Escaping Words

Breeding ignorance and feeding radiation

2005-11-06T07:56:00.000-08:00

If, like me, you enjoy watching docusoaps for the feeling of faint superiority they allow one to feel, and are currently opting out of the work rat race, you will love the little gem that I discovered this week - Hotel On Sea. The people on this show are so very far fetched, I am almost tempted to think it is a very cleverly crafted spoof. If it is, it is possibly the most ingenious feat of acting I have seen in my entire life.

The action is centred around a ‘luxury’ hotel in Blackpool. This weeks episode followed the senior staff on a ‘fact-finding’ mission to see two five star hotels in Paris (Paris/Blackpool - the comparisons are endless, surely?). One of the Hotels “looked like summat aht of an Ikea catalogue” ie wasn’t floor to ceiling oppressive chintz, and the other had the inspiring mission statement “When luxury is not enough”. So what did our fact finders glean from this business trip? (not how it feels to actually stay in either of the aforementioned hotels, as they couldn’t afford to. Brilliant!) Well, that they should get some monogrammed towels and toiletries, and devise a mission statement of their own. What the general manager came up with was a truly visionary and inspirational soundbite, that clearly touched to the core the assembled staff gathered around for it’s grand unveiling. It was clear to see where he had found his inspiration, and the hotel owner, who, to be fair, had spent the entire Paris trip shopping for clothes for her dog. Yes, her dog, was clearly chuffed to little apples with it too. And here it is; prepare to be astounded - “When OK is not enough” OK in red ink, as the manager was keen to point out (ink colour clearly makes a difference when it comes to mission statements). Might as well aim high, eh? And don’t even get me started on the middle aged duty manager and his frankly scary and overwhelmingly large collection of Eeyores. Or his signet ring bearing the word ‘bitch’. Or the fact that until his Paris trip he had never been out of Blackpool before. Genius!! TV doesn’t get much better than this…unless of course it’s a documentary about men married to women old enough to be their gran who have a rare medical condition that makes them have around 400 orgasms a week…thank god for Channel Five!

Forsaking all others...

2005-11-06T07:52:00.000-08:00

I went to a family wedding last weekend, and it got me wondering, how did the great British wedding come to be what it is? I’ve been to - let me think - nine weddings in my adult life, six of which have been in the UK. I’ve seen a fairly diverse mix of people getting wed too, yet they’ve all followed the same formula - in fact if I try and remember each one in isolation, they all just kind of merge in to one - top table, speeches, cheesy dj playing music no-one in their right mind ever listens to yet will happily throw themselves around a dance floor to, mums and uncles doing the Macarena, couples looking at each other in doe eyed expectation of their own marriage, couples looking at each other in the dawning realisation that they don’t want to be at each other’s wedding, couples looking at each other in smug satisfaction that theirs was a much better do etc etc.

Now, maybe I’m just cynical - but I prefer to think that my own view of weddings is actually hopelessly romantic (cynicism is, after all, just a form of self defence). I don’t want my wedding, should it ever happen, to be just like everyone else’s. I couldn’t care less about what flowers I have, who we can put next to awful Uncle Paul that no-one likes, whether it would be rude to not invite my Mum’s cousins stepbrother, what colour I can put my bridesmaids in to make sure they don’t clash with my dress/look better than I do. I don’t want to spend all morning having my hair and make up done, only to have a strop at the last minute because I don’t recognise myself because I never have my hair and makeup done. I don’t want my Mum getting tearful watching me have the first dance, or my single female friends and relatives clamouring to catch/avoid my bouquet. I don’t want wedding lists (how cheeky are they, by the way??) favours, rsvp anxiety - the list is endless. I really am at a loss to understand the appeal of having a wedding just like every other wedding I’ve ever been to. I don’t care where it happens, or who is there to see it. All I want is to feel beautiful, and know that I am committing myself to the man I love and want to grow old with. Isn’t that the point of marriage? What are people trying to prove with table decorations and speeches? What’s romantic about discos and buffets? When my ex and I were discussing marriage, we couldn’t agree on a venue. All I wanted to hear was ‘darling, I couldn’t care less where we do it, just knowing you’re going to be my wife is all that matters’ and he just never understood this (so just as well he’s my ex, really). Perhaps when I meet a man I want to spend my life with, something will change inside me, and I’ll develop my own obsession with invite typefaces and favour boxes. Maybe I’m just missing the point of marriage - I mean, I can understand the appeal of everyone you love being there to witness The Happiest Day of Your Life - but I prefer to think the opposite - I see exactly the point of marriage; not to spend months on what is essentially very pricey party, but to commit yourself to the love of your life. ‘If I should die this very moment, I wouldn’t fear, for I’ve never known completeness like being here.’ Just a shame Aunty Tracy couldn’t make it though, eh?

