My Favourite Colour

If I had a memory, which I haven’t, but if I had, last night would be indelibly etched upon it. The worst laid plans, somehow coming together into the best evening. Maybe you appreciate things more when until the last moment you think they shan’t happen… But then again, any night that begins with you running out of the office to catch the last possible train to a place you’ve never been, meeting some people, only one of whom you’ve kind of met previously, then driving two hours to another pseudo-country to watch a show, has to be a good night.

It was a good night. You know you’re in Wales when the opening singer’s name is Ffred Jones, spelled just like that. But we won’t hold it against him. Not when he writes such simple and lovely acoustic pop songs. What we will hold against him is his ending every song with ‘Thanks again guys,’ and beginning every song, and I mean every song, with ‘Check it out.’ Said as if he wants really badly to be a laid back surfer. ‘So I have a new website running, you guys should check it out. This is my next song. Check it out.’ Or beat me over the head with a plug wrench. But buy him a new personality and maybe he could go somewhere. Or maybe this is all in my mind. Maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe I just hate redundancy above all things.

Right. Get him off the stage. Sabotage his acoustic guitar if you have to. Make room for the cute, chic New York singer songwriter. Seriously. She was cute. And chic. But the charm ended there. There was less than any engagement with the audience. The majority of talking during her set was done over our heads, pleading with the technicians to fix some element of the setting. Shame too, ‘cause I still have the song ‘Sea Green, See Blue’ stuck in my head. Remind me and I’ll send it to you. It’s that good. If you’re into chill lullabies. Which I am. But despite that, after her set it was more of a missed opportunity than anything and we turned to each other and whispered, ‘a little high maintenance…’ I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt though and say she’s just not a people person. Was even uncomfortable on stage. It’s her misfortune though that combined with her dress style and complaints about the sound and lighting, she came off as more a snob. Shame. Talk to us Jaymay! Down here in the crowd! Talk to the masses! Let us know you care! Right here in front of you! Hello? Jaymay? No… She’s not listening. Oh well, her loss.

It’s ok. There’s a reason she wasn’t headlining. They were. You know. Okkervil River. From Austin! And here we are in Cardiff. Wales! It’s like my people came all this way to find me and take me back home on the wings of any beautiful song. I’m squirming in my seat as I type this. In my mind, I’m gesticulating and nodding enthusiastically as I attempt to describe the brilliance of this show. But instead I prob’ly just look really peculiar sitting here talking to myself and nodding. And not typing anything about the show. I’m grinning at the computer right now, and I don’t quite know why… Point is, they found it last night. Whatever could possibly have been lost, was found. Who are these guys? Never pigeon hole them as an acoustically driven, eclectic, folk rock outfit. This was jump up and down, nearly hit some fan in the face with your guitar, rock music. Well, maybe not jump up and down, except in the more exciting moments, but regardless, I couldn’t stand still. There’s just too much happening onstage at an Okkervil River show. ‘What a lovely song this is, his dark vocals over that driving acoustic guitar, with the keyboard overlaying it, no, wait, the mandolin’s the key here, how it blends with the accordion and takes its cue from the steel pedal guitar, but then, of course, there’s an intricate harmony as the brass section settles in to the xylophone’s melody, hypnotically overriding the bass, while they’re tied together by the… Korg?’ Somehow it all makes sense when they’re playing it. But don’t try and describe it.

‘Cause you can’t.

So Happy Together

I’ve always heard the phrase, ‘Fits like a favourite pair of jeans.’ And by always I mean once or twice before. Or something like that. In referencing something else, maybe. Not important. Anyway, I’d obviously never given it much thought. I mean, yeah, old jeans are great and all, but, come on. Let’s not get carried away. But then tonight, tonight I put on an old pair of jeans. And let me tell you. These jeans fit man. This is one of those meant to be kinda things. Despite putting them on and immediately thrusting my right foot through the gaping hole in the right knee, further gaping it, it was like a reunion. What good times me and these jeans have had! Morocco, Italy, Spain, the Alps… We’ve seen The Guernica together and ridden a camel. Built adobe houses in Mexico and border-raided Tijuana. Hiked the Cote d’Azure and driven to California. Twice. You don’t share those types of bonds with anyone. So why then, you ask, did I abandon these jeans? Why destroy this fruitful relationship so casually? And forsooth, I ask myself the same question. Besides a missing knee, non-existent cuffs, thrice patched legs, and pockets that no longer hold anything, why abandon something so beautiful? And the truth is… I just don’t know.

Answer that question and I’ll buy you the world.

If You Can't Beat 'Em...

Woke up this morning at half 3, to the sound of beautiful acoustic guitar being played on a loop. And I thought, ‘Brilliant. Flatmate’s back late, and this could go on all night.’ So I got up with the express purpose of knocking on his door, and telling him, politely, to ‘Shut the fuck up.’ Not said like that of course. Never so coarse. But instead, somehow, and this is the part of the night that’s blurry, blame it on a sleep-induced haze, but rather than telling him to switch the music off and going back to bed, I was enticed into it. First thing, and this is important, it wasn’t a cd. It was some friend of his playing an acoustic, with another friend accompanying. Both of whom I’d been told before that I had to meet. My kind of people you see. On a musical level.

All or nothing yeah? Yeah. So I got my acoustic and joined in. Picture it, ten minutes after waking up, sick to begin with, coughing fits, and I was sitting in my board shorts and a t-shirt, in my flatmate’s room, drinking whiskey and coke and playing some of my songs to these ungodly talented musicians. Now, four hours later and I’m sitting in my room, at quarter to 8 waiting for my alarm to go off, telling me it’s time to get up for work. Wait for it… wait for it… there it is. Time to wake up. Yawn... Stretch...

Anyone else for a coffee?

Lay Me Down

I don’t know why you wait for me,
When it was all a lie
That is, until we said goodbye.
We were seventeen,
It didn’t mean a thing.
It didn’t mean a thing...

But take my hand,
Would you care for this last dance?
We’ll pretend there was something there.
Is anybody there?
Just a cemetery’s silence,
Your lips moving, but without a sound.

So close your eyes to Yesterday,
As she cries ‘Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go,
Don’t leave me for tomorrow…’

Now lay me down,
I’ll admit, I knew all along
So lay me down,
This is anybody’s song.
Would you believe I wrote it just for you?
And you, and you, and you...

Now the paint's peeling off the walls
And the cracks are growing as I watch them
A candle flickers, still casting your shadow on the wall.
It's not so bad,
Now it's dead and empty.
Empty of light, empty of sound, empty of you.

So close your eyes to Yesterday,
As she cries ‘Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go,
Don’t leave me for tomorrow…’

The Closet Fascist

I had a bit of a power trip moment at work this morning. After months of repression, I was finally given the chance to dictate my terms to faceless members of a project team I have very little to do with or even knowledge about. ‘Send me these documents!’ ‘Confirm these values!’ ‘Resolve this issue!’ and ‘Stop bloody hassling me!’ A very liberating circumstance, the faking of one’s own knowledge and the resolution of challenges through other peoples labours. One could get the hang of this. Who needs an autonomous society? I’m sure we’d all happily be dictator for a day. We all have our repressed, dictatorial leanings. I know I do. (Say that like the guy talking about pyramid schemes in ‘Garden State’: ‘we all have dreams… I know I do) Oh, and by the way, none of this is true.

No, it is true. If I ruled the world, would you want to live in it? I wouldn’t be so bad. Prob’ly just force all the rich people to remove the lining from their pockets and do some good in the world, then have a small elitist revolution on my hands. Ah well, that’d be fine. Down with the Bourgeoisie, up the Workers! Don’t worry, I don’t really believe this.

No, I really do believe this. Is it true democracy’s the worst form of government? Apart from all the others? Why have we had 5000 years and still not figured anything out? Why do civilizations crumble to nothing? And when will ours? It’s alright, these aren’t my questions.

No, they are my questions. I demand explanations. I want a system that works. I want liberty and justice for all; not just those who can afford it. I want egalité, fraternité, and some other French word that calls to mind revolution.

I want to climb down off my soapbox before I give myself a nosebleed.

With a Reddish Tinge

Was driving back from the Cotswold’s this evening, enjoying being chauffeured around in my cousin’s new business expense, a Jag, when we hit the turnback at Fish Hill. Cut to the top, and as we reached the crest I had a quick view out over the vale of Evesham. Looking out as the sun finally broke through the clouds on the horizon, an idyllic panoramic view sweeping away from me into the valley, and there, running perpendicular to us down a hill, with the farm buildings in the background, was a perfectly trimmed, russet-coloured hedgerow, bounding the edges of the fields. And I thought to myself, ‘God, I love the world.’ Then was immediately puzzled as to why I’d have such a strong surge of emotion at so commonplace a vision.

Aditionally, the exclaiming of this to God seemed bizarre, for a couple of reasons. Firstly, because our God is lacking one crucial element that contributes mightily to his ability to hear my exaltations. Namely, his existence. While the second point is rendered moot by the first. But after this sudden roadblock in my thought, I next wondered why I’d suddenly decided to love the world. What does an English hedgerow have to do with anything really? On an immediate, shallow level I decided, well, nothing. So then at this point, I decided to ignore myself and chat with my cousin about Jools Holland, who I know fuck all about, but at least he keeps me entertained. ‘Don’t fall in love with everyone you see,’ sang Okkervil River to me. Sound advice. Amen. And don’t fall in love with the world everytime you see a trimmed russet hedge. Or do.

