And No Binge Drinking!

What a lovely thing to hear your Gran cautioning against. And especially when the admonishment is directed, not at you, but at herself. We still polished the bottle of wine though. It was a good one. An Argentinian red, won at a charity raffle we'd been to that afternoon in the village hall. Since when did I become lucky? You might ask yourself. Good question.

It shan't last.

Tutti Frutti

I once asked someone if I whop bop a loo bopped, would they wham boom? They just ignored me though in the reply. Never did hear the answer.

Shame really, as it'd be a good thing to know...

Eight Days a Week

So I've been a day ahead of myself all week. But not in the good way. In the, wake up at quarter to 9 on a Sunday morning and think I'm going to be late for work kind of way. Then Tuesday I spent half the morning planning what I was going to do in my lunch hour, including going to the market and in to town, before realizing it wasn't Wednesday, and thus there'd be no farmer's market. And now today I've had to stop myself three times from signing off messages to people with 'Happy Thanksgiving!' That's tomorrow damn it. All of which means the next two days will feel like Friday, and I'm going to be beyond ready for the weekend by the time it finally drags its lazy self into view. Why can't I have more weeks that are the other way around. Where Friday pleasantly surprises me and I stumble into the weekend unawares.

I like those weeks best.


* * *

As an addendum to this, I should mention that the Friday morning after this was posted, my alarm failed to go off. And likewise on the Saturday, though I'd carefully set it and checked the repeat alarm to include Saturday. Wasn't until the Sunday I realized what the problem had been. My alarm had been a day ahead of itself as well, and so hadn't gone off on the Friday, thinking it was Saturday, nor on the Saturday, thinking it Sunday.

How creepy is that?

Is This Really Necessary?

Surely the backlash against President Bush didn't occur this badly until after he'd fucked up monumentally. Maybe it did, and somebody please direct me to proof of it should that be the case, but regardless, I find the following pretty disheartening:

http://shop.cafepress.com/impeach+obama?cmp=knc--g--us--pol--elect08--a--default_ad_URL&gclid=CLvU85-O5pYCFQXK1AodJ3BIOw

To begin on a pedantic note, am I to assume that Congress should make a legal statement of charges against Obama for 'treason, bribery, or other high crimes and misdemeanors,' two months before he is instated in a position where he can even be charged with such?

Whatever. I shan't be nitpicky. But I will express disgust at such hilariously ignorant designs as 'I placed my well-informed vote against Socialism,' and 'When you lose your liberties, don't blame me. I voted for McCain!' As if the administration of the last eight years hasn't infringed more on civil liberties than most others. Or how about the classy '63,846,819 Assholes Living in America.' Now even though I'm not included in that, for not having voted, I'm still insulted. How much more 'sore loser' can one get? There is one t-shirt design though that I approve of. 'Impeach Obama Now! Why wait until he screws up...' At least this one where's its idiocy proudly on its sleeve, admitting there are no grounds for it, and also forgetting to put a question mark at the end of a question.

I need to go browse for some positive t-shirt messages now. You know. The ones about hope, and positive change, and that little one expressing the sentiment that indeed, this collective group will be able to make a difference. Somehow, those ones are so much more inspiring.

It's a shame not everybody sees it that way.

He Who is Without Sin...

I'm going to begin carrying a bag of small stones with me everywhere I go, so I can throw them at people who are rude or simply not nice in the streets. Like the old man cycling past who shouted at a woman for not noticing him and forcing him to ring his bell. *Wham!* 'There goes your flat cap mister.' Or anyone who walks through a door you hold for them, without thanking you, or even acknowledging your presence. *Thwack!* 'I'll slam the door on you next time.' Or the cyclist this morning who glared at me as nodded to him, having walked through a gate before him, because, well, I was there and he wasn't yet. *Crack!* 'Good thing you were wearing that cycle helmet poser.' I shall be the founding member of the Vigilante Manners Police. Much like the Karma Police, only with a less poetic sounding name.

Oh, and for the record, in case you'd wondered, I don't live in a glass house.

How Remiss of Me

I had intended to. Honest I had. But then a little butterfly fluttered in front of me and I forgot to send in my application for a ballot. And thus tomorrow will not be able to exercise my right to vote. But before you condemn me, no, wait, go ahead and condemn me, I deserve it. Then I'll say that I instead made a campaign contribution. Much more useful I feel, for my vote would have been thrown into Austin's liberal bastion, besieged within a swirling sea of Red, and would have essentially been wasted, giving me only the right to complain for the next four years. Well maybe the world needs a little less complaining. Maybe if my candidate loses tomorrow, I'll bite my tongue in penance for four years and let the airwaves suffer one less whining voice. Course, if Obama wins, and I'll be watching all night to find out, then I shan't need that ability to complain. I'll be able to walk around Oxford and say, 'Yes, I am an American.' Then snap my fingers twice and blow the hair out of my face. Course, regardless of how it turns out, for the first time I'll be able to say that beautiful phrase, 'I'm from Texas,' without having to immediately defend it by claiming I didn't vote for Bush. Are ya'll excited?

