tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71886962024-03-05T14:34:01.487+00:00friday filmsFriday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.comBlogger388125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-48948571370752888082014-01-10T16:53:00.002+00:002014-01-10T16:57:18.611+00:00Five years old<style>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_3FaDXECWGKupkX4EgrBSNIfoOZbvrjnsx_JEEEfqm_IMLubVCE4a4d24rGIVlk_JCaxMJM3iP54NUQAa49wyWiZAPaSeti2_7FPzESxx_dxGGENW49_9bYHmrKfc8R4J4Dw/s1600/5cafe.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_3FaDXECWGKupkX4EgrBSNIfoOZbvrjnsx_JEEEfqm_IMLubVCE4a4d24rGIVlk_JCaxMJM3iP54NUQAa49wyWiZAPaSeti2_7FPzESxx_dxGGENW49_9bYHmrKfc8R4J4Dw/s1600/5cafe.png" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US">Hello my darling,</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s your birthday tomorrow, and I spent a
little while today flicking through some of the things I’ve written to you over
the years. Every now and then your father likes to remind me how fortunate we
are that I was once such an avid archivist of your habits, and then I feel a
little sad that I’ve not kept up my writing here, if only to produce a comprehensive
record of your most fleeting characteristics.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNrjGKG5Ra-r4CbM9I3zLd0sZ4ABaWl9YCbO1mJhfjDCCLjDfECdLqJjLGJBMlpqGtyCiCYhYRgTvatITJKaUZJv_GumSp335i5wJq852A8VWHRg7mnH996cUnYioDFMjBeL0/s1600/5eat.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNrjGKG5Ra-r4CbM9I3zLd0sZ4ABaWl9YCbO1mJhfjDCCLjDfECdLqJjLGJBMlpqGtyCiCYhYRgTvatITJKaUZJv_GumSp335i5wJq852A8VWHRg7mnH996cUnYioDFMjBeL0/s1600/5eat.png" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I still unthinkingly refer to you as My
Boo; sometimes you allow this, though just as often, you furrow your brow and
say “I’m not a Boo,” because: </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Boo</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US">n.</span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN-US">A baby, most often male, of a
similar age to Hartley.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US">eg. “Will there be other Boos to play with at
the party?”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">You’re no longer a baby, by any definition,
and even when you pretend, you approach the task as one who has never visited
that sunken Atlantis – you unfocus your eyes (your gaze was locked and
penetrating as an infant, but never mind), go slack in my arms, and make
exaggerated gurgling noises that mock the very essence of your babyhood until I
grow frustrated with the game and suggest we play Lego instead.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">At nearly five years old, you are already a
far more eloquent speaker than most adults. Words come easily to you, as do
their context, and if I dither in my attempt to answer a question, or provide
you with some information you’ve asked for, you come to my rescue brandishing
the very syntax that eluded me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgccdC4mbAvzSBSvF3rHykDpOGZL6NZYDtZANCKomrBy90jDOjPzwyOzoVAJU6dNAyTgPg6ywgCJoLvh5NEjGLsrPBp2tnriRBRo7bZP_64QlhL54WYmgtPbUEmBbqP8SjGc1E/s1600/bath5.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgccdC4mbAvzSBSvF3rHykDpOGZL6NZYDtZANCKomrBy90jDOjPzwyOzoVAJU6dNAyTgPg6ywgCJoLvh5NEjGLsrPBp2tnriRBRo7bZP_64QlhL54WYmgtPbUEmBbqP8SjGc1E/s1600/bath5.png" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">You’ve taken the phonetic approach to
literacy quite seriously, and during your first term of school, would try to
spell something, anything, upon waking. The first words out of your mouth in
the morning as you loosened the shackles of sleep wouldn’t be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Morning, Mummy!</i> as in the proceeding
months, but an enigmatic <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Puh. AH. Ullll.
Pal!</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Your favourite thing to do at bedtime story
is to point out words, or groups of words, and identify them as those I’ve just
read, or to stop me mid-sentence and find a word at random to read out. When
you were very sad last week, I promised you I’d read you a hundred stories, or
as many as it would take to get you off to sleep, and you were so taken-aback
by this proclamation that you immediately stopped crying and fled to collect
your library.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicAEmLwZiyXBXw6cRowabKWNQislTx7bh7NLxYMtypYw3c219bcjglbNiNE7u691GeeD9dqKaLBvs9GpUyi4JpAMJYoe_ZkPpVUl2u6YAt-Jk5ja0Zxm1W5zV3BPL3br-LaTM/s1600/5bed.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicAEmLwZiyXBXw6cRowabKWNQislTx7bh7NLxYMtypYw3c219bcjglbNiNE7u691GeeD9dqKaLBvs9GpUyi4JpAMJYoe_ZkPpVUl2u6YAt-Jk5ja0Zxm1W5zV3BPL3br-LaTM/s1600/5bed.png" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Speaking of literacy, one thing you did this
year that utterly shocked me was you texted your Daddy while I was in the
shower one afternoon. You didn’t just text Daddy: you texted him your own name,
spelled correctly. And that’s not all. Thereafter, you started texting both of
us sentences strung together like one long word, which you’d deduce letter-by-letter
as you phonetically sounded them out. These texts are perfectly legible, and
perfectly you. It is a pleasure and an honour to receive a text from you when
you’re with your Dad.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Your inner world is saturated with
characters from your favourite programs, video games, and the comics your
father shows enthusiasm for, whether you’re around or not. You’re Daddy’s
number one fan these days and, not wishing to deprive me of first place, have
designated him at Zero place, zero being “better than first, but only slightly
better – The Best.” You and Daddy often interact like brothers who possess a
genuine affection and mutual respect for one another, when you’re not
squabbling about injuries, real or perceived. Unsurprisingly, your mannerisms
and attitudes are nearly identical, and I sometimes feel left out when I’m in
both your company. But then I collect you after school and you slowly shed the
vestiges of that home and you are Mummy’s boy, curled into my side on the sofa and
sucking the meat of your hand.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Oh darling, I could go on and on, but this
