Rene Descartes had a fetish for cross-eyed women. He conquered this when he realised that the roots of it lay with a cross-eyed girl he had played with as a child. He used this insight to support the idea that human beings have free will.
I love you Rene, you crazy French bastard.
Sunday, 30 December 2007
Now is the least boring time imaginable
Yes, it's half four in the morning. I'm on a large cream sofa in my Aunt's house thinking of new lists, or doing whatever it is that my brain substitutes for rational thought.
Things I love
Cream, the band
Cream, the food
Cream, the colour
I lied about the third one. It's overrated.
I have been blessed enough to have a relatively peaceful holiday season, been involved mostly in visiting family, ignoring my large pile of work and listening to Ambulance Ltd (a dear friend's attempt to bring me into this century, sadly for everyone in earshot I still have one foot in the Floyd) which has been really great. Since I came crashing back into my mother's house in London on 16th of December I have yet to argue with my family, which is possibly some kind of a record. And a sign that my siblings and I are growing up. I rounded up my nearest and dearest - save a few who couldn't make it - and went ice skating at the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew.
They had set up an ice rink there, though.
The evening went without too much of a hitch, despite the efforts of the District Line which made us an hour late. But a man who looked too young to be the manager but held an air of authority nonetheless told us it would be fine to skate during the next time slot. So there we were, happily falling over and almost falling over and I was snapping it all and making my trademark series of nearly-losing-my-balance squawks when an "Ice Marshall" - that's skating jargon for wanker in a hoodie - told us to put the camera away. And if we wanted photographs, there was a professional photographer on-site so we could buy them after the session if we so desired.
This literally took the piss. As if being ripped off to the tune of £11 for the skating wasn't enough. We now had to buy our own memories.
I was glad when he fell over. And felt a little bad for the girl he smacked in the back of the head with a flailing arm and took down with him.
An intermittent list:
Quotes from my 7-year-old cousin
"I can see your knickers. They're green." - On my low-ride jeans
"Don't you have anything that girls like?" - On my music collection
"You've got a hole in your chin." - On my labret piercing
"I can play join the dots with your freckles. It makes a monkey. There's the face, look." - On my left arm
"I don't remember your name all the time, but I do like you...most of the time." - I've seen her every Christmas, Easter and summer since she was born
"You've still got a hole in your chin." - On my labret piercing still being there when she saw me the next day
"It's a bit noisy." - On Led Zeppelin
"I licked a snail!"
(What did it taste like?)
"A worm." - On insects
I know what you're thinking. And yes, that list was just an excuse to use the word intermittent.
The fast-approaching New Year (don't think the phrase entirely warrants capitals, but it feels important so I've put them in anyway.) has made me reflect on everything 2007 has brought. I've seen more bands than I can count, which is great, and made myself (with some help from others, I'll admit) happier than I've ever been in my life. Which is a good place to start a new one, I think. In respect to resolutions, one of mine is to make fewer lists. I don't want it to develop into some kind of compulsion to constantly order or categorise things. So by making a list of New Years' Resolutions, I'd actually be screwing up.
You see my dilemma here.
I'm actually spending New Year in Brighton, my home away from my homes away from home. That makes more sense than you might think. I've been trying and failing to work out where home is, and what it means. Is it in London, where I was born and raised, where my parents live? Is it in Hull, in the first house that has ever really been mine, where I live with some of my closest friends, study a subject I love and pursue the career I want to follow for the rest of my life? Is it in Blackpool, where 30-odd members (read also 30 odd members) of my extended family live, all of whom are loving, welcoming and warm? Or is it in Brighton? I've only really been there once, but when I did, I found his arms.
And they do say home is where the heart is.
Things I love
Cream, the band
Cream, the food
Cream, the colour
I lied about the third one. It's overrated.
I have been blessed enough to have a relatively peaceful holiday season, been involved mostly in visiting family, ignoring my large pile of work and listening to Ambulance Ltd (a dear friend's attempt to bring me into this century, sadly for everyone in earshot I still have one foot in the Floyd) which has been really great. Since I came crashing back into my mother's house in London on 16th of December I have yet to argue with my family, which is possibly some kind of a record. And a sign that my siblings and I are growing up. I rounded up my nearest and dearest - save a few who couldn't make it - and went ice skating at the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew.
They had set up an ice rink there, though.