I'm excited.

Mornin' Thom

He looks so cute strolling past with his twitchy face, towing a metal suitcase half his pint size. I should have just stayed on the train to London and asked if I could join his band...

Flowers in the Window

Had rather a confused moment just now where I thought someone had delivered flowers to me in the office. And while I'm sure that was very sweet of ya'll, I was relieved to find they were for my neighbour, who actually has reason to be sent flowers, having passed her licensing exams last week. Now though, the bouquet can reside on the table between us, and waft its delicate fragrance over me. Not sure yet if this is a good thing.

I mean, pink just isn't my colour.

Kuntark Ketiki Maya

'As if,' I sneered when asked if I were a Trekkie. And then leapt wholeheartedly into a discussion of the, relatively, new Star Wars animated film and going to see it next week. I can't see it this weekend because my housemates and I are hosting a Lord of the Rings marathon, hobbit feast, costumes, and all. Funny then that us dorks can be such snobs. For I can't deny that I am. A snob and a dork. Oh well. So it goes.

At least I can't speak Klingon.

She Wonders Why

She said 'I swear the sun rises, every morning in the West
And I wake up every evening, wondering why...'
Then I thought of of all the lies
That we could have said instead
And now the moon is dead

She said, 'I've seen your God, and he's just like other men
But he let the world slip, through his hands...
Now he wanders it wondering why
And if he could have been saved
Slip beneath the waves...

So It Doesn't Go

I thought I was going to die last night. Was calmly getting ready for bed, sitting right here, checking and not responding to emails, that sort of thing, when a Facebook ad caught my eye. An awareness ad describing the tragic life, or death rather, of a young man who'd been misdiagnosed with a simple virus, when it was more. And the ad proceeded to describe the symptoms of this disease. A headache, which, coincidentally, I have again tonight, extreme tiredness, and a myriad of other symptoms, one or two of which I might have at one time experienced. Trivial details in isolation, but when taken together, in last night's sleep deprived state, caused me to experience mild concern for myself. But I couldn't really do anything about it. Wake a housemate and tell them I need to go to the hospital 'cause I'm rather tired? How annoyed would they be? Shyah. So I decided to just grin and bear it. Finished getting ready for bed, read for a bit, and then turned out the light on the last night of my life.

Then I woke up this morning to a gloriously clear sky and the sunshine streaming through my window.

What a relief that was.

Oh Sarah Palin...

You do amuse me. A quote of Mrs. Palin as found on CNN:

“I'm not going to be out there judging individuals, sitting in a seat of judgment telling what they can and can't do, should and should not do,” she said. “But I certainly can express my own opinion here and take actions that I believe would be best for traditional marriage and that's casting my votes and speaking up for traditional marriage that, that instrument that it's the foundation of our society is that strong family and that's based on that traditional definition of marriage, so I do support that.”

Well that about sums it up.

A Nation of Scarecrows

Thank you America, for providing an endless source of news that the rest of the world is powerless to avoid, able only to look on in fascinated horror. Do Americans realize that their politics have the power to dominate foreign broadcasts? And yet the inverse isn't even remotely true. Prob'ly a good thing. Americans would crack up if they saw a House of Lords debate. So anyway, I broke my habitual rule of avoidance of the television, and particularly the news, tonight because, well, I couldn't think of anything better to do. And I was treated to a rundown of the Democratic and Republican presidential campaign strategies. And I shall now have some pretty good nightmares tonight. Well done McCain for denying Obama is an Arab, and proclaiming him a decent family man who you simply don't agree with. Though I did note you left off the Christian bit of that appraisal. At least it's a start. But dear God, it might be too late. Interviewed next on the BBC was a Republican supporter who claimed he 'wouldn't vote for Obama. The man is friends with terrorists.' To which he was asked, point blank, by the reporter, 'Do you really believe that?' 'Absolutely.'

*cough* What?! How? Have people never heard of fact checking? Or, more to the point, have Republicans never heard of fact checking? Though I s'pose I should pause there to question if staunch Democrats are so blinkered. Am I that blinkered? Am I staunch? What is staunch? Do I mistake my pre-ordained, liberal views for an open-mindedness I don't really possess? Are Republicans positively mystified by my acceptance of Obama and absolute terror of Palin? I'm really intrigued to find this out. Surely not though. Surely not.

I mean, I at least have a brain.

