Basquiat Scrawls

Anything to procrastinate!

2008-03-31T13:59:00.000-07:00

Well its that time of year again when however much I need to write I still find myself, well writing, but about something else altogether.

Today all i have to share with you is to quote a good friend who today said to me:
' What we need is someone who is wise, there are plenty of intelligent people but intelligence doesn't always bring wisdom.'

She's right, but i had forgotten this due to my incessant reading of intelligent books without giving the time to contemplate their wisdom (or my own).

By the way, in case you're wondering she was referring to what we need in personal relationships, not academically, my whole life is not completely taken over by dissertations you know!

Merry Christmas!!

2007-12-26T03:35:00.000-08:00

Its that mellowing time

2007-09-10T11:57:00.000-07:00

May I just mention that from up here in the 'scoomb we have the most spectacular sunsets especially at the summer/autumn transition. Its enough to make you give up a Hanover lifestyle forever!

Sussex Delights

2007-09-02T12:32:00.000-07:00

Having resigned myself to the fact that I cannot leave Brighton quite yet I thought I would try and think positively about where I live. In this vein I have diverted a small portion of the energy usually expended on daydreaming about other places I could live into the appreciation of the joys of East Sussex. Firstly we have the spectacular Friston Forest. I had forgotten how much I had been missing trees until they were all around me. The light through the leaves as the sun rose and we clambered from our tents was certainly a wonder to behold.

May I just point out that I took this picture on my crappy phone camera and considering i'm rather pleased with it but just imagine how much better it would look in reality.

Secondly (and i know this is a blatant plug but its not as if they need the business) we have in our fair city the lovely Barley Mow, which in my humble opinion does the best roasts in town. And if you don't feel like scoffing half a chicken and a humongous plate of veg smothered in luscious gravy you can have locally caught fish or wild boar steaks or moules marinere etc etc etc. Basically their food rocks and the atmosphere ain't bad either!

From a long time ago

2007-07-12T14:49:00.000-07:00

I've been sitting here on the edge for a long time now
The empty chair beside me
And my heart is running out the door
It's halfway over the mountains by now

I don't need my body for this relationship anymore
All the breath and skintips
Crawling gnawing scent
Rising blood waves
are sleeping outside the heavy door

Bolted and locked

And every morning I creep out in my nightdress
Tiptoeing over freezing ice floors
To peer through the keyhole and glimpse my body.

The Hour

2007-07-04T13:32:00.000-07:00

Her voice sung its greeting
Like blood warmed hair
But the grass stayed cold
On feet tucked under skirts.

Despite the feathers that
Fluttered from tongue to tongue
The breeze was never enough
Never lasted long.

But still it always came
Danced its way through sycamore helicopters
And rested in her breath
Through the sun and through the dusk

Pretending to stay.
But in the Hour
The hour of shivers and purpling grey
The rocks rise up

Voices not calmed but quietened
Ridicule the breeze
For minds
That dare not raise their eyes.

Vacation Over; holiday begins here.

2007-06-17T14:53:00.000-07:00

Hmm. So. April was a long time ago now. Mostly I have been trying to cram lots of opinions into my brain and regurgitate them in an intelligible format. Four extended essays and three exams later i'm not sure if i remember any of it but at least my eyes and neck no longer ache. And to add to the relief I have stopped dreaming about political theory and started dreaming about sex again. Much better!

Having a four month holiday is a strange thing. Its a bit like I job share with myself. Only the employers for some reason won't let me do part time IR and Development and part time childcare. Instead I must have intense 50 hour weeks studying for a term followed by intense full time childcare for a term. I can't be bothered to work out how many hours a week the kids are not at school or nursery but its a lot anyways.

I don't know if many other parents ever think of their parenting role as a job with set hours. I hope it doesn't come across as if I think that's all it is but i'm afraid certain aspects of my co-parenting arrangements dangerously resemble work related behaviour. When you occupy a world in which you are required to fill in an excel spreadsheet to allocate parenting slots and your five year old thinks it perfectly normal to play at writing a childcare rota the boundaries can get a little blurred. All I can say is thank God for weekends!

