsical celebrity behaviour, is creeping up on real news. It’s potentially dangerous and needs to stop. Take a few minutes to think of the repercussions…
Incidentally, while we're on the topic of journalistic demise, those awful, purple, brain-addling evening papers need to be got rid of. Where are all the environmental campaigners? Surely these are trees we’re killing! They litter the streets and make London look messy, especially with the rain. Walking home is like one ugly plod through papier mache quicksand. We were just fine with our morning (blue) Metro and (orange) Evening Standard, thank you very much; their distribution remains a tidy, orderly affair, and doesn’t turn the city into a pictorial of chaos in hades. One would have thought that the (purple) papers pass-on value means that you don’t need such a massive print run. The poor dudes (and dudesses, if that’s a word) practically maul you at street corners, because they’ve been told they have to shift their stash – a stash that still wouldn’t be halfway dwindled if you handed three papers each to every UK resident. Plus, most days, the content is just an extension of trashy telly in print. The only thing I find interesting, is that anonymous article, ‘Life in the Square Mile’. I always used to take one, just because I had forgotten that I still have a choice; they’ve become such a large part of the Everyday, a given, like a (red) London bus. Also, because short of keeping your fists closed and shoved deep into your pockets, your eyes behind shades to minimize eye contact, and your walking pace at competition speeds, the chances of reaching a tube station between 4 and 7 pm on a week day evening un-purpled are slim to none. Ignore them and read a book instead – much better for the posterity of your mind!
Thursday, 19 July 2007
Horror Scopes
This week, I have been conducting an experiment. And now I have re-proved to myself something that I know already; that all this horoscope business is pure nonsense. Why did I experiment with something I already know, you ask? Because at 8 am on the Piccadilly line, the only thing you get to read is bits and pieces over someone else’s shoulder. I have not fallen in love, quarrelled with my work colleagues, made a ton of money, or had an argument with my family; all of which a varied cacophony of myopic gypsies insisted I would encounter. Perhaps it has something to do with the quality of the viziers I experimented with; mass market visions reproduced a million times over in the free daily papers that colour the mornings blue and the evenings purple. But I know better than that really – I mean, you can’t blame the blandness of the food on the bluntness of the kitchen knife, but I was trying out this new thing where you give people the benefit of the doubt for ooh let’s see…one two three…benefit of doubt time over. Horoscope hocus pocus is all crap, and coming to an even stronger conclusion than before my little experiment, I now understand why the lives of certain people I know are messed up. It’s simple really – they live according to what those things say. How long are these things anyway? Max 300 words (and that’s being very generous and givey the benefit of the doubty) mind you; yet they cleave to it as though it’s the quiddity of life itself.
I think those things are dangerous and should be banned. Sometimes, we under estimate the potency of words, and under value our minds ability to reorganise our lives into either confirming our fears or exaggerating unrealistic notions. I feel about horoscopes the way some people feel about prosperity/doom and gloom preachers; both prevaricate from one extreme to the other. All of a sudden, your life is expected to lift off and become perfect, or your demise is waiting round the corner for you, sniggering at your expense. The brain is powerful. When we read, the words don’t just evaporate off the page and turn into some sort of silent language that our eyes receive. They go and take up residence in our SELVES. So when the stupid witch says to you, oh watch our for love today because there’s a fairy in your venus, or whatever, you smile coyly back at the guy on the train who’s smiling at you. You then think that ‘something happened’, that you ‘met someone’, when in fact, nothing happened, you didn’t meet anyone, and his smile was just the auto-programmed grimace that city people have adopted as a contingency plan for when the avoidance of eye contact with other commuters mistakenly occurs. What you can’t possibly know, the possibilities that your brain can’t then access (he might be psychotic, he might in fact be married with three kids, he might not have registered that he grimaced at you) are blocked, because the viziers words have formed a disconnect between what’s really happening and what you’re expecting to happen. Hence you see things off centre.
You trip on the pavement because you weren’t looking and all of a sudden, you knew it, you just knew something bad was going to happen today. You have a stomach ache because you chose to eat prawns in a dodgy restaurant, and wham, finally, here’s proof that someone at work wants your job, someone is trying to poison you, someone mixed printer ink with your balsamic dressing when you went to the loo. By reading these things, you sacrifice a part of your brain where objective appreciation would have resided, and fill it with paranoia in all directions, both for good and for woe. Especially in the morning. People cut veritable slices of their consciousnesses and hand them over to words which carry forces which don’t know anything. They accept that this generalisation of themselves, propounded by the astrologist or whatever, is superior to their own common sense, to their own in-built sensibility.