The evening went without too much of a hitch, despite the efforts of the District Line which made us an hour late. But a man who looked too young to be the manager but held an air of authority nonetheless told us it would be fine to skate during the next time slot. So there we were, happily falling over and almost falling over and I was snapping it all and making my trademark series of nearly-losing-my-balance squawks when an "Ice Marshall" - that's skating jargon for wanker in a hoodie - told us to put the camera away. And if we wanted photographs, there was a professional photographer on-site so we could buy them after the session if we so desired.
This literally took the piss. As if being ripped off to the tune of £11 for the skating wasn't enough. We now had to buy our own memories.
I was glad when he fell over. And felt a little bad for the girl he smacked in the back of the head with a flailing arm and took down with him.
An intermittent list:
Quotes from my 7-year-old cousin
"I can see your knickers. They're green." - On my low-ride jeans
"Don't you have anything that girls like?" - On my music collection
"You've got a hole in your chin." - On my labret piercing
"I can play join the dots with your freckles. It makes a monkey. There's the face, look." - On my left arm
"I don't remember your name all the time, but I do like you...most of the time." - I've seen her every Christmas, Easter and summer since she was born
"You've still got a hole in your chin." - On my labret piercing still being there when she saw me the next day
"It's a bit noisy." - On Led Zeppelin
"I licked a snail!"
(What did it taste like?)
"A worm." - On insects
I know what you're thinking. And yes, that list was just an excuse to use the word intermittent.
The fast-approaching New Year (don't think the phrase entirely warrants capitals, but it feels important so I've put them in anyway.) has made me reflect on everything 2007 has brought. I've seen more bands than I can count, which is great, and made myself (with some help from others, I'll admit) happier than I've ever been in my life. Which is a good place to start a new one, I think. In respect to resolutions, one of mine is to make fewer lists. I don't want it to develop into some kind of compulsion to constantly order or categorise things. So by making a list of New Years' Resolutions, I'd actually be screwing up.
You see my dilemma here.
I'm actually spending New Year in Brighton, my home away from my homes away from home. That makes more sense than you might think. I've been trying and failing to work out where home is, and what it means. Is it in London, where I was born and raised, where my parents live? Is it in Hull, in the first house that has ever really been mine, where I live with some of my closest friends, study a subject I love and pursue the career I want to follow for the rest of my life? Is it in Blackpool, where 30-odd members (read also 30 odd members) of my extended family live, all of whom are loving, welcoming and warm? Or is it in Brighton? I've only really been there once, but when I did, I found his arms.
And they do say home is where the heart is.
Friday, 14 December 2007
Things I learned today
1. There are no pencil sharpeners in my house.
2. You can't sharpen an eyeliner pencil with a knife.
3. Getting eyeliner off a knife is extremely difficult
4. Trying to put on eyeliner with an unsharpened pencil is a bad idea.
I think I have a splinter in my eye.
2. You can't sharpen an eyeliner pencil with a knife.
3. Getting eyeliner off a knife is extremely difficult
4. Trying to put on eyeliner with an unsharpened pencil is a bad idea.
I think I have a splinter in my eye.
Wednesday, 5 December 2007
Gon' fill like a cesspool, wanna be with you
Things that pissed me off today
Banging my foot on the lamp as I scrambled out of bed
Being the sober person in a room full of drunk people
Someone implying Status Quo were better than Led Zeppelin
Inability to sleep at a normal time
A thing that cheered me up today
As I was walking home at some ungodly hour I was offered a lift by a man whose mode of transportation was an office chair.
Banging my foot on the lamp as I scrambled out of bed
Being the sober person in a room full of drunk people
Someone implying Status Quo were better than Led Zeppelin
Inability to sleep at a normal time
A thing that cheered me up today
As I was walking home at some ungodly hour I was offered a lift by a man whose mode of transportation was an office chair.
Monday, 3 December 2007
Don't ever think, ever think, ever think too much
I got back from my adventuring in Brighton yesterday night, after the most hellish journey ever.
I got to Kings Cross after an adequate train journey from Three Bridges (not even a place, just three bridges and a train station apparently) and a bus ride to there - trains don't run out of Brighton on a Sunday. Being a Londoner I literally could not understand this concept. - during which I got hailstones in my eye and ear.
Then the big screen said the two words I did not want to see next to each other; "Hull" and "Cancelled". I sighed. I plugged in my headphones. I drowned it all out to the dulcet tones of Michael Stipe.
