Pleasing/exhausting weekend. Friday I went to a photography opening with Marla in Long Island City. Farcical, stoned inability to remember the names of people we'd met before. Home to a night of oppressive insomnia.
Saturday I went with Rahul to a strange little underground club where Brandon was DJing. He was excellent; although in our magnificently mashed condition, he observed, "A robot playing its iPod would have seemed excellent."
Outside, I recited the whole of 'In my craft or sullen art' to a smoker called Dylan, which is impressive in that I couldn't do it now, and offensive in that I am a pretentious dick. Back to Rahul's afterwards, talking nonsense until midday Sunday. Then everyone else fell asleep, and I lay on the sofa listening to minimal French house music and wondering why Valium doesn't work on me.
Once again, Brandon wrote a poem in my notebook, this time about "holy microphones through which people pass."
Vaguely related: Don't Blow It, from the perfect Solaris soundtrack (it comes in at about 4'50'' here), is the ultimate comedown tune. An acquaintance back in London directed a short film to it a few years back. I'll try to track him/it down and post it here if I do - it's wonderful.
Wrote the initial encounter between two of the main characters in One Two Three. Good.
Insectival fact, courtesy of Breeze, Keeper of Bees - you can fit 30 bees in a matchbox. Wait. How does he know that?
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
My book
is called One Two Three.
There are other books called One Two Three. I know. I, too, have access to google and amazon.
Why is it called this? You must know and will not be able to sleep until you do.
Well, it's about three people. Or it's meant to be, although supposedly peripheral characters keep elbowing their way in and taking over. Calling it One Two Three Four Five Six Seven... seemed a bit excessive.
Most of the relationships in it work in threes. Parent-parent-child. Grandparent-child-grandchild. Mother-daughter-son. Protagonist One-Protagonist Two-Protagonist Three.
It's what you say, whisper, or think before you jump or run or do something that frightens you.
Three's an interesting number with lots of religious and philosophical significance which may or may not feature.
And other things. Like it's what my parents used to sing when we were walking along, just before they swung me up in the air between them by my hands. We called this 'onetwothrees.' That's not a theme. It's just in the book because I liked it.
I've written the opening. I know how it ends. Slowly, slowly, in notebooks, in texts in my cell phone's draft messages typed half-consciously in the middle of the night, on scraps of paper, on the backs of receipts in the corners of various handbags, the rest is starting to form.
There are other books called One Two Three. I know. I, too, have access to google and amazon.
Why is it called this? You must know and will not be able to sleep until you do.
Well, it's about three people. Or it's meant to be, although supposedly peripheral characters keep elbowing their way in and taking over. Calling it One Two Three Four Five Six Seven... seemed a bit excessive.
Most of the relationships in it work in threes. Parent-parent-child. Grandparent-child-grandchild. Mother-daughter-son. Protagonist One-Protagonist Two-Protagonist Three.
It's what you say, whisper, or think before you jump or run or do something that frightens you.
Three's an interesting number with lots of religious and philosophical significance which may or may not feature.
And other things. Like it's what my parents used to sing when we were walking along, just before they swung me up in the air between them by my hands. We called this 'onetwothrees.' That's not a theme. It's just in the book because I liked it.
I've written the opening. I know how it ends. Slowly, slowly, in notebooks, in texts in my cell phone's draft messages typed half-consciously in the middle of the night, on scraps of paper, on the backs of receipts in the corners of various handbags, the rest is starting to form.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Gatsby. Bamburgh. Skype. Sleep?
I read The Great Gatsby last night. I picked it up rather idly, on the assumption that I'd already read it. At university I was... well, the best description is snorting books, so I can't remember a lot of what I've read and tend to suppose, quite arrogantly, that if it's vaguely canonical, I've cast my eyes over it at some point.
(The problem with reading English at Oxford is, for all the wonderful tutors and libraries and Oxford-ness of the place, you only have three years, and three 8-week terms per year, to attempt to cover 800AD to the present day, so you end up having stressful and, in the long-term, worthless days when you read five E.M. Forster novels. It's just a blur of dead babies, violent Italian men and falling bookcases now. My memory of the Forster novels, I mean. Not Oxford.)
As it turns out, I hadn't read Gatsby. It's not much of a revelation to say it's very good, is it? I imagine most people know this already. I liked:
My brothers, their partners and the kids went to Bamburgh on Monday. They sent some photos yesterday. I'm sad I wasn't there. Most of my happiest childhood memories are on Northumbrian beaches, so I'm glad they're continuing the tradition with their own little ones.