If these horoscope things are sooooooo fantastic, why don’t people turn to them when their relatives lie dying in hospital, when they are cash strapped and hiding under the kitchen table from debt collectors, when bombs go off? If you’re going to pray when things are bad, then you might as well ask the person you pray to for direction and guidance in the things that puzzle you. If when we pray in desperate situations, we see the radical difference it makes, why short change ourselves in the Everyday with the astigmatism of guessing? It’s all a question of perspective, really.
What say you? Feel free to agree or disagree – this is not a communist blog.
Monday, 9 July 2007
The Thing About Gigs...
So anyway, yesterday morning, my cousin called. Her mum had bought us all tickets to see Lauryn Hill live in concert. Sweet, I thought. The concert was to start for 7. We were standing for three hours before Ms Hill deigned to make an appearance on stage, which didn’t go down well with me. Being new to this whole working week thing, my Sunday evenings are really precious, and I couldn’t help but blame her this morning when I woke up and a desire to molest the snooze button overwhelmed me.
But that’s beside the point. What the point is, is that I lived to see the day when I would agree with my Dad’s opinions about music. He’s long maintained that most modern music is flawed, because live performances never hold up to the studio mastered versions. In his view, it should be the other way round. Out of respect for Lauryn Hill, I’m having difficulty confessing that it was crap…but you go right ahead and put two and two together. Imagine if I didn’t have this overwhelming sympathy for Lauryn Hill, and she was some other random pop floozy, prancing round on stage with in a weird wig and a mac. Imagine what I’d have said then. But I can’t say it, so you’ll have to make the words up in your head, because I won’t have her slandered. I won’t.
After the last gig (i. e. not Lauryn’s, the one before) I went home and deleted all my music by that artiste, because he was a fraud. He played his CD and cursed along to it. That’s not what I paid for. Lauryn’s was marginally better, though not great. She kind of shout-rasp-sang along to a live band, which was her only salvation. Yes she had a sore throat, but I dare say she’d have given a better show overall, if the sound technician weren’t both deaf and incompetent in equal measure. The poor woman had to shout over the music constantly. She kept motioning to him to say that she couldn’t hear herself. Rather than adjust the volumes, he adjusted the Pringle jumper on his chest and nodded his head as though this was the culmination of his life’s work.
Apparently, there are some explosives that work through sound. They reach such unfathomable decibels that they cause matter to implode and turn to dust. This might have been what Mr Sound Guy was trying to achieve. As a result of his deafness, here is a list of places in my body where I felt pain:
kidneys
T5 lumbar vertebrae
calves
lymph nodes
frontal lobe
base of my neck
I also suffered from extreme thirst.
I don’t know what’s happening to live music, but I shall stop going. Does anyone else find that they come away disappointed? I don’t want to have to throw away all my music because the artistes have discredited their own worth. Now, unless it’s a small private gig with competent technicians and artistes who still remember what projection and mic technique are, count me out. The only live gig’s I’ll be attending will be the ones I co-ordinate on my sound system. My layman’s manipulation of graphic equalizer buttons has never yet left me with the sort of symptoms I experienced yesterday. If you've gone to a really bad gig, or have anything to say about live vs. studio music, I'd love to hear about it in your comments.
Nevertheless, I still made it to work on time. Phew!
Saturday, 30 June 2007
Voyage to Clubland: Investigating Peep-Show Theory
So we got in, hissed at the £2 charge for coat check (it’s usually £1, the cheeky gits!), found a good spot to hang and began to sway lightly on our feet in the way that clubbers do when they enter a party space. It’s code for, we’re here now, we’re open to see what’s gonna happen tonight, DJ play something that will change this sway into stepping! In other words, it’s like the warm up before the athletics.
As the club filled, the DJ’s set progressed from upbeat Soul to velvety RnB/Hip-Hop, and with this progression, came a progression in the dancing. At this point, we were all dancing, screaming along to the lyrics, and listening out for what the next song in the mix would be. It was somewhere at this point, amidst all the activity, that I noticed that the clubland gender roles became more played out than ever.
