K.P. Webster's Blog, page 9

The Ulysses Contract :: Desperate Measures

Today, some time before 8pm, I will stop smoking tobacco. As in, forever. 

I have said this before. And I have failed to make it so. This time, however, I believe it will be different. Thanks in the main, to the monstrous sociopath pictured above. Although really, it could be any monstrous sociopath.

The reason I believe that this time I will never smoke tobacco again is that this time I am taking a leaf out of Zelda Gamson’s book. Zelda Gamson features in this Radiolab story. She was a civil rights activist who had tried to stop smoking all of her life, but had never managed it, until she made the following pact with herself and with her best friend: ‘If I ever smoke again, I’m gonna give $5,000 to the Ku Klux Klan.’

Today, I make a very similar pact with myself and with you, the internet:

If I ever smoke tobacco again, I will donate £1,000 to Donald Trump.*

The idea behind the pact is that – normally – no matter how badly you want to stop smoking, there will come a time when it just doesn’t seem so important. In my case, that time generally comes when I’m in a pub with friends, one of whom will roll a cigarette and in that moment, my desire to smoke will be stronger than my lifelong, deeply logical desire to never smoke again.

So what you do is you make a deal with your weakness and you bind yourself to the future. Like Ulysses, after whom this kind of deal is named. Ulysses wanted to hear the Sirens singing, but knew he’d be too weak to resist them, so had his men tie him to the mast of his ship to stop him following the Sirens’ song to his death.

So by making a pledge to do something I find utterly repugnant, I bind myself and my desire to beat the addiction to the future. So that in that moment, when the urge to smoke is upon me, there is also something more powerful than that at work: there is disgust, and there is shame and horror in the knowledge that if I smoke that cigarette, I will have to give my financial support to something I detest.

Zelda Gamson has never smoked again.

And nor shall I.

Here are two more reasons I believe I will never smoke tobacco again:

1) Today is my birthday and I have just been gifted an electronic cigarette.

2) This evening at 9pm, I will catch a bus to Amsterdam, where the smoking and consumption of marijuana is tolerated. In the past, my undeniably powerful penchant for marijuana has always dragged me back to tobacco. But in Amsterdam, tobacco seems to be more frowned upon than marijuana, which is exactly how it should be, so I’ll be able to indulge my penchant (once in a while) without tobacco (always).

So yeah. There it is.

No more tobacco.

Happy birthday to me.

*In the event of Donald Trump retiring from politics, my pledge will be passed on to The (equally despicable) Conservative Party.

Filed under: addiction, REAL LIFE Tagged: Donald Trump, marijuana, Radiolab, Sirens, The Conservative Party, The Ku Klux Klan, tobacco, Ulysses, Zelda Gamson

Feedback Friday :: This Is the Day

pitches/proposals :: 1 (on a whim: nothing back yet)

work completed :: 6 copywriting jobs / 2 hours of teaching (low on work, high on preparation)

hours of Dutch learning :: 0. Ha! Pappa kak!

books being read :: 1. I finished Amsterdam, just in time, and it was a glorious book. Now I’m focusing on The How of Happiness.

happiness score #1 :: 5.58. Out of 6. I’ve been working out.

physical exercise :: tennis. Twice. I love it. I hope to find tennis players in Amsterdam. And badminton players. And a room to stretch. That’s all I need.

metaphysical exercise :: Nothing. Without a morning routine, I am hopeless.

routine adhesion :: 15%

bags of clothes donated :: 7

pairs of footwear donated :: 6

tears shed over various short films :: 306ml

skins shed :: 1 (metaphorical)

guitar strings replaced :: 6

days left to Amsterdam :: 4

week 20/52 overall rating :: 9/10. What’s not to love?

…

This week I really enjoyed walking – around Peckham mostly, and Camberwell – and looking. Looking hard, mind you. Intently, but casual, up, down and in people’s eyes. I was trying to feel it, London, consciously and deliberately. So that I remember.

For in four days’ time, I’ll be on my way to Holland.

Gosh.

I hope it goes well.

This week I spent some of Wednesday and Thursday sorting through old words I’ve been hanging on to for many years and my god, they were miserable. I threw the vast majority away and let me tell you, it felt pretty good to be free of them.

There’s a song by The The that has the following lines: ‘You’ve been reading some old letters. You smile and think how much you’ve changed.’

I do smile. 