is stolen time, and tomorrow you’ll be five years old. I still remember when
you were sad about turning four, because you wanted to be your own age: “three
and three-quarters.” You’re not as anxious about growing up as you once were,
and looking back at all my letters to you, I can say with a small amount of
confidence that I’m better able to let go of each year with enthusiasm for
what’s to come. Whenever I think about the future, I feel a bit of trepidation,
but I’m thankful every day that you’re indelibly in that picture. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj80KKB53Lklx9pOIOSENB0JorImhilgx0gQoTZaTuRqZb3bK6VaY4XvBXWRDvBg2ZuGhhc6UUyQw4MamDLyG1OiEMrfOCHuJD_INurjxJAWERgsA6lPIDo41_SfbdBK5FCR-Y/s1600/5saurus.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj80KKB53Lklx9pOIOSENB0JorImhilgx0gQoTZaTuRqZb3bK6VaY4XvBXWRDvBg2ZuGhhc6UUyQw4MamDLyG1OiEMrfOCHuJD_INurjxJAWERgsA6lPIDo41_SfbdBK5FCR-Y/s1600/5saurus.png" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Happy birthday, my growing boy. I love you
number zero (the best).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Love always,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Mummy</span></div>
Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-41602958811559983422014-01-09T12:44:00.000+00:002014-01-09T12:44:09.409+00:00Alone with the music
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Sometimes I feel a tiny pang of grief for
the girl who thought she was held aloft by love, amplified through the music
she listened to on headphones while walking up the South Bank towards work, not
realising in all those moments that she was alone.</span></div>
Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-27071657997149851112014-01-03T12:11:00.001+00:002014-01-03T12:11:46.319+00:00The journey ahead
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Lately it seems as though my memories -
those internal anchors of identity - have loosened themselves from their
sheaves to float about aimlessly in the ether; here, an unlikely pair brush
past one another, while other, tighter chronologies careen away, as though
repelled by their like poles. The ephemera of this stagnant rock pool reflects a self so fractured it hardly bears peering into, but I can’t
seem to pull myself away at times.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This year I want to do more doing, and less
lying wounded along the shoreline of my personal histories. I want to stop
worrying over little, incremental units of time, and simply live the big
picture. Rather than brace myself for the slap of each wave as it comes, I want
to climb up and over the whole roiling froth of it and learn to ride the swell.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Most of all, I want to cast off the suffocating hopelessness I’ve felt
over the last few years, and the certainty that I’m not only destined for pain,
but that I deserve nothing else. I’m less sure about how to conquer this particular barrier to contentment, but I’ve a feeling the answer lies somewhere in the
journey ahead.</span>
Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-50234343893178453312013-11-06T15:57:00.000+00:002013-11-06T15:57:01.415+00:00The endThe fibres are knitted tightly round the tear of that old life, and I'm starting to believe it was something I only read about. Once upon a time, there was me and you.Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-38981432560075218612013-11-05T17:19:00.000+00:002013-11-05T17:19:11.623+00:00Dial tone"Nobody in this family answers their fuckin' phones," she said, slamming the car door, her new boyfriend laughing politely, even though she was already out of earshot.<br /><br />I recall her as a baby. A child of three. She moved away when I was 19 and she was still too young to say things like "fuckin' phones" - an unnatural utterance, even now.<br /><br />It's cold comfort, because I know why that particular phone isn't being answered today, and so does she. I know why, but I don't know <i>why</i>. I'm not sure there's a true answer, or at least one that would speak to a shared reality.<br /><br />I was going to start a blog today. Somewhere new to come out to, before remembering that nobody reads here anymore. It's okay. I don't need readers so much as a space against which to throw these materials - to try once more to divine the entrails. It's at least a little better than trying to divine the silence of an unanswered call. Isn't it?Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-24209662130862342232013-09-04T12:54:00.001+01:002013-09-04T12:54:51.401+01:00First Day
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Chicken,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Yesterday you started your first day of
real school. You slept at Mummy’s and we tried to eat a big breakfast that
morning. Then I brought you to Daddy’s to get you dressed and ready. We took some
pictures of you in your new school uniform, and then we walked over together.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I have to admit that even though you were
your confident self, I have struggled with the idea of you beginning school in
a system I’m unfamiliar with, in a country of which I’ve only scratched the
surface. Lately, too, it’s started to sink in, what it means to be a full-time
working mother. I won’t be able to provide that secure framework around these
uncertain hours (thankfully Daddy is able to do this still), which makes it all
the harder to try and ascertain your experiences there.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">When I first got your acceptance letter a
few months ago (in a text, from Daddy), I was at work, and I sobbed silently at
my desk with my face inside my jumper for a good ten minutes. I’m still coming
to terms with the notion of letting you go that little bit more, which of
course started the minute I told you that one day soon you would have two
houses. You adapted to this change far better than the rest of us, and when we left
you at the discovery table inside your little classroom on your first day of school,
you said “Bye, Mummy!” and smiled brightly and waved your arm.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And when we stepped into the schoolyard
three hours later, you marched out the door, saw us, and ran to us, giggling.
