Saturday, July 30, 2005
This is what we're up against folks
Found in the alley amongst the usual drift of crap, presumably having fallen off the gate of my nice new neighbours.
'Rob this dog and Trevor Horn will fuckin kill you when he sees you. Dog is chiped [sic]. See kill'
Shall we recite all the possible jokes to be made here together? Or shall we just, I don't know, call Social Services and see if anything can be done to prevent them from replicating themselves?
What's he going to do to me now I've robbed his sign? Erk.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Noooooooooooooooo
I just lost a blog post. First time. And after all the times I cautiously did the highlight-ctrl-z thing just in case.
Denied!
It's probably for the best.
Anyway, it had some great stories in it about how stuff leaves its mark, and how I once had this Evil Flatmate who moved another Evil Flatmate into our lounge and essentially forced me out of the flat, and she tore out a page of her journal assassinating my character and left it in the top of the bin. And they broke my corkscrew, and when they moved out together just like at the end of Shallow Grave but with less violence and not as much money, Evil Flatmate's Evil Flatmate gave me £10 for it. And so comprehensively had they broken my spirit that I fell over myself trying to say it really wasn't necessary, when I should have said "You have made my life a misery for two months, and never contributed to the rent while effectively using the rooms I couldn't use, because you were sitting in them cooking up all that malevolence and hostility along with your evil chum, for free. At the expense of my sanity, nearly, and the expense of my money. I should demand twenty or so of these notes from you and then give you ten seconds to pack your shit and split before I come after you and stab you brutally and repeatedly with THIS BROKEN CORKSCREW, YOU ROTTEN BITCH."
And some belaboured metaphor about eating chilli and being sick and then not eating it again for five years, even though it was the fear of flying that had brought it on and the chilli was as blameless as an ersatz Mexican dish can be.
And then I said that people are horrendous like giant mutant mice that feast on the helpless flesh of albatross chicks, and they will take advantage of you and make you carry all the stuff they were charged with carrying themselves, and they will cover you in all these tiny nicks that you don't even notice until you find your shirt is sticking to your skin, and they will be bastards and bitches because you give them no real motivation to be otherwise.
But not always.
Note to self: remember this.
Denied!
It's probably for the best.
Anyway, it had some great stories in it about how stuff leaves its mark, and how I once had this Evil Flatmate who moved another Evil Flatmate into our lounge and essentially forced me out of the flat, and she tore out a page of her journal assassinating my character and left it in the top of the bin. And they broke my corkscrew, and when they moved out together just like at the end of Shallow Grave but with less violence and not as much money, Evil Flatmate's Evil Flatmate gave me £10 for it. And so comprehensively had they broken my spirit that I fell over myself trying to say it really wasn't necessary, when I should have said "You have made my life a misery for two months, and never contributed to the rent while effectively using the rooms I couldn't use, because you were sitting in them cooking up all that malevolence and hostility along with your evil chum, for free. At the expense of my sanity, nearly, and the expense of my money. I should demand twenty or so of these notes from you and then give you ten seconds to pack your shit and split before I come after you and stab you brutally and repeatedly with THIS BROKEN CORKSCREW, YOU ROTTEN BITCH."
And some belaboured metaphor about eating chilli and being sick and then not eating it again for five years, even though it was the fear of flying that had brought it on and the chilli was as blameless as an ersatz Mexican dish can be.
And then I said that people are horrendous like giant mutant mice that feast on the helpless flesh of albatross chicks, and they will take advantage of you and make you carry all the stuff they were charged with carrying themselves, and they will cover you in all these tiny nicks that you don't even notice until you find your shirt is sticking to your skin, and they will be bastards and bitches because you give them no real motivation to be otherwise.
But not always.
Note to self: remember this.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Who's that eating that nasty food?
Nature is horrendous.
Giant mutant housemice are eating albatross chicks alive. Saw it on the news earlier, this huge white ball of fluff blinking and and looking around in bewilderment as a horde of rodents flickers around its back end, gnawing and scrabbling at its warm flesh. Hey, one for the metaphor file.