I found two printed sheets from July 1999 that I’ve scanned because I want to remember how sad and lost I was, because I’m fairly confident I will never be that sad and lost again, and I don’t want to forget it entirely, because it’s good to know where you came from. I was really miserable. Here’s an extract in which I address myself…

Jesus. I didn’t really know how far I’d come till I read that. God. Sad little fucker. But it was around then – probably just a month or two later – that I decided to go and live in Italy, which was definitely, in so many ways, the start of a whole new life for me.

It’s just occurred to me that the video at the top of this post and that bit of writing from the past could not actually be more different.

Seventeen years ago I was wallowing in misery and feeling sad and alone and inexplicably unhappy – although I decided there was an explanation: the infinite solitude of human existence.

That video on the other hand is probably the most powerful five minutes of film I’ve ever seen. And that too seems initially inexplicable – the tears start falling seemingly out of nowhere, the moment the profundity of the emotion of strangers silently meeting hits you. But of course that too is perfectly explicable: we are all connected. That Amnesty video makes that beautifully abundantly clear.  

I feel like the person that’s about to start a new life in Amsterdam is a completely different person to the one who was about to start a new life in Bologna. My perspective on human existence has changed a great deal over the past few years and – if I may be frank for a moment – it has transformed me.

And what I’ve learned is that, it’s a choice. Whether you see humanity – in all of its seven-billion-headed insanity – as something cold, antagonistic and separate from you, or whether you feel it deep within you, and are comforted. It’s a choice. Depression aside – and I remind myself regularly how grateful I am that so far I’ve yet to suffer from depression – happiness, or a feeling of belonging and having value, which I reckon is probably what happiness is, is a choice. 

I’ll be in John the Unicorn from 7.30 tomorrow evening, celebrating everything. Come along if you’ve a mind to.

Have a great weekend.

x 

 

 

Filed under: FEEDBACK, REAL LIFE Tagged: change, happiness

Feedback Friday :: David Foster Wallace

pitches/proposals :: 0

work completed :: 7 copywriting jobs / 12.5 hours of English-teaching

hours of Dutch learning :: 0.25. I am a disgrace.

books being read :: 2 (Same two as six weeks ago. But I am very close to finishing Amsterdam. Nazis have made it intensely harrowing. As is their wicked wont.)

physical exercise :: I played an hour of tennis yesterday morning. But for the time being, I’m still putting most of my effort into gaining weight.

metaphysical exercise :: None. Sorry.

routine adhesion :: 30%

days left to Amsterdam :: 11

week 19/52 overall rating :: 8/10. Good, good, good. Not bad. Not bad.

…

I did a lot of work this week. I finished some things. I made some money. I became more prepared for the move.

Eleven days.

I have lots and lots of clothes in piles, ready to give away, but I still have too many to fit in one rucksack. I will have to be more strict with myself. This is good.

Saffron the cat is getting better. Turns out he was very ill. The equivalent of TB, the vet reckons. So they treated him with medicines and what-have-you for a couple of days and now he’s got to stay home for a couple of weeks and recuperate. This is also good. (Fingers crossed.)

Now. Last night I came across a piece of writing that for me encapsulates many if not most of the great truths of human existence so succinctly, and so beautifully, that I want to share it with you.

It’s a commencement speech given to some students by David Foster Wallace. Listen to the whole thing if you can, but below I’ve linked to nine minutes in, where it hots up…

It also contains this sentence, which is one of the finest I’ve ever read:

“The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty little, unsexy ways every day.”

Then I was reminded that David Foster Wallace suffered from depression and eventually took his own life. Which is viciously sad. He also wrote this:

“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.”

I really need to read his books. 

Ten days.

Have a smashing weekend.

 

Filed under: FEEDBACK, REAL LIFE, WORDS

Waxing Lyrical with Kornel Kossuth, The Poetry Busker

There is something quintessentially English about German-born Hungarian beekeeper, teacher and poet, Kornel Kossuth. Maybe you’ve seen him, on the South Bank, perched over a vintage keyboard like some Wodehousian dandy, clad in cravat, waistcoat and top hat, writing poems for strangers. 

‘I’ve always felt I’m English,’ he says, in his quintessentially English cottage in rural Kent, ‘and England is where I want to be.’  

