Friday, 31 December 2010



Thursday, 30 December 2010

Other People's Lives

are mundane.
how do you describe something indescribably awful? so difficult

Monday, 27 December 2010


He was forever bashing out bitter letters to his publishers and his agents, complaining about perceived slights to his authorial dignity. When he finally threatened to leave Knopf, his editor Robert Gottlieb was only too happy to show him the door. “Let me reverse your threat,” he wrote to Dahl. “Unless you start acting civilly to us, there is no possibility of our agreeing to publish you. Nor will I—or any of us—answer any future letter that we consider to be as rude as those we’ve been receiving.
“Imagine a number of men in chains, all under sentence of death, some of whom are each day butchered in the sight of the others; those remaining see their own condition in that of their fellows, and looking at each other with grief and despair await their turn. This is an image of the human condition.”

I hadn’t seen any novel make the statement that entering the workforce was like entering the grave. That from then on, nothing happens and you have to pretend to be interested in your work.


According to the narrator in Whatever, “one hates the young.”


That’s the other part of the trap. The first is professional life, the fact that nothing else is going to happen to you. The second is that now there’s this person who will replace you and who will have experiences. This leads to the natural hatred of the father for his offspring.


The father and not the mother?


Yes. There is some kind of physiological and psychological change in a woman when she gets pregnant. It’s animal biology. But fathers don’t give a shit about their offspring. Hormonal things occur, things that no culture can do anything about, that generally make women like children and men basically not give a damn.

Saturday, 25 December 2010

Friday, 5 November 2010

Friday, 22 October 2010

Sunday, 1 August 2010

A bit of truth that is too heavy to put anywhere other than somewhere that people don't read

After my ex-boyfriend's brother killed himself, my ex asked me one thing.
"Don't let me take cocaine anymore."
I agreed, but said there was little I could do.
"I know it killed him," he said.
I knew too.
Everyone knew.
"Just please help me," he said.
And I said I would.
For the next three days, a small crew of us hung out at the house, then he got a phone call and had to go and choose a coffin. My ex said he would call me after. I went to buy food and flowers. He never called. The next day I called him. He answered the phone quiet and slurring.
"Gems?" he said. "I've been up all night."
He had gone to meet Lily and Robbie (Allen and Furze). The first thing they had done was pick up coke and take him out on a bender.

Never had an honest conversation with him since.

Saturday, 17 July 2010






Tuesday, 1 June 2010

Wednesday, 28 April 2010

Tuesday, 30 March 2010

Alphabetty Spaghetti

The methods with which we express ourselves are as evocative as what it is we are trying o say. Doubtless there is some mystery as to why some people ‘have’ to paint or write, as doubtless there are certain ideas that pertain better to various art forms.
As society’s ideas have progressed, so have many of the methods we use in order express them, often becoming so accepted that we barely notice their implication.

Take recorded music as the most obvious. It is undeniable that the experience of listening to music being played by a person sitting in front of you is different from putting on a record – a definitive and finite version of song – and listening to it. When you play records, are you actually listening to music? You say you are, but what you are actually doing is listening to a recording of music. A ‘here is one I made earlier’. This disconnection does a lot of things, but to sum up over a century of its use, it basically makes pop stars. This may or may not be a bad thing, I could debate it either way, but without sounding too obnoxious: I can’t be bothered.

What I am instead making blind stabs in the dark at is the invisibility of this relatively new medium. Music is so much a part of our lives, yet the major way in which we engage with it has a sinister aspect of removal from the thing it actually is.

When records were on vinyl they were an art form in themselves; assuredly, one which utilised another to validate its existence, simultaneously to packaging and promoting said art form in a way it could be distributed to the masses. But this way only the beginning. As recorded music has ‘progressed’ onto CD, then mp3, the actual physical thing, which carries the music has all but disappeared from our consciousness. What is the difference between ridges on vinyl and a computer file? Or, more importantly, what does this difference mean?