It's all our fault, naturally - mice are not native to the island. Grey squirrels are our doing too (Americans, actually). It's somehow more chilling the ways in which we fuck nature up indirectly, rather than openly and flagrantly. And going on shark hunts - "cold dead eyes, like a doll's eyes" - because a couple of surfers got chunks bitten out of them. Here's an idea - surf somewhere else. People who are concerned for the welfare of animals are often accused of anthropomorphosising, but they can't hold a candle to the ability of those who need a reason to kill to do the same thing - endowing primitive animals with murderous intent when they are as uncomplicated and basic and survival-oriented as anything living can be.
I really had a moment of clarity when the dog killed a rabbit last year. I really got it. It was nature, even if it was a somewhat bastardised version what with the predator being a domestic beast. The rabbit's instinct made it run, he chased it out of instinct, grabbed it, and killed it with one bite. He didn't need to kill it for food, didn't even know what to do with it once he'd got it, but he did what he did because that's what predators do and that's what he remains, even after being filtered through a thousand layers of DNA to become the docile (well, relatively) creature he is. It was entirely simple and commonplace, the most basic of equations, and there was nothing malevolent in it, this amazing and palpable absence of morality. The dog lying in grass panting with small rabbit by his front paws constituted this peaceful space where concepts of right and wrong just didn't exist. It wasn't good, it wasn't bad, it just was. It was oddly soothing. And I was surprised to find myself feeling proud of him, because I realised it might be the only moment in his life he would actually be an animal instead of just a pet.
It did give me a glimpse of how nature works if we haven't fiddled with it (I had a hand in the rabbit's death I suppose by bringing a domestic animal into its habitat, but it's pretty small beans). Sadly there are a million examples of how we've managed to directly or indirectly arse things up, and I have no doubt that if you traced back the origins of all the things I own and all the so-called food in my cupboards, you'd find a whole heap of little corpses. But that's where we live, and all we can really do is buy dolphin-friendly tuna and donate to IFAW once in a while.
I'm plagued by this stuff. If I could put all my idle brain to use I could probably power all the electrical appliances in my street, even that big stereo three doors down, indefinitely.
I fed the dog the rabbit's lights. He looked very queasy afterwards. So much for the Flesh.
Giant mutant housemice are eating albatross chicks alive. Saw it on the news earlier, this huge white ball of fluff blinking and and looking around in bewilderment as a horde of rodents flickers around its back end, gnawing and scrabbling at its warm flesh. Hey, one for the metaphor file.
It's all our fault, naturally - mice are not native to the island. Grey squirrels are our doing too (Americans, actually). It's somehow more chilling the ways in which we fuck nature up indirectly, rather than openly and flagrantly. And going on shark hunts - "cold dead eyes, like a doll's eyes" - because a couple of surfers got chunks bitten out of them. Here's an idea - surf somewhere else. People who are concerned for the welfare of animals are often accused of anthropomorphosising, but they can't hold a candle to the ability of those who need a reason to kill to do the same thing - endowing primitive animals with murderous intent when they are as uncomplicated and basic and survival-oriented as anything living can be.
I really had a moment of clarity when the dog killed a rabbit last year. I really got it. It was nature, even if it was a somewhat bastardised version what with the predator being a domestic beast. The rabbit's instinct made it run, he chased it out of instinct, grabbed it, and killed it with one bite. He didn't need to kill it for food, didn't even know what to do with it once he'd got it, but he did what he did because that's what predators do and that's what he remains, even after being filtered through a thousand layers of DNA to become the docile (well, relatively) creature he is. It was entirely simple and commonplace, the most basic of equations, and there was nothing malevolent in it, this amazing and palpable absence of morality. The dog lying in grass panting with small rabbit by his front paws constituted this peaceful space where concepts of right and wrong just didn't exist. It wasn't good, it wasn't bad, it just was. It was oddly soothing. And I was surprised to find myself feeling proud of him, because I realised it might be the only moment in his life he would actually be an animal instead of just a pet.