Back with a Brand New Invention

It was a good habit. I've decided, now that I've gotten away from it, that blogging was a good habit. It started as a cathartic sort of release. And should have stayed that way. Say nothing, and thus imply everything. But then I fell into the trap of caring what people thought. Realizing that *gasp* someone might read this and *gasp* someone might think it's rubbish. How nonsensical we so often are. Well gasp no longer. I shall henceforth make an effort for it to always be rubbish, and thus save myself the angst and doubt. Meaningless blog-driven drivel, meant only for my own consumption.

This can be the appetizer.

Ah-Sneeze, Father of Ah-Choo

Head colds are not conducive to writing. Which begs the question, 'Why am I writing?' To which I don't really have an answer, except to say that I've missed me. And I can no longer justify not taking five minutes out of my schedule to keep up my own acquaintance. But then that's it, for I really don't have anything to write about. I just felt like saying nothing. I should spend more time in quiet meditation. Then perhaps I'd have thoughts to share. Instead I fill my quiet moments with music and words and pictures... and forget that sometimes, those moments would be better left alone. Better left quiet. I need an extra couple of hours every day. A couple of hours that are untouchable and beyond traditional laws of space and time. And then, with those precious bonus hours, I shall make a point to do the most wonderful thing possible.

Absolutely nothing.

Smile and Wave

Threw myself a, ticker-tape parade
Bought a crowd to line the way
And so complete the charade

And confetti, rained down from the sky
As we laughed in the streets
Livin' my alibi

And this is, all true
That I'd never said those three words before...

Bought myself an, apartment in the city
With a downtown view
And remember when we, were pretty

Pretty alright,
So far as that goes
Though I guess no one knows

That this is, all true
And I'll never say those three words to you...

Booked myself on, the first class out of here
On a fast train too slow
To take me where I want to go

But if I'd known, you were at the end of the line
Then I'd have taken my time...

Paper or Plastic?

Nearly managed to walk out of Sainsbury’s today without paying. Well, I say nearly managed, but I didn’t really get so far. I just went through the motions of it, before being awkwardly called back. It was the cashier’s fault anyway. Asking me demanding questions about the weather and my weekend plans and my degree, all whilst watching me attempt to place my groceries in either the one plastic bag my environmentally-conscious self allowed my not-so-conscious other self, or in the Primark bag I’d unthinkingly accepted earlier, or in the satchel over my shoulder. And that, the organization of groceries and the correct allocation based on weight distribution ratios, is a mentally taxing enough assignment, without having to answer life’s deeper questions. So then, in celebration of the completion of this intensive task, I picked up the two carrier bags and started to saunter away, thanking the cashier kindly. It went something like this:

‘Thanks very much, hope you don’t have to stay too late.’

‘Uhh... would you like to pay with cash or card?’

At which point I hastily tried unsuccessfully to not look an idiot, and dropped my carefully sorted and packed bags on the floor, spilling the contents as I fumbled in my satchel for my wallet.

Ever have those days where you’re not entirely certain where you are, but it’s not here?

Salt in the Breeze

You know where we stand
And I found it slipping through the broken fingers
Of my broken hands

In your house of blank cards
I saw a diamond king and queen treading softly
Over diamond shards

And count, the stones... by the sea
While the ocean breathes

Across, from the Severn Sea she waits
Trying desperately to remember
Her latest, greatest mistake
Across, from the Severn Sea she waits
Already half an hour too late
But she does nothing to save herself...

Leavin' with a Fat Lip

'David! Over here! I'd like you to meet the Dregs of Society. Dregs... David.' *David extends his hand in greeting and gets punched in the face for his trouble, falling to the floor as the altercation passes over the top of him*

True story. What a way to end a night out. Laughing, apparently, too loudly as some guys had to stop their car and get out to remove some traffic cones placed in the road earlier. Perhaps placed there by my friends. 'You think that's funny do you?' Comes the thickly accented shout from the car. 'Yes' goes our innocent reply. And the rest passes in a blur, shouts from one side, laughter from ours, culminating in a windmill of a punch that blindsides me. In the movie version of my life, I'd catch his fist in mid-air and flip him over my shoulder. In the factual account, I was looking away, thinking the whole situation was stupid, and got clocked. I think, and I'm still trying to figure how this justifies the result, my crime was saying, 'So you had to get out of your car... life's pretty tough isn't it?' And please feel free to read as much sarcasm as you like into that statement.

I was trowelling it on.

Slave to the Machine

However did people manage to waste time at work in the pre-webbedworld days? Was part of a lengthy conversation last night on the various methods for hiding internet pages on one's workscreen. The ideal configuration, laptop extensions, whether to open a window on the edge of the screen, or right in the centre, thus allowing one to shift to block it from anyone behind. Me, I go for the two screen approach, open a work program across one and a half screens, and let the other window, this window, hide in the corner. Then you can even pretend to work on the opposite screen. Not that I would really do that. I didn't participate in this conversation. It was them. I've been focused on work all day. I mean look, it's lunch time already. Where does the time go? Think I'll go for a wander outside... Funny. Now that I'm allowed to be on the internet, it's suddenly lost its charm.