Kossuth – originally pronounced Koshoot – was born in Stade, near Hamburg, then moved to England when he was five years old. His first languages were German, natürlich, and Hungarian, nyilvánvalóan. His great great great uncle was Lajos Kossuth, who led the 1848 revolution against the Hapsburg Empire and was for a time Regent-President of Hungary, and he is almost certainly the only man – Kornel, that is – to have ever declared a year in Bristol ‘balm for my soul’. 

When he was 12, he moved with his family to Vienna, but the years he spent in Norfolk were to have a huge impact on his life. It was there, for example, that he first became aware of poetry.

South Bank Encounters #1

‘I had a great, fearsome English teacher,’ he says, ‘who introduced me to poetry and instilled a love for the language, for English.’ Kornel didn’t actually start writing poetry, however, until he was 16 and there were no more spaces on the short story module of the summer course he wanted to do. So he plumped for poetry instead and found, serendipitously, that he ‘had a knack for it’.

The following year, his English childhood came to an end and he returned to Vienna, switched back to German and studied to become a lawyer. He had considered studying English, but aside from harbouring some scepticism about the standards of English-teaching in Austria, he didn’t really see the point. In Austria, you study for your career, and the last thing young Kornel Kossuth wanted to be was an English teacher. 

On completing his studies, he found work at an Austrian law firm, specialising in energy and later pharmaceuticals. He enjoyed the work. ‘It was good fun,’ he says. ‘It was very logical.’ After five years with the same firm, however, he had to make a decision.

‘There comes a point,’ he explains, making it sound ever so slightly sinister, ‘where you have to buy into the partnership, and once you buy in, if you ever want to leave, it gets more difficult. You leave less than naked.’ 

South Bank Encounters #2

Ultimately, there were numerous factors that saw Kornel giving up his career and his home and moving to the other side of Europe to retrain as an English teacher, not least the rather dark influence of the shady world of pharmaceutical law, where one of his duties was to deny the efficacy of rival companies’ drugs. He recalls one occasion where ‘just to prove something they knew they couldn’t prove … they did experiments with six dogs, which they killed.’ His soft voice is suitably grim. ‘And those are the kind of things that make you wonder who you’re working for and is that something that you really want to do?’

It wasn’t. So he came to England, did a PGCE in Canterbury and found a job in the English department of an independent prep school in rural Kent. Having previously returned for a year to the UK in his mid-20s to do an MA in English Literature – the soul-balm year in Bristol – this felt very much like a homecoming.

‘I left everything behind,’ he says. ‘I used most of my savings to finance the course and then found a job at the school where I still am today. It’s a lovely, lovely school,’ he says. Indeed, the love he has for the career he thought he never wanted is a beautiful thing to behold, and he speaks of the school, and the kids, with incredible fondness.

South Bank Encounters #3

Mr Kossuth is one of those teachers who gets involved. This is why, as well as Head of English, he also teaches fencing and supervises the debating society. It’s also why, as well as 400 children, he looks after around 80,000 bees. 

‘I’ve always wanted to keep bees,’ he tells me. ‘I went on a bee-keeping course in around 2010, which was really fascinating. And I thought before I commit to keeping bees, there are two things that need to happen. First, I need to have looked into an open hive … because suddenly having 30,000 insects flying around you can be quite frightening. And the other thing was, I needed to get stung.’

So that’s what he did.

‘The stinging wasn’t bad,’ he says, ‘and I love the bees.’

A small number of parents chipped in to help him get the hives off the ground four years ago, and now it’s a going concern, with two hives of 40,000 bees apiece. ‘They are fantastic little creatures,’ he says, ‘and you do develop a real bond with them.’

I ask him if the bond he shares with the bees is a connection with the entire hive or if he has relationships with individual bees. He laughs at this notion and declares that it ‘sounds a bit dodgy’. Dodgy, of course, is in the mind of the beholder. Or, in this case, the bee-holder.

South Bank Encounters #4

As it transpires, the average worker bee only lives for about six weeks in the summer, so getting to know them is ill-advised. It would be far too painful.

‘You could, if you like, bond with the queen,’ says Kornel, ‘as she’s around for about three to four years. But you don’t necessarily see her that often and also you don’t really do anything with the queen. You just try and make sure she’s there and that she’s safe. But that’s about it.’ 

Still, keeping bees, en masse, is a clearly a source of great pleasure and Kornel waxes lyrical about the whole experience. ‘They’re all busy!’ he cries. ‘Whenever you open up the hive, they’ll just crawl on your hands, or they’ll be flying around and interested in things. It’s great!’ He really loves the bees.  