It’s all the same to me.

In Rainbows

And no, this has nothing to do with the new Radiohead album. I have to confess I've only heard it once. Blasphemous I know. But I'm remedying that as we speak. By listening to it. Again. We'll discuss how long it should take for music to transform from 'inaccessible' to enjoyable another time. More blasphemy! I know. Might as well just call Jesus a carpenter.

Yeah. But no. What I really wanted to say is that I saw the most perfect rainbow I've ever seen this afternoon, right after getting caught in a shower over my lunch break. Strikingly brilliant, and, to top that, there was a second arc outside of the first. Shyah. D'you know that the second ring on a double rainbow is seen with the colours in the opposite order? Discovered that when we came inside to look up how the hell a rainbow forms, and so I immediately rushed back outside, to confirm with my own eyes, only to find the rainbow gone and a dark grey storm cloud in its place. Five minutes. That's all we got.

But oh how beautiful transience can be...

Funny Old Thing, Life

The Inane Textual Meanderings of a Frightfully Ordinary Individual

I resolved earlier to write a book. But it was quickly drawn to my attention that I have nothing to write about. Nothing with which to fill the pages of a book. Rather a conundrum of existence. Only for once it’s not my existence being called in to question. My existence is well grounded in fact. I’m here typing this aren’t I? Yes, would be the answer, for those a little slow off the mark. But is it the right answer? At the time of writing it was, and since literary works are always considered to be in the present, then it maintains its immediacy. But the real moment within which it inhabits is… now. The moment you read it. And I, who was very much caught in the act of typing this, am naturally, now not typing it. And until the moment you can watch a book being written, we’ll be caught in some sort of temporal flux, whereby my present is not your present. Following me on this? Good. We’ll come back to it later.

The point of this, which I am vainly trying to make, is that I feel faced with a dilemma. There is on the one hand my strong urge to write, and on the other, my lack of substance about which to write. So what to write about?

Life? I definitely have one of those, in the broadest sense, despite being constantly told to get one. Which implies a decided lack on my part. And so in those instances, I mentally add the word ‘new’ between the words ‘Get a,’ and ‘life.’ And then I don’t feel so depressed; merely the higher call for change.

The Universe? Is undeniably there. Or what we perceive to be a universe does in fact inhabit the space that we suppose a universe should inhabit. Too vague a topic though. Where to begin? Bang! Yes. That would be the ideal place to start, if you go for that sort of thing. I personally think that when ‘Science’ starts talking about the Big Bang and dark matter and other such incomprehensibles, it borders dangerously on religion and, closer, faith, and, despite more than a few billion people claiming to the contrary, I feel the world would be a better place without either of those concepts.

Everything? Ahhh… we have discovered the rub. There. What grander, more eloquent topic could be landed upon? Except that, in a peculiar, cyclical arrangement, it once more encases the two previously discarded topics. And on those grounds, it really has no legs to stand on. Supposing it had legs to begin with, which requires a representative tax on the imagination, but I’m sure once you come to grips with the phenomena of standing abstract thoughts, you’ll feel remarkably well-adjusted to what was previously described as the universe, and can kick back and have another drink.

And more importantly than anything else, if I am to write a book. Anything else at all really. Or everything else maybe. I must express an incalculable debt of gratitude to Douglas Adams, Bill Watterson, and Eddie Izzard, without whom these would all be my words, and not plagiarized.

Is Anyone Alive?

She wore such a good disguise
Or maybe,
The sun was just in my eyes

So that I saw her face in silhouette
As she turned into the sunset
And she cried,

'Is anyone alive?'

Now summer's dead and gone,
But she still wakes with the dawn

There was a time when the sunrise
Meant it was finally time to close our eyes
And I've only now realized,

You and I aren't alive...

Our Lady

Found myself inside the stunning Notre Dame for the first time last night. Oh I've been there before. I've watched the crowds mingling on the plaza in front, I've seen the pigeons blanketing the square, and I've pretended to be a street artist while sketching the stained glass from the bank of the Seine. But I'd never set foot inside 'til last night. And it was beautiful. Entered in the middle of evening mass and I was overwhelmed by this lady's voice filling the hall as she sang. Piercing right through me and into a soul I thought I'd sold long ago. Then I opened my eyes and the wondrous feeling vanished as I noticed for the first time the four flat screens running along each edge of the nave showing the same service that was happening in front of us, only with a few more dramatic zooms, player stats, and instant replays. And I was mildly sickened.

Even God has sold out to commercialism.

Outer Space Is a Lovely Place

The most astoundingly splendid and good thing about life is the sheer potential of it. What do you want to do tomorrow, or next week, or next year? Nothing? Well that’s all very splendid and good too, it’s just not as exciting as say, climbing the moon or swimming to the top of Everest. Not that those are particularly my goals. I would like to fly to the moon and back, with the flight back being the important bit. Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to tell people what froodishly exciting things I’d been doing. Such as larking on the moon. But in all honesty, not to say that the previous wasn’t honest, but more honestly, I’m going to be the world’s first lunar architect. I’ve got it all figured out. Meaning I’ve thought about it. In passing. And approved of the idea. And then calmly gone back to my habitual avoidance of any career moves that might possibly put me in line for such an astounding future life. Or put me in line for any sort of future life.

I prefer to not have any options, and thus, keep them all open.

The Dodo's Quandary

To exist, or not to exist.

There’s an inherent dichotomy within my inner psyche. Two me’s if you will. The me who could have married a high school sweetheart and never left the hometown and been perfectly content, and the me who terrifies himself with thoughts of settling before having seen the world, and missing out on all the opportunities that life has to offer. Then, and this part is a fiercely guarded secret, there’s a third me. Naturally meaning, and this is the first time I’ve ever admitted it, that there is an inherent trichotomy within my inner psyche. Yeah. Nietzsche your way outta that existential quandary. And the middle of my schizophrenic triplets, the one who always gets picked on by his brothers and has to sit in the backseat on long car trips, is the me that has currently won the situational conflict of my being and is residing in Oxford typing nonsense on this computer. The me who made sure not to linger in the home that he loved, but was too realistic to attempt the unreachable dreams, and so took the middle road. Now don’t mistake him. He simply adores the middle road. I mean, it’s cobblestones, and everybody loves cobblestones. Me included. But it doesn’t stop him missing what he doesn’t have and longing for the greener grass on the other side of both fences. Basically, he’s just a malcontent bastard and the other me’s occasionally want to throw rocks at him. But they’ll get over it, and then we’ll go for drinks and kebabs tomorrow night.

First round’s on me.

Seventh Inning Stretch

So I decided yesterday, for some as yet unjustifiable reason, to conduct a pseudo-socio-hydrogenous what-the-hell-were-you-thinking kind of experiment. Rather than wait ‘til a civilized morning hour to discover what happened in the crucial San Diego Padres/Colorado Rockies playoff baseball game half the world away, I resolved to phone Witt at, oh about 3 in the morning, and instead receive a to the minute report. But then, and here’s the less than clever part of the story, I decided I could wake at quarter to 3, get an initial update, and then phone back later for the conclusion of the match. And in the intervening hour I could write. Yeah. I know. Right now it doesn’t seem the most sublime, or lucid, of all plans. I don't know though. My vision is certifiably 20/20, it’s my hindsight that’s a little blurry…

But, to top off the muppetry of my resolve, to really take the biscuit of my intransigent meandering mind, I awoke at 2:40, pre-alarm, having been dreaming of the score. Strange? I mean, this is just plain obsessed. Sleep deprived too. So now I’m sitting here in a darkened room drinking a coffee, typing, listening to a greatest hits of swing cd that I bought today, being tragically unable to find the soundtrack to 'Across the Universe,' and idly wondering if I’ll even remember this episode of my life in the morning. There are many uncertainties in this life, but there is at least one thing we can all say for certain.

It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that swing.

Is That a Grey Hair?!

Dear God! Get it out! Ahhh!!! No. Wait. Oh... phew. It was just the light.

*sigh of relief*

Don't panic. I'm not old. Just older. Now next year, next year I'll be twenty-five, which of course is a quarter of a century and might be worthy of observance and a small-scale people's revolt. But today. Twenty-four's just this number you know? Habitually noteworthy for being the number of hours in a day, and, inexplicably, the name of some popular TV show. It also, almost magically I might add, is divisible by the numbers one through four inclusive, and six, eight, and twelve, if you try hard enough. Way better than twenty-three, which is divisible by fuck all, seein' as it's a flippin' prime number. Shyah.

Glad to be rid of that drag.

