Sonic Youth

I'm reading the book Into The Wild by Jon Krakauer.  It's about this young guy who decides to escape the duplicity of 'modern life' for the 'sincerity' of self-subsistence in the wilds of Alaska. It was only ever meant to be an adventure and it's obvious that by the end, before he got ill, the young man was totally ready to embrace a return to civilisation.  In having explored to the extent he did, the wilder regions of the world, he also conquered  the barrens of his own internal landscape.  I don't want to spoil it for you but, yeah he doesn't make it Out of The Wild.  He dies after mistakenly eating a poisonous root.  I watched the film in Toronto's fancy schmancy Yorkville area on my first night out in the city.  I had just arrived not 4 weeks earlier, full of hope and drive.  Thinking back I was as naive about my future in Canada as the protagonist in the book had been about going where the wild things go and like him, I pretty much died trying.

But back to the book, and Jon Krakauer's writing.  It's awesome.  For example - here is how Krakauer explains the allure of rock climbing: 

"By and by your attention becomes so intensely focused that you no longer notice the raw knuckles, the cramping thighs, the strain of maintaining non-stop concentration.  A trancelike state settles over your efforts; the climb becomes a clear-eyed dream.  Hours slide by like minutes.  The accumulated clutter of day-to-day existence - the lapses of conscience, the unpaid bills, the bungled opportunities, the dust under the couch, the inescapable prison of your genes - all of it is temporarily forgotten, crowded from your thoughts by an overpowering clarity of purpose and the seriousness of the task at hand."

In amongst all of that eloquence, I realised with a huge sense of relief that I am, in fact, completely normal.  How liberating to know that all those things that clutter my mind are universal concerns.  They must be.

Anyway - back to the book.  If you haven't read it and you were once a nihilistic, impressionable, idealist who felt the world owed them a living, this book is like a return to forever. For that reason too, it can be quite a difficult read - as difficult as holding a mirror up to a scar.  The extent to which the read affects you will depend on how far you've travelled along the path of your internal expedition.

Blue Moon, Blue Mood

I'm pretty sure I can put my recent wistfulness down to the mesmerisingly full and abundantly well-endowed moon of this past weekend.  It was larger and shinier than I think I've ever seen - shinier than the moons of my youth in the sand dunes of Eastern Spain; shinier than the moons in the cloudless skies of Milford Sounds in New Zealand's South Island that were so bright, the stars were little more than pinholes and shinier than the first moon shared with a lover.

It is said that the phases of the moon control the tides of the ocean, human behaviour even; Women especially are affected by the moon and their menstrual cycle is intimately linked to the lunar phase.  So I can only conclude that this plumpy dumpy moon was behind a weekend of the most lucid dreams I've had since I accidentally took two doses of Night Nurse.

I found myself lying awake both nights this weekend thinking about stuff that happened in the past - so long ago it hardly matters today.  I mean stuff from over 30 years ago.  I remembered lying face down on my aunt's bed in Northern Spain, I must have been 9 years old.  My back was the colour of beef jerky.  I'd just spent a day at the beach in the middle of a hot Spanish Summer and no-one had apparently thought to put sunscreen on me.  I can actually still remember the pain.  I find myself feeling resentful towards the adults that should have (in my mind) cared a little bit more.  But who knows? Maybe I was an impossible child.

No sooner does that memory fade, I fast forward 15 years to a trip to Cuba I took with my then boyfriend and his family.  I got into a fight with his mum.  We were both in mourning - her for her husband and me for my mum - I was highly strung, she was angry and we were both looking for a punchbag.  It got stupid and I was an arsehole.  That's all I could think about - how much of an arsehole I'd been.  Then another jump in time, this one just to a previous Chrismas.   I'm alone on Christmas Day and I open a present from said boyfriend's mum and it's my favourite perfume and really pretty underwear.  I'm such an arsehole. 

I think about that lady and I send her love and light and I move on.  I send some more to my ex.