The Gulf War Did Not Take Place...

2007-04-10T14:42:00.000-07:00

...or so Jean Baudrillard says. So if simulation has eradicated our reality because nobody knows the difference anymore, and the people in charge of the guns already know who is victorious before they even pull the trigger, or to be more precise, drop the bombs, then maybe the people who write these goddamn academic books should leave their cosy colleges once in a while.

Because last time I looked my daughter taking her first strokes in a swimming pool without armbands was NOT simulated. Talking through the pain of the most damaging love of my life with a new and wonderful man in a way that finally put it in perspective was NOT simulated. The heart stopping fear of seeing my little boy's body tumbling down a flight of stairs was NOT simulated. And for that matter neither was the feel of his head lolling on my shoulder as I sang him to sleep with the same words that my mother sang to us.

So, from where I'm standing this week the world seems pretty clear to me and most definitely real and I'm sure the families of those who died in operation Desert Storm are also pretty sure about where simulation ends and reality begins.

Shoreditch Twats

2007-03-13T15:54:00.000-07:00

I went up to London at the weekend to bid farewell to Ms Bear before she went off on a years break from the city smoke. She is heading to Europe and then to volunteer on some organic farms on the Scottish isles. Leaving Brighton at eight o clock we didn't reach her place till midnight. This might seem an impossibly long journey time but thanks to good old rail engineering works, bus replacements and the notoriously unreliable (although sneakily free) 149 this is actually how long it took us. I might also give a little credit to a wonderful hotel shower in the financial district but I don't want to take the glory away from the British public transport.

Now, despite the fact that a few of my favourite haunts in Brighton have fully embraced the late licensing laws, midnight is still a bit too late to arrive for a few farewell drinks in our fair city. Not so along the Kingsland road it appears! We found Sarah and her entourage two doors down from her street in an unmarked building where we had been instructed to knock for admission. Nobody answered but we soon met a girl who advised us just to push the door. This place was soooooo cool. Now I know I'm totally showing my lack of city etiquette as I'm sure you're not supposed to rave about how great places are but just be casually seen hanging out there but frankly I don't care about all that crap.

The bar is run by some French folks and apparently serves as a market on the odd occasion but by night it was rather special. It had lovely big leather chairs that felt like thrones and light fittings embellished with bunches of flowers and generally resembled a very large, simple but artistic living room. the place was full of dancing people, and played a wonderfully eclectic mix, from eighties classics to reggae to New Orleans Jazz. Despite looking pretty street the DJ was amazingly un-arrogant. The bar doesn't have a name nor does it appear to have a licence which made it feel a little like I imagine a speakeasy might have felt.

To add to our enjoyment there was an abundance of (i quote the Greek), 'Shoreditch Twats' living out their art in their every move and highly ridiculous clothing. The highlights of which were some 19th underwear, a baggy white sweatshirt posing as a dress with penises scrawled on the back with a marker pen and one woman dressed as a maid (more of the Nora Batty variety than the sexy french kind). All very strange, highly pretentious and frankly, damn hilarious. There was also an abundance of people wearing cardboard masks of David Lynch, two of whom were kissing each other and I promise I wasn't on acid! When we inquired as to the meaning of these masks we were given the oh so honest answer by one guy that David lynch was his step dad. Personally i don't have a step dad, but I'm pretty sure its not normal practise to wear them as a mask when you go out dancing?

All in all it was a damn good evening and made me yearn for all the great things about city living.

Goddam she's gorgeous as well as ridiculously talented!

2007-03-05T12:07:00.000-08:00

This woman is amazing, I think if I were to marry a woman she'd be the one.

That may be a little hasty going on one of her albums and an interview, but of course these predictions are pretty easy to make when you never intend to get married to anyone.

Anyways, I heard her voice on a sunny morning in London but it was frequently interupted by my dear friend who was finding it hard to stick with any one song for more than about ten seconds, her mind was elsewhere that day. To be honest I thought it sounded like one of those albums you reallly have to work at to enjoy.