Time to be not here.

Five Minutes Fast

Me and time have this thing you see. It’s not that we hate each other. No. Heaven forbid. It's more that we just don’t understand one another. I mean, I can say I’ll be somewhere in twenty minutes, with every intention of being there in twenty minutes, and then time, the bastard, steps in and conspires to make certain I don’t arrive in anything under thirty minutes. And if I dare to name an exact time when I’ll appear, well... time, the bastard, waits for no man. Half five becomes six thirty becomes seven, and a million apologies fall flat at eight. ‘So say you’ll be there later,’ says the smartass in the front of the classroom. Which is just such a smug solution as you’d expect from the front row, but it’s not an answer. It doesn’t solve my compulsion to ‘not leave early,’ which lies at the root. If you don’t ever allow yourself to leave early, then you only have two options. On time. Or late. And on time resides nestled somewhere within about a one minute window, so you can guess the odds of that happening. Yeah. Time, the bastard, closes that window and sends me hurtling through the space-time continuum to reach every appointment late.

But at least I like making an entrance.


*As an addendum to the above, written the morning after the post of the night before, and as if to prove a point... I woke this morning before my alarm clock, got dressed and ready, even played on the keyboard and guitar for a while, and was still early to leave for work. So I went to the kitchen to make breakfast and... dropped the jam jar on my way from the fridge to the counter, shattering glass, and spreading raspberry jam all over the unbuttered floor. Fifteen minutes later, having swept and vacuumed glass flecks from the floor and I leave the house late for work. See? See what I'm up against?

Time, that malignant bastard, wins again.


*As a post-script to the addendum above to the post further above, written an evening after the morning after the morning before... today, I left the house exactly on time. Went swimming and left the pool exactly on time. And arrived at work, exactly on time.

I just felt I should mention it.

Sur le Quai

And change.

The crowded platform becomes briefly more crowded, and then suddenly devoid of people as one crowd pushes for the exits and the other flickers away, lighted faces in a dark tunnel. Then, for a moment, the whole world holds its breath... until the first returning footsteps echo along the hall and life slowly returns to the platform, the pulse slowly quickening as more and more gather to wait.

And change.

A light sweeps through a darkened tunnel, preceded by a blast of hot air, then the train itself, driver hunched over his controls while behind, flickering too quickly to be seen in detail, then slowing, then finally stopping for a moment, a hundred passengers wholly absorbed in their own lives. Then the doors open.

And change.

A heartbeat for the clamour to appear, then disappear. And the world’s quiet again, tail lights receding into the darkness. Noises in the distance. Movement. Lights.

And change.


(scribbled in my notebook, Paris, 2nd June)

Time Is Fluid Here

There's a feeling here, that you've lost something. But to find it again you need only look around the corner. Of course, there's time for a coffee first. Maybe a glass of wine with dinner. maybe I'll find it tomorrow, once I've decided to look. Properly. Or maybe I'll find it next week. Next month. Next year. Time moves differently here. Sometimes sluggish, in sharp counter-point to the people forcing their way past. And sometime's time is piecemeal. I don't know where yesterday ended and tomorrow begins.

But it's not for the lack of todays.


(scribbled in my notebook, 30th May)

Machu Pikachu!

Heard from a friend today, who, after having been inspired by the latest Indiana Jones to dream of escapades through jungles and ruins, said he thought first of me as a companion in such an adventure! Now, it's always nice to be thought of by friends. Yeah, muse on that. And then think of me. But in such a context as an action archaeologist? Holy flip flop, but what a compliment! Coincidentally, and for once this isn't too great a topical shift, for me at least, I just read an article in the Parisian Metro newspaper, I know, gotta have something to do on the underground, that detailed the existence of native tribes in the jungles of South America who haven't yet had contact with modern civilization! Note the rising pitch in my delivery of that sentence, designed to express an element of shock and wonder. And the accompanying picture, in the paper, shows them, the natives that is, painted red and black and brandishing spears up at the helicopter, in what I assume they hope to be a menacing fashion. How's all this for a lark? Close your eyes, blink twice, and I'll be hacking my way through the jungles of Peru.

I've got my face paint all ready.

Twisting and Turning

Somebody said to me today: 'You always land on your feet.' And I was so shocked by this that I tripped over the misperception and fell face first into a rose bush. No, that's not even remotely true. Start over. Somebody said to me today: 'You always land on your feet.' And it caught me for a moment. What does that mean? And no, it wasn't meant in the literal sense. Smartass. But where do people get this idea from? For it's not the first time I've heard it... I can see two possibilities. One, the world is very accommodating of me and allows me to stumble through, blind, yet happy. And the other is that I'm very good at pretending to be blind and happy.