It did give me a glimpse of how nature works if we haven't fiddled with it (I had a hand in the rabbit's death I suppose by bringing a domestic animal into its habitat, but it's pretty small beans). Sadly there are a million examples of how we've managed to directly or indirectly arse things up, and I have no doubt that if you traced back the origins of all the things I own and all the so-called food in my cupboards, you'd find a whole heap of little corpses. But that's where we live, and all we can really do is buy dolphin-friendly tuna and donate to IFAW once in a while.
I'm plagued by this stuff. If I could put all my idle brain to use I could probably power all the electrical appliances in my street, even that big stereo three doors down, indefinitely.
I fed the dog the rabbit's lights. He looked very queasy afterwards. So much for the Flesh.
Not raving but frowning
Sod that. I should cut down on my internet use, certainly, but blogging can stay. I feel an odd sense of duty at the moment, anyway - and it really is odd, because people end up here when they've typed 'bee porn' into a search box, so y'know. But given that they're also coming from here, maybe it's not so odd.
This was always meant as a personal blog - somewhere to vent, offload, blurt, waffle. I write about the news for work, and while it's very much part-time, I don't usually feel the urge to put much of that in here. But I'm discovering something of a . . . what is it? A conflict. One of those.
I was not directly affected by the London attacks, and do not (yet) have to deal with what Londoners have to deal with, in what may well be a whole new state of living and being and thinking. I feel like I want to write about it, though, and who's to stop me but myself?
Yes, me. I indulge myself on here, as far as I am able. Writing about the miseries of the world right next to my own petty bothers, I fear some horrid smudging effect, whereby these gravely important events get all trampled on by some whinging about some chicken I had to throw out cos it had gone off even though it was meant to be fresh (I hate wasting food). . .like that. However, my bothers are my bothers, and whilst I am grateful that they are the sum of my complaints at present and that I am not living in fear or crippled with grief, they are still the things that fill my days, occupy my mind and make me in part who I am. Along with my joys, of course, which I do have although they may only make cameo appearances here. (Why is that? I'm such a grouch.)
I want to write about whatever is on my mind, but I want to delineate between what's only important to me and what is important to others without ascribing any relative value. And without blurring one into the other. Or sliding inelegantly from discussion of terrorism to my own selfish moping. Does that make sense? God, I'm knackered. So - yes. I suppose it's a dichotomy I'll have to live with. This is just for-the-record stuff.
The trouble - well, not necessarily trouble - is that world events often inextricably link themselves in my mind to local things or personal things, and vice versa. Get upset about one, knock down some mental dominoes, get upset about the other. Things expanding and contracting and pulsing like jellyfish, zooming in on the picture and out again. Think of the London attacks, of Londoners' resilience, of Blair's brief moment of dignity before the inevitable tumble back into obfuscation and worm-on-hook squirming; think of how indescribably, perfectly awful terrorism is, how disgraceful and spineless governments can be; think of the truly rotten things human beings are capable of; think of someone who's really upset me lately; forget about the bigger things. That's how it goes. I don't know if that's the norm, but bugger it, it's my norm (hi, Norm), and there's not much you can do about that other than be excruciatingly aware of it. Maybe that is how most minds work; maybe it's how they must work, so that they don't crumple under the weight of the world.
I'm a selfish creature, though not very good at looking after my own interests, which is probably why I consider them to such a ridiculous degree, hoping that will be enough. But I do give a shit. And I try to . . . oh, you know.
Therefore, in future I'm going to write about my life, because I can't not do, and write about other things because sometimes I feel I have to. They'll get jumbled occasionally, but I'm sure no one will be hurt - and if you are, please mail me and put your foot in my butt.
*
The Stockwell guy wasn't a terrorist. Just a 27 year old Brazilian electrician, who may have attracted suspicion by fiddling with some wires and batteries, and may have run and kept running out of sheer panic alone, or sheer panic plus a bit of coke he was using to supplement his income.
It's not anyone's fault but that of the terrorists who have brought about this new state of affairs. It is genuinely tragic. It made me realise that a change has occurred - attacks are events which you hope will be isolated, but this one stupid unneccessary death following the others shows that things have changed. It flags the place where a line was crossed, and it is insupportably sad.