But then, over a pint of dark star, another dear friend gave me a copy of her album. And with it, strict instructions as to the method of listening. Normally I would ignore such advice in my arrogant way but coming from him and already suspecting it might need a little more effort than most I followed them to the letter.

Ensuring the kids were sound asleep and not distracted by anything i dedicated my self to stillness and listening. But only one song at a time. Which took me a while, i don't have that many 20 minute slots of unintterupted self indulgence in my life, but these were worth reserving. I'm sure she's not to everyone's taste but this interview is so ultra cute that i don't see how you could not love her!

Travels in the skin trade

2007-02-24T13:20:00.000-08:00

My top five things I wish were attainable qualities in a fellow sexual partner:

5. Understands that their attitude to women in general cannot be separated from how I experience the way they treat me.

4. Is capable of grasping the fact that sexuality is not experienced in one way for men and another for women.

3. Is as irresistible to me as I am to them, and vice verse not just somewhere in range but exactly equal.

2. Can keep up with my libido, not just at the start of a relationship.

1. Doesn't use pornography, not just because they are getting enough sex but because it is not necessary for them and are aware that there are thousands of more creative, intimate and less harmful ways to enjoy sexuality.

Really I know that about one in every ten billion people will agree with me on the last one which is why I guess I'm nailing my colours to the mast, having met a few of these enlightened folks I am pretty convinced that we are not living in denial about human nature or the supposed 'male need for visual stimulation' that apparently warrants the overuse of pornographic material along with the ridiculous myth that these days its more of a career choice than exploitation which completely misses the fucking point! Anybody else wondered in what wonderfully varied ways our sexual desires would find expression if it weren't for the pre-packaged language of popular pornography? Anyways rant over, prepared to be shot down seeing as i already know everyone who reads this will disagree but it's one of those awfully uncompromisable issues for me. I live in hope!

From Clearances 5

2007-01-10T15:16:00.000-08:00

In Memoriam M.K.H., 1911-1984

The cool that came off the sheets just off the line
Made me think the damp must still be in them
But when I took my corners of the linen
And pulled against her, first straight down the hem
And then diagonally, then flapped and shook
The fabric like a sail in a cross-wind,
They made a dried-out undulating thwack.
So we'd stretch and fold and end up hand to hand
For a split second as if nothing had happened
For nothing had that had not always happened
Beforehand, day by day, just touch and go,
Coming close again by holding back
In moves where I was x and she was o
Inscribed in sheets she'd sewn from ripped-out flour sacks.
I heard this poem on the radio the other night just as I was falling asleep. It reminded me of something and I wasn't sure what until I heard the unforgettable sounds of the words 'dried out undulating thwack' and I was 14 again next to the ancient radiators in my high ceilinged English classroom. I had a ridiculous English teacher who gave us A*s just because she knew we were capable of them! One of my most enduring memories of her lessons was getting away with delivering a whole scene of Arthur Miller's 'A view from the Bridge' in a deep south accent. Mainly because it was the only American accent we thought we could carry off but also because it made us laugh so much to say 'laak in the baaibel' (like in the bible for those of you who can't follow my dodgy southern American phonetic speak!). But alongside all the ridiculous antics this was the time of my life when the I started to be aware of how amazingly beautiful and surprising language can be. I found this other poem when looking for the above one and I think it is just as wonderful, they were both written as part of a series by Seamus Heaney in memory of his mother.
From Clearances 3

When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each other's work would bring us to our senses.
So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives--
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.
Go here to listen to the man himself read them out.

Essay Mini-Break!

2007-01-03T09:28:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I'm back stuck in front of the computer screen for hours on end and far too busy to write anything substantial but I just thought I'd share my favourite quote in the spirit of New Year enthusiasm:

'their ends can only be attained by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions. Let the ruling classes tremble at a Communist revolution. The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win.'

Marx and Engels 1888.