You lifted your arms and I scooped you up. You wrapped yourself around me and
pressed your face into my neck and sighed like you did when you were just a
baby. I clutched the fat of your thighs, covered in the thick material of your
alien school shorts, and carried you all the way back home.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It may not ever be possible to breach or fully
comprehend the world you are effortlessly a part of here in England, but our
language is bone-deep, and the means through which we will always find one
another.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaC7QZTv36n00OizB-S61J8abc6inxMC2KaP11b6SexVnqoJUtuoklBN3A8eI_ZmGLmJfFVcq2uAtuOpbke-CHvjtjEydOES4LJ5lgQK54F4CEghIk2USlk_RaLjvOTTi1Vaw/s1600/firstday.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaC7QZTv36n00OizB-S61J8abc6inxMC2KaP11b6SexVnqoJUtuoklBN3A8eI_ZmGLmJfFVcq2uAtuOpbke-CHvjtjEydOES4LJ5lgQK54F4CEghIk2USlk_RaLjvOTTi1Vaw/s320/firstday.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br />I love you my tiny boy, and I’m so proud of
you.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">All my love,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Mummy</span></div>
Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-28810737882306232322013-05-28T14:32:00.000+01:002013-05-28T14:32:24.394+01:00Roundabout
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Dear Hartley,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">This weekend I was so
sad, and scared out of my mind, and putting up a fairly bad front, even by our
standards. You made me get-well cards while I hid my face in a pillow and
worried about the future, and then some time later we both curled up for a
late-afternoon nap.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">When we woke, our
friend M came by and we all went to the playground for a picnic. There was a
band in the bandstand, and even though they played for the benefit of a film
crew filming a fairly uninspired playground scene, it provided a lovely
atmosphere.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I watched you join in
with a group of bigger children, who spun the roundabout you clung to so
quickly it made my mouth go a little dry. But there was a girl with you who
made it her mission to keep you safe, so I relaxed and enjoyed watching you
smile and laugh and interact with her while the wheel spun out of control. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Later, my heart broke
a little when it became evident that she’d tired of being your protector and
began dodging your advances. You don’t yet understand the frivolity of
friendships, particularly between boys and girls, but you knew that it felt
bad, and that made you try doubly hard to win her back. While she sat posed on
a bench (the film crew had drawn nearer), I watched you run to the green,
crouch down for a moment, and run back with something clutched in your hand. I
knew what you were doing, as you’ve done it for me countless times, and indeed,
you handed her a tiny daisy, which she gracefully accepted.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The tenuousness of
this encounter fills me with more dread than the sight of your figure clamped to
a careening roundabout, because as much as it hurts to fall off playground
equipment, the pain of rejection can take years to recover from, particularly
if it keeps happening. I hope this will not happen to you too often. I know
you’re a beautiful, friendly boy with good intentions. I hope you’ll always
remain quietly confident, and that one day you’ll learn how to brush off your
heart and keep going.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz168IQ2wGSDrzJtJkt1dix7X3Oa5TLTKLRLZVH8VwT4WJ5XSFJRNBpMeqYfkyA6HW9PwZ_L5s6k6Jmudu9yHJzJ8SzUigSYs5Tmu9Tx8taHskAl1iSIv_NJykmV5wQ5MkDfI/s1600/hands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz168IQ2wGSDrzJtJkt1dix7X3Oa5TLTKLRLZVH8VwT4WJ5XSFJRNBpMeqYfkyA6HW9PwZ_L5s6k6Jmudu9yHJzJ8SzUigSYs5Tmu9Tx8taHskAl1iSIv_NJykmV5wQ5MkDfI/s320/hands.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I love you so much,
and even if I don’t feel worth the weight of my words here any longer, I
certainly think you’re worth all the words in the universe.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Love always,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Mummy </span></div>
Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-62586870352881213212012-07-31T15:56:00.000+01:002012-07-31T16:01:03.177+01:00My first and last word of advice on loveLove is a topic I prefer to steer clear of. I like making it, feeling it, having it in my life. At a push, I'd call it a gift from the universe; one that becomes smeary with scrutiny, to the point of disappearing altogether (at least until you look away, and then there it is again - sweetly bothering your peripheral vision). You're not meant to question it - you just enjoy it for as long as it stays.<br />
<br />
Given that I've never found cause to examine love, then, it's no wonder I've developed few techniques for tending it. Someone is forever saying that love is hard work - that it won't always come easily, and so you need to work at love. I picture myself prodding a slumbering cupid with the butt-end of its archery bow. "Come on now, Cupid," I'd say. "Time to get back to work." I don't know how you work on love, or coax it into action if it decides to take a sabbatical of indeterminate length.<br />
<br />
In recent months, though, I am learning (or maybe discovering) how to maintain that hottest and most volatile of gardens. The old adage would have us believe that love is like an eternally hungry hearth fire. If it exposes the glowing embers of its empty belly, throw on another log - easy peasy. Prod Cupid in the arse with a hot poker now and again and you're laughing all the way to the sperm bank or something. But to what does the metaphor (mixed or otherwise) actually portend?<br />
<br />
It's only by taking note of what I'm doing in these earlier stages that I've discovered my slight misreading of the tale. Do you want to know how? It's not earth-shattering.<br />
<br />
The way to keep love motivated is to keep working for it, rather than on it or (heaven forbid) against it. It might be more helpful to think of love as a small child. Anything you do now that could hurt its feelings, or fill it with anxiety or sadness, will come back to haunt you when you need it to do its homework or tidy its room. But as long as you ensure that you are acting in love's best interest, it not only does your bidding - it thrives. It sticks around, because it likes your company. And it's really that simple.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I'm not here to disrupt your day or tell you what to do. It's just that these lessons are hard-won for someone like me. I've had to learn them alone, and for the most part through the distorted lens of anger. Where that anger came from is something I'm sick to the teeth of talking about, and I'm not even sure I'd like it to remain attached to my narrative. In fact. Why don't we just…<br />
<br />
There, that's better.Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-75315073012911464722012-07-13T15:34:00.000+01:002012-07-13T15:34:08.321+01:00Leaf drop<style>
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<span lang="EN-US">Dear Diary,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Life is going too fast for me to process. I’m afraid that when I look up finally, I will be old. On
the one hand, it’s exhilarating, and not as stressful as when I used to wonder