Goodbye to all that

2005-10-18T23:50:00.000-07:00

Photographs. I cannot get rid of photographs. I have in my possession photos I know I will never look at again, unless I really want to make myself feel self-indulgently miserable. Yet I cannot bring myself to chuck them away. Is it the fear of one day forgetting and having no other memory of my life, other than these images of long lost landscapes and smiles? I split up with a long term partner fifteen months ago, and still the issue of photo custody remains unresolved. Neither of us want them, neither of us want to destroy them. The option to one day look back at them and fondly remember would be nice, but the risk of evoking best forgotten glimpses of happiness too painful to consider.

And letters. I kept every single letter and email he ever sent me. I watched him shred all those that I sent him - and now I understand why. Packing up to move today, I found my half of our years of written relationship. Four lines was all I could read. This is a man I no longer love, yet long dead words from when we were lovers in every sense were just too painful to read. And will make no sense without the responses they provided and received, which were shredded into oblivion all those months ago. I have no room in my life for half a love story. I'll allow myself the photos, but the letters have to go.

I need direction to perfection

2005-10-17T14:14:00.000-07:00

As I lay in bed last night, a whirl of questions and answers raced around my head. The effort involved in trying to correctly pair them prevented me from sleeping. My iPod had been earlier discarded after having been frankly spiteful in it's choice of playlist, and my latop was inaccessible on account of a misplaced power cable that has been the cause of some household tension.

I hate not sleeping. I used to work a job that involved irregular working patterns and late night shifts, which taught me how to make myself sleep, as my body clock never had any idea what was going on. As a result, I have been able to pretty much sleep on demand for the last seven odd years, so when I do have the occasional restless night it makes me inordinately grumpy and feel very sorry for myself. I think the fact that I haven't worked for almost three months and am craving some sort of routine doesn't help either. Yet give it three months of being back at work and I'll be craving a lifestyle that allows me to sleep as and when I see fit to do so. Some people are just never happy, are they?

The fear of getting caught

2005-10-13T14:53:00.000-07:00

I read today about a piece of mobile phone software that has just come on to the market, that enables users to disguise or delete the identity of callers. They can either be removed completely from missed/made/received call logs and not appear on your bill, or appear instead as a different number altogether. It also allows you to block certain numbers at certain times, so if, for example, you're having a nice day out with your family, you can do so safe in the knowledge that your boss/annoying relative/mistress won't spoil things with an unwanted phone call.

At just £6.99, it is a liar's dream. Adulterous people all over the country must be letting out a collective sigh of relief - no more furtive pretending it's someone from work calling when your illicit lover calls you at home. No more panic attacks that you've left your mobile somewhere that your partner can access.

Surely I'm not alone in thinking it's a very sad state of affairs that there is even a market for this kind of thing?

From a window

2005-10-09T12:55:00.000-07:00

For one of the last times in my life, I have just been contemplating the view from the balcony of my flat in Barcelona. And for the first time, I started to be able to put into words what I love so much about this view.

The building directly opposite ours, about 500 feet or so away I guess, has balconies in every flat. At the very top right is a hugely colourful one, with carefully tended plants and a bright orange hammock. Painfully cool looking people can often be seen lazing on or around this hammock, or the old sofa which seems to also be a permanent fixture there, laughing, joking, enjoying the sunshine and a few drinks and generally being painfully cool. The apartment beneath them and to the left, is home to a young family with a daughter who looks to be about two years old. She totters happily around the balcony under the watchful eyes of one or both of her parents, who themselves often sit out in the evenings on their swinging chair, entwined comfortably around each other, no doubt enjoying watching the stars during the blissful rest their daughter’s sleeping gives them.

To the left of this building is a school. The playground is on ground level and obscured by a smaller building from view, but the regular sounding of the bell, followed by the ensuing noise of children happily at play, is strangely comforting at times. In front of the school is a small park, with a sand floor and a small play area. On Fridays at 6pm, it’ a hive of activity down there, and often it almost sounds as if half of Barcelona’s kids are in there, squealing, screaming and generally sounding as if they’re having the best day of their lives so far.