Apologies to my friends who are sick to death of me harking on about communism but hey they had a point!

It's as if someone's died

2006-12-11T14:14:00.000-08:00

I've been spiraling, with neck ache and clenched jaws. Smoking half a cigarette instead of eating. With cold fingers I pace between the selection of varyingly uncomfortable chairs. And the most terribly poignant thing is not his absence from my side but the sheer noise that emulates from all the missing voices.

And watching them yesterday was like looking in a mirror hidden at the end of a six year long tunnel. At first I thought that I would not have seemed so timid but then I remember how I felt the first day his girlfriend walked into work and my stomach collapsed taking my breath with it. Amazing the way he managed to pull the buildings down around us all and walk out of the ruins unscathed. I guess he'd lost me already so ...

Well where do we go from here. The silences at the end of the phone don't seem to be dissipating, in fact they are gaining weight. I guess I'm hoping for another blow out, anything but this painful lack of recognition. She said 'its as if someone's died' and it's true, the passion that they 'dare not speak its name' for fear of feeding it, as if acknowledgement somehow offers condonement. It is not as if there is any illusion left. It is clear to me and to them that it was lies all the way, from every side.

But still I have to watch my daughter huddled between the two of them while I pretend it doesn't matter while the sound of missing voices gets louder and louder.

Ignorant bliss?

2006-11-20T03:55:00.000-08:00

Today I had one of those, moments of clarity, as alcoholics call them although I've never actually heard an alcoholic use the term and I've known a few in my short life (emphasis on the short as its nearly another birthday, plus its the one that my ex said is when everything that used to be fun becomes immature!). I was walking towards the underpass that takes me out of college thinking about my brother who is trying to raise money for a volunteer project he and his lovely girlfriend are going to work on next year in an Ugandan orphanage. My revelation was not a new thought, indeed it was one made famous by one of those ye olde philosophers, Socrates to be precise (thanks Mr Whitty). It was simply an awareness of my ignorance.

As a student of International Relations and Development Studies (don't get me started on the problematic nature of the term development) I am surrounded by a lot of middle class 20 year olds who 'took their gap year' in some distant country with the honorable aim of helping people less fortunate than themselves and getting greater objective self awareness thrown into the bargain. I have become incredibly skeptical about the beneficial nature of such ventures as they embody all the ideas of 'Western' superiority. The idea that we as the youth of well off nations are needed to effect change in the rest of the economically poorer and socially struggling world stinks of self gain and reinforces the concepts of the helpless poor and the knowledgeable rich. Despite all this my attitude to my brother's trip is completely different and I have rationalized to myself that it is not just because I know and love him. The difference between these students (admittedly not all of them) and my brother, is that I know how active and dedicated he is to social change in Britain. As someone who worked hard to raise awareness and support for the Make Poverty History campaign, his trip to Uganda is not being undertaken in the arrogant assumption that you can spend 6 months abroad and then settle into a nice comfortable consumer life happy in the knowledge that you've done your bit.

But what I was thinking is that I really don't know what the individual motives of these students are and nor do I understand how the human relationships developed in such volunteer situations might actually improve the will for social change in the UK. I was struck by my own arrogance and most importantly my own ignorance, in that moment I saw how much I have to learn and if Socrates was right then this means I'm actually getting wiser! Lets hope so.

Non-marital bliss

2006-10-22T13:51:00.000-07:00

Seeing as I haven't written anything for ages I thought now, when I have arguably more things to do than anytime so far this year, would be a good moment to procrastinate!

After reading Ford's post depicting the ease with which relationship conflict can be avoided I started thinking about the ease with which conflict has dissappeared from my life. Not having a boyfriend for, well, for fucking ages has brought me numerous pleasures (not like that!), but most importantly it has mellowed me beyond all belief. I used to be one of those annoying girlfriends who got irritated by practically anything and could fly into a rage over a misplaced tone of voice. And while it may be true that these were sypmtoms of deeper issues it came as quite a surprise to learn that this side of my personality was not a constant. Having nobody to legitimately shout at (my kids would hardly be a fair target), i discovered that actually i didn't need to shout at all. Of course I still have a firery temper when required but nowadays it's used more to counter the ridiculous levels of racist anti-americanism so prominent in my fine left wing politics department. So, I am eternally grateful to the god of single life for teaching me that the thing I and my ex despised the most about me was in fact a product of my situation and not an all encompassing destiny of anger!

