Should I be somewhere else?

So Resolutions. It's traditional at this time of year, and thus a good reason to ironically rebel and come up with a new and original twist on the whole concept in general. Ha! So... Um? Damnit. New and Original is quite hard to do. What about New Year Revolutions? Revelations? Elocutions? That would be a good one; words I plan to say correctly next year. Ok ok, so I'll just give you my resolutions. Hmph.

1. Eat mince pies all year round.
2. Jog every day no matter how much it makes my knees bleed.
3. Write the first great novel of the 21st century.
4. Wake up in time to eat breakfast.
5. Become a poet.
6. Wear more hats, especially Trilby types.
7. Write the second great novel of the 21st century.
8. Try to say 'Seventh' properly (as apposed to 'sevenf or sethenth').
9. Become a singer.
10. Learn how to drive (hmm that's quite a sensible one).

[SFX: A phone rings]

JOHN: Hello?
VOICE: Good morning, can I speak to L van der Put please?
JOHN: Of course you may, may I ask in what it is regarding?
VOICE: I am calling about the possibility of cheaper phone calls.
JOHN: Ok just making sure it's not one of those pesky courtesy calls, but you sound top knotch so I'll just go and get them. Oh... sorry... which L van der Put do you want again?
VOICE: Sorry?
JOHN: Well, there's more than one L van der Put at this address. There's Len, Lenny, Lennox, Lennard, Larry, Lonny, Linny, Lanny, Lombard, Lincoln, Linkun, Lincan, Linco, Laura, Lara, Lira, Lura-
VOICE: Err-
JOHN: London, Leften, Loften, Limpet, Longel, Lintel, Lentel-
VOICE: Len! Just Len van der Put.
JOHN: Oh, ok. Was that Len T. van der Put? Len C. van der Put? Len B. van der Put? Len G. van der Put? Len V. van der-
VOICE: Len T. van der Put!
JOHN: Of course. And Sir Len T. van der Put? Mr Len T. van der Put? Reverend Len T. van der Put? Lord Len T. van der Put? Captain Len T. van der Put? Prince-
VOICE: Mr! Mr!
JOHN: Mr Len T. van der Put I? Mr Len T. van der Put II? Mr Len T. van der Put the IIIIIII jr?
VOICE: The first one, the first one!
JOHN: Ah, sorry, he's not in.

Sign Language

Saw 'House of the Flying Daggers' tonight, ah wow, what a great film. It was everything I wanted Hero to be, and so much more! Although I have to say Hero did look better, and it had Maggie Cheung in it, but it did have a terrible plot and fights with no stakes (as in reasons to fight, rather than weapons for killing vampires with) whereas HOFD was pretty gosh darn cool gosh darnit. Even better, there was a great sign (in the foyer, not the film) advertising fried chicken:

-

Chokey Chicken:

'He's dying to feed you!'

Sandy Claws

It's Christmas Day! Don't you think I've got better things to do than write my blog? I've got to:

- Eat Mince Pies
- Eat Goose in Tasty Sauce
- Eat Ferrero Rochet
- Eat Amusing Marshmallow Shaped Santa
- Play with Large Rubber Duck
- Eat Mince Pies While Playing with Duck
- Read Yan and the Pike
- Decide Who to Take to Theatre
- Realise I've Run Out of Mince Pies
- Search for More Mince Pies
- Eat Mince Pies Again

Ooh so fat now. Must... work... on... diagonals...