Brad, Craig, Ben (hidden), Chris, Molly. Dan behind camera. En 3,312 miles away.
Skype is the best thing ever invented.
Insomnia, please release me.
(The problem with reading English at Oxford is, for all the wonderful tutors and libraries and Oxford-ness of the place, you only have three years, and three 8-week terms per year, to attempt to cover 800AD to the present day, so you end up having stressful and, in the long-term, worthless days when you read five E.M. Forster novels. It's just a blur of dead babies, violent Italian men and falling bookcases now. My memory of the Forster novels, I mean. Not Oxford.)
As it turns out, I hadn't read Gatsby. It's not much of a revelation to say it's very good, is it? I imagine most people know this already. I liked:
"...each light deserting her face with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk."
My brothers, their partners and the kids went to Bamburgh on Monday. They sent some photos yesterday. I'm sad I wasn't there. Most of my happiest childhood memories are on Northumbrian beaches, so I'm glad they're continuing the tradition with their own little ones.
Brad, Craig, Ben (hidden), Chris, Molly. Dan behind camera. En 3,312 miles away.
Skype is the best thing ever invented.
Insomnia, please release me.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Kierkegaard wrote,
Much self-reflection of late, none of it particularly positive.
A weekend of catching up. My friend Lindsey came over for the weekend, so some pleasant late-night conversations and vodka-drinking. Saw Nick on Saturday for dinner and a film, In Bruges, which I found hilarious, although not to the same extent as the guffawing couple across from us. American cinema-goers are more vocally appreciative of movies, which I like. The film reminded me a lot of the UK TV show Shameless, that same mix of fantastically witty dialogue butting up against scenes of intense sadness or brutality.
The last couple of weeks have been horribly busy, both socially and professionally. This week I'm going to re-hermit myself and try to focus on writing. Everything's in different notebooks, which is confusing. Should probably start to consolidate something in electronic form, although then of course I'll do a wordcount and realise I've written about 150 usable words.
"Nothing ennobles a human being so much as keeping a secret. It gives a man's whole life meaning, though one that it has only for him. It saves him from every vain regard for his environment; sufficient unto himself, he rests blessed in his secret - we can almost say that, even if his secret were the most sinister."
Much self-reflection of late, none of it particularly positive.
A weekend of catching up. My friend Lindsey came over for the weekend, so some pleasant late-night conversations and vodka-drinking. Saw Nick on Saturday for dinner and a film, In Bruges, which I found hilarious, although not to the same extent as the guffawing couple across from us. American cinema-goers are more vocally appreciative of movies, which I like. The film reminded me a lot of the UK TV show Shameless, that same mix of fantastically witty dialogue butting up against scenes of intense sadness or brutality.
The last couple of weeks have been horribly busy, both socially and professionally. This week I'm going to re-hermit myself and try to focus on writing. Everything's in different notebooks, which is confusing. Should probably start to consolidate something in electronic form, although then of course I'll do a wordcount and realise I've written about 150 usable words.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Happy birthday Craig!
Just got off the phone with my brother, who turned 40 today. It was nice to hear his voice. He'd better bloody appreciate it too because that call cost me about £20. (I jest. But I need to get Skype.)
Just got off the phone with my brother, who turned 40 today. It was nice to hear his voice. He'd better bloody appreciate it too because that call cost me about £20. (I jest. But I need to get Skype.)
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Sweet dreams
When I'm overwrought, I dream about my family, particularly my nephews/niece and younger brother. The dreams usually involve my alienation from the people I love, or desperate attempts to save them from some creeping menace. They feel like augurs of catastrophe, and I wake up more fretful and taut than ever. But I dreamed about a baby last night. We were almost nose to nose, and I had the impression I was looking into a mirror. Everything I did, it copied. I stuck out my tongue, it did the same; I smiled, it smiled; I kissed its fat little cheek, it kissed me, its warm, milky breath on my face. The most wonderful, peaceful dream I can remember having.
So I am in an alarmingly good mood today. I have a skip in my step and a whistle on my lips. I defy anyone to knock it out of me. Not even Valentine's Day can dull my spirits.
My dad sent me a card. Very, very sweet.
