Deaf

I am walking up the hill. Beneath my feet I hear a crunch and look down. I am walking on glass, a windscreen shattered and scattered, spraying on to the pavement. A synapse flares and a flash of memory lights my mind; I see a puddle of fragments, glass fragments, glittering and sparkling in the yellow streetlight. Backtrack 19 years and five hours, the context; I was perhaps five years old, at primary school, and that morning in assembly it is announced that our crossing woman was knocked down and killed the previous evening. A drunk driver, not that I knew the relevance. And later that day, as I walk hand in hand with my mum to our car, I glance to my right and in the early dark I see the small bright shards, the sea of shattered light, all pieces of the jigsaw screaming out the crime of the night before.

Livin' innercity

'All the crazies, tryin' to space me and I don't know
I'm not easy, don't try to please me, stay on the phone' -- Supergrass

Rush hour: a mad dash of the dashing mad, the trained mad, the plain mad. In moments of quiet, the still moments, a man sits opposite, clutching his dark red rucksack to his chest. As the train slows to stop he steps up and advises a fellow fellow to remove his id card from the string around his neck. A crazy person might try and strangle him, he laughs. We all take a step back. It's my stop so I start out of the sliding doors but he takes an early lead. I watch as he struggles to put his arms through both straps of his sack, like a turtle flailing to pull on his shell. On his bag I notice names, signatures, scrawled all over in thick black marker pen, best wishes, good lucks, and keep in touches. School must have been out for a while though, as he has the body of a mid-life crisis, yet the acne-laden skin of the aged teen. His rain mac is slightly too small, he pulls the elastic string around his neck and his hood draws tightly around his face, repeatedly he pushes his plastic glasses up the bridge of his nose, repeatedly. And as he shuffles and twitches away the sadness, the unbearable overwhelming sadness of the image makes me look away embarrassed.

Poor Singing

We are all tied somehow, we are raindrops on a spider's web, little links so small as to be irrelevant, all joining the dots. These days as our lives entwine, rewind and end fine, we see slips of shadows, the past and passed, with which we recall, refall and stand tall. Of course on less lyrical days such as Monday, your second cousin emails you out of the blue, making all the above seem rather obvious. Still I thought it was a pretty good email, emailing strangers is most definitely a habit I approve of, and although it later transpired he was actually my 3rd cousin (which I think makes him my father's sister's daughter's niece's dog's uncle's neighbour), I thought I'd share it with the group:

Thought Matters

what's it all about? Sorry to get all metaphysical on your asp, but what's it all about? Actually forget it, let's rearrange: Metaphysics - what's it all about? You know how they coined the term 'metaphysics'? They were collecting Aristotle's jottings together and had no idea where on the shelf to place his work on philosophy, so in the end they just hoped for the best and stuck it after physics, or as the Greeks would say, meta physics. What kind of irresponsible way is that to name one of the most important works of thought to be inspired? And how much worse is it that in 2355 years, no-one has come up with a more appropriate term. Although it's pretty clear that no-one has really got a good solid grasp on what the word metaphysics actually means. I looked it up at dictionary.com and one of the definitions for metaphysics is, err, metaphysics! Come on guys, how hard can it be?! That reminds me, last week I heard one lecturer pronounce his name 'a-rist-toe-toe-lay'. I think she was trying to impress us. Anyhow, in the absence of any wisdom to expound, I'll leave you with my own little thought of the day, that I thought whilst on the tube. Today. Breathe deep, here it is:

'On our own we are not individuals'

In the mixed

I'm trying to repair my soul at the moment. Ok without wishing to be abhorrently pretentious, which I will fail to avoid, being involved in the arts, in entertainment, in any form of corporate function, well it has a way of sucking the soul from your nostrils. So my way to avoid it is by hanging out with the kids, by giving something back ya know? I'm all love here. Last night I went to Somerset House with the so called 'youth group' from HTB, though regardless of how young they allegedly were, they all succeeded in being taller, better dressed, and far more socially at ease than I was. Indeed so much so, that the following conversation actually took place:

[SFX: Beep of incoming text message]
- A pause as Girl reads message -

Girl: Oh, my friend just met Pharrel and Britney Spears at a party.
Me: Wow, really? Where?
Girl: Ah, she's in LA at the moment.
Me: What party?
Girl: It was for her birthday, her dad works in the music industry.

- brief pause -

Girl [in very unsure tone]: Have you heard of Bob Geldof?
Me: Yes...
Girl: That's her dad.
Me [in my head]: I am wasting the very oxygen that surrounds me.

My... Err...