The kids love the bees too. Or most of them do. A couple still hang back and cower, but most are happy to get the little suits on and get involved, learning in the process how to make honey and soap, and more recently, candles. Kornel shows me a couple of candles they’ve made and then produces a pair of candlesticks. He has a friend who happens to be a blacksmith, so he took a quick lesson and came up with the goods. ‘You can tell they’re handmade,’ he says. ‘They’re completely rubbish.’

Thankfully, Kornel Kossuth is not a candlestick-maker. He is a teacher, and he is a writer. And like most natural born writers, he has always written. Whether he was sending off poetry to magazines, publishing legal periodicals, writing English exam practice books or working on a new translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, he has always been driven to write.

Kornel Kossuth the Poetry Busker, however, was ‘a long time in the making’. It started with the feeling he’d always had that, ‘If you’ve got something, why not bring it to the public somehow?’ Having become disillusioned with the rigmarole of seeking publication in specialist poetry magazines, which was unpredictable and disappointing at best, he started considering alternatives.

He’d once fancied the idea of busking with a guitar, but ‘I was a hopeless musician so that was never going to happen’. Then he heard about an Austrian street-writer who used to hang his poems from trees, for people to pick like low-hanging fruit. Others told stories on street corners. Then a friend of his said: ‘Why don’t you just go out and do something?’

‘I thought that was a good idea,’ says Kornel, ‘but I also thought, if you’re going to do it, you’ve got to do it properly. So I wasn’t going just sitting there, huddled over a plastic table in an anorak.’ Instead, he decided to dress up – ‘top hat, waistcoat, all that – you’re representing something,’ he says. ‘You’re also selling something at the end of the day. And the modern just isn’t as evocative.’ 

Then he found himself an old typewriter.

‘A beautiful, beautiful machine from 1936.’ An old Remington, a piece of history. ‘I’m so grateful and glad to have it and to be still using it now, and I look forward to its hundredth birthday.’

So having established his image, which is very much a reflection of his true self – wit and style, quintessential Englishness with just a pinch of steampunk – he set out his stall with a sign and found himself a nice spot on the South Bank.

On his first day busking, he figured he’d be happy if he made enough money for his train fare home. After a slow start that would become standard, things picked up and eventually he did quite well. So he became a regular fixture on The South Bank, rocking up opposite the National Theatre and writing impromptu poems for anyone who gave a damn.

As with any kind of busking, poetry busking proved a fitful affair. Some days people seemed much friendlier than others. Some days he felt beaten down by the rain. But on the whole, it went very well and he still remembers – with some considerable joy – the first time he had people queuing up for his words.

After a year of fairly regular busking, he was eventually approached by a couple of South Bank bouncers who informed him he needed a licence. So he got one, and he’s now officially licensed. ‘I fall under the category of statue,’ he says.

South Bank Encounters #5

As statues go, Kornel Kossuth has had some pretty memorable encounters on the South Bank.

His muses are myriad. Some come with no idea what they want from him and ask rather tritely for a poem about London. Some come with challenging titles, pre-prepared, such as An Apology to the Panda or The Contribution of Typewriters to Bureaucracy. Some come with kids who marvel at his typewriter, perplexed by this USB-free machine from a bygone age, an age with no delete button. Some come with kids who marvel at his words, their worlds opened up by their first foray into the possibilities of poetry.  Many come with stories, like the 82-year-old man who wanted a poem about the love – the unrequited love – he’d felt for the same woman, for 62 years. ‘It still hurts,’ he said. 

However they come to him, they all leave with at least two stories. One of the eccentric Englishman they think they met by the River Thames; and one in the form of a poem he wrote for them, about their lives, about all life, right there, while they waited. 

…

Check out The Poetry Busker on Facebook, then, if you can, check him out in real life.

And here, for your delectation, are some of his words…

South Bank Encounters #6

Thanks, Kornel.

 

Filed under: INTERVIEW, poetry Tagged: bees, Kornel Kossuth, Lajos Kossuth, Ovid, South Bank

Feedback Friday :: Beautiful Freaks

pitches/proposals :: 0

jobs completed :: 5 copywriting jobs

English lessons taught :: 8

English lessons aborted because of technology issues :: 1

hours of Dutch learning :: 0 (I have fallen out of the habit – see how easily it happens?)

books being read :: 2 (Same two as five weeks ago. Pfffft.)

physical exercise :: None whatsoever. I am getting fat and I love it! (I don’t actually love it. I feel uncomfortable. But I really do have a plan.)

metaphysical exercise :: None whatsoever. I’m in transition. You’ll see.

routine adhesion :: 50%

days left to Amsterdam :: 18

week 18/52 overall rating :: 7/10. The week was brought low by technological meltdown and one very sad cat. 