The earliest form of writing, dating from about 9000 years ago from the famous Mesopotatoeheads was in the form of carving. The content – as has been drummed into me by Radio 4 - was NOT poetry. It was about money, and ownership (little change there then). But it is not primarily the content I am concerned with here.

In those early days of self-expression, in order to make a mark the writer negotiated with something that already existed. This initial act of writing was carving, a method that consisted with the removal of something from something else. Similar to sculpture, where a piece of stone can be said to ‘reveal’ the Madonna within it, early writing engaged with the world by bending objects to express their whim.

Consider the actual physical act of carving and what it is expressive of: its making an impact upon something else. Today, according to various psychologists, carving is associated with depression, but that is not really what I am getting at. Carving requires an exertion, a physical effort, and surely the human instinct it reveals is one of struggle and enterprise. It is an interaction with the world in order to make sense.

Anyone who has ever done any painting will know, that it is not the brushstrokes you make, but the brushes you leave out, which make an image. When you are making a painting, it is not the outlines of shapes which make the image make sense, but the space in between the objects, and how they relate to each other, which creates the ‘truth’ of a picture.

This was evidently once true of writing, but not so any longer.

Now when we write, we are adding to things. Sure, it is still the same contrast, which allows a reader to make sense, but the writer is no longer writing into something, but writing onto it. Now we cover something up, in order to make a mark. I don’t think I need an extra metaphor to get across the intrinsic difference in intention that this reveals.

So what is the actual difference between the content and method of early writing - making an impact upon a surface to signify ownership and authority – and modern day writing - leisurely passing a pen over paper in order to find beauty and truth, or just writing a shopping list? It is hard to tell, and as writing is now so widespread, no doubt in many circumstances it barely matters. Perhaps the only people it matters to are those stuck in the profession, once the endeavour o the most powerful people in a society, and now a set of largely ignored and unsuccessful types: writers. To consider argument, plot and execution for a writer is important, but perhaps more so is thinking about what exactly it is you are doing when you tap away at a keyboard and little black lines form at your will on the constant light of your Apple Mac.

P.S. Also, I don’t want to let you leave under the impression that the content of early writing was in any way superior to what we do today. In fact, most of the oldest surviving texts concern the celebration of booze.

P. P.S. The Iron Age Celts didn't ever write things down but passed on their knowledge, stories and poems by word of mouth. They were a highly sophisticated society, for their day and knew about the existence of writing, only preferred to learn everything by heart. I am not asserting the significance of this, only to draw a conjecture with the method of learning used n British schools up until recently – when lessons consisted of parrot style regurgitation. This method of teaching has largely been abandoned, but why? There is something to be said for knowing something off by heart, so that 70 years later you can still recite it word for word. Does this prompt a better understanding of the material? Or is it merely a glib ownership of the surface of something? Who knows.

Monday, 29 March 2010

I don't go to clubs.

The Brat

Friday, 12 March 2010

My Favourite Phobias

That there is a name for all these things, which must mean someone sometime once suffered from it makes me feel one fuck of a lot better about, er, something.

Allodoxaphobia: Fear of opinions

Arachibutyrophobia: Fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of the mouth. So sweet.

Chronophobia: Fear of time

Dikephobia: Of justice

Cherophobia: Fear of joviality

Bacillophobia: Of microbes

Euphobia: Of hearing good news

Barophobia: Of gravity.

Autophobia: Of being oneself

Gnosiophobia: Of knowledge

Oneirogmophobia: Of wet dreams

Eleutherophobia: Of freedom

Ecophobia: Of home.

Iophobia: (just cos its almost how you spell my name but) of poison.

Phobophobia: Phobia of phobias

Personally, I'd just go for Panophobia. Fear of everything.

*Nicked off a site with the charming disclaimer: If you are looking for a phobia that is not on the list, I'm sorry but I don't have it.