On the right we have a building with a huge terrace, brightly decorated with mosaic walls and a collection of plastic chairs and tables. It belongs to an old people’s home, and the more lucid residents seem to like nothing more than to watch the children at play beneath them, possibly lost in memories of their own childhoods or grandchildren or even great grandchildren. The upper floors of this building house private apartments with fabulous balconies, yet only one of them ever seems to be used as it should be. The couple living there are in late middle age, and can often be seen eating fabulous looking dinners out there with three or four other couples, that sometimes go on into the small hours.
All of this is continually underpinned by the constant murmur of traffic along Gran Via, one of the main roads through the city, just to the right in front of the old people’s home, whatever time of day or night it may be.
So what do I love so much about all this? Maybe it’s the diversity of human life that can be seen, or the comfort of anonymity amongst so many other lives going on around me, completely unaware of and undisturbed by my presence. Maybe it’s being able to see so many different stages of life makes me excited to think about what path my own might take. Or maybe I’m just nosy…

I don't have to sell my soul

2005-10-07T00:17:00.000-07:00

For some reason, probably not entirely unrelated to the amount of time I have on my hands at the moment (which is too much), I wondered today how many days there are until my 30th birthday. I was more than just a little perturbed to discover that there are in fact 666 days between now and that glorious occasion, that will no doubt but a joyous cause for celebration for all concerned (i.e. me).

The reason I decided to do this very uncomplicated bit of maths is that I have set myself three goals to reach in the next 666 days, although, to be fair I didn't realise that's how few days it was when I set them - 'about two years' sounded much longer. I have already achieved one of my ambitions - and it's a pretty good feeling, I must say - so I suppose I naturally got around to thinking 'what next?'. All three are very easily achievable, given that there is nothing in the world other than my own lack of enthusiasm that can stop me from doing them, and given that they are my ambitions, that'd be a bit shoddy all round really, wouldn't it?

It's easier to leave than to be left behind

2005-10-05T15:00:00.000-07:00

One week from now, I will be somewhere over the middle of France, making my final trip back to the UK from Barcelona. The remainder of objects that comprise my possessions will be crammed into a suitcase and rucksack, and I will no doubt have an air of sadness about me, being as I will, leaving behind the city where I have spent possibly the most eventful year of my life to date.

I’ve been trying today to think about what I will miss most about the place - and I’m struggling. Not because I won’t miss anything, but because it’s impossible to really know what you’ll miss until you’re missing it. The life I lead here is so different to anything I ever knew at home, it’s difficult to guess which bits of it I’ll feel at a loss without. For example, I never imagined when I came here just how much I would miss Sundays. I know what you’re thinking - surely they have the same days of the week in Barcelona - but the British Sunday is a far cry from the Spanish one. For starters, everything is closed. It is virtually impossible to buy even a pint of milk (or should I say litre of UHT) on a Sunday here, without venturing into the hideous tourist minefield of Las Ramblas, where you’ll pay at least twice the going rate for it. That’s not to say I was some kind of Sunday milk buying enthusiast in the UK of course, it’s just the first thing that sprang to mind. But imagine, if you will, a perfect Sunday; a leisurely lie-in with breakfast and the Sunday papers in bed, then maybe a nice bath before heading off into the country for a good long (well, longish…) walk, to work up your appetite for the huge roast dinner you’re going to have. Ideally it’ll be in some cosy country pub with a roaring open fire, but they’re pretty hard to come by these days, and usually packed full of annoying families. However, there’s also few things finer than coming home and being greeted by the exquisite smell of the leg of lamb you set off slow roasting before your bracing country walk. The post lunch afternoon would then involve a good deal of lazing around, ideally in front of a decent game of footy on TV, and a few drinks in the pub.

Of course, in reality, my usual Sundays in the UK consisted of trudging round Sainsbury’s doing the weekly shop wishing I’d done it on Friday night, putting off the ironing for yet another week, and bickering with my boyfriend along the lines of ‘why don’t we go for a nice walk and have lunch out somewhere for a change’. Anyway, I’m digressing somewhat - back to Barcelona. I often struggle to describe what this city has come to mean to me, possibly because it is not the city, but my life in it that has been so significant. I love everything about the place, and struggle to articulate exactly why. Yet it still feels right to leave, maybe because I always want it to be special to me, maybe because I’ve realised there’s no future for me here - not the future I want, anyway. I may not have indulged in my idea of an idyllic UK Sunday very often, but at least from next week, I will always have the option to do so…

It's About Time

2005-10-02T14:17:00.000-07:00

I’m a procrastinator. My five unfinished (in fact, let’s be honest, barely started) book projects are testimony to this fact. Now, you could argue that procrastination demonstrates lethargy or a lack of discipline, but I think it essentially boils down to fear - fear of making the wrong decision. I’ve never been a big decision maker. Go with the flow, that’s always been my theory. Things are bound to sort themselves out if you just let them wash over you. Problem is, I’m unable to let even the smallest of niggles wash over me, which makes my tendency towards putting thing off even more irritating. Or maybe it’s fear of finishing everything and having nothing to do, or being dissatisfied with the result perhaps.