Now which of those is more worrying?

Band Together

So there I was, washing my hands in the tea room at work, when I caught a finger on my right hand in the rubber bands on my left wrist. And in that moment I had the sudden vivid memory of having broken those rubber bands last night, pulling on them ‘til they snapped. Something that didn’t particularly jive with the two rubber bands still encircling my wrist. All of this, when viewed together, means that last night I had a very lucid dream about breaking the rubber bands that I wear as bracelets. Great. So now I’m dreaming about certain accoutrements that I still don’t even know why I wear. Because I feel naked without them. Fine. It’s true, but it doesn’t answer the original question. Because they’re lucky. Because they hold a personal significance, of which the particulars are insignificant. Because they remind me not to forget to remember... something.

Because in this life, you never know when you just might desperately need a rubber band.

To the Victor Go the Spoils

In my book, any night in which the lead singer of a band says he wants to be you, and then asks why you and a friend aren’t sword fighting in front of the stage like you did for the last band, is a good night. It was a good night. Add to that moving into an absolutely gorgeous new house, talking of starting a band, taking up membership with the local swimming pool, visiting the grandparents and finding them vastly improved from a few weeks ago, and watching my hockey team, between 2 and 5 in the morning before work, win in quadruple overtime to advance to the next round of the playoffs, and I’d say it’s been a pretty good weekend. The shite bits of life are being consigned to the midden heap, and we’re looking forward to a glorious summer.

I’d call that dice.

Tanning in the Work Environment

What luck! To be sat beneath one of two skylights in the office, so that at precisely 12:24 of an afternoon, a heavenly luminescence spills over the lip of the transom and flows gently down onto my workdesk. And to think some invariably close the shades when the sun's in their face! Now granted, the glare does reduce my visibility to nil and a bit, meaning the only work I feel competent to do is write this. But nevertheless, I savour this half hour. A chance to lean back in my lounge chair, put the sun block on, strip down to board shorts and flip flops, and bring summertime right on into the office.

These walls can't hold me.

Anythin' Ya Like!

'Strawb'ries! Apples! Bananas! Everythin' fer a pound! I say pick your own, then take 'em 'ome! Move along people! We're losin' light!' *phew* And fruit stall done. Now it's on to queue for cheeses. Brie for a quid? Yes. Of course. Please. Cheshire? Stilton? Leicester? Ummm... yes. I mean no! I mean, can you put it in a bag please? Wait here, I'll go buy tomatoes, you browse the junk stalls, anything you like, nothing you need, and is 70 pence too much for a row of stringer beans? I have no garden. Right. But I will. In two weeks. Should I wait? Or buy tomato plants now? And an 'erb garden? Good price on that, but don't drop the bloody 'h'. Will the offer still be there in two weeks? Can't decide. Not enough time. Is there ever enough time?

Never on a market day.

I'm Feeling Week All Over...

Something peculiar has happened this week. Something sinister. And it's not just me. Ever had one of those weeks where every day you could swear it was one more along? On Monday, you can't help but think it's Tuesday, and so on, until you get caught in the twilight zone of a second Friday and finally collapse shivering into the weekend. We've all had those weeks, only this week, everybody seems to be feeling it. We, as a nation, have universally lost track of time and are feeling the working week crawl past. As if Monday's quite simply fucked off for a couple days holiday, and will be returning tomorrow under the guise of a Friday. But I don't want her to return... I want her to quietly assimilate herself into the weekend, and bother me no more. A pox on all Monday's! I strongly feel.

Can't trust that day...

Five, Six, Seven, Eight!

'And rock step, triple-step, five, six, triple-step, rock step, turn and five, leads keep the frame, six, pressure on the hands, triple-step, rock step...' are the words the instructors are calling out. Meanwhile,on my side of the dance floor: 'And rock step, triple-what?, no, spin this way, seven, pause, eight, rock step, what's the lead, no, wait, maybe if I... damn. I'm really not good at this, sorry, forgive me, did I just trod on your foot? I'm sorry, it won't happen a second... oh, sorry, that was the other foot. Here try, no, this move, I mean...'

It's just like that. Nearly... Whose idea was this anyway? Swing dancing classes as a way to meet people and show off my highly developed second left foot? Shyah. Smooth move. Although really, if I tell the truth, it's not so bad. Yes, I do often have two left feet, but still it's so fun! And the above was all my lament on lindy hopping. We've moved on now. A little something I like to call the Charlestown. Couple more weeks and I'll be leaping in the air and spinning girls round my shoulders like the heroes in all the cool swing dance movies. Just you wait and see.

