Written by Candlelight

Time is a melody that presses forward regardless.

The stable, basal baseline thumps away at the lower register as the metronome ticks.

Eventually as our instinctive bodies develop into more unpredictable individuals, some textures join in. Let's call them tenor and alto.

And among the noise eventually you can pick out certain melodies. Long choruses, cheeky ornaments or brief grace notes flicker, delight.... and close.

Triplets and appogiaturas scale your grand opus up. Or down.

And on drones the baseline, ticking towards the end of the piece.

The challenge, should you accept it, is to keep whistling a pretty descant over the top.

Hard Times

What are you hardwired to do?

Your peculiar history is the core and decoration of your timeline. 

Certain things are permanent, inevitable, matters of fact. But depending on your mood, desire and flexibility, you may choose to revisit them or reinterpret them periodically. Perhaps your misrememberings will lend the wires unequal current or uneven weight.

But make no mistake, you have become hardwired.

Life is a selection of threads, quietly weaving and looping, constantly growing and sometimes unruly. The story that they tell is the narrative of your life. How they eventually represent that is the pattern or grid through which you will see the lives of others. 

Your threads may not pearl and loop themselves sufficiently effectively to become an automatically cosy cardy. The story may not be one that is structured into a classical beginning and middle and it may substitute a punchline for a frayed end.

All that your threads achieve is to hardwire you into being you.

Tomorrow, you get to choose how to knit them.

A Future with Spotify.

There is a change coming in the world

It is caused by technology, by privatisation, by overcrowding of the world, by immigration, by the diminishing possibility of freedom of speech, by growth in human slavery, greed, corruption and an economic South Sea bubble which still owes us two decades of false dawns.

There's trouble brewing.

But also massive opportunity.

There's no TV series that you cannot see on the Internet or Netflix.

There's no music you can't hear on Spotify.

No designer item you can't buy a copy of.

No Polytechnic that won't call itself a University and print you off a nice degree in exchange for money.

There are a million lectures you can sit through on youTube.

A billion books you can download.

And there is pretty much no thing that you could identify that you want from technology that someone hasn't either already invented or isn't improving a method, an app, a program, or device that will do it for you. 

And it's all becoming affordable. Frequently it's free, if you sell part of yourself to a little advertising.

And of course if that's not enough, there's always a few effortless highs awaiting you - drugs and alcohol. They're never going to go away. They even prefix many of them with the word "legal" nowadays. 

That's because their legal.

In fact, we now pretty much have everything required to keep the masses quiet.

To download them goodish lives.

And while that's going on... all this artisan bread and circus, the rich can concentrate on the important stuff like getting richer, buying a big house, and chalking up two or four seven-year marriages.

The businessmen will squeeze the masses with zero hours even as they tender for bounteous contracts, always ready to apologise later when the corruption is discovered.

They can fund their duck ponds and dynasties or whatever else they think themselves entitled to. 

Not all will make it of course. Some will overreach, bankrupted by their own greed, some will overTweet, bankrupted by their own ego. But largely they will all concentrate on the important business of getting richer and richer. Because they are important and their motives are monodimensional..

And you? 

Well, you will have access to absolutely everything.

Are you excited?

Are you scared?

But with everybody so equal, how are you going to be unique?
How will you work on yourself?

Do you think a doctor can't be replaced by a nurse?

Maybe you're a dentist who doesn't think we'll ever conquer tooth decay?

Or a lawyer who believes the system will never change?

Or a shopgirl who thinks you'll always be needed to assist at the automatic checkout?

Are you sure?

Are you really that sure you're so necessary?

Why will we need you?

Why are you so good?

But at least people need each other, don't they?

Of course they do, but just remind me why that is... 

Are you more entertaining than Spotify?

Are you better than a TV series?

Do you know more than Google?

Are you more interesting than Wikipedia?

What do you bring to the party?

While you do (or preferably don't) choose to think about that, I'm going to offer you an answer. One that you may not even think you need.

Why not use the time you are given to gather skills that it takes time to gather?
Read that again..slower.

For example, there's no point in having a perfect an app that can translate Spanish for you, because we can already see that that technology even if perfect would be dehumanised.  What it won't ever do is do a conversation for you, in the way you would do it. It wouldn't choose the same words that you would choose, or select the same inflection, or humour or charm.