Oh, the new Indiana Jones trailer. I dare you not to be excited.
So I am in an alarmingly good mood today. I have a skip in my step and a whistle on my lips. I defy anyone to knock it out of me. Not even Valentine's Day can dull my spirits.
My dad sent me a card. Very, very sweet.
Oh, the new Indiana Jones trailer. I dare you not to be excited.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Shadows
Late at work again (new business pitch tomorrow).
Listening to a lot of DJ Shadow recently after neglecting him for a few months. His music transports you into your own little swaggery music video if it comes on your iPod while you're walking down the street. I'm not the only one who does that, right? Anyway, this makes me do it. ('*scratchedy scratchedy* UH! *scratchedy scratchedy* AH!' Nice.) This is also a longtime favourite. Every time I've seen him live he's teased the audience with it, as here. Very good.
And here's the shadow of the newest Newby. Currently looking more like a jelly baby than a real one, but delightful nonetheless. Hey there little dude!
Listening to a lot of DJ Shadow recently after neglecting him for a few months. His music transports you into your own little swaggery music video if it comes on your iPod while you're walking down the street. I'm not the only one who does that, right? Anyway, this makes me do it. ('*scratchedy scratchedy* UH! *scratchedy scratchedy* AH!' Nice.) This is also a longtime favourite. Every time I've seen him live he's teased the audience with it, as here. Very good.
And here's the shadow of the newest Newby. Currently looking more like a jelly baby than a real one, but delightful nonetheless. Hey there little dude!
Monday, February 11, 2008
9/11 trials
Right, long post alert. My gut reaction to this.
I'm English and now live in NYC. My motherland's ancient history is a litany of invasions and violence. Then came the 20th century - the two world wars, a generation of men wiped out, horror lurking on the other side of a terrifyingly narrow Channel, The Blitz and, later, the Troubles. Regular news flashes reporting explosions and deaths are remembered by all but the pre-pubescent in my home country. I lived on a street in Marylebone where a section of the houses in the centre were 100 years younger. You could see exactly where the Germans had dropped the bomb. Three doors down from me was the site of the Balcombe Street Siege during the IRA's 1970s offensive. The July '05 bombings were an exercise in the stiff upper lip spirit that has served Londoners for years. (Indeed, that the attacks occurred on the day after a successful Olympic bid and jubilation on the city's streets made the whole thing seem pertinently, typically British. Pride comes before a fall, we like to say.) So it seemed natural that I, like everyone else, calmly got on the Tube and went back to work the next day.
America's reaction to 9/11 was and is very different. Why? Well, the unparalleled, unimaginable violence and visual drama of the attacks, and the fact that it was the first event of that scale to happen in the live-news era, make it unforgettable. And I think it's partly to do with undeniably different national psyches, obscenely generalist though I know that is. But more than that, it's because America, unlike Britain, seemed impregnable, not just to people here but to people everywhere. When it happened, it felt like the end of the world, and in a way it was.
What I'm saying is, I know my outlook on the whole thing is not that of a native, but I still understand and agree that it was reprehensible, it was terrifying, it was, at that time, unthinkable and the people who did it were perverse bigots with very little understanding of the religion they claimed to act for.
I also know that if my loved ones had been murdered on 9/11, or if I was Daniel Pearl's wife, I'd want to scoop out Khalid Shaikh Mohammed's heart with a spoon.
That said... We can only look with disgust upon these accused men if we feel able to take the moral high ground over them, if we behave with the civility and rationality - dare I say empathy? - they lacked. If we half-drown them in interrogation, if we hold them in a remote jail for years without trial or even charge, and if we finally kill them, I'm not sure we keep that right. In fact, I'm absolutely sure that we lose it.
Because no one has the right to kill anyone else. They had no right to help bring about the atrocious deaths of those thousands of people. We have no right to torture and kill them. None. If we do it, we make a lot of bereaved and angry people feel better, yes, but we take a step closer to the bestial behaviour we're supposedly punishing them for. We also undermine what they did, belittle it, suggest that retribution is conceivable in the face of so awesome a crime. My first reaction on reading that article today was disgust with the Pentagon and pity for the man in the photograph - utterly ridiculous, of course. And that's before we even start to debate on the aims of punishment and whether the deaths of these men would fulfill any of them.