So to combat this, I develop little mechanisms to help me make decisions, thus ensuing that I can absolve my self of any blame if things go a bit Pete Tong. For the past year, the key decision maker in my life has been my iPod. From the mundane banalities of everyday life, to life altering events, there are few questions that can’t be answered by my tried and tested ‘next track on my iPod’ method. Songs, for me, are all about the lyrics. Of course, there’s nothing better than a song that gets under your skin and make you want to dance like an idiot, but the songs that I can listen to again and again - the ones that become my favourites - are the ones with words that touch something within me, for whatever reason. Because of this, I can always derive some message, some kind of cosmic sign, in any one of the 396 tracks currently on there, or any of the countless others that find themselves on there from time to time. I vary the method occasionally of course - maybe the fifth next song, or track 100, for example. Sometimes I don’t like what it tells me and I’m tempted to start again, but I never do.

This has to stop. I mean, I don’t want to play down the life affirming qualities of the fourth line of ‘The Only Living Boy In New Cross’ by Carter USM, or Michael Stipe‘s harmonies on ‘It‘s The End of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine), but it is a bit of a daft way of making decisions or seeking guidance - in fact it’s a bit like my iPod itself - totally random and ultimately pointless. But one of the problems with being a procrastinator is that it’s impossible to ever stop because you keep putting off finding ways to combat your procrastinate tendencies. In fact, this blog is complicit in all of this, as I write on here when I should be working on one (or all) of my books. Think I’ll go and have a lie down with my iPod for a while…

What the hell am I doing here?

2005-09-28T02:45:00.000-07:00

I'm writing this because I feel I need to write something. I've no idea what, so let's just see which words fall out of my brain, shall we?

I'm also writing this on a very old and sticky keyboard (as in the keys stick, not as in someone's smeared it with jam or something) meaning I have to apply an inordinate amount of pressure to the keys, which is actually rather annoying. The thing is, I am enforcably seperated from my beloved laptop (from where I usually write my mundane musings) meaning I can't work on any of my projects at the moment, given that my laptop is where they all live. I never realised until now that it is possible to miss a piece of gadgetry so much. But then I do use it for at least two hours more or less everyday, and that doesn't include the times I use him as my DVD player or only source of music (unless you count Spanish radio, but I wouldn't if I were you). Maybe I just need to accept that a love of gadgets is nothing to be ashamed of, and doesn't make you some kind of geek, especially given that my life is becoming more full of them, each one a more joyously coveted bringer of happiness than the last. Or maybe I'm just easily pleased...

The greatest thing you'll ever learn?

2005-09-20T08:27:00.000-07:00

My new project is a love story. And it's wearing me out. The couple who form the basis of said story are entwined in a deep and unbreakable union, adored and adoring in equal measure. And I hate them. They are my creation, exist only in my words, yet I am sickened by their seemingly unbounded affection for one another. I'm almost glad that one of them ultimately dies, as describing the unbearable pain of loss is going to be much easier than the exhausting descriptions of affection and unspoken connections that I'm having to deal with at the moment.

Maybe it's because I'm writing about something that, ultimately, I don't believe in. The characters in my story fall in love at first sight, in so much as they are instantly captivated by one another. But one thing that I have learnt in life is that love is not an instant, all encompassing, overwhelming sensation that sweeps you off your feet. Yes, at one point in my life, I met a person to whom I had an instant attraction - that butterflies in the stomach moment when you know a mere look is all it has taken for a person to get under your skin, before they have even uttered a word to you - which is why I don't believe in it. You see, I feel it is inevitable that someone who captivates you in the first moment that you know them is doomed to break your heart. Why? 1) Because what are the chances that they too felt the same way at that moment? I’m no statistician, but I’m guessing fairly minimal. 2) Because in that instant your breath is taken away by that person, whether you like it or not, you simultaneously project a heap of expectations on them. You form an idea of the person you want them to be, in order to validate the overwhelming impression they have made on you. 3) Because the second you accept that you can feel such an instant connection with another person, you are leaving yourself open and vulnerable to them, whether you know it or not. In the moment you allow yourself to think ' Wow, this person is amazing ' you place a curse on both of you. Because you are then empowering them with the ability to hurt you, in a way that no-one else in the world ever could.