'Love is all a matter of timing...' -- 2046

Love is balance, and fragility. So poised, so gentle. As is the finding of love, the beginning of love, perhaps more so, like petals slapped by raindrops. I've had two relationships that have emerged from so delicately balanced circumstances; another drink, or a different route, and I wouldn't have ever known these people. Additionally there are those that have come to an end through tiny incidentals, the over complication of a text message, the prolongued callback. A girl springs to mind, french-moroccan, very beautiful, we became friendly one evening although we barely understood each other. It could have been the start of beauty. Funny how some somehows never play out; we never managed the second meet, I wasn't free, she was busy, I was busy, she wasn't free. And it ended. And I never heard a word. And now, I sit and think of the interruptions of this evening, the phone calls, the pauses, the sliding doors. Into each other the pieces and places have failed to fall. In other times, in other chances, this evening would have been the finale, the clutching, the embrace. For now, this time, it is the lights leaving the platform, the turn, the slow footsteps clicking on the stone. Maybe it is all that it will be.

Routined

I wake. I sleep. I wake. I have a bath. I sleep. I wake. So I have a bath. I sit on the train. I talk. I eat. I sleep. I wake. I'm late. So I have a bath. Whilst in the bath I stare at the light fitting. I talk. I eat. I sit on the train. I sit on the tube. I arrive. I leave. I sleep. I wake. I have a bath. Whilst in the bath I stare at the curtains. I toast. Eat cereal. I leave. I'm in a room. I leave. I'm at home. I sleep. I'm in a room. They talk. I wonder what would happen if my feet fell off. I think I'd find it hard to walk. I wake. I leave. I catch a train. I catch a tube. I sleep. I wake. I catch a bus. I sit. I wait. I hate. I leave.
I sleep. I wake. I walk. I jog. I stay home. I have a bath. I sleep.
I write. I write. I write. I write.

Pulling Teeth

Shh! Wait... Wait a minute... I think... Yep... Phew. There's no pain. Oh, there will be, and soon. But not yet. Half of my tooth has fallen out. On Thursday I split it somehow, and last night it broke and I swallowed it. Yum. Luckily I think the remaining filling is somehow blocking off the nerve ending so it's not hurting that much yet, but it's only a matter of time before that gives way, then it will hurt. Like shaving with a salted cheesegrater. Like a soldering iron sizzling into my gum. Dah. This means I have to go to the Dentists. In my world, Dentists rank just above tax officials and ticket inspectors. They might be nice people, but they are suspiciously expensive, the last visit cost me £300. The problem is that like a mechanic, you have no idea as to the validity of their advice, they may or may not be taking you for a ride, but unlike a mechanic you can't just drive your teeth outta there as you're usually in unbearable agony by this time, so you end up forking out hundreds of pounds for your Dentist's romantic break for two. Apparently though, students such as I get treated to free dental care. If that's the case things might not be so bad. In fact I might have a rock and glass sandwich and go for the full works.

Spent

He was a poet, although no one was ever truly sure of course, because he had never rhymed. He said he could, and they believed, as fools fall for the one they love. His eyes spoke of quiet water and dark coal, his lips promised no end. On summer days he could be seen in the cornfield, scratching his words in the ubiquitious sketch book, the paper thick and thirsty, absorbing his thoughts like sponge. Some days the skies would open and rain would mix with the dark blue lines, leaving swirls and traces trickling ever down. In these times he would set down his pen and watch the forming philosophies slowly reveal themselves, chance etching a grand context further and further onto his work. And he would weep, openly.

Sand Show Panda

Though the night's are long, they are finally wonderful. At last, after many sleepless sleeps and nightless nights, I have discovered a partial cure for insomnia. My new copy of Don Quixote!! Now don't get me wrong here, I'm not saying it's dull. Far from it, it's like the first time you saw Cities of Gold. Only with words and better dubbing. It's one of my top three books of all time! That makes the list currently:

South of the Border, West of the Sun - Haruki Murakami
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay - Michael Chabon
Don Quixote! - Cervantes, tr. Edith Grossmann

These days instead of dread I look forward to my pillow time even more than my 16 daily Sun Salutations. When I read my prescribed chapter of the good stuff I just lie back in contentment and dream of Spain. Imagine not only the pressure of writing your first novel, but THE first novel! Ever! That's pretty good going for an ex-con. The scope of the book is simply breathtaking, comic, tragic, insightful and absurd, it has it all. And so influential, the chapters of Marcela the Shepherdess genuinely changed the way I thought; such a profound and beautiful statement on the nature of unrequited unrequested love. I'm in awe. Oh and the greatest translation of it has just come out in paperback! So go, now, improve your life.

So Please Amuse Me

According to my inbox, the world is full of many kind and thoughtful people, people like Elsie Grubbs or Giovanni Short, who each take a few selfless seconds out of every minute to send me an email offering a variety of mortgages, medication and porn. Recently these lovely people have also included 3 or 4 lines of unusual text at the bottom, apparently pulled at random. I've collated a few of them and arranged them into a sort of spam-mail-collage-poem-thing:

I have to do something at school.
there are times when I come home and I haven't slept in 30 hours
and I have to do something at school
and I haven't slept in 30 hours
and there are times
when i come home
and i haven't slept
in 30 hours...