No doubt many, many people will want to see these men dead. Not least the men themselves. But life imprisonment is a sentence that denies them their hopes for martyrdom, sends out a message to the world, particularly the one they came from, that we are not going to get in the ditch with them, and it makes me, at least, believe that the Western world can continue to hold the right to be affronted by what they did.
On a related note, here's the beautiful article Ian McEwan wrote for The Guardian a few days after 9/11.
I'm English and now live in NYC. My motherland's ancient history is a litany of invasions and violence. Then came the 20th century - the two world wars, a generation of men wiped out, horror lurking on the other side of a terrifyingly narrow Channel, The Blitz and, later, the Troubles. Regular news flashes reporting explosions and deaths are remembered by all but the pre-pubescent in my home country. I lived on a street in Marylebone where a section of the houses in the centre were 100 years younger. You could see exactly where the Germans had dropped the bomb. Three doors down from me was the site of the Balcombe Street Siege during the IRA's 1970s offensive. The July '05 bombings were an exercise in the stiff upper lip spirit that has served Londoners for years. (Indeed, that the attacks occurred on the day after a successful Olympic bid and jubilation on the city's streets made the whole thing seem pertinently, typically British. Pride comes before a fall, we like to say.) So it seemed natural that I, like everyone else, calmly got on the Tube and went back to work the next day.
America's reaction to 9/11 was and is very different. Why? Well, the unparalleled, unimaginable violence and visual drama of the attacks, and the fact that it was the first event of that scale to happen in the live-news era, make it unforgettable. And I think it's partly to do with undeniably different national psyches, obscenely generalist though I know that is. But more than that, it's because America, unlike Britain, seemed impregnable, not just to people here but to people everywhere. When it happened, it felt like the end of the world, and in a way it was.
What I'm saying is, I know my outlook on the whole thing is not that of a native, but I still understand and agree that it was reprehensible, it was terrifying, it was, at that time, unthinkable and the people who did it were perverse bigots with very little understanding of the religion they claimed to act for.
I also know that if my loved ones had been murdered on 9/11, or if I was Daniel Pearl's wife, I'd want to scoop out Khalid Shaikh Mohammed's heart with a spoon.
That said... We can only look with disgust upon these accused men if we feel able to take the moral high ground over them, if we behave with the civility and rationality - dare I say empathy? - they lacked. If we half-drown them in interrogation, if we hold them in a remote jail for years without trial or even charge, and if we finally kill them, I'm not sure we keep that right. In fact, I'm absolutely sure that we lose it.
Because no one has the right to kill anyone else. They had no right to help bring about the atrocious deaths of those thousands of people. We have no right to torture and kill them. None. If we do it, we make a lot of bereaved and angry people feel better, yes, but we take a step closer to the bestial behaviour we're supposedly punishing them for. We also undermine what they did, belittle it, suggest that retribution is conceivable in the face of so awesome a crime. My first reaction on reading that article today was disgust with the Pentagon and pity for the man in the photograph - utterly ridiculous, of course. And that's before we even start to debate on the aims of punishment and whether the deaths of these men would fulfill any of them.
No doubt many, many people will want to see these men dead. Not least the men themselves. But life imprisonment is a sentence that denies them their hopes for martyrdom, sends out a message to the world, particularly the one they came from, that we are not going to get in the ditch with them, and it makes me, at least, believe that the Western world can continue to hold the right to be affronted by what they did.
On a related note, here's the beautiful article Ian McEwan wrote for The Guardian a few days after 9/11.
Medicated myself into 6 hours of sleep last night and feel better for it. Managed to not want to stab everyone in the face today.
I want to write about this but I'm still at work and can't give it the consideration it deserves right now.
Saw There Will Be Blood last week and I know the world's been waiting on tenterhooks for my opinion on it, so... yeah, it's tremendous, of course. The accumulative exchange of humiliations between Plainview and Eli is nauseatingly, ludicrously amusing, especially the denouement. The scene with Plainview lying curled around his little boy, God - just go see it.
So I'm disappointed that the BAFTAs honoured Atonement over it last night. Atonement is a very good film, but then it's a phenomenal novel. It doesn't seem to me that Wright's achievement is quite on a par with Anderson's, who transformed a potentially niche short story into something with near-biblical puissance and clear contemporary relevance.