So spend the next decade learning Spanish, or piano, or if you are not interested in mental dexterity then go for something that makes you physically fitter. You're going to need it. 

Spend some of your years doing things it takes years to do.

Humanity has a lifespan for a reason.

Choose skills that are universal and not parochial, or local, or that reflect merely the early 21st century.

Choose well and you might end up with something you can bank on.

In Two Three

Everything starts with a breath.

Life begins. 

Laughter requires lungfulls of ethereal ammunition.

Grief takes on form, noise and volume.

And decisions crystallise in the deepest sighs.

Life cycles.

Breath is a duty roster and a commitment to engage as much as it marks a line under every plot twist.

It's a perpetual loop. And it's final closure.

Life begins with a breath.

So sniff the morning air and gasp in some resolve.

Take a deep breath. 

Make a wish.

Piece at Christmas (The Puzzle)

You could choose to see life as a series of modules, instead of a big jumble.

A collection of pieces that can be installed and uninstalled.

You might be well used to seeing moments as pieces, memories as pieces. Those things that are easily photographed are easily seen as modular.

But where your pieces end is where your continuum begins.

Poison a piece and it can be removed, replaced. Slotted in. Slotted out.

But what if somebody or something poisons your entirety, your continuum.....what you choose to see as the... I don't know... as the "well" of "self"? 

Everybody knows. Poison a well. And you are fucked.

There is no slotting. There is no surviving.

Life makes your well muddy.

But your well isn't, well....you. It's a place where you keep parts of yourself. 

It's a metaphor, a model.

We all have parts. Sometimes they make a great whole. Sometimes we come up a bit short. Sometimes we might just think we are the hole.

Parts can be visited, celebrated, and then allowed to retreat, like anniversaries on a calendar.

They can be contextualised. They must be. Because the laws of the universe that govern entropy dictate that they must decay.

When you notice a gap or a hole or a poisoned piece, remember the hole is still piece-shaped. Find new pieces. Pieces that fit the puzzle better, even if they don't fit perfectly.

Pieces build.

Like bricks might make up a new well? Not really... or you are facing the same fate, aren't you?

But they do build into bigger pieces. And pieces make parts. And that's what runs engines. Engines of ingenuity. Well oiled, shiny, well-built, cared for.

And pieces settle when the foundation is sturdy enough.

They make pictures. Ones ultimately, where you can't see the joins.

Life, you see, is Lego.

At a push, it could also be a J.

What a lovely surprise to receive, as an extra within my box of seasonal gift tags, a simple cookie cutter in the shape of a lovely candy cane!
Does anything say Christmas quite as much as this?

Question

Does any phrase resonate quite as poorly as......

"This is for your birthday, and for Christmas!" ?

At It

They're all at it these days, aren't they?

You know - the Muslims, the gays, but not just them, it's also kids nowadays and the Church and politicians.

Especially the politicians. They're definitely all at it. 

The French always have been. But we expect that. That's nothing new. But now it is the Greeks as well, the Italians, the blacks, people of miniature stature or whatever they're calling themselves nowadays.

And TV presenters. In fact, people in the public eye in general.

And those people with their text abbreviations. And people on Twitter. My God. Those people on Twitter!

And what about those teachers? And the paparazzi.

And people on benefits. And cyclists. And people who park on double yellow lines, like they are private parking spaces for them.

And people who use Facebook. 

Yes, especially those bloody Facebook users.

Yes, they're all at it nowadays.

That lot.

Edges

Sometimes life is about trying to get the edge.

Trying to steel something. Ahead maybe.

Some people live on the edge. 

Some need their edge knocking off them. 

Some people will do anything to find it.

Some will do anything to avoid living on it.

The edge gives you energy.

Or it drains your life force.

It gives you strength or it saps it.

Age may make you lose your edge. You might hope as you age that things are cosier, rounder, warmer, altogether less edgy. That's all fine, if your methods are sound and if your diagnosis of your life is accurate and not deluded.

Or you may intensify your search for it, wonder where it went.

Or the interactivity of your life might equally have given you that edge, perhaps even made it permanent.

We often admire most those with the energy that their edges bring. But some edges beg to be smoothed, trained. 