The Last Great Adventure

Let’s go somewhere. Anywhere. Cornwall? Madagascar? Or we could scale both summits of Kilimanjaro, and build a bridge between them. It’s really not important. What is important is that it’s not here. For here, we both know we’re merely treading water. Life’s being put on hold, and for what? We work for the holidays, but even then, there’s always an end in sight. Travel should be limitless. You should go ‘til you can go no more, and whatever golden place you reach, you then call it home for a while. There was a time when this felt like more than a dream. But then reality intervened. Money and time and promises and commitments. I’ll revolt though. All the tangibles that mean fuck-all will be burned, along with all the bridges, and I’ll become the homeless, penniless wanderer. Care to join? You go one way, I’ll go the other, and we’ll meet on the other side of the world, having lived it all. And by the end, you’ll know who you are, and I’ll know who I am, and for that one moment we’ll both be real.

I'm always five pounds short of the loveliest dream.

Hang on a Moment

‘Now just hang on a moment. You don’t detach yourself to increase the common passion.’ So sayeth the new age celestial bastard in the seat behind me on the bus from London as the masterstroke of the argument I’d been avidly not listening to for most of the journey. Between his infuriating platitudes and the strident screech of his domestic disputee filtering through the earpiece of his mobile phone, I couldn’t help myself. But I maintained my isolation. At least until the common passion remark, which was too much and I turned in my seat to tell him to kindly refrain from saying, preferably, anything at all, since his misfounded rationale was only further degrading the entirety of human civilization. Or it’s equally possible, and maybe more, depending on which bookie you usually place your bets with, that I sat in my seat and, since mine was the next stop, said nothing untoward at all.

But I did think it vehemently.

Karma Chameleon

So just write. Sit down and write. It’s what you want to do. It’s when you feel the most free. All the suavity, all the wit, all the wisdom you feel inside can be expressed, instead of remaining pent up as it does in the waking world. The world inhabited by you and others. But here, in this literary existence, the rules are mine. No lack of confidence holding my tongue silent, no over thinking complexities, no mold to fit. So write what you feel. What you wished you’d feel. I’ve realized I’m Kerouac’s ‘Sal Paradise.’ The consummate observer, always willing to go along, but never the instigator. The California summer was the greatest of my life, but it wouldn’t have come about without Ryan. His was the idea, I was just the back up. The companion he needed to go through with it. And I know there’s a level of respect given to me for going through with it. For leaving everything behind with a half-baked idea and, and this is where the respect comes in, making it work. Or maybe that’s not where it comes in. Maybe had we been total failures and come crawling back penniless it would have been the same. Well you tried. Bloody failed but you tried. That wasn’t the case though. We believed that it would all be golden, and it was. Make your own luck? Maybe. Want something bad enough, you make it happen, or simply believed it happened, whether it did or not.

Or maybe this is all wrong. Maybe I just have a low opinion of myself. *Yes* shouted the chorus in the wings. In Morocco I felt the instigator. I was the one hup hupping everyone to make it down for the camel trek. Coordinating, setting it all up. And only part of that was my command of French and the others lack. A lot of it was me seeing what I wanted to do, and urging it to be done. So maybe it’s just in the company we keep… Stand me next to the outspoken and I’m the background character. The accomplice. The follower. But then in another story, I'm the adventurous one. The one seizing and throttling the day. They’re the parts we play. We’re all actors on this great stage. Pick the role you want, when you want, and you’re golden. But more often it’s fitting into the roles that are there waiting for us. Playing the unfilled character. Is everyone like this? Or is this my thing? Do other people have their personality set, whether it’s the forceful, dominant character, or the quiet, meeker one, and they play that role always, no matter the company they keep? Whereas I’m the chameleon. The shape changer.

Watch out, for you never know where I might be hiding.

Buy Me a River

So I very much need the assistance of an economist. Someone who can enlighten me as to the sense behind English business theory. Why, when the typical office working day is from 9-6, do all shops in the town centre only stay open between 9 and 5:30? Small matter, you might say, for one always has an hour lunch break within which to take care of any errands. And so I said to myself today. Lovely weather outside, frightfully unusual as that is, I'll go for a walk and pick up the things I need. Only to then spend fifteen minutes fighting my way through the crowded streets to arrive in front of the store, step up to push my way in, and be pleasantly rebuffed by the door itself. Locked. With a little handwritten note saying 'Back at 2:15.' It's somehow as if these shops are trying to avoid all opportunities for business.

Add this to the phenomenon of '24 hour shops' closing on a Saturday evening, and only reopening for 6 hours on the Sunday, and one has a very laxadaisical approach to business. At least compared to the American version of buy what you want, when you want it. I always did enjoy going into Walmart in the early hours of the morning. Especially in Nacogdoches where all manner of creatures would appear to do their shopping. Here those creatures must do their shopping between 9 and 5:30. What a strange place this is...

Talk about your culture shock.

Paris, je t'aime!

Je coeur Paris. I can't help it. From its triumphant arches down to its cobblestone streets; its Art Nouveau metro stops with their graceful Amelie accordian music; its myriad offerings of cheese and the cheap wine that accompanies them so well. I love it I love it I love it. Even its prickish French inhabitants. Relax, have a cigarette, you're in Paris.

I want to live in Paris, and not least among the reasons is that half the city takes the month of August off work, and the other half content themselves with a mere two weeks away from the office. Forget the Spanish siesta. What's four hours in the afternoon when you can take a month off in the summer? Don't answer that, it's rhetorical, but if you're still wondering, the answer is nothing. So if ya like, come visit me in Paris next year, I'll be there eleven months out of twelve, but come the summertime, it's the Tahitian life for me, and the only architecture I'll be thinking of is grass huts on a beach with a view of the sea.

Care for a frog leg?

Someday You Will Find Me

Had a clear sky for a change last night, and so was able to once again sit out in the backgarden of an evening with a cup of tea and watch the stars do absolutely nothing. Which is typical of bloody stars. Giant nuclear reactors they tell me, cosmic explosions of unimaginable magnitude they claim, and yet all I see is a faint glimmer struggling through the glow of the city lights. Well I don't believe it. Give me a Copernican model any day, with a fixed sphere of stars surrounding us and life'll be a hell of a lot easier. No more incomprehensible distances or times, just our own little self-contained bubble, and to hell with whatever else is in the universe. Strange topic for a rant, yes, but I want life, the universe, and everything to be simple. I want to know why these things happen, and I want to see them happen. And I want to see comets fall and planets collide.

I want a champagne supernova in the sky.

Wheel of Fortune

So I was talking to one of the partner's here in the office about the documents I'm working on this week, and he told me to ask some of the other architect's for help on it. 'Don't waste time reinventing the wheel,' he says to me. And I start thinking about this. It's not like it would be particularly difficult to reinvent the wheel would it? Can't take that much time really. I mean, any old gap-toothed Neanderthal with a cacao bean hangover could do it. You just roll a round rock down a hill. No, no, it was the axle that was the difficult part I'm sure. Some clever bastard must have come up with that one. All those bearings and shafts and whatsits. I was riding on a bus in Morocco once when the axle fell off, so obviously the techniques are still being refined.

I tuned back in to what my boss was saying at this point, just in time to be summarily dismissed from his office having no idea what he'd just told me to do. Which is why I'm sitting here describing the experience, rather than, well, working. See, it all makes sense. Really it does. And it's all alright.

I'm not a slacker, my mind's just flighty.

Spoiling the Soup

I'm a self-conscious chef. I can't help it. It's not that I'm particularly bad at cooking, I might shy away from it and its demands on time, but when I do bother to cook it's usually alright. I can measure things, follow a recipe, turn on the stove, all of those things. But I hate having someone else there. I time my cooking in the flat for when none of my flatmates are home. And I'm not entirely sure why. I think I have a fear of people walking by and critiquing my inexperienced methods. 'Oh, you put the pasta in the water before boiling it? I see...' or 'the onion should be diced only after removing concentric rings at a 37 degree angle in a self-contained room heated to 3 degrees above room temperature, and then soaked in chilled water before dancing over it while waving a pogo stick...' or even 'You don't take the pizza out of the wrapper before baking it? How strange...' Only the first of these has ever happened, in case you wondered, but every moment spent in the kitchen is spent under the fear of such comments. Maybe I just feel inadequate. My years of study have not left me properly equipped for such domestic matters.

Or maybe I just need a bigger chef's hat.

Good Evening Dress

Was invited last night, after punting along the Thames for the evening, to a workmates house dinner. Gathered closely around a candle lit table, eating a curry, and drinking wine from a pitcher with a group of Oxford University students, two of whom have just finished their studies with the highest possible honors and served as presidents of their respective college's student bodies. A little out of my depth? Yes. And so you know, do not get involved in a debate on British foreign policy and its various images during the Thatcher and Blair administrations with a group of well-informed Oxford graduates who quite probably know more about your own government than you yourself do. Other topics of conversation, such as the Jerry Springer opera, however, are absolutely fine. The evening too was made more into of a production on English life due to the presence of my work compatriot, who is the quintessential English gentleman, and, provided one can still buy their way into the Peerage and House of Lords, will one day be Lord Longland. Quintessential is rapidly becoming one of my favourite English words; largely because I only vaguely know what it means. Mister Longland's taste in clothes hearkens back about a hundred years, and he's more than willing to, at the slightest provocation, reveal to anyone at hand his rows of polished shoes and top hats, white ties and coat tails, silver-tipped canes and shoe trees. A small fortune in attire.