It's the music that makes it, though. Where other score-writers would have built to orchestral crescendos, this film relies almost exclusively on wonky, disorienting sound and, perhaps more disturbingly, on silence. So I was delighted and not at all surprised when I checked afterwards and discovered Jonny Greenwood of Radiohead wrote it. I wish he'd won the BAFTA (and been nominated for an Oscar - shocking oversight), largely so I could see him shuffling awkwardly down the red carpet in a tuxedo.
I want to write about this but I'm still at work and can't give it the consideration it deserves right now.
Saw There Will Be Blood last week and I know the world's been waiting on tenterhooks for my opinion on it, so... yeah, it's tremendous, of course. The accumulative exchange of humiliations between Plainview and Eli is nauseatingly, ludicrously amusing, especially the denouement. The scene with Plainview lying curled around his little boy, God - just go see it.
So I'm disappointed that the BAFTAs honoured Atonement over it last night. Atonement is a very good film, but then it's a phenomenal novel. It doesn't seem to me that Wright's achievement is quite on a par with Anderson's, who transformed a potentially niche short story into something with near-biblical puissance and clear contemporary relevance.
It's the music that makes it, though. Where other score-writers would have built to orchestral crescendos, this film relies almost exclusively on wonky, disorienting sound and, perhaps more disturbingly, on silence. So I was delighted and not at all surprised when I checked afterwards and discovered Jonny Greenwood of Radiohead wrote it. I wish he'd won the BAFTA (and been nominated for an Oscar - shocking oversight), largely so I could see him shuffling awkwardly down the red carpet in a tuxedo.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
It's Sunday. I'm in the office, writing a presentation. This in itself would be bad enough, but my insomnia hit a whole new level this weekend, culminating in precisely no sleep last night. Also I keep throwing up - probably related to utter exhaustion.
Extract from a poem Brandon wrote in my notebook last night:
Extract from a poem Brandon wrote in my notebook last night:
"cursed
thirsty for mourning
evening control
gadget, fidget
lurk Not."
Friday, February 8, 2008
Friends. Drawing. Cringe. Cat arses.
My friend Rich 'never a frown' Brown called me last Friday. I told him I was feeling crap. Yesterday a package arrived from Amazon with this book and a very sweet note. The book, much like Rich, is weird and brilliant. A hotchpotch of the author's influences and inspirations and thoughts. The line between drawing and writing bleeds.
I'd like to start drawing again. I used to draw a lot when I was younger, then I was cursed with an unspeakable cock of an art teacher when I was about 15 and I stopped. He also attempted to sabotage my incredibly talented brother's artistic ambitions, but failed.
A man asked me out in the elevator this morning. It took him 10 floors to proceed from "Morning" to the inevitable "Where are you from?!" to "Do you like sushi?" to "Can I get your number?" All this in a crowded elevator. I've never seen him before. No doubt I'll now see him every day and have lots of awkward elevator rides with him.
Supposed to be working. It's actually quite important, for my agency and the jobs of the people who work here, that we win the pitch I'm working on. So writing this and arranging my weekend via an infantile email exchange is a good way for me to spend my morning. Yes.
A-
Do you also get free tickets for the Natural History Museum? Please, please, please say yes!
E-
NO. In your face.
A-
Or the New Museum on the Bowery?
E-
Nah I’ve heard it’s shite. Cloisters, cloisters.
A-
I've heard you're shite.
E-
Your face is shite. So’s your mum.
A-
That was rude. You're worse than a cat when you're scratching its lower back, right above where the tail starts, and the cat starts to raise its arse up in the air. You're worse than when that happens.
I'd like to start drawing again. I used to draw a lot when I was younger, then I was cursed with an unspeakable cock of an art teacher when I was about 15 and I stopped. He also attempted to sabotage my incredibly talented brother's artistic ambitions, but failed.
A man asked me out in the elevator this morning. It took him 10 floors to proceed from "Morning" to the inevitable "Where are you from?!" to "Do you like sushi?" to "Can I get your number?" All this in a crowded elevator. I've never seen him before. No doubt I'll now see him every day and have lots of awkward elevator rides with him.
Supposed to be working. It's actually quite important, for my agency and the jobs of the people who work here, that we win the pitch I'm working on. So writing this and arranging my weekend via an infantile email exchange is a good way for me to spend my morning. Yes.
A-
Do you also get free tickets for the Natural History Museum? Please, please, please say yes!
E-
NO. In your face.
A-
Or the New Museum on the Bowery?
E-
Nah I’ve heard it’s shite. Cloisters, cloisters.