For guys, a large part of the clubbing experience is voyeurism and for girls, it’s performance.Perhaps I have always known this, but it became more of an articulated thought than a vague idea last night. As someone who likes watching people, I’m very shy about being watched myself, so when it came to the part where the lyrics were telling the girls to ‘wind for me’ and ‘jack your leg up’ and ‘back that ass up’ and ‘work it like you’re working for dollars’, I took a step back and perched on the back of a sofa. I then realised that all the guys were either perched on the same sofa, or up against a wall, watching the spectacle going on. A guy friend pointed at one if my friends and said, ‘Wow that b**** looks fiiiiiine,’ so I said, ‘Errr, yeah, I understand that you mean she looks nice, although maybe I’d have used different words to describe it.’ She was of course, naked. She was ‘having fun’ sexually dancing – exhibiting. He was ‘having fun’ inspecting the anatomy and mating rituals of a prize b**** – voyeur-ing.
Every so often, during a particularly dramatic contortion by one of the girls, a guy or a couple of guys would latch them selves onto her behind and simulate a sex act. Then all the other guys would whip out their cameras i.e. Oh the pleasure of sight both for now and here after! Don’t get me wrong, I love dancing, and mucking about with friends, but the focused attention that seems to demand that you dry hump and pseudo-copulate on the dancefloor kind of kills it for me. Being clung to by another being impedes my movement, so when all that starts, I’m more than happy to go back to people watching. There are always so many things to see: elaborate avoidance schemes, successful linkages, attention seekers, the cool kids, the kids who can pretend they’re cool because it’s dark, comical drunken virtuoso, all sorts!
After a while, all the guys were asking me what was wrong, and why I wasn’t 'having fun'. It wasn’t enough for them that I just enjoy kicking back and watching the scene (even though they know what I’m like already). On top of that, it wasn’t enough that I happen to be mildly scoliotic and aggravated winding on the dancefloor means hell to pay pain-wise the next day. It wasn’t enough that I fell on the stairs yesterday, and my knee got hurt because I landed awkwardly on it while trying to protect the chocolate cake I was carrying at the time. None of that was enough, they swarmed round me like flies, pestering, trying to force me to ‘have fun’. Trying to get me to do the whole ‘I’m sexy all up in the club bit’ so they could sit back and watch. Oh hell no! Not last night.
What was funny was, I did get up and dance again, but my dancing wasn’t valid because I didn’t ‘get low’. I didn’t proffer my bottom to the first available taker, I didn’t jump onto a sofa and bend myself in half. Stepping my heeled feet and midi dress, moving my arms, nodding my head, mouthing along to the lyrics, snapping my fingers, moving my shoulders, flicking my hair, swaying my hips lightly – none of that constitutes dancing, apparently. Someone said to me, ‘come on girl, put your back into it.’ So I said, with a huge smile ‘Sorry, I don’t grind.’ ‘Ugh,’ was his response.
The birthday boy sidled up to me and said, ‘I used to think too much when I was younger too, and it’s not good for you. Try and have fun.’ Granted, he was drunk.
‘I am having fun,’ I said. ‘I’m enjoying the music, I’m enjoying being with everyone. And look, I am dancing.’
‘No you’re not, you’re depressed,’ he declared. ‘Here, have some more alcohol then you’ll be dancing properly.’
I rolled my eyes (privately of course). Another cliché: buy a girl a drink and she’ll lose all her inhibitions. For goodness sake, I come from Opobo, where local moonshine, is the preferred alternative to Listerine. The Irish afterall have their ales, and we have our gin.
‘I’m fine hun, seriously, thanks! Stop worrying.’ I waved my hands in the air and started doing the electric slide and he looked at me as though he really wanted to believe me but somehow, I wasn’t making that possible.
Sigh! I looked around. Another girl had lined herself up with a ledge and was giving it the same attention she would give to a man under the right circumstances. The guys were moments away from dribbling. They had forgotten about capturing the image on camera for later. They were focused on the right now, broasting in lewd concentration, being stimulated by their sight. After about three minutes, someone began to film it. Then she made a show of not wanting to be filmed (as though she had NO CLUE that she was being watched before) and then carried right on with romancing the wooden ledge, with even greater alacrity, I might add. One brave man stepped forward and welcomed her posterior with his crotch. ‘That’s what I’m talking about,’ the other guys said. So it would appear, I thought.
Eventually, I decided to leave, because frankly I was tired, and I just wanted to go to bed. Why people can’t seem to accept that it's a valid choice for a girl to come into a club and just chill, like I was doing, is beyond me. Maybe because unspoken club rules state that the guys are supposed to be pleased/pleasured by what they see, and the girls are supposed to provide the entertainment. My lack of performance (on their terms) was robbing them of a fraction of the £10 value they came in to behold, and it struck me as all very problematic. The guys paid £10 to see some good booty, the girls paid £10 to have the undivided attention of a room full of horny men.