I think about the last conversation with my mum.  The last time I saw her.  I think about when I might see her again.  I'm crying now and exhausted.  I fall asleep at some point, not sure when or how and wake up the next day feeling rotten. 

The following night I go to bed determined not to do this again.  But of course I do.  Same awful feelings of guilt and regret, different memories.  Argghhh.  Ah well, I suppose it's all part of purging.  I would like to think I'm a much smaller arsehole these days.  Perhaps this is my mind's way of reminding me to be nice.

So the moon appears to have disappeared from the night sky and with it my self-loathing.  That's good.  Ah life's lessons eh?

Sir Winalott

So I didn't win the Euro millions this weekend, which is a shame because it was a triple or even quadruple rollover worth 90 million.  And yes, I wanted it all.  I opened my heart up and thought about winning all week.  I placed a cosmic order to win but in the end, I didn't even get one number.  Not even a cocktail sausage of a chance.  And I honestly believe it's because I blocked.  I didn't truly believe I could win and since thought precedes action - well it stands to reason that it should have resulted in a status quo.  My husband has strategically placed brochures for rehab centres about the place.   But honestly, I'm not going mad.  I KNOW I can win the lottery.  I just have to buy myself winning it.  I have to live the feeling.  And so next week, I'll try again.

See the thing is, I already feel like I've won the lottery (pass the sick bag), no but seriously - I live in relative luxury compared to much of the world.  Apart from the widespread poverty in large chunks of the world, there are also the crises in Japan, Darfur, Zimbabwe, Australia, the Middle East - I could go on.  Dreadful.  Actually I don't have to look that far away for examples.  The current economic crisis in the UK is cause enough to despair.  2.5 million unemployed, cuts to public services left right and centre, the pensions crisis - christ on a cracker!  I have a lot to be grateful for and I truly, deeply am.  So you see, when I thought about what I would do with a lottery win - apart from work out my notice (and that's the first sign that life's really ok - who works out their notice with 90 million in the bank, me apparently) I wouldn't really want to change much in my life that I'm not already working towards now and can realistically achieve without the millions.   True life aspirations are not generally (not in the developed world at least) remediated with money, but instead require staunch dedication.  I have made a solid promise to myself to fulfil certain life-long dreams and I intend to honour it - but none of it will happen overnight.  I would add that I can tick off quite a few already.

That said, money and I mean copious amounts of it would allow me to be more altruistic.  And while that sounds like a pile of cheese, if money were no object, I would spend my days volunteering.... or drinking.  See, that's the kind of  attitude that lets the side down. 

So anyway, I'm planning on winning the lottery next week.  Think of this as an experiment.

Was Not Was

Well my cherubins, you sent me the vibes and I believe they worked the way they were supposed to.  You know that flat I mentioned in the last post, the one I said was absolutely perfect?  We'll after almost no deliberation - well that's not entirely true - a little back and forth did take place, The Silverback and I decided it wasn't for us.  I was surprised at first at how quickly I let the whole thing slide and then I realised, the vibes!! The vibes!!!  When the decision is the right one, it leaves no trace of aftertaste.  See the problem wasn't the flat - no - that cunning little package was the real deal.  Built over 3 levels, it felt like a proper little mansion.  The bedrooms were a fantastic size, the bathroom shiny and new (with no weird colours going on) and the kitchen was out of a catalogue but a 5 minute stroll around the area and the whole proposition had turned more putrid than Barry White's first dump of Boxing Day.

It's really quite sad what's happened to that area or I should say, what's been allowed to happen to the area.   On the borders of West Hamstead - in other words Kilburn - a word that causes even the strongest stomach to turn -was once a jolly little Irish area.  On a return stroll the day following our initial viewing of the place, it became clear we had in fact skidded into the very arsehole of London.  On the surface the local park looks like a shining example of regeneration but take a closer look and while the ergonomic and pastel coloured swings, which no doubt will have cost the local tax payer (out-numbered by 10-1) a pretty penny  - the local community still comprises the very dregs of Fat Bastard's crapstool and no amount of pastel coloured street furniture is going to change that.