A-
I've heard you're shite.
E-
Your face is shite. So’s your mum.
A-
That was rude. You're worse than a cat when you're scratching its lower back, right above where the tail starts, and the cat starts to raise its arse up in the air. You're worse than when that happens.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Quick because I'm busy today. They're making me work and stuff - whoda thunk it?
My Morning Jacket. Phenomenal band. Download 'The Bear' and 'O Is The One That Is Real.' Go on.
William Hazlitt. To hell with Johnson - the best essayist in the history of the world. Still laugh-out-loud funny, and still deeply relevant, 200 years on. I re-read the delightfully-named On the Pleasure of Hating last night: "Love turns, with a little indulgence, to indifference or disgust: hatred alone is immortal."
On the Spirit of the Monarchy could have been written yesterday. Scary:
My Morning Jacket. Phenomenal band. Download 'The Bear' and 'O Is The One That Is Real.' Go on.
William Hazlitt. To hell with Johnson - the best essayist in the history of the world. Still laugh-out-loud funny, and still deeply relevant, 200 years on. I re-read the delightfully-named On the Pleasure of Hating last night: "Love turns, with a little indulgence, to indifference or disgust: hatred alone is immortal."
On the Spirit of the Monarchy could have been written yesterday. Scary:
"Man is an individual animal with narrow faculties, but infinite desires, which he is anxious to concentrate in one object within the grasp of his imagination, and where, if he cannot be all that he wishes himself, he may at least contemplate his own pride, vanity, and passions, displayed in their most extravagant dimensions in a being no bigger and no better than himself."
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Super Tuesday?
Like almost everyone I know, here and back in the UK, I have fingers and toes crossed for Obama. I worry about a Clinton victory on two counts. Firstly, I can't bloody stand her. It’s not entirely her fault – I think I’m rebelling against the expectations of my gender and the media to an extent (of which more in a bit). It’s the dynastical nature of her rise to prominence that really makes me squirm, though. It feels borderline undemocratic. Every politician needs a leg-up, of course, and a good dose of luck, but the Clintons have run this campaign as a team. I hate that. It undermines her. Secondly, and worse, I worry that Obama has succeeded in galvanizing a section of the electorate - particularly young, poor and socially marginalized people - behind him, not behind the Democrats. Will those people still ensure a Democratic presidency if they lose Obama?
Now, that aside, I think I'm going to have a little rant about gender, because this is my blog and I can, so there.
It is one of my big bugbears anyway, but the Clinton candidacy and its media coverage have hit - assaulted, in fact - a very raw nerve. Daily. As long as women continue to define themselves by their gender, men will do the same. I am not a minority citizen. It offends me to my core that I hear American women spoken about like they're a small, homogenous group with a broadly predictable character.
My lack of penis does not entitle me to form or join little societies of the sisterhood. It doesn't entitle me to back a politician because she's a she. That's the very clannish behavior women rightly lambasted men for; why they screamed, even died, to be listened to and treated as equals. Women who engage in this sort of sectarianism should be kicked in the teeth. I'd be disgusted if my male colleagues set up a 'men in business' group to fraternize exclusively with same-sex contemporaries, so why am I invited to ones for women, and why are my female colleagues so alarmed when I decline, often ungraciously? Women who think that the best way to empower women is by talking about being women are self-defeating imbeciles.
I feel a lot better now.
Now, that aside, I think I'm going to have a little rant about gender, because this is my blog and I can, so there.
It is one of my big bugbears anyway, but the Clinton candidacy and its media coverage have hit - assaulted, in fact - a very raw nerve. Daily. As long as women continue to define themselves by their gender, men will do the same. I am not a minority citizen. It offends me to my core that I hear American women spoken about like they're a small, homogenous group with a broadly predictable character.
My lack of penis does not entitle me to form or join little societies of the sisterhood. It doesn't entitle me to back a politician because she's a she. That's the very clannish behavior women rightly lambasted men for; why they screamed, even died, to be listened to and treated as equals. Women who engage in this sort of sectarianism should be kicked in the teeth. I'd be disgusted if my male colleagues set up a 'men in business' group to fraternize exclusively with same-sex contemporaries, so why am I invited to ones for women, and why are my female colleagues so alarmed when I decline, often ungraciously? Women who think that the best way to empower women is by talking about being women are self-defeating imbeciles.