Quiet times

The future can weight. The unknown looming down on us like an ocean liner as we drift in our inflatable inflatable. The past holds us, it grips and claws at our feet while we try to move on, try to shuffle along, along the same broken path we all tread and treadmill. And as we appreciate all this and dwell on these thoughts, it is our present, our awakening, our seizing of the moment that passes us by. Grains of sand that slip through the glass like a Grandmother down stairs, bump bump bump. The future stretches off to the infinite, heading from the past in the opposite direction, lovers forever falling out but not without hope, perhaps at some point reconciling and rejoining to continue this circular rotation, as we, in our cases, travel endlessly around the great baggage claim in the sky. Equilibrium, that's the longing of the American Dream, everything in balance, a peace and quiet as we stand in our stream of gentle despair. The job, the car, the lover, all causes of individual pain just great enough to keep us interested, and yet just bearable enough to bear, at least for a little while longer, until we can no longer be bothered, or we're dead. What ever is easiest. And as we browse through Sainsburys at five past twelve in the morning, buying compilation cd's and pop tarts, we think, 'Everything in it's right place', and we queue and we dream of our voyage one day to the great Hyper-Super-Retro-Market upstairs, where the bread will be fresh and the eggs unbroken.

Truth? I can't handle the Truth!!

I love the tube journeys. And the trains. And even the buses. Basically anything where delays might occur. The reason? I'm in the middle of playing the new Zelda game. And it is truly awesome, one of the best. Now journeys fly by, old women are left standing and hold ups fill me with joy. But as fun as this is, it also fills me with despair. For the last few weeks I've tried using these wasted hours of the commute to pray, to say the rosary or the novena, and it's never really worked. I just found myself getting distracted, attracted, or protracted. I don't seem to have any will power to take steps towards eternal salvation for me or for others. Give me a computer game though, and whoa, nothing is getting in my way, I am missing stops to carry on playing. This really gets me down. One of the huge issues when you look at the world, the evil that goes on, the suffering that exists, is the true cost of free will. But having a free will that you can't control, surely that is no free will at all. I take decisions to, for example, listen more, be there for others, act like a stupid arrogant idiot less, and do I find myself doing it? No! So how is that free will? In the words of St Paul:

'I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.'

Oh and if ever you need cheering up ever again ever, check out these poems inspired (seriously) by the Zelda games. However bad life is, it could be a lot worse.

What's that, honey?

I'm having a Honey renaissance! I used to really love it, so much so I'd have it for breakfast every day: honey on bread, honey in yoghurt, porridge and honey, eggs and honey, honey and bacon, that sort of thing. But then we drifted apart, lost contact, I think we just outgrew each other. That sort of thing tends to happen with honey. Anyway the other morning whilst eating croissants, I just so happened to stumble upon a jar of honey in a most Pooh-like fashion. [Please note: I would like to point out I avoid the traditional French pronunciation of 'croissant' preferring my new and improved English version 'cruss-onts'. Sure it may be wrong, but it makes me sound a damn sight less pretentious.] So I spread a little honey, and man, that is good stuff. And a thought struck me: What is in honey? There are no listed ingredients in honey apart from... honey! Yet it's not a naturally occurring product like carrots, cauliflower or Coca-Cola. No no no! It's manufactured! By bees! So is nectar basically raw honey? And then the bees boil it up and melt it down or something? Do they add anything to sweeten it? It can't literally just be nectar and pollen can it...? They must add some thickening agent to it, like flour or yeast. Actually we probably don't want to know any of this do we, as they probably spit, piss and poo it out of their tiny little honey-making orifices don't they? Yum! Think of that the next time you spread.

Seeing Double

They say everyone has a double, and 'they' should know. Encountering someone's doppelganger can be so unnerving; you see an old friend in the street and say hi, only to realise they're slightly taller than before, or their voice is somewhat huskier, or they're a man. The other night I was having dinner with a friend in a TGI Friday's (nice) and saw the spitting image of Carrie, a girl I knew (in the strictly non-biblical sense) very briefly a couple of years ago. She looked unbelievably identical, to the point where I had to ask. It wasn't her, or at least she denied it to me, but it was a pretty spooky resemblance. As strange as that can be, it's nothing like the apocalyptic nightmare of seeing your own clone. It's like deja vu, turned up to 11. I remember, years and years ago, being totally freaked out watching Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels with same friend from the TGI meal (oddly enough). At one point there is a small blink-and-you'll-miss-it bit part and the actor looks identical to me. Totally and irrationally identical! It was so eerie that my first reaction wasn't 'ooh he looks like me!' it was 'I don't remember making a film with Vinnie Jones...' I'm not sure why facing your photocopy is so acutely and terrifyingly embarrassing, but it really is. It's like meeting someone at a party with the same shirt, but much much worse, 'Agh! We're in the same genes!'