Charlestown is my town.

The Pain of the Morning Rain

How will we react when confronted with our own mortality? When faced with the final curtain call... Will life become a manic rush to complete that list of things to do before we die; to see the world and make up for all the time we’ve lost in the living? Or will we pause to reflect on the lives we’ve already led and spend our days in quiet reflection on time well spent? Maybe we’ll simply carry on, stoically ignoring the inevitable. Mocking all around us for proving vulnerable, while we quietly prepare for the next journey. It’s something we can’t dream of ever having to face. Something that stretches beyond the limits of our perception. Our generation is unable to contemplate the prospect of death, for we still possess that greatest of all the gifts of youth: a sense of immortality.

You and I are gonna live forever.

The Heart of Winter

When is it that Winter became some brooding malevolent force, bent on the wanton destruction of hopes and dreams? What happened to the days when it just meant a brief pause in the wearing of flip flops and the occassional chance of snow? Now his darkness hangs over us as a pall of smoke. But fear not, for his time is coming to an end. The curtain draws on his darkest days and soon I shall stand fearlessly in a golden field and shout loudly as I confront him: 'Fie on you, you rapscallion! Unhand me, and cast me from your clutches! Send not for me in the night; send not to know for whom the bell tolls! Spring is upon us. Flee! Flee from her warm embrace!' Then I shall look long upon Winter, and laugh haughtily in his face. And cackling, I shall pronounce judgement. 'The end is nigh oh foul Winter.

'The bell tolls for thee.'

The Back of Your Mind

Don't you just hate that feeling? When something's right there on the tip of your tongue, but you can't quite say it... I've had that for a week now; a nagging somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind. And I think I found it the other day in a dream, but it was lost upon waking. It's something I've wanted to do for a long time, and ideas and thoughts are swirling around there, on the verge of coming together. Almost as though the question to the great answer of life, the universe, and everything has nearly been formulated, and one day I shall sit down with a cup of tea and suddenly have it. Suddenly know what we've all been asking. But until then, I'll almost, but not quite, never have anything to say. I... I think I'd better go...

Yes. Yes I think you'd better had.

Returning Home

The seat curves gracefully upwards, but it’s too close. Oppressively close.

A thousand dreams blending as we hurtle silently through the night. Spotlights on the few still watching the world go by; darkness blanketing the others who now only dream of it going by. Knees press into the seat in front. There’s dirt smeared on the windows; outside the dust of travel, inside the dust of travellers. Hands, faces, pressed to the window, and even when we remove them a tiny piece of us remains. We take a memory of that place half-glimpsed through a window, and a memory of us lingers in that place. We are the transients, flitting past, watching our lives out the window.

Gentle snoring, whispered discussions, impatient shifting. And a light, spotlighting me out of the darkness. It’s as though I’m at the centre of this great play, and the stage lights are directed on me. My hands respond by moving quietly over the keys, the overtures of a magnificent opus. I feel as though I should be telling the story, not just of my life, but of all of our lives. For now, as we travel between our destinations, we’re all living as one entity. Our lives will move ahead together for a while, some of us sleeping, some reading, some quietly chatting, and others, staring out the window, afraid of what’s been left behind, or eager to see what’s ahead.

There’s carpet on these floors. Once durable, now worn and threadbare. Shuffled over by a thousand voyagers, and the weaves remember their tread. What stories lie there, amongst the stains and tears?

It’s my face pressed against the glass now. Alone, awake, while the rest of the world sleeps. Watching as the outskirts of the city flash past; street lights once more illuminating the hushed interior. Drops of rain run slowly down the windows and the glass is now cool to the touch. The city appears and disappears amidst the clouds as we wind through the streets. People are waking now. The bond we’ve shared is breaking as we make ready to depart. By the time the bus pulls to a stop in the station, we’re no longer the thousand souls held together as one, but a simple collection of humanity.

The streets seem quiet now that I no longer hear the whispers and shuffling of a myriad other people. There are only cars driving past intermittently, humming along the streets, their tires throwing water across the pavement with a splash. But it’s late, and soon even that small flow of traffic fades as I approach my street. I can see my house in the dark, outlined against the glow of the city. Once more the world sleeps, and I walk through it alone. Alone? No, not entirely alone. I look up as I approach the front door.

There’s a light on, so I guess I know that someone’s home.

Across the Universe

This is time going backwards. See? It’s all fluid anyway. Backwards going time is this. See? What difference does it make? The universe is racing to its conclusion as fast as it’s flying to its inception. But in our mayflies’ existence, it’s all the same. Building or destroying on a cosmic scale, and we’re gone in the blink of an eye. Maybe it’s better that way though. For it leaves no room for complacency. If you have an infinite time to do something, why bother doing it? For there’s always tomorrow. That’s just the nature of it. But life at least gives us a deadline.