His collection of tweed is particularly impressive.

Cabbages and Kings

D'you remember back in high school on the tennis team when 'Cabbages!' supplanted any traditionally used swear word after a missed shot? No, course you don't, you weren't there. Except you. And you. Maybe you remember it. I don't remember though how it began. I think it was a misinterpretation of my yelling 'G'be jeez!,' which was naturally a corruption of the common, 'Good be jeezus!,' itself a follow on from the more sacriligeous by virtue of it's understandability, 'Holy Jesus!,' which itself evolved from the common, if quaint, 'Damn it!' So why do I bring this up? I think I'm getting nostalgic in my old age. Why then, is this a point of nostalgia for me? The short answer is that it's not, 'cause I still use the word 'Cabbages!' as a swear. But nobody gets it anymore.

Oh well, at least I can cut the mustard well enough.

Thus Spake Zara Who?

So I was trying to rationalize the idea of ‘acquired’ taste to myself earlier, persuasively arguing inwardly, you know, left brain v. right brain kinda stuff. And one of me was losing badly. This is what happens when I walk home from work and elect not to read, which has been of late the fad, but instead allow my mind to wander along next to me, stopping occasionally, smelling the roses, and catching up at the next traffic signal. Tangentially speaking, it’s always been the time when I write the most. Walking home. When I was in architecture school, I’m sure I wrote more songs during that 15 minute walk home from studio at 4 in the morning than at any other time. In the early morning hours when no one else was out on the streets and I could walk along singing away without feeling foolish, as I do when I try it now. Maybe it’s the chance for your brain to mull over everything that’s happened during the day, and then cram it back down your throat. A sort of waking dream kind of state. Which, after Texas and California, is the third best state. A state where all inspiration strikes. Where Eureka’s happen. I mean, this is solid gold blogging material I’ve got going on here as a result. Stick a diamond on it, propose, and I’m yours forever. Wait. No. I’ll propose to you. That’ll be less confusing.

The profundity of my argument is rapidly disappearing as I forget what it was. See? I’m not walking anymore. All thought has been lost. But oh man it was killer. Something to do with questioning why people first found it necessary to acquire certain tastes. And please note that this follows on from a pub lunch conversation, which are never the most lucid of conversations. But nobody likes coffee when they first try it, as wonderful as it might smell. Nor beer, wine, or any liquor really. And yet we force ourselves to continue drinking it. Social pressure? Maybe. The desired effects worth the initial outlay? Maybe. We, as a species, are stupid? *nods head sagely, even knowingly, incorporating the wisdom of a thousand ages into his piercing glance, and then walks away* I mean, do animals acquire tastes? And more importantly, do lions really like raw meat? If given a choice, would a pride of lions rather feast on fresh-kill gazelle, or maybe sit down to a candlelit dinner, chicken cordon bleu in front of them and a side salad, with a glass of dry white wine and a cheese tray for afters? This is the point where half of my mind gave up the argument on the grounds of the other half’s incompetence, and began reading a Phillip Pullman novel.

As a side note, meaning its relation to the above is tenuous at best, I’d like to add that while an undeniably great amount of thinking occurs when walking, does anyone else find they do their absolute, positively best thinking in the shower? Yes? Good. I thought so. Me too. Something about that blast of hot water clearing and focusing your thoughts, even as the mist obscures everything around you. I bet that’s the secret of all the great philosophers. They prob’ly spent their lives in the shower, emerging only occasionally to propose some brilliant new thesis and then retiring to their steam filled shower cubicles to further ponder life’s great mysteries. Right down the line, Plato, Aristotle, Nietzsche, Snoopy, you can tell ‘em all by their well-conditioned hair, their clean smiling faces, their pruned fingers and toes. I really must take more showers. Elevate my own level of thinking. Remember, never trust a dirty philosopher.

And no, not that kind of dirty.

Lend Me Your Ears

I have no ambition. And I used to view this as a virtue. Ambition to me was some dark force that sauntered hand in hand with arrogance through the evil places of the world. And I think this view was in part arrived at due to a play I saw in my impressionable youth. A play put on by my sister’s 6th grade class, taught by my dad, in which Caesar was called ambitious by the narrator, prompting a chanted chorus of students yelling, ‘Caesar was ambitious, Caesar was ambitious!’ The implication naturally being that Caesar’s ambition was ultimately the cause for his downfall. And so to avoid all possibilities of a downfall, I erased ambition from my list of desirables.

However, it’s recently come to my attention that maybe ambition is a good thing. Not the sort of ambition whereby you trample lesser beings to reach your goals and the ends justify the means. Not that sort of ambition. Instead a sort of ambition whereby you have goals. Aye. There’s the rub. Else we’re just going through the motions. And who wants that? Everybody wants some higher purpose. Some ‘reason.’ Well fine. I don’t have the goals yet, but I shall have the ambition. No more will I drift from interest to interest, devoting myself to nothing. Now I shall single-mindedly pursue what will soon be my ultimate goal of the total domination of the world. And so be it if one day, on the Senate floor, you surround me all in your togas on the Ides of March, and close in on me. And I’ll look at you, yes you, who were so close to me and whom I loved, and I’ll say, with a tear in my eye…

‘Et tu Brute?’ .

Climb on Two by Two

The doves have been sent out, and we are currently awaiting the return of an olive branch to reassure ourselves that Oxford does still exist, and will one day raise itself from the depths of the River Cherwell and revel in the glory of a bygone era. That era being last Sunday, before the city sank. And when those doves return I shall once again be able to walk across the meadows to work, rather than face the prospect of a morning swim to the office. And maybe, just maybe, the sun will shine once more on these fields of gold and we can stumble off our ark, splash through the last fading puddles in our galoshes, and get back to digging life and all its thrills. And these will be the days we remember. It's summertime, the wind is blowing, and a sunny day is just around the corner.

So let's be sure these days continue.

London Calling

Weekend in the city, here I come. Or there I went. For I made my way up to London Friday. Running away to the bright lights and swingin' vibes of the big city. Made it there in the evening and immediately joined a queue to buy Underground tickets, and then proceeded to wait there laughing and singing The Shins 'Australia' while a large Spanish family deliberated over what they wanted and finally paid an inordinate sum for whatever tickets they needed. Keep in mind, this day was one of those inexplicably wonderful days where the world turns in your honor, and every dark moment is made golden. So then I paid my own inordinate sum for tickets and shoved my way onto the next train. But I didn't take the available seat. No. Instead I had a romantic image in my head of standing there, swaying with the motion and peering over the top of a high-brow novel, Kerouac's 'On the Road,' at the crowds seething and surging around and past me. But I got distracted and started reading instead. And only just in time looked up to see my station. So then I came bounding off the train with some bizarre, unbridalled enthusiasm and a boundless energy and made straight for the middle escalator, the broken one, thinking I could race up it in no time and skip past everyone laughing. And I bundled onto it, negotiating the first half steps, which I'll add are a beyond treacherous mind-game, and then looked up to find myself on the longest escalator in the universe. I've since checked. Why oh why did I forget I was on the lowest level of the Underground? But it was too late and I plunged on, taking the steps two at a time and passing another wayward, struggling fool halfway up. And I tried to look nonchalant and relaxed and maintain that energy, but it was agony, and I stumbled off the apparently moving half-steps at the top with my legs shaking and crawled through the turnstile and out onto the crowded streets.

'Welcome to London,' they said down to me.

Awareness is Divine

So what I was thinking was, what I was thinking, and yes, thinking being the critical word, and thinking just like this, in these very same words, what I was thinking was this. Conscious thought, not thought itself, but conscious thought is directly linked to language. Or it could be. Bear with me here. This has frighteningly little relevance to your life. Now obviously we can think without language. Whenever we’re walking down the street we might see a squirrel in a tree branch, or hear a bird call, or notice a bright red car driving down the sidewalk towards us, and our sub-conscious processes these, sifts through them, and calls to our attention the relevant data. But it’s not until these things are voiced in our mind, i.e. ‘Holy fuck! There’s a bright red car driving straight for me!’ or, if you’re French, ‘Putain de mon dieu! Il y a un voiture rouge qui se conduit directement pour moi!,’ that they become conscious thoughts. And they’re conscious thoughts because we have voiced them, in our minds or out loud. So the thought that coalesced from this, or the question rather, I s’pose it was more of a question, so the question was, ‘is it possible to have conscious thought without language?’ Is that the crucial ingredient to human’s awe-inspiring discovery of ‘self’? The awareness of our own reality, is that a product of divine intervention? Or is it merely the development of intelligence to a level where communication is possible, and then, utilizing those self-same tools of communication, the creation and expression of abstract thought. Is it possible that it’s not merely ‘I think, therefore I am,’ for all animals think, even if it’s only their subconscious telling them they need to eat or sleep and their thought processes instinctively answering those basic needs, but is it really, ‘I can say that I think, therefore I am’? And if that’s the case, does that mean that I’m smarter in English, since my French isn’t that good? Or is it unrelated? Could I abstract this entire argument, or divulgence, or cacophony of nonsense, or whatever it is, into non-linguistic thought, and then express the same sentiments with complete understanding to myself without the reliance on a single word? Or is it necessary, as in Wheel of Fortune, to talk it out?