When I came back into the real world I learned that I was meant to get on the 19.30 train to Leeds and change there, with everyone else who was meant to catch my train. Along with all the people who were on the train anyway, going to Leeds.
Now is it just me, or are trains really not designed to hold double the people they're meant to? What we were essentially dealing with was double the passengers on one train.
Which just ended up being physically painful. There was a minor stampede when the platform was announced, which I got knocked down and trampled on in. I love prepositions. But that was nowhere near as exciting as the journey down.
Usually from my house to the train station takes about 20 minutes. I wanted to be on the safe side, so I wanted to give it 35. My train was at 2, I was at the bus stop at 1.30, having rushed from my seminar, bumped in to a friend of mine who told me someone had tried to break into her window when she was asleep. As a result of this I spent an extra 5 minutes evaluating the worth of everything in my room and locking stuff up in my housemates' rooms. I'm on the bottom floor you see, as is the friend in question.
Anyway as a result I was at this bus stop at half one, still making decent time, there was a bus at 33 minutes past, then 35, then 38, then 42, you get the idea. My house is just off a big main road so buses are frequent. So I'd get on the next bus and be at the station at roughly ten to 2. ("What a well-thought-out plan!" Chris would relate to me when I told him over the phone later, "I certainly can't conceive of anything going wrong. Do continue.")
So I waited patiently.
Then not-so-patiently.
Then not patiently at all.
Five minutes had passed. Then ten. Then I had that horrible sinking twisting feeling in your stomach when you know exactly what you need and that you can do absolutely nothing to get it. My only option was to stand there, block out the passage of time with my mp3 player (Radiohead, if you were wondering) and will and will the bus to come. I didn't even have any spare money to get a taxi, I'd spent the last of it on my ticket.
I got to the station, agonisingly, at 2.04. I went over to the desk and explained that I'd been messed around by buses and had missed my train,and were there any trains that would get me to Doncaster in time for 3.15 for my connection to Kings Cross? I may have spoken a tad quickly.
"Can I see your ticket?" He said.
Yes...
"This ticket's only valid for the 3.15 from Doncaster to Kings Cross," He said. Then "You've just missed this train." He looked at me as if he'd told me something I didn't already know. I stared at him.
"I could do you a single ticket to Brighton for today...." He looked at me slightly accusingly, as if it were a huge bother. I reached for my purse.
"How much?"
"For today, that'll be £61. With your student discount."
I put my purse back in my bag.
"Can I get a refund for this ticket?"
"No."
I wanted to find a picture of Chris, show him the man whose heart he was breaking, but I didn't have one. Instead I trudged back over to the screen and looked at the departures. There was another train to Doncaster leaving in a few seconds time, arriving at 3.30 if the man behind the desk was to be trusted. I thought to myself, If my connection train is delayed by 15 minutes I can still - just - make it! So I half-strode, half-jogged toward the platform, thinking There is no WAY this is a bad idea.
I'd been on the train almost an hour when my brain caught up with whatever impulse spurred me to do this. I was on my way to a city I didn't know to catch a train I should not logically expect to be there, if it had all gone to plan and the Kings Cross train was on time or had been delayed by anything less than 15 minutes exactly, I would be stranded in Doncaster, with no money, no food and no ticket home.
I tried not to think about this as the journey wore on. I would cross that bridge should I come to it, I decided.
As I got off the train at Doncaster there was a train on the opposite platform. I grabbed a man with a navy blue hat having only seen him from the corner of my eye. To this moment I don't know whether he was an employee or had just picked the wrong day to wear a navy blue hat.
"Which train is that?" I demanded of him.
"Kings Cross one. Got delayed."
Those five words were the most beautiful I'd ever heard. I wanted to hug him. Instead I thanked him with a squeeze of his arm (which I had already established somewhat of a grip on) and dashed for the doors. A whistle was blowing.
If nothing else, the bruises on my chest as the automatic doors closed are testimony to the fact I got to Brighton on time. And I went on to have a very good weekend indeed.
I got to Kings Cross after an adequate train journey from Three Bridges (not even a place, just three bridges and a train station apparently) and a bus ride to there - trains don't run out of Brighton on a Sunday. Being a Londoner I literally could not understand this concept. - during which I got hailstones in my eye and ear.
Then the big screen said the two words I did not want to see next to each other; "Hull" and "Cancelled". I sighed. I plugged in my headphones. I drowned it all out to the dulcet tones of Michael Stipe.