Quite literally actually...

Pulling Environmentally Friendly Pints

So I came across the most peculiar sort of pub this evening. An organic pub. Not so much the pub itself of course, but all the beers they served. Even, and this quite shocked me, even the gin was organic. I was expecting to be a bit disappointed when they would produce Bombay Sapphire to make a g&t. But no. Instead the bartender magically produces Save the Whales organic gin, or something just like that, and sets about to pouring. At which point it did strike me that I have no idea really what organic gin even means. Nor organic beer really. It's just a buzz word that speaks to us of environmental consciousness and general goodness and all things vaguely wonderful. So I resolved to look it up when I got home. Which I've now done and have the web page open behind this one. Only I've since lost interest in the topic. Well, not the topic so much, it really is a wonderful topic. And I'm still very much interested in said topic. I was sampling the topic all evening. Enjoying it too. You should try it sometime.

I mean, who could say no to a pint of Eco Warrior Organically Brewed Pale Ale?

I'm a Consumer Whore

But I prefer to think how marvelously long I resisted the urge, before finally giving in this Christmas and getting an iPod. Which I s’pose makes me merely a failed idealist, rather than an inspirational ascetic, but I’d prefer not to dwell on that. I despised iPod culture. Truly. A generation of youth cutting themselves off from the world. How snobbish can one be to go through life choosing the soundtrack from your white earbuds instead of the sounds of life. Question mark. And I still feel the echoes of that sentiment. An ambient soundtrack to my life and the universe would be miles beyond beautiful. But an impenetrable bubble? Not so much. Or so I thought. And then I walked through the dark streets of Oxford with my new iPod and danced down the lane with Sleep Station filling my world and I thought, ‘There’s the trouble.’ It’s not so much that people go through life tuned solely into their music. It’s that they do it… and don’t seem to care. My world was heavenly that night; in the bitter cold, under the moonlit clouds, as I danced and sang my way back to the flat. If I’m to turn my life into a music video, then by God I’m going all out. I shan’t walk in to work stony faced, and claim the music helps me relax. No. I’ll float into work, with a chorus dancing along beside me, maybe some surreal imagery, a bit of slow motion camera work, a few emotional close ups, crowd scenes during the chorus, and a poignant final shot as the camera recedes into the distance. Care to join me? Pick a beautiful song. Any beautiful song.

We’ll film tomorrow night.

Look Up the Number

I personally feel that the world started to go wrong with the invention of cell phones. I mean, what was wrong with calling someone at home, agreeing to meet somewhere, and then meeting there? And if they didn't show you'd wait for a bit, kick around, then roundly curse them as you made your way home. And sometimes when you walked in the door there'd be messages blinking on the answering machine and you'd feel loved. And sometimes there wouldn't be. But it made no difference in the end. Not really. But oh... to be able to once more disconnect. To not feel compelled to answer when someone calls. To let the answering machine pick it up, and say later, 'Terribly sorry I missed your call, I simply wasn't home.' That's where technology should have left us. This being connected thing is such a drag. It was better in my day. And look, I've suddenly become old.

Back when I was your age...

Like Taking a Bath

In ice water. But you can't go to the sea and not swim. Or such is my life philosophy anyway. Which is why I stripped down by the shelter of the sea wall and, fortified with coffee and donuts, sprinted for the horizon in nought but board shorts as the wind whipped across the beach front of Barry Barri. And on the way I thought, 'What softies these Brits are. Huddled in their coats on a glorious sunny day such as this, with the sea calling right there in front of them.' Such thoughts carried me over the shale, down the wet sand, and leaping over the first small waves before collapsing, gasping into the larger break. And then, as I left the water, mere moments later, and was applauded off the beach by a local, I thought, 'maybe these Brits do know what's going on. Maybe they have it figured out. Maybe it really does make sense to wait until April to go swimming in the sea.' But then, as I stood basking in the sun, towel wrapped around me and feeling the icy hot tingle all over my skin, I rescinded the last thought.

Turns out I was right after all.

I Feel the Earth Move

Fancy that I'd spend two summers living in California, but have to wait 'til I move to Oxford, yes, the one in England, to experience an earthquake. I did find myself in one earthquake in Cali, although I can't really say I experienced it, for I was driving back from work at the time and didn't feel a thing. Disappointment yeah? Yeah. But then, sitting in my room in Oxford the other night and the walls start shaking, causing me to leap up with a curse towards whatever foolish activity my flatmate's engaged in. Only, I'm pretty sure he's not jumping down and up on the ceiling... below me. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it was gone, leaving only vague curiosity in the form of, 'Did I... was that... an earthquake?' And the answer is quite simply a resounding, 'Heck yes it was!'

The sky came tumbling down.