Another 48 hours

Has anyone heard when they are releasing Innocence? It's the sequel to Ghost in the Shell, and still directed by Oshii. I saw they premiered it at Cannes this year, and it's been out in the US already, the DVD is released there on the 28th of December. So why not here? I'm not sure if it's going to be any good actually, it looks amazing though, you can see a trailer here. And the reviews have been pretty good. I can never remember how the first Ghost in the Shell ends though, I watch it and rewatch it, and within a week I've always forgotten.

Actually all this talk is just to distract me. I was woken up with a phone call this morning saying that a friend of mine passed away in the night. Passed away... We've got such terrible terminology for someone's death, I guess because the whole thing is so unbelievable. I'm still in that numb phase of disbelief, or maybe unbelief, where I just don't believe he is no longer around. It seems so absurd and so nonsensical that I won't see him around on a Monday night, and he'll no longer be putting me down over dinner. When I was told he'd died I had no reaction. Absolutely nothing. I considered what I'd have for breakfast, thought about checking my emails and started fixing a computer. I had a shower, got dressed, went to school and had some lunch. Still nothing. I spoke to a couple of people about it, friends who knew him, friends who didn't. A slight pulse of pain, but nothing more. Now, later, I feel surrounded by a great blanket of sadness, swelling and slipping around me. If I sit still long enough it flows gently around my ankles and starts to float up, but then I think about something else. Life is just a made up place.

The tube arrives at the wrong station until it dawns on me I've gone east instead of west. My head is all over the place. I turn my walkman up so it deafens me, and thrashing guitars elate me with their rage. On the Jubilee line a 5 year old boy shakes a Pringles tin in my face as he collects money for his accordian-playing brother. He looks tired, dirty, shabby and shit scared. He has the saddest eyes I've ever seen outside a news report. On the walk from the station I burst into a full sprint, running as fast as I can to get the anger out. When I finally collapse, clutching for breath, tears are running down my face, but I realise they are only caused by the cold. I'll miss you Pete.

Steak Out

Last night I had the best steak dinner. It was at a really gorgeous but totally incongrous pub in Highgate, it felt exactly like a small pub in a country village somewhere. It not only looked like a country pub, but it also generated the exact same feelings that those remote pubs you stumble upon after four hours of driving do. There was hay in the forecourt, it was at a small crossroads, and inside was all warmly lit and open fires. Then to top it all off, my friend bought me dinner! Ah, how nice is that? And it was Steak! Man it was so good, just the right side of rare, covered in mushrooms and peppers and served with mash potato. Yum yum! And on Saturday night another friend cooked me sausages and mash. Actually I've never tasted mash like that... This wasn't just potatoes mushed up, there was cheese, butter, cream, the whole works. Mmm, just thinking about that again is making me really hungry... I'm off for lunch now at another friends, this is going quite well, I wonder who'll be giving me supper tonight?

Another thing: the word 'Another' should surely be two separate words? It makes no sense to say 'I saw a dog, then I saw another dog'. Second time you see the dog, you no longer have need for the 'a', it's like it's included in the 'another'. This makes no sense. It should either be 'a nother dog', or 'an other dog'. The latter sounds a little weird, and I quite like the word 'nother' (it sounds like a contraction of 'next' and 'other') so I think I'll petition for this. Join me!