Maybe I should just feed them e-numbers?

2006-09-16T13:57:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty damn conscientious when it come to my children's diet. They get a multitude of fresh fruit and vegetables, plenty of beans and pulses and only organic dairy. There's no meat but a fair amount of wild fish (of the less overfished varieties). We bake most of our own bread so there's no unnecessary preservatives and a lot less salt. Of course there are the occasional instant veggie sausages, some sugary treats and a takeaway once in a blue moon but on the whole its pretty good stuff.

However, I wonder whether I might be setting them up for a hard time later on in life. Those of us who've indulged in a bit of drug taking will recognise that substances your body is used to have a far more mild effect than something unfamiliar to the bodies chemistry. So, this evening, watching my kids run around like maniacs on the energy rush they always get after a meal (when I feel sluggish and tired because all my energy is digesting) I wondered how they would cope if they'd been fed some tasty e-number rich meal. Well of course they have been to birthday parties and the effect is much the same but with the pleasant addition of the sugar crash. Usually following the formula of strop, followed by tantrum, followed by tears. But my quandary is whether I ought to get them better at coping with it through a gradual introduction of all available additives, like a sort of test run for adolescence? Well, I think not, but thankfully I'm only responsible for feeding them half the week!!!

Ten things I love about England

2006-08-31T05:04:00.000-07:00

Seeing as our government has been hard at work swiftly removing our civil liberties through their bastard terrorist act and the usual flag wavers of patriotism in this country are right wing racists I thought perhaps I'd do my bit to remember some of the good things about this country that still exist:
1. The seasons change just when I'm getting bored.
2. England has Yorkshire, in particular the Calder Valley. I have never seen anywhere more starkly and wildly beautiful.

4. In no other country can I walk into a pub 200 miles away from where I live, unplanned, and know for sure that people there will know me and I them.
5. When something bad happens someone will always offer you a cup of tea.
6. Looking at most of the art in England even in London, unlike New York, is free.
7. We have the best postal service in the world but are still allowed to get away with pretending it is to blame for being late sending birthday cards/losing important letters.
8. It rains a lot.
9. We have loads and loads of brilliant bands, and I understand their social commentary.
10. Most of my friends live here.
And just one more for luck...
11. Dancing like crazy feels comfortable and easy in good English nightclubs.

Abbreviated Vacances

2006-08-30T16:01:00.000-07:00

So, I'm changing tack.

I'll never become an editor otherwise. I'm falling back on true blog style listings. In chronological order as far as I can recall on:
Day1. We lost the car when trying to show the police, they then failed to break in and we got ridiculously drunk whilst waiting for Europcar engineer.

Too much gin from the amorous bar tender!
Sarah and Cat sensibly went to bed after a bit more drinking, Esther and I foolishly went along with some new found friends to an awful boit de nuit; bad music, bad dancing and lots of French people who acted like this was the best club ever. Forgot to bother getting the code for the hotel, got locked out, Broke into the hotel, couldn't get in further than the bar, too pissed even to think about drinking the booze. Eventually remembered about international dialing codes and woke Cat to gain legitimate entry.

Day 2. Left Rochefort feeling striped of any remnants of dignity, but not before a quick dance on the roof!

(Image 2 courtesy of Esther)

Drove to Rayon and queued for hours to get the ferry crossing along with hundreds of French tourists heading for surfville. Arrived very late and managed to find a campsite, pitched tents in the dark climbed a forbidden sand dune, lost a toothbrush, slept - rather uncomfortably!