Take It Easy on Yourself

I couldn’t answer for him. Not this time. Much as I wanted to. But then we always do. We always feel the need to project onto others. This is my view of the world, thus, it must be yours as well. Then utter shock and horror when it’s not. How? Why? It’s the only way. Or so I say anyway. Black and white. Those are your choices, and only one of them is right. And a pox on colours and complications. Close my eyes. Yes, yes I see. I see what you mean. How could I not? It’s all so clear when you phrase it like that. And to think that all these years I’ve been wrong. Ahhh... I was a fool. But there you are. We’re all fools.

Find me the man who isn’t a fool and I’ll buy him the moon and the stars and share with him the life on Mars.

What Lies Ahead

I'd forgotten about it. Or rather, I thought I'd already missed it. 'Til I randomly saw an online article as I was about to go to bed. So here I am, a couple hours later, sitting, in bed, wrapped up in a blanket, watching the moon disappear. A total eclipse of the... moon. And what a bizarre event. Well, not really, if you analyze it from a scientific point of view and have all the facts. I can't help but wonder though what it would have been like if you didn't know. If you hadn't been warned of it. Imagine the ancients looking up into the night sky and seeing, to their dismay, the moon shrinking. A full moon paring itself down to a crescent and then, horror of horros, disappearing completely. And we can only hope it returns. Even now I can only see a sliver. The last remnant of something beautiful. A sliver of light and a reddish tinge, flickering as the clouds drift past. And that's all we get. Who knows what happens next. Who can say? Just wait. And there. The sun has failed.

The moon is dead.

Help! I'm in a Nutshell!

I like pancakes, and I like leaving kitchens ransacked, with sugar all over the floor, smoke alarms blaring, and the potential still for the oven to explode. I like movies that make me laugh for no particular reason, or for every particular reason, and I like music that speaks to me without using a single word. I like passionate discussions in pubs on topics I know nothing about, and I like ending them by staring into the bottom of a pint glass and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. I like watching brilliant games of sports that I think are rubbish, and I like watching rubbish games of sports that I think are brilliant. I like running along the streets in the daytime, with a song playing on a loop in my mind, and I like walking down the middle of the street late at night with my eyes closed, arms spread wide, head thrown back, and singing the same song at the top of my lungs. In the end, I like me.

And I like you.

For a Minute I Lost Myself

I... am sitting in Cafe Nero, casually working on my laptop, with Thom Yorke sitting two tables over. And yes, I’m listening to Radiohead. So is this the moment to go introduce myself and say I’d like to begin a career in music? Interrupt his family’s discussion and ask for his autograph? Maybe get a stranger to take a picture of us together? Or better to play it calm? This is Oxford after all. It’s just the way it works here. But holy flip flop! This would only be topped if it were Sir Paul McCartney sitting down next to me. Although in that case, I think I’d really have to go say hullo. Maybe ask him to sing a couple lines of ‘Hey Jude.’ Now there’s a thought. Maybe if I asked really politely, Thom would sing ‘Karma Police’ to me...

I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.

Don't Let It Get You Down

For when's it ever been worth it? I ask myself. And then I ignore the question because I already know the answer. But then, life's like that. These are the things we have to deal with. Yet, despite all this, life's not so bad, once you get over the living. Breathing's the hardest part,and after that it's all a piece of cake... or death. You see? The moon was pretty tonight, and the sky was cold and clear, and sometimes that should just be enough. Sometimes that should make it alright.

And sometimes it does.

Total Perspective Vortex

It's all about perspective. And I mean 'it' man. The proverbial it. Dean Moriarty's 'it' in On the Road. The 'it' that we're all getting with. You can have £300 essentially stolen from you by your flatmate and be left with two phone contracts you don't want in your name, all because you're a naive fool who believes in the best of man, and you can dwell on it and think how terrible and cruel the world is and what things you could have done with that money. What things man! Wild and wonderful things. And I've done that. I've had the pit in my stomach and the constant, why didn't I just avoid the situation when it first happened? And the answer to that, is that I'd have wanted someone to do the same for me.

But I'm realizing there's an alternative to that. I can stop spending money and think to recoup my losses, or I could tell myself that it's just money and it might as well be spent. Both of which I've done. I've avoided going out for drinks to save a few pounds, and then I've turned around and bought a traditional Turkish instrument, a bagalama, whilst on holiday. Just so I could shake my fist at the gods of money and say, this is what I think of your false idols. And who's to say what the best option is? All I know, and I keep trying to convince myself of this, is that, in the grand scheme of things, it's just money. And I don't live for money. So I'll thank the sender of the following quote, and pass the same wave on to all of you. For we, have got it good.

*A smiling happy Emily gives Dave a jolly big wave, because if you've got change in your pocket, you're in the top percentile of rich people in the world*