what it was I was meant to be doing; when all I had was handfuls of time to
make the moments I’d just spent amount to something meaningful. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I want to do
some fairly meaningless things now, for rather a long time. I think that’s
called ‘holiday’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I no longer wish for time to write here. I
no longer wish to write. I wish that frightened me but it doesn’t. I wish the
self was as reliable as birch bark, blanching in the sun but always shedding
layers to expose fresh familiarity.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">When I was small, I used to lie beneath the
neighbours’ birch tree in summer. The neighbours are long gone and the tree was
cut down and I moved away, but I remember how its leaves stirred the air above
my face. That moment is happening forever inside me, like all of them. I have
to believe that this is still enough to constitute a self; that this is more birch
than air.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Yours,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Friday Films</span></div>Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-24968027095407088682012-02-26T14:24:00.002+00:002012-02-26T14:26:46.035+00:00Why be happy“And here is the shock – when you risk it, when you do the right thing, when you arrive at the borders of common sense and cross into unknown territory, leaving behind you all the familiar smells and lights, then you do not experience great joy and huge energy.<br /><br />You are unhappy. Things get worse.<br /><br />It is a time of mourning. Loss. Fear. We bullet ourselves through with questions. And then we feel shot and wounded.<br /><br />And then all the cowards come out and say, ‘See, I told you so’.<br /><br />In fact, they told you nothing.”<br /><br />- Jeanette Winterson, <span style="font-style:italic;">Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?</span>Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-52421281531477299962012-02-13T17:11:00.001+00:002012-02-13T17:15:56.706+00:00SeparationIt’s been so long since I’ve written anything. I’ve eradicated all familiar points of reference and, as such, I’ve not given myself a great deal to write against, or towards. <br /><br />When I moved to this country five years ago, I didn’t imagine that one day I’d remain here to orbit the uninhabitable planet of my old life, where my errant genes - my own heart that multiplied and grew around it an entire person - would need me to circulate for the foreseeable future. I am here for my son. On the margins of that relationship, I am building a life of my own out of new and untested materials, out of people and places and experiences born from my own, small initiative. <br /><br />When I find that I’m plumping for a more substantial intersection between the old and the new, I remind myself that the union will take some time to resolve, that it will be one of substance over symmetry, of perspective rather than location.<br /><br />My old life is a fishing rod cast into the sea of my day. As the hours tick over, I am reeled in by my heartstrings, and by dinnertime I am kissing and bathing my tiny boy. I’m putting him to bed and I’m slipping out the door into the dark matter of this new self who does none of these things, in a home that is, for the time being, insulated by objects instead of memories. <br /><br />I used to worry that I would disappear without the props and settings and characters that helped to define who I was. Who wouldn’t be? But it was easily done, to put the book down and leave the room - frighteningly so. To walk like Gulliver through the landscapes of my history, brushing the clinging, miniature ghosts of identity from my arms and torso and thighs, until all that remained was myself. <br /><br />All that ever remains is a self, and then one day, that self disperses, like a ghost, or like fog over an infinite, roiling sea, and is gone.Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-36114989759158350072011-07-11T14:05:00.003+01:002011-07-11T14:34:02.815+01:00500 days of nonsenseI’m finding this whole ageing* business a bit of a nightmare. The older people get, the further into themselves they seem to tunnel. I used to think that tunnelling into others was a viable solution to an identity crisis, but these days I’m just trying to dig my way out and into the light. I’m not sure if anyone or anything lives up there, or whether I’m actually tumbling disoriented inside a dark sea, swimming my way down, the air and answers at my feet steadily gaining distance.<br /><br />This weekend I watched a film called <span style="font-style:italic;">It’s Kind of a Funny Story</span> – it was <span style="font-style:italic;">One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest</span> meets <span style="font-style:italic;">500 Days of Summer</span>, if you can imagine such a thing. It was at once heartening and completely irritating to see a film try so earnestly to normalise the experience of being admitted to a psych ward. There were familiar elements to the story (Who is that figure beneath the blanket, are they dead, and do I really have to share a room with him/her?) and elements that make a mockery of mental illness, however unintentional (the David Bowie sing along, and the Hasidic-Jew-with-sensitive-hearing shtick, for instance). <br /><br />As I said, I did enjoy the film, and I think it’s a fairly good primer for the uninitiated, but if you come away thinking that suicidal feelings, mental illness, depression and personality disorders are the binding agents of universal solidarity in an institutional setting, you’d be wrong about that.<br /><br />I’m not going to arrive at an actual point, or weave these into an afghan to hide beneath, in case you were holding out for something of that nature. This is simply an unhelpful map of my tunnelling – a kind of <span style="font-weight:bold;">You Are Here</span> for anyone who crash-landed on Planet Me today. Apologies, Earthlings - themes and variations, themes and variations.<br /><br />I’ve been busily inventing new forms of self-alienation (I don’t know, I’m not Freud, am I?) and one thing that occurred to me before the weekend hit, which I think might be true, is that some houses are dead. Am I right? Just as it would be wrong to manipulate the arms and legs of a corpse and call that corpse alive, I also think that people mistakenly believe that moving their shit into an accommodation that died decades ago will somehow turn that place into a home**. <br /><br />Wanna come over and watch movies? Didn’t think so.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />*‘Aging,’ not ‘getting old,’ I hasten to add; it’s an important distinction. Especially if you’re old. Which I am not. (Yet.)<br /><br />**I don’t believe my house is dead, but I’ve lived in a fair few dead homes, and this is the only explanation. Shut up and let me have my explanation.Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-36722327780517722802011-06-25T22:11:00.001+01:002011-06-25T22:14:58.146+01:00Systematic unpickingOther people frighten me. I approach them and pull faces and they react and I back away slowly. Sometimes I’ll lie right up against the glass and trace their topography for hours, imagining they spent their childhoods hypnotised by the dirt clods that sprung off their bicycle wheels as they bounced over broken tarmac slightly faster than their reaction times dictated, and then I can almost feel the barrier dissolving.