And really, I mean deep down honestly, we’re talking pure as a lamb soul-bared truth, is it really necessary to ask so many bloody questions?

You Make Me Blush

I fear I haven’t been living life to the fullest recently. Too many days have passed unseized. So I’ve decided to rectify that situation and, with the aid of a new credit card which gives me near limitless spending capacity of money I don’t have… buy the world. Started yesterday with chicken, pasta, a rose wine and a cucumber, but tomorrow I might just buy the grocery store. And they say that money can’t buy you happiness. That the best things in life are free. That money is the root of all that kills. Or maybe that one was just Everclear’s feeble attempt at poetry hidden within the verse of a high school anthem. Art Alexakis might well have been the worst lyricist ever, and calling it poetry was beyond a stretch of the term. I mean, after Santa Monica it was just a downhill slide. What? What the hell are you talking about Davey? It’s a left at the next street, then second crossroads hang a right, and, wait, oh for fuck's sake. Just take me back to the start.

The topic was carpe diem’s and all their accessories. So what does my buying groceries have to do with seizing the day? Absolutely nothing, but dinner was wonderful last night. And as the sun disappeared over the horizon it lit up the cloud line; a last defiant blood red dripping across the sky. I was suitably awestruck and pretended that I couldn’t see the construction cranes over the treetops, or the row houses running along the field, and pictured myself watching the end of the world from a fencepost in the middle of nowhere. And we toasted each other, me and the sky, and drank our wine in a companionable silence.

And it’s possible, just barely possible, that it went straight to my head.

The Fabric of Our Lives

So I’ve discovered an obvious wormhole into a separate dimension. There’s a fundamental tear in the space-time continuum, and it’s already claimed my favorite belt and, more worryingly, my house keys. Somehow, and I remain wholly confounded as to how, both items have disappeared within the confines of my room. And I must say that, while it’s not a particularly small room, it is rather a sparsely furnished room on account of my having begun a new life half the world away with two suitcases and a backpack. Not enough clutter for their disappearance to simply be explained by a lack of organizational skills. No. This hints at something much darker. Something sinister. Douglas Adams once told me that there’s an entire planet inhabited by missing fountain pens that have quite simply fucked off to the stars. Apologies for the profanity there, entirely my own and not the good Mr. Adams’. But the point remains that my leather belt is now sunning himself with an iced mojito on some beach resort island three galaxies down the road and my jeans are falling down, all on account of an accidental wormhole located on 39 Ferry Road, Oxford, OX3 0EU. Happily though, the other dimension for my keys was just down the stairs and around the corner and I have since reclaimed them. Ever notice I use the word happily a lot as a conjunction? I like to think it says something positive about my inner psyche. I also use the phrases ‘ever notice?’ and ‘I like to think’ to the point of excess. Everything in moderation said the wise man, and then slowly drank himself to death. But the truth is I’m just frightfully unoriginal. Happily though, yes, happily, about half the time I’m plagiarizing myself, which in this legal world that’s insidiously destroying us, is considered relatively kosher. And the other half of the time I’m simply plagiarizing people you don’t know. Leaving about twenty percent for poor mathematics skills and obvious pirating of well-known material. The truth is out there, just not here. This is changing the subject, but have you ever been reading something, and someone says something completely loony without even realizing it? What do you do? Do you let it slide?

I say just punch him then and there.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Tonight was one of those sublime nights, a night where you sit there as the sun goes down over the meadows and the only word that you can summon between reluctant lips is ‘Wow,’ only you’ve burned your tongue on a freshly poured cup of tea and so you simply sit there in stunned silence and contemplate what a majestic universe it is, even though you’re only familiar with one planet sized portion of it, and ascertain that if the rest has even a fraction of the beauty inherent within the world that you yourself know, well then you should at least conclude this sentence. And then you wonder why you came inside to write this all down, instead of remaining to watch the sun sink into the rolling storm clouds and exhaust itself with the coming of night. And you decide that the answer, beyond the superficial coldness of my being, is that now a moment has been captured forever. Picture postcard for the world to remember. Weather’s lovely, wish you were here, and damn it, don’t blink.

You’ll miss it.

Through the Looking Glass

She closed her eyes
And said 'I'll tell you,
What I see on the other side.
What I see, on the other side...'

'It's too late to live forever'
She whispered to me
While we were sleeping with the enemy
'It's too late to live forever'
She whispered softly through the night

She closed her eyes
And took three steps back
Said 'From here, I could see the whole world.
But I fear, to be a part of that world.'

So I let her cry on my shoulder
For I'm the only one who knows her
I'm the only one who knows...

She closed her eyes
And waited,
For the sky to burn.
You live, you learn...

Here Comes the Sun

Dreary English rain, for the last week solid. And who knows before that, for before that I was in Morocco. And, because life’s like that, I was there wishing for rain. Well here you are, your dreams have come true and now you’re desperate for a bit of sunshine. We always want what we can’t have, and then, when we get it, it’s never enough… Contentment is the secret to happiness in life, but then, the moment you’re content you’re complacent and the beauty in life is replaced by… by what? By the commonplace? But then if you’re content with the commonplace, it becomes the beautiful. Right? So what am I trying to say? That I’m not content? But I am. For now. It’s just I know that somewhere along the line this won’t be enough. And who knows if anything will ever be enough? Maybe we just drift forever, hoping to reach that place where we say ‘Here, here life is good.’ And then we drink to the health of the world. And maybe I’ll find that. Maybe here in Oxford on the banks of the river, or in a chalet in the French Alps, or somewhere, anywhere, on the ocean. Some place where the cold, refreshing water crashes over you in waves, and the wind whips the salt spray in your face… For that’s always been my heaven. Wherever it is. Cali, Cornwall, Hawaii, Morocco… or the South Pacific, when I finally make it there and marry my Tahitian princess. And maybe then I’ll be truly content, for I’ll live no longer in this world, but in my dreams. Shyah. Like they’re always telling me: ‘In your dreams Davey, in your dreams.’

It’s stopped raining.

For in That Sleep of Death

So I just woke from a dream. And a frightening dream at that. I dreamt I was a soldier fighting in World War One. And don’t ask me to explain any anomalies of time that might crop up. But I fought in one battle, just one, three weeks after having been recruited. And, mercifully, the battle wasn’t part of the dream, but the before and after were. And the strongest thing within this dream was the fear. The fear of the first battle, from which I and my faceless friend were among the 3 percent who made it. But more than that, the desperate fear that I would have to go back, for after the battle we made our way to a youth hostel in Morocco where we were waiting for our next assignment. Don’t know where this dream came from, but I have always wondered how those men did it. How did they conquer that fear? Although I s’pose in my dream I conquered it, even as we were building our own coffins before the battle. But in reality, I have nothing with which to relate it. The closest I can come maybe, and it’s not very close at all, is playing rugby. Where before it starts you might have butterflies, but as soon as it kicks off you forget everything, and you do whatever the hell you need to so as not to let down the other fourteen. But the greatest fear there is the fear of injury; not of death. Our generation is blessedly lucky to not have an experience like that. For it’s the age we are now that would feel it most strongly. But anyway, in my dream I sat around for days waiting, and began to wonder if Army Headquarters had the wrong phone number for the hostel. And so like anyone would do, I began a project; one which my high school soccer team, bunch of pricks that they happened to be, were rather disapproving of. But then, they didn’t understand it.

I invented electricity.

Paint Me a Wish on a Velvet Sky

One day, you'll look, to see I've gone. But tomorrow may rain, so I'll follow the sun. Follow it all the way out the Marston Ferry Road and down a dirt path beside the river to the Victoria Arms for a drink on the lawn overlooking the Cherwell. And I could have sworn I'd never left Oxford. My final night here last year was spent with Dave, from the office, drinking shandies on the lawn and watching a troop of Morris Men dancing on the terrace behind us. And so it was again. Same company, same view, same view, and same cultural oddity on the pub lawn. Morris Men, to the unenlightened, are some bizarre cross of middle-aged men and fairies, dressed all in white with bells tied to their legs and prancing around waving handkerchiefs. Very peculiar custom. The accordian ensemble was jolly good though. And so it's back to Oxford, the city that hasn't changed in a thousand years. Except the neighboring children are a little bit taller, and a little more freckled, and the windows on the flat are a bit easier to open. The little things that make us so happy right?

All I wanna do is live by the sea.

Hey Fish and Chips!

Welcome to Marrakesch. You'll find here the best escargots, the finest orange juices, the most wondeful spices in all of the world. Take no notice of Mustafa's cart right next to mine, selling the exact same things. I give you bargain price. He say 3 dirhams? I give you 2. He say 2? I give you one. One dirham. You buy three, I make four a gift for you. Here take. No good for me. You take. Gratuit. Free. This is Morocco. I am your friend. No? Still no good? I undercut Mustafa not enough? Gift not enough? I make you best offer. You stay here. Watch cart, serve snails. I go home get money for pay you. I pay one dirham each, you take my gift. Best offer yet. But only for you. Only for my friend.