Day 3. We set off inland, (into naturist country) to find slightly more appropriate lodgings. We found Montelivet, and (with the help of le drapeau) the fantastically eccentric and quite possibly drunken, Madame Bordeaux with a perfect little caravan for us and lots of chickens fed on melons to provide le petit dejeuner. Some lovely French boys with doughnuts and a camper van came wooing, cleverly through our appetites. Tasty market fare, lots of wine, weird restaurant, hitch hiking and of course Absinthe!

Day 4. Swam in the Atlantic. Were fed bbqed Camembert by our friendly neighbours who put up with our piteous French, and oh no, another bad French night club. So desperate for punters that it sends out free taxis to pick you up and take you home. Or to leave you stranded if you happen to be occupied for one moment. The wooing had limited success! (Right Gregoire!) Arrived back to a beautiful moody misting morning.

Day 5. Sunbathed. Visited Le Lac, lovely swimming without stupidly strong currents. Returned the cooking favour and played 'Nights of Palermo'.

Day 6. Left the clutches of the would- be Madame (we do not want to be known as Madame Bordeaux's girls). Visited the beautiful phenomenon that is the Dune du Pilat, ocean on one side, forest on the other and 3km of soft sand dune in between, much rolling and diving fun! Drove to Bordeaux and got ourselves another drunken proprietor but this time out of the cold and with real beds! Went out for dinner, much drunkenness and oral sex talk (well we were on a girly holiday)!

Day7. Time to go home, but first there was a watch to collect, a Gregoire to see, Algerian food to be tasted, French Children's books to be translated, presents to be bought, Cathedrals to see and lastly cars to be returned. So we boarded our cheapo flights minus liquids and cosmetics along with other disgruntled englishers and home we came. Much fun was had and it was sad to separate but was definately a holiday to remember if not only for its random improptu nature and the incredible amount of kindness from strangers.

I will learn to be concise if it kills me!!

From Boats to Break ins.

2006-08-26T01:31:00.000-07:00

Ok, so if I don't get on with this and finish recording our escapades I getting the distinct feeling that events will slip irretrievably into the mist of time. Details are already beginning to fade so if any of you fellow travelers want to nudge me in the right direction or point out any forgotten treasures feel free. So on with the story...

Freed from the clutches of fascism sponsored transport the four advanced to ticket sales, divided as always within good old corporate capitalism, between two competing providers. So naturally, the four became two twos to speedily investigate the price possibilities. One pair being told no tickets were left and the other pair being advised it was cheaper to use the other provider! This temporary separation was seized upon by another agent-in-waiting who saw a chance to drive some distance between the comrades and hence destroy their solidarity.

Fi-Fi was not the most predictable choice for a government agent working on such a project, one that united the British and Spanish anti-terror intelligence, but all the same, you have to give them credit for their innovative recruitment. She was a petite, smiley, brunette with the characteristic short tousled locks and familiar French accent designed perfectly to appeal to the Amelie generation. Fi-fi's approach was friendly and generous; offering a lift in her car to Newhaven where she intended to board the ferry to Dieppe, but of course there was only room for two of the comrades and the chances of her actually delivering even two of them safely to France were more than unlikely. Spotting her ploy the two comrades politely declined her offer and rejoined the others who in the meantime had miraculously secured incredibly cheap tickets on the 'full up' overnight ferry crossing to Le Havre. With only 20 minutes to departure it looked as though there luck was beginning to change.

Famished, but full of relief, the four were provided for with gifts of free food surreptitiously handed over by those who were clearly aware of the dangers of aiding enemies of the state. Refueled, but exhausted from the day's travels they boarded the ferry and found a comfy spot in the Blue Mountain cafe to rest their weary heads. Well equipped with sleeping bags and blankets, after quick inspections of any potential dangers on board and affirming the whereabouts of their allies (more free food provided by the resistance loving French crew) they slept until sunrise. The bright lights and queues for croissants didn't exactly delights the comrades at 5.30 am but they rose and readied themselves for adventures ahead.