When I came back into the real world I learned that I was meant to get on the 19.30 train to Leeds and change there, with everyone else who was meant to catch my train. Along with all the people who were on the train anyway, going to Leeds.
Now is it just me, or are trains really not designed to hold double the people they're meant to? What we were essentially dealing with was double the passengers on one train.
Which just ended up being physically painful. There was a minor stampede when the platform was announced, which I got knocked down and trampled on in. I love prepositions. But that was nowhere near as exciting as the journey down.
Usually from my house to the train station takes about 20 minutes. I wanted to be on the safe side, so I wanted to give it 35. My train was at 2, I was at the bus stop at 1.30, having rushed from my seminar, bumped in to a friend of mine who told me someone had tried to break into her window when she was asleep. As a result of this I spent an extra 5 minutes evaluating the worth of everything in my room and locking stuff up in my housemates' rooms. I'm on the bottom floor you see, as is the friend in question.
Anyway as a result I was at this bus stop at half one, still making decent time, there was a bus at 33 minutes past, then 35, then 38, then 42, you get the idea. My house is just off a big main road so buses are frequent. So I'd get on the next bus and be at the station at roughly ten to 2. ("What a well-thought-out plan!" Chris would relate to me when I told him over the phone later, "I certainly can't conceive of anything going wrong. Do continue.")
So I waited patiently.
Then not-so-patiently.
Then not patiently at all.
Five minutes had passed. Then ten. Then I had that horrible sinking twisting feeling in your stomach when you know exactly what you need and that you can do absolutely nothing to get it. My only option was to stand there, block out the passage of time with my mp3 player (Radiohead, if you were wondering) and will and will the bus to come. I didn't even have any spare money to get a taxi, I'd spent the last of it on my ticket.
I got to the station, agonisingly, at 2.04. I went over to the desk and explained that I'd been messed around by buses and had missed my train,and were there any trains that would get me to Doncaster in time for 3.15 for my connection to Kings Cross? I may have spoken a tad quickly.
"Can I see your ticket?" He said.
Yes...
"This ticket's only valid for the 3.15 from Doncaster to Kings Cross," He said. Then "You've just missed this train." He looked at me as if he'd told me something I didn't already know. I stared at him.
"I could do you a single ticket to Brighton for today...." He looked at me slightly accusingly, as if it were a huge bother. I reached for my purse.
"How much?"
"For today, that'll be £61. With your student discount."
I put my purse back in my bag.
"Can I get a refund for this ticket?"
"No."
I wanted to find a picture of Chris, show him the man whose heart he was breaking, but I didn't have one. Instead I trudged back over to the screen and looked at the departures. There was another train to Doncaster leaving in a few seconds time, arriving at 3.30 if the man behind the desk was to be trusted. I thought to myself, If my connection train is delayed by 15 minutes I can still - just - make it! So I half-strode, half-jogged toward the platform, thinking There is no WAY this is a bad idea.
I'd been on the train almost an hour when my brain caught up with whatever impulse spurred me to do this. I was on my way to a city I didn't know to catch a train I should not logically expect to be there, if it had all gone to plan and the Kings Cross train was on time or had been delayed by anything less than 15 minutes exactly, I would be stranded in Doncaster, with no money, no food and no ticket home.
I tried not to think about this as the journey wore on. I would cross that bridge should I come to it, I decided.
As I got off the train at Doncaster there was a train on the opposite platform. I grabbed a man with a navy blue hat having only seen him from the corner of my eye. To this moment I don't know whether he was an employee or had just picked the wrong day to wear a navy blue hat.
"Which train is that?" I demanded of him.
"Kings Cross one. Got delayed."
Those five words were the most beautiful I'd ever heard. I wanted to hug him. Instead I thanked him with a squeeze of his arm (which I had already established somewhat of a grip on) and dashed for the doors. A whistle was blowing.
If nothing else, the bruises on my chest as the automatic doors closed are testimony to the fact I got to Brighton on time. And I went on to have a very good weekend indeed.
Thursday, 29 November 2007
Instant Karma's Gonna Get You
Today's instant karma came in the form of that horrible time where you oversleep, and you know that if you rush, and maybe overlook certain parts of getting ready, you could make it to where you have to be.
But, honestly. I've been super enough this week. Plus, the two friends I usually go to the seminar in question (which started in ten minutes) weren't going, so I'd have to sit on my own...