Only for this is Morocco.

Yay Catholicism

Says the American tourist with a fine sense of irony. Footnote to a more involved conversation that meant nothing. So why mention it? Because it happened. And I forget my life, even in the moment that it passes me by. So what else happened? Close your eyes, take a breath, remember this moment orever. And remember the next moment, the one that'll take all of the hopes we have now, and either dash them to the floor, or give us glory forever. And thent ry to remember the subject you began with. The remembrance of my life. So I said the other night, 'I don't know why I'm here, for in a week's time I'll have forgotten it all.' Which is partially true. I'll remember the general story, but not the details, and then have simply a sketchbook and some photos I didn't want to take to remind me. So if life really about the stories you can tell? Or is it more the summary of everything you've ever done that makes you 'you'?

And why do I care so much?

These Pants Have a Story...

You're not really saving money when a sale entices you to buy something you wouldn't ordinarily. But there's still a sense of accomplishment felt after 'beating' the system. And it's an even more acute sense of satisfaction when the sale is created through the fine art of haggling. It seems such a criminal thing, the inflation of a price to catch the unwary. but when you're savvy, it becomes more of a game. '420 dirhams, I make you a bargain.' 'Non, non monsieur. C'est trop cher. Seulement 100.' And you stand your ground. 350. 300. 250. 'Make me a serious offer. Not this 100. More.' 'Bien, 120. Mais pas plus.' '200/ Is very fine quality.' 'Mais je veux moins qualité, et moins cher.' And here he turns to his boss and speaks in Arabic. But here's where the tables turn, for I understand the numbers, and hear him say '150.' And now I've got him on the run. Two more outright refusals, and then my guide jumps in, and agrees on 120 as a compromise between 100 and 150. And the merchant leaps out of his seat in anger. So of course, at that moment, I had to buy them. Did I win the game? 420 dirhams to 120. I'll say yes. Did I really want those black pants?

I'll get back to you on that.

Just a Flower

Funny the human propensity for one person to ruin something for everyone. It happens all the time. In the schoolyard and one child complains of getting hurt, so ruining the greatest game every played for the rest. Or when someone sues for a minor complaint and destroys the freedoms previously enjoyed by others. Or as here, in Fez, where a swarm of false guides descend on you as you enter the old city demanding you to 'let' them help you. And they persist. Following you up and down alleyways despite your constant rebukes of their attentions. But the worst part of it, the worst part is the mistrust it gives you of everyone else. Being friendly or even asking directions suddenly seem unwise, for you might be asked for something in return, and threatened when you refuse. We can never simply believe in the inherent good of people, for there's always a catch. But then, and this is what makes the world worth living in, then as you're walking down the street with two friends you've just met, a girl stops one of them, hands her a flower, smiles and walks on. No look back, no suggestion of a tip. And so you walk on, talking about good karma, and random acts of kindness, and good things in the world.

And it's a beatiful moment.

Somebody Save Me

Letters from the Front- 1

Back, despite a lack of popular demand. But this time, I have promised contact details for my new life in Oxford to impart amidst ramblings on the state of the universe. So to those I said goodbye to recently, hello again, and to the rest, idle pleasantries were always overrated anyway. Now let me find that address…

Oh, by the by. I have seen the light! And the light is good. Except a bit difficult on the eyes when you love her but have chosen darkness. So I got lambasted by Christian missionaries on my trans-Atlantic hopscotch. Met Jenny, lovely gal, on the first leg of the trip, Houston to Detroit, and she's on her way to Zambia where she works at a mission. Fair play, I like it, save the world. Although maybe less about God, more about food and healthcare, but, to each his own. And this was all fine. Very nice girl, very passionate about her work, we'll call it dice. But then, as the plane fills up for the second leg of the journey, the one involving London, this giant of a man appears next to me where I sit quietly in the middle of the plane in, quite possibly, the worst conceivable seat. No view, no aisle, and the only windows I could see to get a glimpse of the outside were strategically placed over what I like to call the wing. But back to the story. This football-playing behemoth (it was confirmed later) appears next to me and introduces himself as Reegis, only with a hard 'g,' not like the Reegis of Kathy Lee notoriety (not you Kathy Lee, the other one, the notorious one). And it's but the work of a moment to discover he is bound for deepest darkest Siberia on his own missionary trip. Coincidence? They think not. Try to imagine the delight these two fine specimens of humanity experienced when they had, in their words, cornered me, a devout non-believer. I'm sure if you're imagining it right you'll currently be experiencing raptures of euphoria. Tread carefully Davey. Tread… carefully. Ha. Yeah right. That didn't last long. First thing I blurted when this devout fellow next to me says he's from Shreveport: 'Oh yeah? I've been to the boats down there.' Woops. Faux-pas number one. And that was before my dislike of organized religion had surfaced. But it's all kosher. We're friends now. And worry not dear people, for they're both praying for me now.

For some unfathomable reason, that was the story I felt worthy of retelling of my first week here. Sheesh. Who can fathom? That's right. No one. So I'm off to Morocco next week, and it's gonna be brilliant. And don't worry, I'll spit at a camel just for you. More later from the land of the setting sun…

Ahh, found it. My address, for the duration of ever, or until the early termination of my employment, is:

39 Ferry Road
Oxford
OX3 0EU
England

The last bit's the important bit. Just get it that far, it's a small island, they'll find me.

Miss everyone, but just a little bit, and I'm ignoring it. And if you miss me, which at least one of you should, else you're all bloody liars, well don't worry. It's a small world after all. Just count to flip, then say flop, and I'll be there in five shakes of a left-handed pogo stick. Or I'll send you an email. What? Am I drunk? Of course I'm drunk. This is England. (It's kind of their thing)

Hugs all 'round, and kisses for the ladies.


Love you too,
Davey

Where's My Fairy Godmother?

It was beautiful this morning. Starting the day with a run around Town Lake and a swim in Barton Springs, with the sun just risen and painting the clouds behind the downtown skyline. And then a coffee house on a cloudy morning. These are the things I’ll miss. I love this city. But it’s a trade innit? I’ll give up Tex-Mex for fish and chips, Dr. Pepper for real Guinness, Barton Springs for the River Cherwell, Oxford for Austin. And then all I’ll really miss are the people, these beautiful people I know and love. So why do it? Why ever leave? And the answer is I don’t know. But I want to find out. I want to see what else is out there. And I’ve done it before. The only difference is that this time there’s no time limit on it. ‘Yeah, I’m going to Cali, but it’s just for the summer.’ Or the next year it was just for half a summer. And the next year it was England, but only for six months, or Europe for four weeks. And I feel I’ve spent almost as much time not here as here, only I’ve always come back. And I will come back, I just don’t know when or for how long. The last time I made a move like this I was not quite three years old and I was leaving the Kalahari Desert of southern Africa for some place called America. And all I know of that move is that the night before we left I walked through the village hand in hand with Mum singing ‘Little Bunny Foo Foo’ in a high-pitched, quavering falsetto voice, and the next day, when our plane landed I breathed a huge sigh of relief and announced to all the passengers, ‘phew… us made it!’ But I might be mixing my childhood stories here…

The point is, there were no difficult goodbyes that time. Laissez-faire, and take what life gives you. Maybe I’m over thinking this. It’s not goodbye for ever. I’ll be back, or you can come see me, and everyone’ll be happy. Right? Sure. Smile and tell me that’s exactly how it’ll work.

I’ll believe you.

A Bustle in Your Hedgerow

Don’t be alarmed now. Ten to one it’s just a spring clean for the May queen. Wash away the dross from a dreary April and we’ll start fresh. That’s a bit unfair though. I’ve always been partial to April. I mean, it’s the month of rain, and I’ve always secretly thought I was a rain god. Secretly no longer… Although I s’pose if I were a rain god, note the use of the subjunctive there, a tense I never knew existed ‘til I studied French for five years, if I were a rain god then I could have prevented it from raining seven of the last eight Tuesdays. Have you noticed that? ‘Course you haven’t. Why would you? Unless I’d been whingeing about it to you constantly. But it’s true. And the reason it so concerns me, for it does, is that the pickup roller hockey game played every Tuesday night here in Austin is cancelled whenever there’s rain. And when one so looks forward to playing in this hockey game, as I so do, it becomes one of the most evil examples of Karmactic justice in the universe. Although I don’t know what the bad Karma’s from, so I can’t do anything about it. I’ve tried helping old ladies across the street and rescuing kittens from the tops of trees, but all has failed.

I must have been a real son of a bitch in a past life…

Pop Culture Blows

He said it best. Standing next to me in the crowd, long red hair and matching beard flowing, joint held nonchalantly in his right hand as an aid to his gesticulations, and he says to me, 'all these songs are about getting kicked in the face by love. You and me, we know about that, but none of these fuckers do,' and he gazed around the crowd at the sea of teeny boppers, faces upturned, seeking out the MTV cameras and their chance at fame. And therein was the inherent flaw with the Campus Invasion tour. It was a rock show put on for the sake of the cameras; not for the sake of those of us there for the music. An MC attempting to entertain the crowd between sets and asking for them to pretend to crowd surf so he could 'pad' some camera shots? Welcome to the contrivances of reality. Our world is staged and the best moments, the real ones, go unnoticed.