Maybe I'm just viewing this from the wrong side of a broken heart; maybe that's where the difference lies. The characters in my book are blank pages, just like I was at eighteen when I encountered my own Achilles heel. They find each other emotionally intact, and therefore open to love because they still truly believe in it. Love for them is still some undiscovered treasure to be sought out and savoured, not something to fear and hide from. But to hurt is to love, and to love is to be alive. Maybe we learn more from losing it than we do from having it. Maybe I have to believe in it to be able to write about it - otherwise I'm just wasting my effort with empty words. Maybe all this cynicism is some kind of emotional safety net - who knows? One thing's for sure though - this is the only love story I am ever going to write, as it's proving almost as stressful as the godforsaken emotion itself.

Stormy Inspiration

2005-09-16T14:07:00.000-07:00

I am back in Barcelona, and the change of scenery is doing wonders for my inspiration. Maybe it's the wonderfully torrid storms we've been having of late, but I am writing everyday, and have moved on significantly with one of my projects, and even started another one. Now, starting a new project is usually a diversionary tactic to avoid a nasty block on one of my existing projects, but so far, I am successfully working on two at once. A breakthrough I feel! In all fairness though, I do have nothing better to do with my time at the moment, being as I am, technically unemployed ('between jobs' sounds so much better, don't you think?) but that's only until I return to the UK next month, and the rebuilding of my life can begin in earnest.

In truth, I'm scared to death. I don't know if I really am ready to move on, but I'm ready to try, which I'm hoping is the same thing. I've shed a lot of tears for the past these last two weeks, and I suppose it's all just part of consolidating and moving forward. Whatever, as long as the literary inspiration continues, that's all that matters right now.

Words like violence, break the silence

2005-09-01T13:53:00.000-07:00

Poetry: a method of expression used by the emotionally inarticulate to say what they mean without actually saying what they mean. Rhyming poems, in particular, can often give a light hearted edge to even the most heartbreaking of sentiments, however obscure they may be. Everyone knows that things that rhyme can't be all that serious, don't they? Now, I'm in no position to dismiss the works of the likes of Philip Larkin and Syliva Plath with a sweeping generalisation regarding a medium about which I know very little (even though it would appear I just have) I'm speaking about the poetry that which, despite my best intentions, I keep writing.

Quite frankly, it irritates the hell out of me. I don't feel any better for having written it, and I don't think it's really all that good, and reminds me that, once again, despite my best intentions (at least I have them) there is still a part of me that is a very frightened,vulnerable and introverted fifteen year old that is desperately petrified of the real world, and so chooses to lose herself in words instead. Which that extremely badly constructed sentence seems to demonstrate perfectly. You see, I find myself in yet another period of change - seems to be an annual thing these days, and approaching the second anniversary of my life beginning to fall apart. But now, the change is for the better. I am in control of my life, and doing things for me. I am returning home to be close to the family I have finally learnt to love (and be loved by) and looking forward to seeing what I can build on my own. And if writing awkward poetry helps making get through all this that little bit less traumatic, then maybe I can forgive myself a little bit of emotional inarticulation every now and then...

Unfinished Business

2005-08-18T10:11:00.000-07:00

I have recently started work on my fourth novel. It's a heady mix of love, sex, death and bingo, with dark undercurrents and an unexpected twist. Problem is, I still haven't finished my third, second, or indeed first novel either...and don't even mention the screenplay, which, despite being fully formed in all of it's 2hr and 9mins glory (including soundtrack) in my head, has yet to make it anywhere near anything resembling a piece of paper or word processor. Take novel one, for example. At 12,006 words long, it is exactly the same length as my final year dissertation. (I'm still proud of the fact that I was only just over the bare minimum word count - in fact, had I not completed it with only hours to spare before the deadline, I would have gone back through it and removed six words from it) Now, 12,006 words might sound impressive, but considering the average book page contains about 300 words, it's barely two chapters. And proud of them as I am, and despite the fact I have the ending worked out in minute detail, there's just the small matter of the bits inbetween to think about (ie 'most of the book') I wonder if JK Rowling ever has this problem?