The other clues of course were the sheer numbers of housing associations, women's centres and community halls- not exactly the sign of an affluent area.  Oh they too were pastel coloured, made to look like little haberdasheries but sewing, I can guarantee you, is not one of the activities you'll find on the list.  Forgive me but it's precisely those areas that turn out to be the most expensive in the end. Between outrageous council tax bills (well someone has to pay for all that pastel coloured paint) and home contents insurance, you may as well stump up the extra £100,000k for a place in West Hamstead proper and be done with it.

So, it's back to the drawing board this Saturday to bounce between flats for sale like human pinballs. To be honest, it's not like we have anything better to do.  And in the meantime I'm going to make the most of the view of the tennis courts because I think they will soon be replaced by something altogether more urban.

Let me end on a note of appreciation and validation.  I met my husband and daughter for dinner at a local south east asian restaurant after work today - it being Friday and all.   As I kissed them both and ordered a beer and my favourite pork and prawn steamed dumplings,  all I could think about was a nine year old child who has been trawling the rescue centres around the worst hit quake area in Japan - looking for his missing parents. My sense of appreciation for my family, my silly little life and the delicious dumplings heightened in that moment.  And even now with everyone in bed and me about to join them in the land of Nod - my thoughts are with all those people who tonight, once again have to do without.

And in this sense I do take my hat off to Kilburn and it's community centres.  I just don't want to live there.  

It's like I've turned a corner or something

Let me set the scene for this beautiful day.  I'm at the kitchen table, the kitchen in Warwick Avenue, London that overlooks private tennis courts.  The sun is trying to kiss the rooftops through a veil of early morning mist.  I feel lucky and happy to be here.  Ah - the kettle has just boiled and crumpets have popped out of the toaster, as if it could, it's about to get better.

I must admit that while Sunday precedes Monday and on Monday we all step into the vortex of the working week - there is something very rejuvenating about an early Sunday morning.  It feels like that release of being given a second chance; a sort of opportunity to start a fresh.  Do you know what I mean?  A whole new world of fresh choices packaged up into the first couple of hours of the day.   This feeling should be the domain of a Saturday really don't you think? And yet, Saturday morning feels more like the recovery room of a hospital OR (at least it does to me .)

The Lish and I have now moved to the front room where the white light of the early morning also fills the room.  We're watching Tiny Pops (kids TV) - Captain Mack.  If you have to watch a children's TV programme, I would recommend this one; It's full of cleverly hidden double-entendres and ridiculous plots that have actually made me belly laugh - a nice change from the usual condescending drivel.  Captain Mack's punchlines include: "I'm a sky captain - I know everything." and "I have to go, my monkey needs me."

In other news, we've seen a house - oh and it's a good-un but a lot of things need to happen before I can start telling you all about it here.  Just send me the good vibes please that we get a stab at going for it.

Earlier in the week, I went to see Vernon God Little at the Young Vic Theatre.  What an amazing production.  I read the book years and years ago in Thailand I think.  It was a period in my life where I pummelled through books at the rate of one every couple of days - that's a backpacker's life.  A couple of books stayed with me out of the 100s (and I mean 100s of books I managed to get through in 2 years of travel - yep 2 years.)  Vernon God Little by DBC Pierre is one. It was his debut novel and won the Booker Prize in 2003.  Damage Done is another -  an Australian's 12 years of hell in Bangkok's most notorious prison and probably The Pursuit of Love, a tragi-comic story of love in the 40s - a book every young woman who is led by her heart should read.

I could not imagine how you could start to stage a a high school masacre set in deepest darkest Texas. Vernon Godfrey Little is a 15 year old who when his friend Jesus Navarro commits suicide after killing sixteen bullying schoolmates becomes something of a scapegoat in his small hometown of Martirio. Fearing the death penalty, he goes on the run to Mexico.  The Guardian says this about the stage adaptation: ‘Biliously funny… a helter-skelter portrait of a crazy world.'