<br /><br />Our lives are predicated on this underlying assumption that we are known, and that we can know others. We think that because we can agree to certain fundamentals that keep the motorway generally unclogged, we must also conduct more or less the same symphony beneath our shirts. But regardless of which parade we succumb to, amidst the props and paints and perfumes, the vagaries of continuity will invariably betray a lie that remains most invisible to even ourselves. I’m talking about our souls here.<br /><br />Don’t get me wrong - I’m not a religious person. I don’t think you can peel away the pragmatic layers of a human to reveal the frightened inner specter of their gossamer truth. Life winds its expert fingers around the lip of our trembling essence and we emit a tone that answers in the only way that it can. Others glimpse our identity through a whirling zoetrope that blurs our static moments into a unified narrative, into a seamless 'you', until one day...<br /><br />Well, one day I discover that you’ve saved every tissue your mother has ever sneezed into inside a desk drawer. And there is nothing in my toolbox of experience that can answer the 'why?' of this one anomaly. I’ve pulled a thread, and the entire fantasy of knowing you unravels and spools around my feet. A realisation swims up from the deep: <span style="font-style:italic;">You are not me</span>. And, furthermore, <span style="font-style:italic;">I am alone</span>. This gives me a terrific sense of vertigo, and then I must wait for the normalising properties of time + space to whitewash the graffiti this notion produced. <br /><br />If ever you find yourself seeking your reflection in the shallow pool of someone else, instead see if you can appreciate the illusion that you’re not buried alive inside a fiction of your own making. Scatter the crumbs of your history and watch the birds make off with them, one by one.Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-79788903776894325672011-06-22T12:47:00.004+01:002011-06-22T14:48:49.951+01:00Not wavingI’m meant to be writing a blog for work, but it’s not happening just now.<br /><br />How do you say "I had a strange dream last night" without a hundred ears tuning out before you’ve even gotten to the significant bit? Nightmares, wet dreams, dreams specifically about the listener – you might entice a few more ears to stick around, but not many. I’ll listen to your dreams, in as much detail as you can provide, because I enjoy the thought processes that go into the telling, and you can sometimes even glimpse a hidden feeling that marbles the convex underbelly of its imagery. Dream imagery is certainly more stunning than any I’ve experienced tangibly.<br /><br />But I had this strange dream last night (goodbye, gentle readers, until next time); it was terrible, actually. <span style="font-style:italic;">My niece and nephew were little children again, and I could see by my tracking system that they were still on the beach playing, and specifically where they were playing (in the tide, and Christopher is only a toddler), so I went to check on them. I knew before reaching the shore that my nephew wouldn’t be there, and my mind scrambled to assemble the narrative - abduction.<br /><br />I spent many hours crying and shouting and looking inside horrible containers, all the while knowing that he’d never be found. At some point he stopped being Christopher and started being Hartley,</span> and then I had to wake myself up.<br /><br />Sometimes my dreams will trail their coattails through my waking life, and their details can inform things that I feel or think about. I once thought I was in love with a real person because of a dream, and I acted on it, and that’s the last time I will ever do something so foolish. If anything, now I worry that the symbolic sediment left to dry on the surface of consciousness may prove fatally prophetic, if ignored. I’ll tell Bruce to keep a more careful eye on Hartley or I’ll wait for the green man before crossing a familiar intersection, and I’ll still wish I’d kept everyone at home, wrapped in cotton wool. <br /><br />On the flip side, real life issues can find monstrous architectural counterparts in dream threads that get woven into the fabric of one's psyche, so that you don’t always know if you’re awake or asleep or somewhere in between. Though life has a way of dispersing the clouds and making that distinction immediately, and sometimes even painfully, apparent.Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-44612439752265379812011-06-11T19:38:00.003+01:002011-06-11T20:03:17.125+01:00Killing tigersI read somewhere that there are only 3,500 tigers left in the world. Could that be true? We haven’t even brought about the extinction of whales, and look how long we’ve been in the process of saving them. How did tigers manage to slip through unnoticed? Those blunt, vicious heads of dusty pumpkin whorled with salt liquorice, mouths open and dripping black gums – can you even imagine the absence of tigers?<br /><br />Today on the bus, I watched Hartley sleeping and tried to visualise the world in another thirty years. It frightens me to think of all the things he might lose, even though I’ve only the faintest idea of what we’ve inherited from centuries of civilisation. What will he fear? What will he love, and how? His atoms will weld themselves to the circumstances of whatever shapes them until the two are indecipherable, and we will spend our final years palming that smooth obelisk without any hope of penetrating its mysteries a second time.<br /><br />Last night I fell asleep thinking: <span style="font-style:italic;">The social media celebrities are the pied pipers of the counterculture, leading the rats straight to us - to the beating heart of our secret inner lives</span>. When I woke up, I had an entirely different thought, which was: <span style="font-style:italic;">humans are essentially here to die and replenish the earth’s resources; we are this planet’s living fertiliser</span>. Gee, thanks brain! I deprive you of alcohol for weeks at a time and you repay me with nihilism.<br /><br />If you thought that children could throw mortality off your scent while you hid out in the countryside of familial paralysis, think again. Now you need answers faster than you can keep up with the questions, and each day that angelic clay you threw with such hope and abandon just hardens around the features of everything you still can’t account for. Your son is human, and one day he might never see a tiger. One day...<br /><br />You try to pull back from these thoughts but you rub them in faster, and they explode into a million points of ink. You use that ink to write love poems in the dark, and you hope that it’s enough.Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-90867960810269533252011-06-06T17:24:00.003+01:002011-06-06T17:29:02.144+01:00Blog of Revelations<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJFNZMKw3lKps8rKS-eGiGZETWtLLxHGCywR4LFuHMyP8nHI-WCiLxukZh2Jd5jX9Duet3-NNoeqKAzS7tBFCZdV47F-9VXygQHKVdCDots1YwyMMXl4GYcueMmJU-77Wf3xs/s1600/poisonviolent.jpg"><img style="float: center; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJFNZMKw3lKps8rKS-eGiGZETWtLLxHGCywR4LFuHMyP8nHI-WCiLxukZh2Jd5jX9Duet3-NNoeqKAzS7tBFCZdV47F-9VXygQHKVdCDots1YwyMMXl4GYcueMmJU-77Wf3xs/s320/poisonviolent.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615144410172966594" border="0" /></a><br /> <style>@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Have you ever gone to bed for a month wishing that you could just wake up a saner person? That happened to me today. It was awesome.