Off the boat and into Le Havre the special skills of most competant French speaker were in immediate demand. The first challenge of the day (after tea in a suitably French looking cafe of course) was to persuade the kind comrades at Europcar to transfer their booking from the Bilbao office for the previous day to another country and town. Thanks to brave efforts back to the memory of A level french and a helpful dose of language barrier induced generosity a car was secured with no extra payment. It appeared that it was no accident that the comrades had found themselves in France, home of the original federalist dreamers for Europe. Such people would surely support the movement for Basquian independence within the structure of a Europe that abandoned the regime of arbitrarily imposed nation states. So the plan was to head south to the border, but journey was not to be that straight foward as even the the most staunch supporters of the movement have their weaknesses; the charms of the french folk, countryside and copious amounts of fromage de brebis were all to play their part in a complex web of enticement.

So shakily, due to obscure sleeping arrangements and unaccustomed to driving on the wrong side of the road they set off along the western coast with a short stop to collect provisions and funds using the phrases that caused so much hilarity at GCSE "Ou est le banque" etc! On they drove with a short stop to consult the map and eat at the romantic French alternative to service stations (as you can see the countries charm was already beginning to wear away at the resistance spirit and doing the work of the government agents for them). Finally, hundreds of kilometres later and a with the unfortunate addition of a speeding fine they found themselves in the delightful town of Rochefort whereupon they were to encounter rather mixed fortune.

Firstly the comrades, in search of internet facilities, stumbled upon a lovely clarinet playing proprietor of the smallest internet cafe of Europe with a cute ickle kitten to welcome them. But it was during such an onslaught of charm that the keys to the much needed transport found themselves locked in the boot along with all desperately needed vetements and cleansing products for the increasingly smelly comrades. Initial attempts by some common criminals enlisted on the street thwarted by modern technology; once again the need for excessively complex levels of french was required in the commisariat. But, the designated french speaker busy on the phone to the car hire, two of the less qualified speakers headed off to procure a breaker inner from the notoriously helpful French police.

To be continued....

Baguettes Not Bombs!

2006-08-18T15:23:00.000-07:00

Ever wondered what was the point of GCSE French?
Well, take four potential Basquian terrorists; long separated comrades, one with copious medical knowledge and three with an overdose of social conscience, up for a bit of armed struggle and send them to a somewhat chaotic Heathrow airport on Thursday the 10th August 2006 with bags packed for adventure and sunshine and the outcome is somewhat different from what you might expect.

On arriving at the initial rendezvous point - the symbolically chosen Swatch stand in Kings Cross station (make of that what you will, infuse it with meaning or disregard with the flippancy it deserves) it became swiftly apparent that some further force than chance was intervening to prevent these particular travellers from reaching their desired destination in the heartland of Basquian resistance. At every point along the way were placed deterants cunningly disguised as the well-meaning British public. Contrary to the massive screen broadcasting the eight hour old 'breaking news' that all incoming flights to Heathrow were cancelled but failing to mention anything about the outbound flights, the over zealous evesdroppers in the ladies gave the distinct impression that no planes were landing or leaving from Heathrow.
Initial attempts to reach Bilbao thwarted, the four headed to a small and secluded travel agent on the Euston road. Whereupon they were met by an agent placed to ensure full discouragement of any airbourne travel who went to great lengths to prove that leaving the country was not an option (all be it in a friendly and well meaning manner to throw them of the scent of government intervention). Tired and disheartened the comrades headed to familiar territory to refresh themselves with the fuel of resistance and hope for alcohol induced inspirations.

The plans indeed began to flow in great multitudes but were seriously hindered by the missing element of self belief. The ability of those with all the power to intervene in long made plans so easily was hard to overcome. But then came the flash of hope that the comrades required, a leak from our side, that yes planes were beginning to leave, bound for adventure and contrary to the warnings and scare mongering the only viable course of action was to get to the airport as quick as possible. So the newly revived travellers set off, racing against the envisaged security chaos to reach a plane scheduled to leave in half an hour but which they had been assured would be flying late.