…
 
It’s been a funny old week. I’m currently sitting in the house of some friends in Peckham, where I’ve had to come to be sure that the internet connection is strong enough to connect me with my student in Dubai. 
 
I’m very grateful that my friends have allowed me to use their home, but the experience of faffing about between places that are not mine, and once again relying on the the kindness of other people, has made me think very seriously that the time might be right to find somewhere of my own and, ultimately, settle down. (At least for a while.) 
 
Hopefully it’ll happen in Amsterdam. We’ll see. 
 
Hopefully, within let’s say, eight months, I’ll be living in an apartment like this one…
 

 
I found it online. It’s in Amsterdam.

I want it. 
 
What else? Not too much actually. It has been a week of mostly steady work and very sad pet anguish. There is a poor old cat who has reacted in the worst possible way to the arrival of new animals in his home. Refusing to eat, insisting on sitting outside, not looking after himself – showing all the signs of proper depression. It’s horrible to watch, but he’s being taken to the vet tonight, so hopefully she’ll have some ideas of how to help him. Fingers (and claws) crossed. 
 
One more thing of note this week. I learned something I feel I should’ve known already, but didn’t. I learned that all living creatures can suffer from (or be blessed by, depending on your perspective) albinism. I had no idea. Check out these beauties, mostly taken from here…

















Amazing, huh? Here, have a song.

As for this weekend, I’m getting wrecked. And you?

Filed under: FEEDBACK, REAL LIFE Tagged: albinism, animals, cats

Feedback Friday :: Victoria

pitches/proposals :: 1

responses to pitches/proposals:: 4

jobs from nowhere :: 1

jobs completed :: 5 copywriting jobs, 1 script-editing/proofreading job

jobs turned down :: 4

English lessons taught :: 4 (iTalki has kicked in)

hours of Dutch learning :: 1 (I have been busy)

books being read :: 2 (Same two as four weeks ago. I need to make a proper routine, with reading time built into it. I feel like I’m missing out.)

physical exercise :: None. (It’s fine. I’ve got plans. You’ll see.)

metaphysical exercise :: None.

routine adhesion :: 65%

days left to Amsterdam :: 25

week 17/52 overall rating :: 9.5/10. Excellent. Great time with family, plus lots of mostly enjoyable work, some fairly lucrative. The only thing missing from this week – and indeed my life in general at the moment – is romance. (That’s a horrible word, isn’t it. Love doesn’t cover it though. Love is everywhere. What about lady-love? There it is. Lady-love.) And I do miss it, but I’m also being patient and focusing on other things for now. (Not that focusing on finding someone to love would make it any easier to achieve, but obviously it’s less painful when it’s not on your mind constantly.) Someone will turn up sooner or later, but even if they don’t, I have nothing to complain about. 

…
 
So. Week 17. I was in Nottingham till Tuesday and had a lovely time with my sisters and mum. I felt quite emotional saying goodbye to my mum, but as is the way in our family, I kept it well-hidden. She’s on great form at the moment and apart from her rheumatism, is pretty pain-free, but because I’m going away again I guess, I can’t help worrying. You know, she’s in her 80s.

But of course, there’s no point worrying. No point at all. I keep thinking, please let her stay alive at least a few more years, because I think there’s a good chance of me making some proper money within a couple of years and then I can do things for her that I can’t do now. But of course, it’s all nonsense. I might die myself at any moment – my death is just as likely as hers. And she doesn’t want anything from me but my happiness, and the occasional call and visit. So I’m being silly.

But still.

I got lots of work this week, one job in particular that just turned up from nowhere and was actually a great pleasure to do and was even very well paid. More of those, please, universe. 
 
What else? 
 
Last night I saw Victoria at the Peckhamplex (which I shall miss, despite its extraordinarily shambolic approach to customer service) and I thought it was incredible. Absolutely like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Victoria is the story of a young Spanish woman in Berlin who meets and gets involved with a bunch of dodgy blokes coming out of a club in the middle of the night. 
 