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Unrelatedly (perhaps), I spent Sunday alone, and in spite of still feeling flu-ish (on top of the effects of a late night out) I managed to propel myself out of bed for breakfast and an early-morning film on television. I chose <span style="font-style: italic;">Un Poison Violent</span> - a coming-of-age story that sounded a bit saucy (young girl explores her sexuality amidst family drama), but which actually turned out to be much better than it sounded.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The narrative explores themes of flesh/spirit, mind/body, old/young and the necessary tensions of these apparent dichotomies when called upon to behave themselves. Unexpectedly, the most poignant scene involves neither the young girl nor the dying grandfather, but the parish priest - a peripheral character that by rights should have had these issues tied up tight.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /><span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Early on, the film lays the groundwork for his impending crisis (he spends a lot of time silently ruminating in wet or dripping locales), and demonstrates that although he’s serious about his vocation, he’s also human, and especially invested in the mother (with whom he shares a [chastened] past) and her fast-blossoming daughter. <span style=""> </span>You don’t see much evidence of his internal struggles until quite a bit later on, when he lies on top of his single bed and begins fervently praying for God to bring him peace, an activity that ends with him curled up and weeping.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The characters all spend a lot of time holding each other up to these rigid codes of conduct with varying degrees of dismay and alarm when expectations are thwarted, but with none so much as they reserve for their own perceived shortcomings (except maybe the father, who only seems repentant towards the end, after his father dies).<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I suppose the idea is that no matter how good we try to be, not one of us is godlike in nature, and we are ever in danger of being thrown off our paths by these so-called sins of the flesh.</span></p>Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-73174794561510199482011-05-31T13:35:00.002+01:002011-05-31T13:58:04.617+01:00Hello BlogIt's been a while. Yep.<br /><br />For those of you waiting for something more, you'll be waiting a while yet. I'm actually composing this in Blogger's unreliable editor, if that tells you anything about my commitment to these words.<br /><br />There is nothing inside me that I want to transcribe here. Furthermore, I'm not sure that what's inside me is transcribable. Evenfurthermore, each time an untranscribable issue emerges that I'm not comfortable *sharing, I tend to create an anonymous journal for that issue...and then it magically disappears (the issue, not the journal, though I wish they would).<br /><br />So it appears that by concretising my tempestuous insides by way of transcription, I can make issues disappear. Good to know for the long term, but there are things I'm not ready to let go of yet. I'm terrible at living without something resistant to push against, and hence I must reserve a little, purely for **pedantic purposes.<br /><br />Now that you're wishing you could go back in time and unread these cryptic and senseless-to-all-but-me sentences, I'll leave you with one final thought:<br /><br />I'm starting to fear old age. I've never given it much thought, because I've always been young, but in the last twelve months, the fact that I'm aging has finally dawned on me, and it's terrifying. I've always known that I'd make a terrible old person, and I'm not someone who is going to celebrate ***laugh lines and grey hairs, because all of these things signal the end of what little I feel I have that's worth celebrating. I'm not saying I dislike the aged as a whole, but in the same way I feel I wouldn't suit blonde hair, I don't think that I will suit old age. But I will wear it like a moth-eaten suit and that will be that.<br /><br />Anyway, so if you think I'm behaving strangely, it's just me working out a way to own the old. I guess? Fuck, I'm starting to wish I hadn't bothered with this entry either.<br /><br />Okay, ending on a positive:<br /><br />I'm very much in love with my job, my town, England and all their ensuing complexities. It makes the hard stuff a lot easier to cope with.<br /><br />*of course I mean ' sharing with my mother,' who I strongly suspect reads here now. Hi mom! Nothing personal. It's just, you know. Well...hi!<br /><br />**untrue<br /><br />***well, grimaceFriday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-9966860897558973562011-03-09T13:52:00.005+00:002011-03-09T13:58:53.103+00:009 hours<ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;">Hot air balloon mishap<br /><br /></span></li><li><span style="font-size:100%;">Freefalling and looking through a bag for instructions on how to land<br /></span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;">A play w/ 3 new characters related to </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >The Talented Mr Ripley</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;">A dead kitten on the sidewalk</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;">The bus is threatening to leave and I can’t find my case</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;">A man helps me down the awkward steps of the bus</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;">Remembering that I forgot my travel case on the bus</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;">A hidden stash of notes and clean clothes in the slotted drawers of my caravan</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;">Disco vomiting up a pile of dry cat food</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;">Unable to see the time on our mobiles</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;">Asking why electronics never work in dreams</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;">Combing giant nit eggs out of the baby’s hair</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;">A cloaked figure, like an Orc with long metal gloves, on a deserted road at 6AM</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;">It’s death up the road and I can’t shake him</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;">It’s 9AM and I’m going to be late for work</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;">It’s 8AM and I’m going to be late for work</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;">It’s 8AM and I ask Bruce to call me a taxi so I won’t be late for work</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;">The shower is broken and the bathroom is massive</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-size:100%;">There’s nothing to wear; the drawers are full of baby clothes</span></li></ul>Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-29602443945580360272011-03-03T13:58:00.004+00:002011-05-05T16:04:24.795+01:00Mosh pit of rubbishIt’s funny how something you really want to say in the morning can become irrelevant by lunch. I know you’re supposed to be lucid and inspired during the earlier hours, but that’s the time I’m more likely to come up with a phrase like “Mosh pit of flowers” and then share it earnestly with others. If you want to feel like you’re getting anywhere, with documentation and whatever else, please don’t waste your inspiration on describing what tulips do on your way to work.