I couldn't (and I mean could not at all) have said it better myself. If it tours your town - go see it. And read the book too. You won't be disappointed with either.
In other news, The Lish went to London Zoo and saw a donkey.

Wave To All My Friends

It's always the way with me.  I spend months on end living a near hermit-like existence in a circular routine of school run - work - home - bedtime, feeling like a person I used to know but have long ago lost touch with when out of the blue someone in what I've long realised is my AMAZING circle of friends decides to roll up their sleeves and scoop me out of the fishtank.  This happened twice this week.  I'd sadly had to blow a friend out at the weekend because I'd been so freaking ill with what I'm convinced was dysentery and feeling more than a little sorry for myself when I get a text message on Wednesday from said person asking if I'd like to meet up for a swift one at the local pub.

I can't tell you the last time I was this spontaneous, but I didn't need to be told twice.  In one fluid movement I pretty much got home, stepped out of the corporate and into the hippie - bit of spritz and lip gloss and off I swept (my thanks to The Silverback for the short notice babysitting).  I bounced on the balls of my trainers down to The Elgin, a pub near Maida Vale tube that has undergone what I call 'ponsification'.  What was once a perfectly charming little alehouse is now a purple lizard lounge with poker tables and chandeliers.  Whatever! dolls - the beer taste the freaking same.

Man, do I ever love nights like this though.  Midweek usually produces a wily crowd and tonight did not disappoint.  Even without the uplifting conversation that ranged from the mystical world of spirit to saucy holidays in France, we wouldn't have been bored.  Then...enter the Lebanese duo - the Christian and the Muslim  -  one, an eternal kid whose earliest childhood memory is seeing a naked woman for the first time on a family holiday in Mallorca as a boy and the other quite simply the angriest mofo I've ever met.   I must admit, I kind of started tuning the them out round about the third vodka tonic.  All good clean fun I suppose.

Then the following night I was cajoled out, this time to a private club with the PR girls who only drink with 'the beautiful people'  These girls would rather literally DIE than drink at a place like The Elgin.  Course the danger with these girls is that like it or not conversation always turns to shop talk.  When the Blackberries come out, it's definitely time to leave.  All is forgiven though, always - they are a life source and worry, worry, worry for my sanity.  Let's face it someone has to, cos lord knows I walk a fine line some days. 

Plus, you know, they got the good cocktails.

Happy Feet

Has this been the longest winter or what?  It has felt like an ice age and listen, I've experienced a Canadian winter which would, you would think make anything over minus 2 degrees feel like The Bahamas.  The relentless grey skies and dampness grinds like a whinging kid until all you want to do is open your own wrists.  So when the sun made an appearance today I downed tools at work and pissed off out of the office for the most efficient of walks.  And what a difference a break makes.

Pressure at work continues to weigh down on me but in the words of Lena Horne, it's not the weight that will kill you - it's the way you carry it.  Personally, I've decided to carry one box at a time.  Result:  feeling less like a robot and more like someone who will one day be able to call the shots a bit more.  I'm almost enjoying it.

Situation at home has improved too.  Nothing short of a miracle there.

Actually in this respect I do believe I've experience a true rebirth interally - externally I've undergone a bit of a reshaping too.  Thanks to my recent brush with death by poop - I've actually (finally) lost close to 5 lbs of the most stubborn back fat, muffin top and I feel great.  I believe I don't look too shabby either.  All I need to do now is get the shears out and trim up and I'm literally ready for my close up.  What fun!

And to this point - I'm less than 7 weeks away from the grand unveil - beach time inThe Canaries.  I'm off on a yoga holiday in the sun.  All I have to do is continue to eat like a bird and all will be well.  Judging from the recent increase in appetite this restraint looks to be slipping away.  I may have had beetroot for dinner but I am duty bound to admit to a double chocolate muffin today that I didn't exactly nibble at during my little stroll in the sun.  In fact anyone watching would think I'd recently been released from a Japanese prisoner of war camp.

Ah, well - Rome wasn't build in a day.