I feel a lot better now.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Insomnia. Apocalypse.
You're a big girl now, Hillary. Anything up your sleeve for tomorrow apart from used tissues? Interesting that The NY Times, backing Clinton, have buried this.
It was after 6am when I fell asleep last night/this morning. I feel like a crock of shite and thought I was going to throw up on the subway this morning, which would have been awkward.
Went to MoMA again, to see The Book of Life. It's set in NYC on the last day of 1999 and depicts Christ returning to earth to kick off the apocalypse. I started off thinking it was kind of terrible and ended up loving it. There's a hilarious sequence when Jesus finds the Book of Life (the list of those who'll be saved) stored as a document on a Macbook, and when He clicks to break the 5th of its 7 seals, a pop-up asks, 'Are you sure you want to break the 5th seal?' A fair question.
It features P.J. Harvey as Mary Magdalene, and she wrote the soundtrack.
Obviously JC, coerced by a very likable Satan, opts out of doomsday and there's a lovely voiceover at the end as they all sit on a ferry the next morning, "Another day. The possibility of disaster, the possibility of perfection."
Reading in the small hours:
Who else can make an errant horse's comical collision with some chickens sound like a passage from the Book of Revelation?
It was after 6am when I fell asleep last night/this morning. I feel like a crock of shite and thought I was going to throw up on the subway this morning, which would have been awkward.
Went to MoMA again, to see The Book of Life. It's set in NYC on the last day of 1999 and depicts Christ returning to earth to kick off the apocalypse. I started off thinking it was kind of terrible and ended up loving it. There's a hilarious sequence when Jesus finds the Book of Life (the list of those who'll be saved) stored as a document on a Macbook, and when He clicks to break the 5th of its 7 seals, a pop-up asks, 'Are you sure you want to break the 5th seal?' A fair question.
It features P.J. Harvey as Mary Magdalene, and she wrote the soundtrack.
Obviously JC, coerced by a very likable Satan, opts out of doomsday and there's a lovely voiceover at the end as they all sit on a ferry the next morning, "Another day. The possibility of disaster, the possibility of perfection."
Reading in the small hours:
"...she and Old Het turned the corner of the house in time to see the now wraithlike mule at the moment when its course converged with that of a choleric-looking rooster and eight Rhode Island Red hens emerging from beneath the house. Then for an instant its progress assumed the appearance and trappings of an apotheosis: hell-born, hell-returning, in the act of dissolving completely into the fog, it seemed to rise vanishing into a sunless and dimensionless medium borne upon and enclosed by small winged goblins."
(William Faulkner, Mule in the Yard)
Who else can make an errant horse's comical collision with some chickens sound like a passage from the Book of Revelation?
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Photos. The whores hustle, the hustlers whore.
Saturday night at home. Partly because I got to bed at 5am this morning, partly because I feel like being unsociable.
Went to MoMA today and saw the Lucian Freud exhibition (good) and wandered around the photo galleries. I find photos of people long since dead compellingly ghoulish. There they are, every detail captured. But the moment, like them, was ephemeral, and there they are not.
Standing outside afterwards, a man irritated me by taking my photo without asking. I dislike the idea of being in strangers' photo albums, although after 4 years of living in Oxford I imagine I'm lurking in holiday snaps in homes all over the globe. I suppose it's a form of immortality.
Luca, self-appointed Feeder Of Erin, took me for dinner at Maremma last night. It was excellent and, pleasingly, free, since Luca had written a story about the owner for his newspaper. Then we joined our friends at The Guest House, a members club in a street full of members clubs, most of which I've been to and sworn to eschew thereafter. If you're a woman, you're the currency at these ridiculous venues. You're forced to go in while your male friends have to queue, and inside you're eyed and groped like livestock at a farmer's market by concupiscent men who have paid God knows what for a table and want pretty girls to surround it like Lladro figurines on a windowsill. It's appalling. I left quickly. It took 2 hours to get home.
Went to MoMA today and saw the Lucian Freud exhibition (good) and wandered around the photo galleries. I find photos of people long since dead compellingly ghoulish. There they are, every detail captured. But the moment, like them, was ephemeral, and there they are not.
Standing outside afterwards, a man irritated me by taking my photo without asking. I dislike the idea of being in strangers' photo albums, although after 4 years of living in Oxford I imagine I'm lurking in holiday snaps in homes all over the globe. I suppose it's a form of immortality.