<br /><br />I’ve been eating lunch at my desk against my better judgment, so that I have more time to bash these out, but instead I have interested parties staring over my shoulder because they assume that I’m still working. And then I hope they’re short-sighted and can’t easily read text at 30%. I certainly can’t. Also, I have one ear to the office and suspect that they are right at this very moment having an impromptu web meeting without me, which cannot happen. Just a second.<br /><br />Nope, it’s 'hideous stuff,' apparently. So where was I?<br /><br />Oh yes, I was going to tell you about the little girl I saw emerging from the station; this singular, sensational figure who moved steadily against the grain of early morning commuters rushing in to catch their train to London. I wanted to stop her and say, “Wait! Don’t do a single thing more, because I am going to make you very, very famous.” Except, of course, I’m nobody, and know nobody who is anybody who is making movies in need of child stars. Not as far as I know, anyway.<br /><br />Then I became obsessed with why she was coming into Hitchin at that strange hour on her own, when it’s most common to see children commuting in groups, closer to the time when school begins. I started to imagine that she was being stalked online by a sexual predator, and that she was on her way to meet him on the pretext of him being a child himself. And I took note of the time (8.07AM) and the date (3.03.11), and then wondered if there was something inherently creepy in that. So of course I came straight to you with the information. Maybe she was on her way to an audition.<br /><br />I am going to see Deerhunter in 28 days and I’m very excited about this still. Do you remember how, when I first moved to the UK, I bought tickets to see The Sea and Cake on my birthday and then forgot about the show by the time it came around? And they haven’t played in London since? Yeah, that isn’t ever happening again.Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-49213565490944330382011-03-02T14:53:00.004+00:002011-03-02T19:26:05.212+00:00Girl I see on the trainNow might be a good time to tell you about this girl I see on the train every morning. I’ve been wanting to write about her for ages, because I find her intriguing in a way that I can’t put my finger on, at least off-paper.<br /><br />The first time I saw her, I thought she might be drugged. Her head rested against the window, and her face mimicked an expression of sleep (glazed, narrowed eyes; a drowsy, permanent smirk), even when she occasionally sat up straight, or stood to disembark. It worried me a bit, because she was clearly school-aged, maybe fourteen or fifteen, but when I saw her again the following morning, I realised that this was simply her natural expression (at least before 9AM).<br /><br />Other aspects of her appearance lend themselves to an overall impression of a sleep-walker, such as the blonde tendrils of hair that escape a hastily trussed ponytail and the soft, worn fabric of her leggings and t-shirts, outward-turned feet nested inside slouching UGGs. Her telephone number “in case of loss” is printed in black marker directly onto the cotton of her pink, drawstring rucksack (one of three that she uses – none of the others bear a visible number), and has bled and turned purplish in the wash, or the rain.<br /><br />And that’s it, really. I’m not sure why this lanky teenaged girl with an odd dress sense and enigmatic fatigue has made such an impression on my imagination, but maybe that’s all it takes. I see her so often now that I almost feel I know her; part of me hopes that she’s somewhere across town in a classroom, sketching her own private portrait of that strange woman who steals glances at her while she time-releases the universe into her consciousness.Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-42701624361428309822011-03-01T13:30:00.009+00:002011-03-01T14:05:33.280+00:00Since I left you (I've not found a convenient coffee stop)Recently, a friend on Facebook posted a video to my wall for a song that I used to listen to obsessively back in 2004. A pixie-like girl - who was obsessed with all things to do with Iceland, and who did data entry with me for a few months between semesters - first introduced me to Avalanches that summer, and I never looked back (to a time before Avalanches, I guess). Anyway, in contrast to the light and exotic scenarios my imagination painted around that island-beach-party noise you hear thumping away in the background, the video does something dreamlike and far more substantial:<br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/VfAuFAgHpzc" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="640"></iframe><br /><br />I don’t often enjoy music videos (I quite liked Grizzly Bear’s ‘Two Weeks’ until I saw <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tjecYugTbIQ">this video</a>, for instance), but sometimes I get lucky.<br /><br />Speaking of dreams (don’t worry, I’m not going to describe them), I’d like to find out why mine thematically revolve around distance lately. (Fine, I lied, but I promise I won’t bore you with superfluous detail). For instance:<br /><br />-- I must return to work (in Hertfordshire) on foot from Vancouver, which becomes Regina and then turns into a steep, red-earthed logging road in Oregon.<br /><br />-- I have to find my way back home (in Hertfordshire) from work (Regina) by city bus. I get off at the Cornwall Centre and then panic once I realise the enormity of my journey.<br /><br />-- I have to find my way to a McDonalds across town in order to do a coffee run for work, and I have to take Hartley with me. (Town = home = central London in this scenario.)<br /><br />Okay, so that last one was negligible. And fortunately, even my dream self recognised that there is a McDonalds on every corner, because I chose to invent one just up the road. Also, I stepped on a pizza that was displayed on the steps leading up to the cashier. (I thought I'd add that in because it's at least an interesting dream detail.)<br /><br />So what have we learned?<ol><li>Unexpected music videos can reveal a familiar song’s hidden depth.</li><li>My subconscious is anxiously preoccupied with distance and conflicting notions of home.</li><li>I am a cheapskate who would rather buy my colleagues shitty McDonalds coffee than spend an extra tenner at Costa.<br /></li></ol>Pop quiz next week, fellow dreamers.Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-2801213331419500742011-02-28T14:01:00.003+00:002011-02-28T14:05:30.578+00:00Welcome Citizens of 2011I am back at work, and goodness knows I don’t have nearly as much time or energy to expend on extracurricular anything – even things I find enjoyable. When you fill ten hours of your day with work (including commute) and then glue these hours together with full-time child-rearing, your actual free-time priorities become very apparent very quickly: <br /><br />1. Sleep <br />2. Eat <br />3. Television/Angry Birds. <br /><br />Agitate the Magic 8-ball as often as you’d like, but those are the only three answers that could conceivably surface as a working parent, at least in the first years.<br /><br />Last week, whilst eating lunch in the communal area, I thought to myself, <span style="font-style:italic;">You know, I really miss writing. I wish I could fit it in somewhere</span>. And then I looked up from my sandwich and realised that you are not actually required to socialise with colleagues over your lunch hour. I’d been out of the loop for so long that this minor-but-contextually-massive stipulation had somehow slipped my mind, and so today I’m at my desk, typing for my life, the remnants of pickle and avocado still tacky between my blurred fingers.