But despite that, despite the inherent lameness of the whole affair, The Shins still impress. And I say that having been given the distinct impression that they were less than into the show and were thankful that their touring schedule finished that night. Maybe the music's just so good they don't have to be seen to be enjoyed. Or maybe it was because this time I managed to reach the front of the crowd, having watched the last show from the rear. Whatever the reason, I'll jump along happily to 'Know Your Onion' for as long as they choose to play it. But after that, after that is where it all went sour. An ovation like only Austin can give, with sustained chanting for an encore, and instead we get a return of the MC, who tells us, 'the Shins won't be coming back on. I'm going to give you some free CD's, and then you're all going to leave quietly.' Condescending little prick. And I felt an overwhelming sense of shame as my fellows in the crowd who, a moment before had been chanting along with me for the return of The Shins, gave in to the allure of free CD’s and began jumping up and down screaming with joy at the possibility of catching one. And all thought of disappointment at the lack of an encore disappeared. They had been bought, and it sickened me. I will admit that I did leap once in an attempt to catch one. Luckily though it was out of reach. I say luckily because my intention had been to throw it right back at the MC, and he might not have approved of that.

There’s a bitter taste in my mouth that has nothing to do with The Shins. Ah well. There are more important things to think of. Like which brand of coffee to make. And what’s this morning’s paper got to say?

Fuck MTV.

My Favorite Answer

Those bastards. Those selfish, reprehensible bastards. Five years I’d awaited an opportunity to catch an Okkervil River show, and then a further three months have passed since that concert was originally scheduled, and then, after all that postponement and agonizing over what to wear to the show, when I finally saw them they neglected to play ‘Red.’ That’s right. The song responsible for my favorite color, season, and answer, as well as an irrefutable source of inspiration in my life, still remains just outside my reach to see played live. Oh those heartless bastards. And, to make it all worse, they just had to dazzle with one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. Standing on their own, Okkervil River produced a quite captivating spectacle. Standing in front of a ten piece orchestra and a complementing horn section and our collective breath vanished, just like that, stolen away. Folk rocked the casbah, would be the clichéd way to phrase it, instead I’ll just say they brought the house down. Standing ovation from a near capacity theatre crowd, and in response they gave us a worthy encore. Except of course for the tragic omission of ‘Red.’ And no, I’m not one of those hideously faux fans who attend concerts knowing only one song and scream out for the band to play it the entire evening. It’s just this one song has such a hold on me. I mean, this is Top 5 all time favorites kinda love. Right up there with ‘Hey Jude.’ It’s that level of greatness. Trust me.

And now my familiar digression into tangents has occurred. The point of this was to praise the wholesome goodness of Okkervil River. So consider it praised. I heard that some guy drove 19 hours from California to catch the show. Fanatical, perhaps, but wait a minute. Come with me here, for I love this part. I’m going to ask myself a question, and, this time, this time, I know exactly what my response is gonna be. Ready? Now... would it have been worth it?

Yes.

A Boy with a Golden Touch

So apparently today, according to a source that has been certified as unquestionably accurate, today I have a healing touch. Yes. That's right. My horoscope on this fine day proves me capable of finding water in the desert and almost turning lead into gold. And that's only the beginning, for I'm apparently coursing with so much life energy and regenerative power I could prob'ly bring back Napoleon, should I be so inclined to try. Can you see me now? Look towards Austin, and that glow in the sky... that's me. Radiating with goodness. I should have more days like this. It's very restorative to know that within your fingertips is the power to create worlds and life. It's a shame I didn't realize this until 7:30 in the evening. I've more than likely missed out on a few chances to do righteously cool and froody things throughout the day. But no matter. I'll go ahead now and start accepting applications for healing. You just let me know. One touch, that's all it'll take.

Or so they tell me.

Like An Elephant

So I just read, in a book, that memory loss is an absolutely crucial part of our brain’s activities. Pause for a huge sigh of relief. The point was made, and bizarrely, it parallels a conversation I had last week that I won’t bother to elaborate on, that at any one given moment our senses are privy to an absolute barrage of information: a constant flickering of images granted us through sight, coupled with the sounds of the world around, maybe The Shins new album playing in the background, the perceptions of taste, touch, and smell we so desire, and even, beyond all that, the constant workings of our sub-conscious, exerting its own pull on our attention. And so, the author argues, the brain has developed a complex system to allow for the filtering and eradicating of the majority of this information. Good eh? And no, it’s not of any importance that the author was writing about the effects of marijuana. In fact, I don’t even know why I bring that up. The point is that the memory loss I so particularly worry about, the everyday memory loss that we all experience to some degree or another, is a natural function, and more than that, a necessary function. So what if I do have a frighteningly awful memory and don't recall what we talked about yesterday? It's not a sign of my decreasing mental capacity. No. Far from it. I like to think of it more as a symbol of my own outstanding intellect. Bet you wish you could say the same...

I’m probably smarter than you.

When It Struck Me

So I’ll begin by setting the scene. Picture me desperately tired and sweaty, having just finished playing roller hockey for two hours. But I am also at this time blessed by the curative powers of a Route 44 Ocean Water, a drink commonly known in Ancient Greece as ‘ambrosia.’ So there I was, in the parking lot of a gas station, having stopped in to fill up on petrol. And as I swipe my card and undo the gas cap, a fellow walks up with a red petrol container and asks if I can give him just a bit of gas. Please stop and take a moment here to note the clever alternating of the terms ‘petrol’ and ‘gas,’ done so as to avoid redundancy. Or a couple of bucks for it he says, seein’ as his truck just ran out. So me, being a veritable saint, comply. I figure a gallon of petrol is fine. It’s not like giving a homeless person money and watching them turn around and buy a crack rock with it. And, actions justified, our friend actually takes the newly acquired gas and pours it into his truck, parked just around the corner. All’s well with the world.

Fast forward to the end of the scene. Having finished filling up, I run inside the store to collect my receipt. And who should hold the door for me as I enter? None other than our friend of red petrol container fame, a coffee held in each hand. So naturally, feeling hoodwinked, I ask him if I can borrow a couple bucks to buy a cup of coffee, and then I roundhouse kick him in the face. It’s a shame the candy aisle got destroyed by my nunchuks, as I really could have used some Sour Punch Straws. But I did at least claim one of the abandoned coffees of my friend before I left the scene. And as I drove away, it was all worth it.

Coffee never tasted so sweet.

I Love the Java

Core temperature restored. An hour out of the water and my shivers have finally subsided. Only to be happily replaced by caffeine induced jitters. Have I ever mentioned I love coffee houses? And I'm pretty sure they love me too. There's definitely some chemistry there. And as if to emphasize the point, my favourite, yes, favourite with a 'u', Flaming Lips song is playing in the background. 'I don't know where the sunbeams end and the starlight begins. It's all a mystery...' My favorite Flaming Lips song without the 'u' is about a girl named Yoshimi. Battling Pink Robots. And yes, there'll be a quiz later. Apologies. My mind's running laps around the block. Blame it on the bottomless coffee I ordered, which I will say is an evil, evil thing, but oh how I adore it. Morning blog posts should be outlawed on account of being senseless drivel. But until that day comes, the world is my oyster and I'm desperate for a fourth cup of coffee.

Now I'm, now I'm sh-sh-shakin'...

Renaissance Men Don't Surf

So I'm set. I'll leave the 'bags are packed' lyrics for a later post, but I at least now have a little thing I like to call a plane ticket. Allowing for one David Wilson to hop-scotch his way over the Atlantic to London. But wait, it gets better. For I... have two plane tickets. The second allowing the aforementioned David Wilson to fandango himself from London to Fez. Three weeks in Morocco as a last fling with freedom. Surfing in Rabat and racing camels across the Sahara, maybe an epic night out on the desert with an oasis crawl or two. And then it's back to England and the crushing realities of the Real World Oxford. Ah, and if you're interested in coming to see me, which you should be, for I am the light in your dreary life, well then Google Maps kindly supply driving directions:

http://maps.google.com/

Go there and search 'Austin, TX to Oxford, England.' Seriously. Do it, like, right now. It'll save time later.

I think you'll find that Step #28 is the crucial one.

Can I Ask a Favor?

Umm... excuse me, God? I'd like my childhood back. Not all of it, of course. Like I don't want to relive throwing gumballs at cars after school and hitting an ambulance. Nor breaking my arm, or my wrist, or my other wrist. And I'm not so keen on that time I... ahem. Anyway. I don't want those things back. What I want back is my fledgling sporting career. For I missed out on playing the one sport I'm certain I would be a, forgive the comparison, god at. Baseball was never it for me. I retired before joining the league with real pitchers, for I was awfully darn small, and those bruises from bad pitches looked awfully darn big. And soccer, well I loved it, but I was never superstar caliber. Nor bowling, football, swimming, tennis, croquet... No. Maybe ping pong though... But now, had dear old Nacogdoches had an ice hockey team, well, my name would be in lights. Little ones, on the back of the sporting page, that nobody reads. But still, lights. I feel I missed my true calling, simply by some slight happenstance of geography that placed me in a state where ice is a rare commodity. So that's all I need back. Got it? Just rewind, put me on skates from the age of 3, and I'll take care of the rest. Yes? Hello? I'm serious about this ya know. Completely serious. Hello? Little help here...