Luca, self-appointed Feeder Of Erin, took me for dinner at Maremma last night. It was excellent and, pleasingly, free, since Luca had written a story about the owner for his newspaper. Then we joined our friends at The Guest House, a members club in a street full of members clubs, most of which I've been to and sworn to eschew thereafter. If you're a woman, you're the currency at these ridiculous venues. You're forced to go in while your male friends have to queue, and inside you're eyed and groped like livestock at a farmer's market by concupiscent men who have paid God knows what for a table and want pretty girls to surround it like Lladro figurines on a windowsill. It's appalling. I left quickly. It took 2 hours to get home.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Oh go on then, since it's Friday
http://www.thedailymash.co.uk/news/environment/people-who-know-how-to-fucking-park-on-brink-of-extinction-20070912397/
"...unbelievable fucking selfishness by a bunch of total and complete bastards who deserve to die on a spike."
This website will cause you to make little suppressed snorty noises at your desk. I've found.
"...unbelievable fucking selfishness by a bunch of total and complete bastards who deserve to die on a spike."
This website will cause you to make little suppressed snorty noises at your desk. I've found.
No title can unify the subject matter in this post. So perhaps I should have left this blank. Perhaps...
My friend Ian's blog. Ian is a London-dwelling Brit who used to be a NYC-dwelling Brit and has a healthy obsession with U.S. politics. He's also very nice and very clever despite the fact that he has, like me, ended up working in advertising by accident.
Now, I don't particularly like Feist but I seem to spend a lot of time listening to her anyway. More accurately, I don't like her commercial, polished songs, which are listenable enough but a bit cutesy. However, this remix of My Moon My Man by the German dj Boys Noize (look up everything by him and go see him play - he's amazing, and also hot) is a wee bit excellent; and at the other end of the scale, this grainy acoustic version of Mushaboom is gorgeous. I veer towards miserable music, but the overwhelmingly sweet lyrics of that song melt even my misanthropic little heart.
Speaking of moons, I'm reading Cyrano de Bergerac's (yes, he really existed) Voyage to the Moon. It's ingenious and moving and frequently hilarious. It echoes, or I should say presages, Gulliver's Travels (also awesome and categorically *not* a children's book - read it if you haven't already). Cyrano was rather a naughty little libertin and had the temerity to question man's presumed centroidal significance in the universe:
And on the subject of Swift, I looked up one of his poems I had loved at university, and still love, 'A Description of the Morning.' Many of my friends get irritated with me because I shun most new literature in favour of old stuff, but it's comforting, actually, unnervingly lovely, to find Swift looking out on a morning in London almost exactly 300 years ago and noting, "...And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands." I suppose we turn to literature to find a bit of ourselves, our lives, a sense of fellowship. I think the pleasure in finding it speaking across centuries is greater.
Now, I don't particularly like Feist but I seem to spend a lot of time listening to her anyway. More accurately, I don't like her commercial, polished songs, which are listenable enough but a bit cutesy. However, this remix of My Moon My Man by the German dj Boys Noize (look up everything by him and go see him play - he's amazing, and also hot) is a wee bit excellent; and at the other end of the scale, this grainy acoustic version of Mushaboom is gorgeous. I veer towards miserable music, but the overwhelmingly sweet lyrics of that song melt even my misanthropic little heart.
Speaking of moons, I'm reading Cyrano de Bergerac's (yes, he really existed) Voyage to the Moon. It's ingenious and moving and frequently hilarious. It echoes, or I should say presages, Gulliver's Travels (also awesome and categorically *not* a children's book - read it if you haven't already). Cyrano was rather a naughty little libertin and had the temerity to question man's presumed centroidal significance in the universe:
"What! Because the Sun measures our days and our years, does that mean it was created only to save us from breaking our heads against the wall? No! If this visible God lightens man it is accidental, as the King's torch accidentally lightens a porter standing in the street."
And on the subject of Swift, I looked up one of his poems I had loved at university, and still love, 'A Description of the Morning.' Many of my friends get irritated with me because I shun most new literature in favour of old stuff, but it's comforting, actually, unnervingly lovely, to find Swift looking out on a morning in London almost exactly 300 years ago and noting, "...And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands." I suppose we turn to literature to find a bit of ourselves, our lives, a sense of fellowship. I think the pleasure in finding it speaking across centuries is greater.
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