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.