We brought our blankets to sleep in the car
and it gets more power and better road manners.

so write me dear.
for the future is my hope
to have a friendship with a so great guy like you
I make a little present to you.
my schoolgirl Vera was shipped to her older sister

but beware of a silent dog and still water
the lines snaked two thirds of the way down the main concourse
in both directions the lines snaked down

i'm a 4 wheeldrive pickup type of guy. So is my wife.
i am busy, no thank you, go above
to be a stud press here.

Full House

Here's a list of my three favorite household items:

Toast - What a beautiful thing, it's just so forgiving! There is no other cookable item like it. If you burn pizza, throw it away, if you burn sausages, throw them away, but toast? A little scrape and there's a nice new shiny layer of perfectly prepared toast just underneath! It tastes as good as if you'd never burnt it at all. That's the kind of food that suits a distracted and forgetful John down to the ground.

RGXTPF - The new Right Guard Xtreme Total Protection deodorant, Force flavour. It's soooo good, it just smells really really really nice, seriously, I keep sniffing myself all day. Not since the heady days of Lynx Africa (before they 'new and improved' it) have I smelt so good. And to make it even better, it has a side squirty lever as well, so there's no more 90° angle calculation required!

Rick Stein's Three Fruit Marmalade - I quite often get a craving for marmalade (maybe I'm pregnant?) and three days ago I found this jar in the pantry. I'm not really into the Steinster, his programs send me to sleep, and I've spent so much time in Cornwall I'm radioactive. But what a branch out? To go from fish sticks to preserves is quite a leap, and this is really really good stuff. I'm totally hooked on it. I've no idea what I'll do when we run out of it. I'm thinking about getting a hat like Paddington's so I can tape Marmalade sandwiches inside.

Exorcise Regularly

Our local park is adjoined to a cemetery and crematorium, which means however fit you try and keep, however slim, trim and member-of-gym you might be, you're exercising next to rows and rows of dead people all going 'whatever you do, you're gonna end up here!' Not the most encouraging thought. And being a crematorium they occasionally burn dead people. Today whilst I was jogging they were doing such a thing, sending plumes of smoke rising towards heaven, and not so successful plumes which caught the wind and blew all over the grass. So as I'm gasping for gulps of air to avoid passing out from the ultra-exhaustion of running for more than ten meters, I'm also swallowing great lungfuls of the deceased. Nice.

Sleep Less Dream More

I have so much trouble sleeping. I think my main problem is that I find the notion of the insomniac quite romantic. I idealise it into this almost Lynch-like Murakami-esque story of my life. I lie awake, endlessly staring into the dark, tormented by my inability to get any one of the 40 winks on offer. The closer it gets to dawn, the more I think 'must sleep faster!' all to no avail. It just seems like the kind of thing that would happen to Steve McQueen or James Stewart. And it gives you that glazed other-worldly outlook on life, everything seems distanced and dislocated, everybody is connected, random strangers leave you messages in the form of discarded newspapers, receipts and gum wrappers. But it does mean you spend your waking life tired, tetchy, and constantly snapping. As soon as I'm in a crowd I can feel myself get on edge. I used to be quite a Zen-like calm and relaxed laidback guy, but currently I find myself filling with boiling rage just by looking for something in HMV. Whatever you try and look for, there's always somebody standing directly in front of that particular alphabetised section, flicking through one at a time. Still at least it gives you a moment to go through their pockets.

Lightly Burdened

"A seven year old boy terrified by the sight of the incoming
tsunami waves was saved by his pet dog, it emerged today.
The boy's mother Sangeeta said her brother-in-law had given
her the dog as a puppy, following the birth of her second son.
When the brother-in-law died in an accident two years ago,
they named the dog after him. Sangeeta said she believed some
special spirit, perhaps her brother-in-law's, lived in the yellow
hound. 'That dog is my God,' she said." -- the Sun

So it's the New Year, another 365 days closer to the Apocalpyse. Sometimes, whilst busy living, I am struck by the thought that the very act of existence brings me day by day closer to my death. It's quite a paradox that by sleeping and waking we are crossing off days on the great wallplanner in the sky to reach our unavoidable circled fate. Yesterday, having some time to kill, I popped into Brompton Oratory to finish it off. I love that church so much, it is a beautiful building and contains such a profound peacefulness. A Father was in the middle of the Homily, and an Oratory Homily has got to be one of the best around. Every sentence is like a pearl of wisdom, asking to be unwrapped and examined from every angle. Yesterday the father spoke on God being revealed as both truth and beauty; that there is such deep beauty in the truth, and such truth to be found in beauty. There is an immeasurable ugliness in the world, for example a wave wiping out hundreds of thousands of people, but there is also a lot of light. It seems to me that a lot of so-called 'Christianity' is afraid, or over-protective, of their 'truth'. I might be wrong here, I often am, but if it's the actual truth then why are we so concerned about proving it? It's proved itself because it's the truth! Sometimes I wake up, and I have no way to cope; depression, oppression and repression is all around, the world is unfathomable in it's darkness and suffering. To quote the Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, 'It should shake our faith in God'. But always, I am forced to come back, to realise, no matter how absurd it should seem, that there is something bigger.