One of the things that makes it so breathtaking is that it was shot in one take – almost two and a half hours of action in one take, and it’s done brilliantly – never better, surprisingly, than when nothing much is happening. There are a couple of things that, in my most humble, didn’t quite work, but mostly it’s spell-binding and horrifically tense. 
 
One of the other things that makes it so breathtaking is that it has wholly believable, super-realistic performances and, most importantly, really likeable characters – even when they’re lying and doing very bad things, they still manage to come across as largely likeable. At least I found them so. And – best of all – Laia Costa is astonishing. Hers is a phenomenal performance, and I love her character – there is an enormously powerful scene in a cafe that changes everything you feel about her, and it made me totally fall in love with her. 
 
There’s a great interview with Laia Costa here, but it contains lots of spoilers. If you get the opportunity – and it’s on iTunes apparently – be sure to see it without knowing anything. Seriously. Don’t even read the poster. (And definitely don’t watch the trailer.)
 
What else?
 
Nothing else. 
 
Twenty-five days to Amsterdam. 
 
This weekend: old friend tomorrow night, bit of work Sunday, hopefully some new shorts and a bag. 
 

And you? Come on now. Don’t be shy.

 

x

Filed under: FAMILY, FEEDBACK, FILM, REAL LIFE Tagged: Laia Costa, Peckhamplex, Sebastian Schipper, Victoria

Feedback Friday :: Anticipation

pitches/proposals :: 7

positive responses :: 0 (Early days, early days.)

jobs completed :: 4 copywriting jobs

English lessons taught :: 1 (Started first block of ten hours on iTalki.)

hours of Dutch learning :: less than an hour I think. It’s not been a great week in terms of effort. I apologise.

books being read :: 2 (Same two as three weeks ago.)

physical exercise :: outside of walking half an hour out of Nottingham yesterday with a very heavy pack on my back, nothing. Ghastly flabby weasel.

metaphysical exercise :: nope

routine adhesion :: 30%

days left to Amsterdam :: 32

week 16/52 overall rating :: 7/10. I was a bit lazy this week. If it weren’t for the renewed hope of an old project being revitalised, I might have gone for a 6.

…

I did a few jobs and made a little money but I must confess, it hasn’t been the most inspiring week of the year so far. I’m afraid I wasted a little too much time. I enjoyed it, don’t get me wrong, but, you know, I’ve got stuff to do and I should be working harder.

What else?

I had my first proper iTalki lesson this morning and it’s the first of ten lessons with a guy in Dubai who speaks excellent English and basically wants help with the copy for a website he’s about to launch. It’s pretty much the ideal lesson from my point of view. And he’s fun. So I’m pleased.

Hopefully within a couple of months, I should have more than enough work to pay rent somewhere and have enough time to get on and write all the stuff I need to write to cure the human race of all its ills and ultimately save the planet from certain destruction.

Phew.

The other great thing that happened this week is that I found someone who is interested in collaborating on an old project – the oldest project I have actually – The Ballad of Trout McFee. And I know it might not work out, and I know I shouldn’t get too excited, but wouldn’t it be amazing if it did?

Wouldn’t it though?

I’m also getting very excited about Amsterdam. In five weeks’ time, I’ll be there. 

For the rest of today, I hope to finish writing up the interview I did with this guy…

The one on the left.

Then I’m going to see my mum.

What are you up to this weekend? Anything extraordinary? You don’t have to tell me. But I’m not going to pretend I don’t care.

Bonne chance!

x

 

 

Filed under: FEEDBACK, REAL LIFE Tagged: Amsterdam, iTalki

Candles In the Wind ’16

 

Candles In the Wind ’16

A poem inspired by Lloyd Hollett (see above). (Title by Greg Stekelman)

 

Beyond the pearly gates of God, where no one ever really dies,

You’ll find the latest dead celebs entranced by who? Surprise surprise!

It’s Cilla Black, flat on her back, a gobful of peas and  mince –

Between her legs – by her bygone eggs – it’s giggedy giggedy Prince! Ow!

Howard Marks – all smoke and sparks – like a psychedelic Fagin.

Behind his bong with her lifelong wrong: ‘SAY NO!’ It’s Nancy Reagan.

 

A shake of Daniels‘ flying wand proves magic isn’t phoney –

Look! Materialising by his side, the wrestler Balls Mahoney,

With Ronnie Corbett in a headlock, struggling like a joey –

But see who comes to set him free – the singer David Bowie!