I suppose most girls love to be watched and ogled at, but I’ve never been most girls and I make no apologies for that. I really don't enjoy being watched. I’m not a tomboy at all – I do love my heels, a nice frock, makeovers, etc, nor am I particularly interested in being controversial, but I find it difficult to accept that if I’m not consciously trying to make a guy imagine having sex with me, then I’m contravening some sort of ‘fun having’ rule. If you asked any of them about last night, they would claim that they’re not sure whether or not I had fun. And I would beg to differ. I so did, because I got dressed up, danced (on my terms), hung out with friends, took silly photos, listened to good music, and got some fodder for my blog! It probably sounds like I’m being disparaging of the club experience, but I’m not; I actually like going clubbing. I’m merely trying to deconstruct it and find out what the point is, for the different people who go there. Why they go, what they percieve as fun (and why that is). Also, if they’ve ever actually stopped to question the shape their assumptions about clubland behaviour take i. e. do they ever consider that they might be playing a role that's dictated to them by the club space, and by media semiotics surrounding similar spaces (e. g. music videos)? What happened to the days when most dancing was about movement, rhythm, skill and not latching on to the tail end of the nearest mother ship?
I suppose the idea about meditation in clubs in my poem below (Nightclub) came true in that I reached a new gender role discovery. I would also like to refer to my post (Exploring Erotica) below for the topic of respectability. Some girls complain about the way guys respond to them in clubs. Granted, there are lots of losers who do unprecedented letching (heck they’d hit on a duck if it waddled past), but for the large part, guys respond to the signals that the girls are putting out. Note to women (again!): if you don’t want to be mistaken for a stripper, don’t act like one and then pretend to be offended when you’re treated like one. At a certain stage of your life, you should be able to make cognitive assessments about your behaviour. If you’re going to act out a part, be prepared to deal with the repercussions.
And that, my darlings, is it from me…for now.
Smooches,
xx
Saturday, 23 June 2007
Mediocrity Polemic: In Praise of Shoddy Work
On stepping back, I realise that it’s a distinction that needs to be made more often. Take contemporary fiction for example. There are a few authors I’ve read, whom if I were their teacher, I’d write ‘Stop being lazy and apply yourself’ in red across the top of their paper. But whether or not I think their work is mediocre, they have awards, endorsements and reviews (celebrity) that seem to suggest that they are good at what they do. In that scenario, their recognition implies that they must have achieved extremely high standards of work, when in fact, they might not have.
In the same way, there are geniuses working away all night, churning out masterpiece after masterpiece, yet because they don’t yet have a public platform, it may be possible for an anonymous observer to play down the excellence of the work; simply because he can assume that if the work was reeeeeaallly that good, then surely it would have been noticed by now.
I think this separation of achievement and recognition can and should be be applied to most creative fields. There are popular singers, writers, producers, film makers, actors, designers etc that make one think, how in the world did they get a deal? Or maybe the undeserving heroes used to produce top quality stuff until the critical acclaim and recognition made them complacent? And on the flipside, there are incredibly talented people we know who’ve been banging at the doors of opportunity for ages and haven’t got the recognition that their work deserves.
In Emile Durkheim’s paper, ‘The Functions of Crime’ he insists that crime actually serves a purpose in society. Stay with me here. According to him, punishment of criminals acts as social organisation, deterring the general public from doing the same. Crime also helps in the governance of societies because it reveals the negative changes that have occurred in morality (by measuring collective responses etc) and enables them to facilitate better security services for the average citizen. I have decided to appropriate this concept (the concept of crap stuff having a purpose) to my appreciation of untalented geniuses.
Rather than continue to rant and rave about how the prominent people with disgraceful work shouldn’t be where they are, I’ve decided to learn from them, to use them as inspiration and I think this is something we can all do. If they, with all their half-arsed work can get a record deal/get published/get exhibited/get cast/get awarded/get endorsed/get signed, then so can the rest of us. Their mediocrity is actually a good thing about them because it serves a purpose; it gives the rest of us hope that if they could hoodwink the world with their nonsense, then we can sure as hell bless the world with our excellence.
P. S. The psychiatrist who had Nash committed in A Beautiful Mind was called Dr Rosen. There’s a well known article called ‘On Being Sane in Insane Places’ written by a David L. Rosenhan. Is that a (reality to fiction) coincidence? Or does the scriptwriter happen to own the same books as me? Strange.