Some days are better than others

"Well
now
aren't we scaring ourselves
unnecessarily?
aren't we trying too hard?

it's in our hands; in our hands" -- Bjork

I don't know whether to laugh or cry. A group of kids on the train bellow obscenities to each other at full lung, filling the carriage with a cacophony of mythical conquests over girls of varying proportions. I sit amongst the fine upstanding citizens and together, we all ignore and look away. Not one of us willing to confront the emptiness, we watch as they self-destruct. And it's later now, yet I know, statistically speaking, that even as I type these helpless letters, there will be hundreds of thousands of examples of hideous human abuses taking place right now all over the world. Some of these will be in places outside my existence, some will be just beyond the doorstep, all I will be powerless to prevent. perhaps. Or? perhaps not. I'm an optimist, a pessimist, ignorantly optimistic, wildly pessimistic. I delight and revile myself in others. Some days I pray for the asteroid to wipe us all out, other times I long to languish here another thousand years. I am young, I am tired, I am hurt, I am hurting. Go figure.

The play's the thing

Last night I saw a certain show at a certain theatre. I won't name names as it wasn't the greatest show I've ever seen. Ok ok, so it was like watching paint dry, but without the fumes. It was set in a bookshop for goodness sake! A bookshop? Why on earth would you set a two and a quarter hour play solely in a frickin' bookshop? The first third of the play was so dull, I would honestly have rather watched them re-alphabetise the romance section for an hour. Then a girl comes in to the story and the Plot starts to Thicken. Ooh, we think, who can this girl possibly be? For about 30 seconds, then it becomes patently obvious it's his daughter. At which point the writer tries to throw us off with incredibly deceptive red herrings like 'I never knew my mother, although... I have met my father...' If she'd have had a beard she'd be stroking it. But the most unforgivable sin of the play was a character who leads a secluded life in a locked room upstairs, making dark remarks about forthcoming marches with fundamentalist Somalians and soliloquising that 'sometimes you have to hurt innocent people in order to get things done'. The tension builds and builds as we start constructing some sort of huge terrorist plot this evil guy is about to unleash on the world. At one point he's caught with a whole box of hair lotion! and we're thinking wait! maybe he's gonna make a hairspray bomb! Or some sort of straightening strangling gas! Does that work? Does it have the same explosive qualities as fertiliser? Shudder! What SuperCrime could he possibly be about to perpetrate? Well, actually, he is planning to, and I kid you not here, open a salon. That's right, a HAIRDRESSERS! His dark secret is that he has 50 boxes of Frizz-Ease stuffed away in the attic and he's prepared to sell them! Sell them all!! Wahaha! Kill me.

Mistletoe and Whine

I know most of you will be buying me presents. Lots of presents. To help assist your generosity, I've provided a list of my top ten gifts, in no particular order:

• 89 pairs of Socks - (for the approaching Ice Age)
• A Puppy!! (Just for Christmas)
• Yan and the Pike by Jun Machida
• Anything Shiny
• Fashionable Clothes and Accessories
• Two Tickets for A Minute Too Late at the National
• The New Translation of Don Quixote
• A Cute Girl to take to A Minute Too Late
• A Gift Horse (with Mouth)
• World Peace or a Halloumi Sandwich (whatever's easiest)

Cameo!

Today we've got a Special Guest Star! Our very first outside post is from Ana, a friend from my MA course. She delivered this as monologue the other day, and is possibly one of the most profound, philosophical and poignant pieces of prose I've ever heard.

Donna Air - by Ana Vilencia

DONNA! A Super Woman!

-

DONNA Appears to be one thing aaand is actually ANOTHER!
Because DONNA RAISES THE STAKES!
DONNA works hard. Work is an integral part of DONNA's life.
DONNA is an actress and she is CONSCIOUS that she has a privileged life.
But, DONNA is taking the challenges that life throws at us:
DONNA RUNS THE ZOO!
And being a mother, DONNA is hoping to write nutritional advices for mothers in magazines.
And DONNA wants to set up a BABYFOOD COMPANY!
DONNA is still unmarried.
But, DONNA has her romantic side, and WOULD LOVE to get married.

-

tira rata tara rara rata x 2

-

It takes a special kind of determination to succesfully juggle an acting career, runing two grand houses, setting up a babyfood company, looking after her partner, her daughter and...

HER VERY OWN TROOP OF GORILLAS!