And dear old David Gest is there, superb in fur and leathers,

His earthly rubber face now just a mask of jazz and feathers. (Daniels again.)

 

The music starts – with all these stars, it might have started sooner!

And Wogan leads the damp applause for Frank Sinatra (Junior).

Victoria Wood in feisty form – her keyboard a flurry of hands,

And taking over on the mic, it’s Ross Shapiro (from The Glands).

Out of shot, George Martin tampers, sonically, silently, creepily.

Behind him Rickman plays the ghost from Truly Madly Deeply.

 

Then Lemmy bursts in, bringing mayhem, moles all raw and juicy.

Dancing wildly: Brookner, Finlay, Gulch, Inspector Adewusi.

Meanwhile Wesker – quite forgotten – sits and sulks with Harper Lee,

As Corbett surfs the crowd declaring: ‘THE DIRECTOR SAID TO ME…’

Then ‘Stewpot‘ Stewart pulls a pencil from inside his anorak

And all at once the chaos stops and everyone screams: CRACKERJACK!

 

To end the show, sardonic Sanders, Garry Shandling on his tod,

And watching all this far-fetched guff, presumably, is God.

But God of course does not exist, and neither now these so-called stars,

Except of course in human minds, where memories fade like laughter scars,

Where mourning breaks at thoughts of missing those who’ve made our lives sublime,

Where mawkish poems break the rules of taste and rhyme.

And scansion.

 

People die. They always have. Now we know more of their names.

And if this helps us deal with death, then fame is not in vain.

 

People die. They always will. One day you’ll have to face it.

Or better still, be filled with life, and hungrily embrace it.

 

…

 

Improvements more than welcome.

 

 

Filed under: poetry Tagged: Alan Rcikman Victoria Wood, Anita Brookner, Arnold Wesker, Balls Mahoney, Cilla Black, Crackerjack, David Bowie, David Gest, Ed Stewart, Fagin, Frank Finlay, Frank Sinatra Junior, Garry Shandling, George Martin, God, Greg Stekelman, Gulch, Harper Lee, Howard Marks, Larry Sanders, Lloyd Hollett, nancy Reagan, Paul Daniels, Prince, Ronnie Corbett, Ross Shapiro, Sunday Adewusi, Terry Wogan

Feedback Friday :: A Crack In Everything

Light, getting in.

pitches/proposals :: 2 (one on Upwork, one through a friend)

positive responses :: 2 (both still pending)

jobs completed :: 3

English lessons taught :: 2 trials

hours of Dutch learning :: probably only 90 minutes this week in total. Donder slampamper!

books being read :: 2 (same two as two weeks ago)

outings :: 1

physical exercise :: bit of cycling, 1 back-fixing session (I miss being fit. I need to sort my shit out.)

metaphysical exercise :: 1 measly minimed, but some very good conversation

routine adhesion :: 23%

happenings that I have decided to regard as tests of my moral fibre and overall positive mental attitude :: 4

tests passed :: 2

tests failed :: 1

tests as yet unresolved :: 1

week 15/52 overall rating :: 9/10. I’ve said a couple of things and thought a couple of things I’d rather not have, but I haven’t tortured any kittens – not even metaphorically – so, mustn’t grumble. Also the Future continues to shimmy and sparkle, much like a lime, exploding in slow motion, in fierce summer sunlight, and one of the jobs I’m waiting to hear about is very exciting. But if it doesn’t transpire, it’s not the end of the world. I still won’t torture any kittens. (It would be great though.) (The job, I mean.)

Life, just like, everywhere.

Tuesday was beautiful. Proper warm and sunny, so I set out to buy a kettle before going to the theatre. I felt like Alan Bennett. (I imagine Alan Bennett must have taken a kettle to the theatre at least once.)

Post-purchase, I strolled – delightedly – from Victoria to Charing Cross Road, sun in my eyes, music in my ears and still clogging up my head the memory of my friend Charles celebrating his birthday that very morning by eating 24 Weetabix and then – mid-glory – sicking them all back up again. Charles is 45. (The kettle was for him. I got it in Argos. Because he’s worth it.)

I had arranged to meet an old friend in the dungeon of a theatre bar but it was such a glorious day, and I was a little bit early, so I started scouting around for some nice pubs in the sun instead. I crossed a road and began to scour my surroundings when I became aware of a strange presence a few metres away. It was a bearded man astride a stationery bicycle, wearing a shocking yellow luminous cycling jacket and futuristic eyewear. He was staring at me.