It was at this point that I turned around and faced up to myself. Although I may miss lectures for the smallest reason, there is a tiny but crucial line between the smallest reason and no reason at all.
I got out of my pyjamas, put a bandana on instead of washing my hair (see?) and headed down the road to uni.
My reward? Finding out that the actor who played Jesus in the film Jesus Of Nazareth - with his bright blue eyes and voice slightly resembling that of Alan Rickman - now has a bit part, as a hospital orderley, in Casualty.
I'm now packing for when I go to Brighton tomorrow. I say packing, I'm "packing" music on to my mp3 player, to listen to on the journey.
If anything, I should probably be "packing" my head full of sleep.
But, honestly. I've been super enough this week. Plus, the two friends I usually go to the seminar in question (which started in ten minutes) weren't going, so I'd have to sit on my own...
It was at this point that I turned around and faced up to myself. Although I may miss lectures for the smallest reason, there is a tiny but crucial line between the smallest reason and no reason at all.
I got out of my pyjamas, put a bandana on instead of washing my hair (see?) and headed down the road to uni.
My reward? Finding out that the actor who played Jesus in the film Jesus Of Nazareth - with his bright blue eyes and voice slightly resembling that of Alan Rickman - now has a bit part, as a hospital orderley, in Casualty.
I'm now packing for when I go to Brighton tomorrow. I say packing, I'm "packing" music on to my mp3 player, to listen to on the journey.
If anything, I should probably be "packing" my head full of sleep.
Wednesday, 28 November 2007
Rising above it
A weird dream I had:
I was running around Trafalgar Square and other various parts of West London with a book of Oscar Wilde quotes. I was just running up to people, stopping them, reading them an Oscar Wilde quote, then letting them go on their way. I was also carrying a cone of Mr. Whippy (no Flake), and whenever it ran out, and looked away, when I looked back it had always refilled itself.
There was also a kind of subplot involving a tour bus and some old people but the details escape me.
----------------------------------------
You may be aware I haven't blogged in a while. A long while. But luckily I had a very good friend round last night who re-installed Windows and saved my computer, who was otherwise At Death's Door And Knocking Pretty Damn Loud. Now,when I click on something, it does it! Amazing. I've been showing it off to everyone, but it turns out my computer is not supercoolwickedawesomebad, but it just now functions like a normal, average computer. I'm just not used to things working as they should. Says more about me than about my computer, I have a horrible feeling.
In a way, this blog by its very nature is a tribute. In that I stopped, abruptly, when I was otherwise in full swing, then didn't write for ages, then one day decided to reappear out of the culturally devoid abyss and reform for a one-off and charge people £125 a go.
Hold on. I think halfway through that sentence I confused myself with a quintessential rock band.
I've been doing a lot of thinking, putting my life in perspective to things and such and the like.
And I've realised that it really doesn't matter who has Led Zeppelin tickets and who doesn't.
Or who cried when she found out her ex-boyfriend was going.
Because I have my integrity, and no amount of they haven't gigged in over 20 years can change that.
I was running around Trafalgar Square and other various parts of West London with a book of Oscar Wilde quotes. I was just running up to people, stopping them, reading them an Oscar Wilde quote, then letting them go on their way. I was also carrying a cone of Mr. Whippy (no Flake), and whenever it ran out, and looked away, when I looked back it had always refilled itself.
There was also a kind of subplot involving a tour bus and some old people but the details escape me.
----------------------------------------
You may be aware I haven't blogged in a while. A long while. But luckily I had a very good friend round last night who re-installed Windows and saved my computer, who was otherwise At Death's Door And Knocking Pretty Damn Loud. Now,when I click on something, it does it! Amazing. I've been showing it off to everyone, but it turns out my computer is not supercoolwickedawesomebad, but it just now functions like a normal, average computer. I'm just not used to things working as they should. Says more about me than about my computer, I have a horrible feeling.
In a way, this blog by its very nature is a tribute. In that I stopped, abruptly, when I was otherwise in full swing, then didn't write for ages, then one day decided to reappear out of the culturally devoid abyss and reform for a one-off and charge people £125 a go.
Hold on. I think halfway through that sentence I confused myself with a quintessential rock band.
I've been doing a lot of thinking, putting my life in perspective to things and such and the like.
And I've realised that it really doesn't matter who has Led Zeppelin tickets and who doesn't.
Or who cried when she found out her ex-boyfriend was going.
Because I have my integrity, and no amount of they haven't gigged in over 20 years can change that.
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