However, the phones must have been tapped, when they arrived security were waitng for them. Dressed as and acting like over zealous airline staff the forces of the powerful approached the comrades immediately on arrival, with surprisingly accurate question statements about the airlines required and the appropriate desk to attend to be told that ALL Iberia flights were cancelled. Tricked into wasting precious time, the four wasted no more. They quickly settled on a plan to leave by boat and headed swiftly for Portsmouth accompanied by a potential recruit who, apart from the Aussie accent, bore a not so striking resemblance to a mutual acquiantence by the name of Smithies working for the Epoch Times who had previously been mixed up in the affairs of the comrades(!!).

Upon eventually reaching Portsmouth (but losing the Smithies lookalike along the way) they were met with immediate and unasked for instructions as to how to reach the boat. This unfortunately involved a taxi ride from a man who can best be labelled as a Daily Mirror reading facist who took it upon himself to spout his racism and anger at the four stunned comrades. His comments on 'bloody foreigners' and his expressed surprise that nobody had bombed the mosques in Portsmouth (yet!) gave the distinct impression that perhaps this was what he saw as a positive solution to race relations in the town. This was however clearly another obstacle placed to incite the anger of the comrades and halt their progress. Upon recognising it as such they bit their tongues and rode out the urge to convert the unconvertible in ten minutes. Finally reaching Portsmouth ferry port, geting to Europe seemed at last within grasping distance but the adventures were just beginning and many more obstacles would be placed in their way.

To be continued....

The Last Life in the Universe

2006-08-08T15:26:00.000-07:00

The last life in the universe is a film i watched over a year ago at the wonderful cinema the Duke of Yorks. Wonderful, in the good arty cinema type of way, in that it plays all the best films that don't get shown at the big business cinemas and it sells beer and cake. What more could you want! Anyway i digress (distracted by the thought of cake mmm, or beer, mmmmmm life is full of so many difficult decisions!) point is that i have been trying to remember what this film was called for about the last nine months but thanks to the wonders of the internet and ingenius sisters i now know what it is called. The film is shot in Thailand, but with a Japanese director. It is the story of, well really its more the portrayal of the relationship that develops between two people. The film starts with a series of unsucessful suicide attempts by the main character. How this can be made incredibly funny but not be out of place in a beautiful piece of cinematic magic realism is beyond me. The cinematography is absolutely stunning and it is just one of those great films that makes you see the medium of film in a whole new light. Anyway, if you haven't seen it, watch it. Unless you are person who needs constant dialogue because there is more than a generous helping of blissful dramatic silence!

Why we rage?

2006-08-02T04:22:00.000-07:00

Ok, so as interesting and enthralling as the whole toilet project is going to be i'm going to need pilfer someone's digital camera as however much i love the traditional film format it isn't exactly conducive to easy computer viewing. So for now i shall start to use this blog properly as a forum for whatever i've been dwelling on this week.
So to start with a cheery subject, i've been wondering about anger. What exactly is this emotion all about, does it ever have positive consequences? As someone with quite a temper i'm not unfamiliar with the rising tide of blind rage but rarely has it propelled me to change things for the better. I can see that anger might be construed as necessary to motivate social change but does anything ever change whilst the anger still rages?
On the other hand, this week has been rather a swirling storm of anger from all directions in a certain group of my friends and aquaintances. Promted by the two major culprits in inciting anger: Lust and Revenge. But in the midst of this and being both the recipient of many peoples anger and having had my trust betrayed majorly i feel it completely unnecessary to get angry. It is as if an overload of other peoples emotions has laid bare the pointlessness of this emotion in achieving anything. So believe it or not i find myself being told that i must be angry in order to make others realise what they have done wrong, but surely if someone faces anger thay are much more likely to defend their actions then repent. Still pondering.

Public Toilets

2006-07-26T15:42:00.000-07:00

On using the public toilets in the Tate Modern this morning I was struck by what a phenomenon the styling of these facilities to project a desired image has become. So i was wondering how much can the loos really say about a place? So i'm going to start photographing them to make some comparisons and see if they realise their full potential!!