For a second I assumed it was merely a random London moment with a slightly gawpy ageing hipster, then I realised that it was actually Shaun, one of my oldest friends in all the world.

Once identified, I made my way towards him and we hugged hello. Unfortunately, it was a rather clumsy hug, what with Shaun having to remain erect to hold his bicycle up and me a mess of mobile phone, headphones and kettle.

The strap of my bag caught around Shaun’s handlebar and in the ensuing hilarity and a second or two of deliberately exaggerated clumsiness – comedy clumsiness – for laughs, I dropped my phone in the road and it smashed.

I turned it round in my hand and saw the cobweb crackage creeping over one corner of the screen. When Shaun saw the damage, he did what any normal healthy non-sociopathic human would do and let rip with an involuntary, quite dramatic combination of arm movements and noises of regret, sorrow and condolence. To which I replied: ‘No, it’s alright! It was old,’ I said. ‘And it would’ve died anyway,’ I added.

And a short while later, I realised that I had felt no sting of anything negative – no anger, no rage, no regret even – on the breaking of the phone. I was positively blithe.

Which is how it should be, I know. I’m not after a cookie for not going to jail.

But I didn’t used to be like that. I used to be a proper little rager. Tutting and sighing and huffing and puffing and effing and blinding and blaming and moaning and scowling like a furrow-headed sack of bile, resentment and some fucked-up sense of entitlement.

A rager, smoking.

You know, a lot of the time.

So I’m pleased to note a change in my responses to the world.

And it reminded me of how my last phone went out.

It was about two years ago and it was already an old phone that I only used for listening to podcasts. And I was doing just that, listening to podcasts, walking down a street in Mansfield, when it stopped playing podcasts and started displaying a message saying that for some ludicrous reason that made no sense, it could no longer play podcasts.

And I was enraged.

I fiddled with it a bit and got it working again.

Then it stopped again and the message was back.

This went on for five minutes or so, on and off and cat and mouse until eventually, almost casually, I slapped the phone against a concrete lamppost I was passing, the way in the old days (when tellies had tops) you might thump the top of a telly.

The phone was written off.

Good for nothing. 

And later on the internet I found a way to fix the problem.

That’s no way to live a life.

When I was in my early 20s and two drunken friends wouldn’t give me any of their vodka, I got my own back smashing my own guitar. 

I used to punch myself in the face a little bit too, if you want to know the truth.

I have struggled a lot with anger and rage and self-hatred over the years and now, after six years or so of fairly consistent introspection and genuine efforts to change, I’m finally beginning to notice significant changes.

And they are a treat.

A kitten thinking, ‘One swallow does not a summer make,’ but rightly, for fear or torture, saying nothing.

Plus I went to the doctor and the dentist and the theatre and the cinema – but the queue was too long in the cinema so I came home.

What a week.

And now, as all things must, it has come to pass, barring the weekend of course, for which, alas, I have no plans.

What about you? Come now. Tell me everything. 

x

 

 

Filed under: FEEDBACK, REAL LIFE Tagged: growth, rage

Music Magick :: Imogen Heap

Because life is what it is, I never met Imogen Heap until very recently when a friend of mine played me a couple of her songs on YouTube – yes, that counts as meeting – and they both brought tears to my eyes.

Since then I’ve looked at a couple more things she’s done and I have quickly come to realise that Imogen Heap is one of those wonderful, extraordinary, supernaturally talented, naturally humble, brilliant, beautiful human beings who make it all – life, I mean – ultimately magnificent.

This song – and this performance – is my favourite thing so far…

But her work in the world of wearable technology – MiMu, the musical glove – is a whole new world of excitement.

First I watched this Wired talk from 2012, in which she demonstrates the technology that enables her to create, sample and loop music and sound just by waving her hands about like a goddess. It’s tremendous…

Then there’s this TED talk from a few months ago. It’s not quite as mind-blowing if you’ve already seen the Wired talk, but it’s fascinating to see how the technology is evolving, and it’s still full of totally magical moments…

Despite an unsuccessful funding attempt on Kickstarter, the MiMu gloves are still very much in development and I for one am exceedingly grateful.

Hoverboards, my arse.

Onwards!

 

Filed under: EVOLUTIONARIES, MUSIC, TECHNOLOGY Tagged: Imogen Heap, Kickstarter, TED, Wired