-

DONNA! A Super Woman!

Greater Hits

As people keep asking me about my fortchcoming album, I thought I'd post some snippets of the lyrics to whet the appetite. "ShowStoppers - the very best of vanderPut!" will be available at all Major Record Stores from January 19th, 2005!

B. Keeper

I like Picking Flowers
Pick pick pick pick pick
I like Stroking Bees
Buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz
But when I try them both
The Bees get rather Cross

A Song for the Self-Employed

I bought my princess a new silk dress
It was Tax Deductable!
With bows and lace she wore it with grace
All of it Tax Deductable!

I took her out, lunch was my shout
Unless it’s Tax Deductable!
I claimed the meal as a business deal
It was Tax Deductable!

I’m serving time, for my tax fraud crime
It wasn’t Tax Deductable.
It's a pretty long stretch with an Etch-a-Sketch
No longer Tax Deductable.

Prank Telephone Caller

I’m the prank telephone caller
And I’ll leave a message for you.
If you don’t return-a my call I’ll
Leave another message for you.

Breath of a Salesman

I get the door, she’s in her finest dress
We wine and dine at Pizza Express
We skip the starters, two pizzas no frills,
I miss off the tip and we split the bill.
And later that night, before she even knew it,
I’d seduced her to the music of Rod Stewart.

Also included: Cake Gets in Your Eyes, I'm Gonna Run From You, Remove Packaging And Cook Me On Defrost, and of course, the No. 1 smash hit Delays Are Occuring on the Jubilee Line...

I Scream

He is sitting across the table from me, no more than two meters between us. His expression is difficult to determine; puzzled, quizzical, curious. I cannot be certain, as he is dripping slightly. Probably because of the heat.

I begin to wonder just how long I have been at this table, and my eyes sink down to study the surface. Thick, heavy wood, softly sanded, perhaps beech or oak, but I know next to nothing about these things, so I am probably very wrong. The table is of course of no real consequence, and my companion is aware of this. I am merely trying to distract myself from the reality of his existence, and more specifically, my close proximity to it.

Of it's own accord, my gaze drifts up to meet his, and once again I take in the sight before me. There he is, the ice-cream monkey. If he has a name I do not know it, nor do I know if he would be able to speak it to me. I would be impressed if he was, as he is a monkey. A monkey made from ice cream. I’ll call him Hue.

I should point out that, during this gentle appraisal of my situation, I am not unoccupied. Rather, I am eating. Eating from a bowl. A bowl of ice cream. I begin to feel very guilty. To make matters worse, I think my dessert and the monkey are the same flavour. I glance down to check, and when I look back up Hue is carrying a small spoon up to his mouth. On the spoon rests a soft lump of green ice cream. He pauses briefly, and his eyes blink. He slides the spoon into the widening crack appearing beneath the hole that perhaps represents his nose. Small chewing movements are noticeable. He moves the spoon down to the bowl, placed in front of his little body, and scoops out another spoonful.

At this point I regain a little lucidity. Surely that is equivalent to cannibalism, I ask. Pardon? replies Hue. It seems he can speak after all. Eating ice cream, I venture, when you’re made from it. I’m not eating ice cream, Hue assures me. I pause and look at the contents of his bowl. It is quite clearly ice cream; mint choc chip flavour at that. Umm, yes you are, I counter, you are definitely eating ice cream. Hue pauses, and in an astonishingly effective expression of withering condescension, he raises an eyebrow, which is possibly a flake. In a cool self assured manner he begins to lower his gazes downwards. His expression freezes. More so than before.

As the realisation of his predicament spreads over his small frame, the spoon clatters to the table as his little paw releases it from its soggy grip. Nine slow seconds pass. And then Hue begins screaming, a high pitched monkey scream, which he accompanies with a small running dance, charging around in circles, ice cream spraying off his body, as sweat would flick off an Olympic hammer thrower. The scream pierces all, and I jolt awake, with countless pairs of commuters’ eyes staring at me in concern.