And frightening, to find that the reach of terrorism extends further and further, curling its tendrils around everything - turning people against each other, turning people against themselves, and now turning the police against the citizens they're protecting. It all seems like so much puppetry.
If they'd managed to take out a terrorist the day before, this might not be so bad.
I want to stay out of the arguments about this. There will be uproar from various quarters but it just seems to me that again, everyone involved in this situation is a victim to some degree. They didn't create this mess. The shooter will have to live with it for the rest of his life. What's to be gained?
I know you've got to argue, and I'm usually more than up for it, but not this time.
This was always meant as a personal blog - somewhere to vent, offload, blurt, waffle. I write about the news for work, and while it's very much part-time, I don't usually feel the urge to put much of that in here. But I'm discovering something of a . . . what is it? A conflict. One of those.
I was not directly affected by the London attacks, and do not (yet) have to deal with what Londoners have to deal with, in what may well be a whole new state of living and being and thinking. I feel like I want to write about it, though, and who's to stop me but myself?
Yes, me. I indulge myself on here, as far as I am able. Writing about the miseries of the world right next to my own petty bothers, I fear some horrid smudging effect, whereby these gravely important events get all trampled on by some whinging about some chicken I had to throw out cos it had gone off even though it was meant to be fresh (I hate wasting food). . .like that. However, my bothers are my bothers, and whilst I am grateful that they are the sum of my complaints at present and that I am not living in fear or crippled with grief, they are still the things that fill my days, occupy my mind and make me in part who I am. Along with my joys, of course, which I do have although they may only make cameo appearances here. (Why is that? I'm such a grouch.)
I want to write about whatever is on my mind, but I want to delineate between what's only important to me and what is important to others without ascribing any relative value. And without blurring one into the other. Or sliding inelegantly from discussion of terrorism to my own selfish moping. Does that make sense? God, I'm knackered. So - yes. I suppose it's a dichotomy I'll have to live with. This is just for-the-record stuff.
The trouble - well, not necessarily trouble - is that world events often inextricably link themselves in my mind to local things or personal things, and vice versa. Get upset about one, knock down some mental dominoes, get upset about the other. Things expanding and contracting and pulsing like jellyfish, zooming in on the picture and out again. Think of the London attacks, of Londoners' resilience, of Blair's brief moment of dignity before the inevitable tumble back into obfuscation and worm-on-hook squirming; think of how indescribably, perfectly awful terrorism is, how disgraceful and spineless governments can be; think of the truly rotten things human beings are capable of; think of someone who's really upset me lately; forget about the bigger things. That's how it goes. I don't know if that's the norm, but bugger it, it's my norm (hi, Norm), and there's not much you can do about that other than be excruciatingly aware of it. Maybe that is how most minds work; maybe it's how they must work, so that they don't crumple under the weight of the world.
I'm a selfish creature, though not very good at looking after my own interests, which is probably why I consider them to such a ridiculous degree, hoping that will be enough. But I do give a shit. And I try to . . . oh, you know.
Therefore, in future I'm going to write about my life, because I can't not do, and write about other things because sometimes I feel I have to. They'll get jumbled occasionally, but I'm sure no one will be hurt - and if you are, please mail me and put your foot in my butt.
*
The Stockwell guy wasn't a terrorist. Just a 27 year old Brazilian electrician, who may have attracted suspicion by fiddling with some wires and batteries, and may have run and kept running out of sheer panic alone, or sheer panic plus a bit of coke he was using to supplement his income.
It's not anyone's fault but that of the terrorists who have brought about this new state of affairs. It is genuinely tragic. It made me realise that a change has occurred - attacks are events which you hope will be isolated, but this one stupid unneccessary death following the others shows that things have changed. It flags the place where a line was crossed, and it is insupportably sad.
And frightening, to find that the reach of terrorism extends further and further, curling its tendrils around everything - turning people against each other, turning people against themselves, and now turning the police against the citizens they're protecting. It all seems like so much puppetry.
If they'd managed to take out a terrorist the day before, this might not be so bad.