Are you even listening?

Heil, Casbah!

So I had rather a surreal last couple of days. Not the days themselves so much, but certain moments contained within them. Besides having locked my keys in my car for two hours this afternoon, while it was running, and witnessing a car wreck by campus, later finding out one of my friends had been involved, and almost getting hit by a cop car as I jaywalked across Guadalupe, I also got coffee nazi'd by the tea guru at the Casbah, night before last. Now, keep in mind this is a coffee house. One which I frequent rather, well, frequently. Only when I ducked in there about midnight on a Thursday and ordered the traditional house coffee, I was told by some bald-headed HJ that it's a hookah lounge. They don't serve coffee there. Cue my eyes to the menu above his head, where the first item on the list is, coffee: small, medium, or large. 'Course being me, I was quite taken aback and ended up leaving, thinking of any number of cuttingly witty barbs only after I was several blocks down the street, en route to watching a car wreck. Oh, and don't worry, my friend was ok.

No coffee for you!

These Clouds We’re Seein’

Care to talk of days gone by, and the nights we remember forever? Even if it’s safer to gloss over the beginnings, for some nights are better to forget. Follow? What I mean to say, is that some shows have a good and a bad, and, provided the bad comes before the good, we still love them for it. And so we welcome Eluvium to the stage, and he gifts us a beautifully wrapped package of delicate guitar on a loop, before victimizing his guitar in a shocking display of instrumental abuse. Halfway through the song I began to feel as if a thousand Cockney louts were taking it in turns to kick me in the skull, shouting ‘Give us two quid what for a bot’le o’ Boddingtons you bloody Yankee sod!’ To which I could only writhe on the ground in agony and scream in reply, ‘A Major7 cannot follow a minor 5th chord progression!’ But they wouldn’t listen. Savages.

But, and I freely admit this, it was a very necessary sort of savagery, for it delivered us, whimpering and frayed, into the loving arms of the headliners, who led us gently by the hand into a garden of sound and put us to bed under the privet hedge. Literally put us to bed, or at least my neighbor in the audience, who drifted in and out of consciousness. But one got the feeling that that was the point. That consciousness and focus didn’t really matter, as long as one was there. Who needs the earth to keep spinning beneath their feet? Not when this world of sound is revealed to them in a greater glory. And I’ll say that my mind was anywhere but here, or there rather, but still every time I floated gently back to awareness it was in that, oh so sought after state, of bliss. And please let me add, lyrics are overrated. I saw visions of Moroccan sunsets and Italian coastline, and I didn’t need a singer to describe them to me. In fact, I’d rather he didn’t. I’d rather just be given the soundtrack to my life, and I’ll include the details. And they gave that to me. So for that, I’ll say they’re not bad. They’re even good. Maybe, maybe they’re wonderful.

They’re Explosions in the Sky.

I Have a Giftcard

I’m obsessed by this Starbuck’s phenomenon. What cultural miscue has made this such a place of desire? Why are we as a society so drawn to commercialism and familiarity? Is that it? Is it just familiarity? Fast food chains and the like used to boast the added benefit of being cheap, as well as familiar and comfortable, but Starbuck’s differentiates itself from that mold. Cheapness has never been one of its virtues. It’s taken the opposite route, and yet still inspired such… devotion?, from its customers. Maybe there’s something in the coffee. Something that blinds us to all else. That erases doubt and fear and suspicion, and inspires loyalty and blind devotion. But if real coffee houses go under and are put to flight, leaving only this corporate icon, well then I’ll… I’ll… I'll be a very, very sad individual. Yes. That’s it.

That’s exactly what I’ll be.

Psychology of a Pretzel

When I was little I couldn’t tell someone if I wanted ice cream for dessert or not. And that hasn’t changed. Except that then I didn’t want the ice cream, but didn’t want to hurt anyone by refusing it; whereas now, I simply don’t know. And I think that’s the only way in which my life has gotten simpler in the past twenty years. Heavens but I wish for the simple life. But being given that, I know I’d wake up the next day longing for the adventurous life. You know what I fear? That I'll spend a lifetime somewhere, open my eyes, and wonder where it all went.

Tell me ‘why can’t it be true?’ ‘Because truth doesn’t exist,’ said the man who knew the world. Who sure as hell isn’t me. I don’t even know what I want. And that should be all we have in life. Our own dreams. And yet mine are a confused mixture of what I want, what I think I want, what I want to want, and what others want.

Somehow I feel all twisted up inside.

Barack and Roll

I had heard stories of the fervor in people’s eyes. Of a messianic aura surrounding him. But I didn’t see that fervor. Perhaps it was reserved for the devout closely entwined together at the front of the crowd, but I felt somehow excluded from that great spiritual revival. I wanted him to take me in the palm of his hand and talk directly to me. Maybe I wanted a savior. And he is good. But he’s not that good.

It’s a shame too the theatrics involved. An introductory ‘steps’ dance that added a touch of the bizarre, a long-winded testimonial from the introductory speaker that lent an element of the surreal, and, as the final build up to his appearance, a pep rally anthem blaring from the speakers, which, with each ‘Hey!’ shouted by the crowd, dusted the air more and more comical. I was there for his words. For my chance to witness the Second Coming. Not for some farcical, pandemic festival. But I will say that when he was finally allowed to speak, just to talk to us, he had the ability to win us back over. To disarm us. To unite us? Eh, let’s not get carried away. I s’pose the point of these things is to see the person. To see if you believe them. And I do. But I will confess that what I feel to be fake, what comes off to me as the wrong approach, is the constant allusion to race. The rally staged by both the University Democrats and an association for African-American students. The, forgive me, ludicrous war dance of a black fraternity to start the proceedings. And Obama’s own chronology of American history, summing up the struggle of the black American. It might just be me, and I could be wrong on this, but if America is truly ready for a black man to be the president, and I desperately hope that we are, then shouldn’t that, at the same time, mean that race is not the issue? That as a nation we can now see past race, or better yet, not see it at all. But maybe we’re not there yet. Maybe I’m just naïve.

Ah well. Who am I to be the judge of such things? It was a rally, we rallied, and he’s moving on. Has the world changed? Not yet. Not mine anyway.

But it’s oh so pretty to think it might.

Trying to Catch the Deluge

I like airports. I like waiting in airports, I like meeting people in airports, I like joining three related thoughts to form a profound argument about my personal feelings. But I’ve heard that one should be careful about always using the rule of three. Becomes redundant, or maybe just tiresome. You can do a lot of thinking in an airport. Being forced to wait for something, letting yourself be carried along by the whims of others, resolving inner frustrations, adding fourth thoughts to avoid redundant patterns of writing. Ah what inanities my stabs at literary worth contain. Self-deprecation is the key to validity in life. And I say that to allow myself the thought that I hold the key. For that’s all I have with which to hold it.

You’re allergic to love. Bless you. Thank you. Not wholly true, what I am allergic to though is decisions. My mind goes numb, I’m paralyzed when faced with them. Blame it on being a Libra. Although I like to think the real reason is that I’m such an altruist that I feel concerned for the welfare of others through my decisions. But it’s all rubbish, I mean, I can cut the mustard well enough, but it doesn’t help me. Faced with two decisions, both of which would be thrilling, and I can’t decide because I fear the loss of one opportunity. Is that wrong? ‘Cause I fear that it’s terrible. Life should be about the things you do, rather than the things you don’t. It’s always been my curse though: to dwell, to regret, to doubt… What a fine example of the faults of humanity I am. Yeah. Fine. Note the sarcasm there. I was trying to lay it on pretty thick.

Someday I’ll find happiness in a paper cup, and drink it.

Always Look on the Bright Side of Life

Long weekend in New York, and all I returned with was an empty stomach, a crick in my neck, and a blessed sense of release. The empty stomach because I skipped breakfast before my interview, lost the time for lunch somewhere around Times Square, haha, get it?; the crick in my neck for I spent the entire weekend walking around, looking up, and consequently running into people; and the blessed sense of release... for events are now, blessedly, beyond my control. The job teaching English in Japan can take me or no, and I can stop agonizing over whether I should try for it or no. 'Course, tomorrow, should the reply be favourable, I'll then enter into a long, dark week of deciding or convincing myself that it's the right thing to do. Is it? Damn. Give me a one track mind, and to hell with decisions. They only serve to complicate things. Fuck being capable of analytical thought. If that's all humans have then we got screwed. Ahem.

I lied earlier. I returned from New York with some ridiculously fun memories as well. And some new friends, plus old friends in new places. Saw Monty Python's Spamalot on Broadway, interviewed in the Empire State Building, and watched a lightning storm below me as I flew home. And those... can only be good things. Right? Just say yes. I mean, you know what those Monty Python boys always say...

Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!