<br /><br />I don’t have an entire hour to spend on an entry, so you might only get a few paragraphs like this. But it’s a start, and with more practice, I may work up to telling you about my sandwich in greater detail, or a myriad of other things you’d be interested in knowing, if you know me. Which, chances are, if you’re reading this, you do. I am covert like that.Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-42044378469028294392010-12-30T23:25:00.003+00:002010-12-30T23:32:59.415+00:00December 18 - Try<span style="font-weight:bold;">What do you want to try next year? Is there something you wanted to try in 2010? What happened when you did / didn’t go for it?</span><br /><br />Yeah, okay. So next year, I’d like to try...<br /><br />I’m drawing a blank. A blank has been drawn, and my poor pillaged Advent calendar rests eternally in that great recycling facility in the sky.<br /><br />Next year, I’d like to try putting action before thought. As someone who lives almost exclusively in their own head, I can tell you that I probably spend about 90% of my time imagining, projecting, fantasising and a whole host of other unhelpful frontal lobe activity that only gets in the way of clean dishes and a tidy house.<br /><br />Of course, once I begin stumbling through life like some Frankenstein’s monster of poor impulse control, the humiliation factor is guaranteed to increase exponentially, which is not something I will document here. So although my resolve might not make me wildly popular online, I’m sure I will reap the rewards of this hasty promise tenfold in my real life. Yes.<br /><br />There <span style="font-style:italic;">was </span>something I wanted to try in 2010. Nothing happened though, because I didn’t go for it. There’s a lesson here somewhere. Oop, right there.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Written in participation with <a href="http://www.reverb10.com/">#Reverb10</a>. Read my complete set of posts <a href="http://fridayfilms.blogspot.com/search/label/%23Reverb10">here</a>.</span>Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-8041248913379950622010-12-30T23:01:00.002+00:002010-12-30T23:03:54.351+00:00December 17 - Lesson Learned<span style="font-weight:bold;">What was the best thing you learned about yourself this past year? And how will you apply that lesson going forward?</span><br /><br />It was really great to discover that I’m not actually required to put up with people who make me feel bad about myself, or who try to take advantage of my congenial nature. Going forward, I vow to spend no energy whatsoever on these types, who turn up rather too often in my life, but thankfully not so often that their presence would overwhelm the vast majority of sane people who either like me or stay out of my face if they don’t. I think that by having more boundaries, I can probably sidestep these gate crashers altogether, though I’m still working out the difference between boundaries and bullet-proof glass. That can easily backfire if I'm not careful.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Written in participation with <a href="http://www.reverb10.com/">#Reverb10</a>. Read my complete set of posts <a href="http://fridayfilms.blogspot.com/search/label/%23Reverb10">here</a>.</span>Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7188696.post-58469944062482542792010-12-29T23:12:00.009+00:002010-12-29T23:34:48.267+00:00December 16 - Friendship<span style="font-weight:bold;">How has a friend changed you or your perspective on the world this year? Was this change gradual, or a sudden burst?</span><br /><br />I learned very early on that if you continuously stew your brain in a stock made up of old ideas, you will one day open your mouth to speak and nobody will understand a fucking thing you say. Because your mouth will be full of crazy soup. To keep crazy soup off the menu, you need a kitchen full of diverse, competent chefs, which is to say that I may deal in lousy metaphors, but my friends are like saffron to my life. You know – a rare and expensive seasoning you sometimes have to go to Southwest Asia to find. That’s actually not too far off the mark.<br /><br />My most important perspective shifts have almost always come from friends. Boyfriends (and fiancées and husbands) are stuffed into the same perspective pot as you within about thirty seconds of your toothbrushes mating in a cup on the bathroom windowsill, by which time you should be finishing each other’s sentences and arguing about whose turn it is to use the communal brain. So whilst you can rely on your partner to tell you that <span style="font-style:italic;">No, you are not getting fatter, that doorway is just contracting because it's cold in here</span> you certainly wouldn’t expect them to come home one day and hand you the meaning of life. That would be inconceivable, and also wrong, as it is your job to retain the upper hand at any cost.<br /><br />The first time I can remember another human being seriously changing my perspective on life (which in turn changed me into a whole new person, practically) was in university. We were actually <span style="font-style:italic;">in the university</span>. I’d just skipped another one of my electives to sip coffee sludge and smoke cigarettes in the student’s union bar and he was on his way to class. I was trying to be cool about the fact that I was wasting my tuition money, and he told me that, actually, he really liked school. I thought this was a novel idea, or maybe I was just being polite, so I asked him to elaborate. He said something along the lines of enjoying being able to amass as much knowledge about the world as he could. And I was like: huh.<br /><br />And that ‘Huh’ stayed with me all day, until I too was eager to become a vessel for enlightenment, and to see how far I could stretch my mind. It turned out to be much further than I ever thought possible, actually, and to this day I still believe that anyone can learn anything they want, if they go into it with the right mindset. Determination is important, but mostly you need to give yourself over to the fact that you don’t yet know something, and then (here’s the tricky part) make a home of indeterminate dimensions for that something, because whatever it turns out to be, you’ll want it to feel welcome when it arrives. Wax on, wax off. That sort of thing.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Any</span>way. All this to say: friends can change your perspective in both small and profound ways, and that’s something you have to be open to as well. It’s also something you need to make time for, which I’ve been rubbish at doing this year. It’s mainly because I’ve got this kid to look after. I love him to bits, and soon I will need to learn how to live my life as though that love doesn’t take up every metric inch of space I own. So I’m looking at ways in which other mothers achieve that balance, and I’m taking notes. Mentally, in my big old empty pot of soup, which by now is a reduction of <span style="font-style:italic;">Thomas the Tank Engine</span> and Sudocrem. It’s also because of social anxiety, and soon I guess I will need to learn how to deal with this in ways that don’t involve resveratrol.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Written in participation with <a href="http://www.reverb10.com/">#Reverb10</a>. Read my complete set of posts <a href="http://fridayfilms.blogspot.com/search/label/%23Reverb10">here</a>.</span>Friday Filmshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10872284114968792987noreply@blogger.com0