I want to stay out of the arguments about this. There will be uproar from various quarters but it just seems to me that again, everyone involved in this situation is a victim to some degree. They didn't create this mess. The shooter will have to live with it for the rest of his life. What's to be gained?
I know you've got to argue, and I'm usually more than up for it, but not this time.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
The swear words have not yet been invented
Hi
Hope you are well.
I recently emailed you with some questions.
Just wondering if you received my email and will be able to reply soon.
Best wishes,
That bloke who only emailed you five days ago with his four questions about how you became a proofreader and how he could become one himself and ooh maybe even compete with you for the same clients, what larks.
P.S. Have you received this yet? Well? Come on. I want to start making some easy money on the side (I'm a lawyer/teacher/whatever by trade and have a lucrative sideline selling crack to kittens but I feel somehow I'm just NOT GREEDY OR ANNOYING ENOUGH). Come on come on. Prod prod. Poke poke. Cough it up, girl. Tell me the secret of your marvellous super success.
Hem.
This time I was polite, if frosty. And then, after I'd answered his damn questions, then I was what could be perceived as rude. But not half as rude as I could have been, or wanted to be.
Of course then he mailed back all shocked and appalled. I replied - after the customary moments of regret and a bolstering phone call - to let him know that in fact I hadn't let him have both barrels, just the relatively reasonable and measured one. Gah! if he had any sense of what I've got in the other one, all primed and ready to go, he'd be hiding under his bed with five head of newly-hired bodyguard. So I told him how awfully rude and presumptuous I find it of people - often with full-time jobs, desirous of a sideline, often demonstrating right then and there their inability to do the job in a way that I used to find funny but don't anymore - to ask me how they can make my life a bit harder. Apparently 'our dialogue is over', so I doubt I'll hear back, but the point is to state your case and stand up for yer bad self and not just go and slink under a rock, bulging with more swallowed and suppressed bile like a lizard full of mouse.
Later: he did mail back. Contrite, understanding, decent. I replied hopefully in same vein, and gave him the little advice I'm not even sure I'm qualified to give. I could blub over what a narrow escape that was, how we might both have been unhappy but are now reassured of how fundamentally alright people are. But that would be far too girly. I mean, ugh.
Hope you are well.
I recently emailed you with some questions.
Just wondering if you received my email and will be able to reply soon.
Best wishes,
That bloke who only emailed you five days ago with his four questions about how you became a proofreader and how he could become one himself and ooh maybe even compete with you for the same clients, what larks.
P.S. Have you received this yet? Well? Come on. I want to start making some easy money on the side (I'm a lawyer/teacher/whatever by trade and have a lucrative sideline selling crack to kittens but I feel somehow I'm just NOT GREEDY OR ANNOYING ENOUGH). Come on come on. Prod prod. Poke poke. Cough it up, girl. Tell me the secret of your marvellous super success.
Hem.
This time I was polite, if frosty. And then, after I'd answered his damn questions, then I was what could be perceived as rude. But not half as rude as I could have been, or wanted to be.
Of course then he mailed back all shocked and appalled. I replied - after the customary moments of regret and a bolstering phone call - to let him know that in fact I hadn't let him have both barrels, just the relatively reasonable and measured one. Gah! if he had any sense of what I've got in the other one, all primed and ready to go, he'd be hiding under his bed with five head of newly-hired bodyguard. So I told him how awfully rude and presumptuous I find it of people - often with full-time jobs, desirous of a sideline, often demonstrating right then and there their inability to do the job in a way that I used to find funny but don't anymore - to ask me how they can make my life a bit harder. Apparently 'our dialogue is over', so I doubt I'll hear back, but the point is to state your case and stand up for yer bad self and not just go and slink under a rock, bulging with more swallowed and suppressed bile like a lizard full of mouse.
Later: he did mail back. Contrite, understanding, decent. I replied hopefully in same vein, and gave him the little advice I'm not even sure I'm qualified to give. I could blub over what a narrow escape that was, how we might both have been unhappy but are now reassured of how fundamentally alright people are. But that would be far too girly. I mean, ugh.