Some people have edges that are too sharp for their outside world. They may not suit society. They may not suit a functional life.

Some edges arrive already cut, already meaningful. You may not have chosen the design but you may appreciate their symmetry and shine. Edges that reflect at the right times yet cut like the hardest material on earth when required.

Other edges may needs to be romanced. There may be altogether too sharp for you. Or you may not have the tools. Or the time. Or you may.

Some people might use drugs or alcohol to get the edge. Creatives in particular.

Some might use tactics - bullying, cheating, lying.

Big parts of a unique life involve having the edge or giving it away.

The point is to know where the edge is. So you can inform far you might push it and still keep a fingernail on it.

You may learn to dance astride it like a game of schoolgirl hopscotch.

Or one tentative jump may send you into oblivion.

I say, I say, I say

I went to see a man about a dog today. 

He had neck pain in every joint. Every joint! That's some neck.

His memory could have been better. "You can't expect me to remember ALL the benefits I've applied for", he said.

And his work record was a bit questionable. He said it himself, "I'm guilty of many things - but looking for work is not one of them".

Sprouting Ideas

We are told that sprouts divide the British public.

Now, I like a sprout. I don't mind you knowing.

I like what they visually add to a plate, and the fact that no decision is required in how to eat one. You just pop it in.

And I was raised on a diet of maternal advice that they are "good for your pumps". While I have never doubted it, I would not like to have to defend why you need good pumps, on anything approaching an evidence-based basis. In all honesty I've never fully looked into in it with any level of analysis that would pass muster. But I can imagine appreciating a long dry one on a brisk afternoon on top of the North Yorkshire Moors.

I have learned tonight that sprouts are becoming more popular - they are up 30% in sales this year alone. Had I been asked, I would perhaps have offered that it may be because they are picked younger, and not allowed to become the large craggy messes that would be boiled in an afternoon's ever-greying bathwater.

But it turns out that it is not that alone, or possibly at all. 

Apparently today's growers act to make sure that sprout bushes(?) produce sprouts of similar size, and more importantly the supermarkets have influenced the growers to genetically engineer the removal of the bitterness.

So the sprout denier should actually be pretty easy to convert if they can be persuaded to give the little fellas another go.

The bitterness has been removed and that brings the sweetness out.

Maybe.

Maybe.

We're all sprouts.

Power to the People

I have telekinetic powers.
There I've said it.
It behooves the domestic superhero to keep his, or her (what, really?) secret strictly, well secret.
(I've been waiting for years to include the word 'behooves' be in this blog. This is a good day!)
But I do have telekinetic powers. Oops, there I go again.

Specifically, there are certain materials I only need to look at and they dissolve.
Patrick Stewart would approve.
I don't know what you call a sort of power like mine  - a sort of mind control over plastics.
But to activate the mysterious force, I hold the plastics just by the fingertips at the edges in order to deliver my mind control - not in a way that could conceivably cause any damage.

In fact, you could try and see if you have a secret power too by trying this experiment at home. The tools you will need to try to duplicate the effect are as follows.
1. Buy your bin bags at B&M Home Stores, and
2. Then through a complicated series of..... Oh no, actually that's it. Just buy the bin bags and we will begin.

Hold the bin bags with your featheriest touch, and stare at the middle of the bin bag, (which should supposedly hold 50L of domestic rubbish).Watch as it effortlessly rips from top to bottom. Congratulations! Welcome to the club! Don't forget to send in your subs!

For gods sake, don't waste your ability.
Don't throw it away.
Admittedly, I've yet to discover a useful outlet for my powers.
Until I do, I'm getting my binbags at Aldi.

And 12 things that are a bit lovely..

1. Parking spaces where you drive straight ahead to the one in front, no need to back in (known to me as "vertically available") 
2. Eye-level grilling
3. Sleeping in your clothes
4. Electric flyswatters
5. Tearing paper across the blade of a ruler
6. The sound of seagulls
7. Quilling
8. Sleeping in my clothes
9. Pop-up books
10. Paper flags for sandcastles
11. Christopher Walken impressions
12. Ducks

Six Irritants

1. Asking for sponsorship 
2. Pluralisation of the word "you" (by adding an S, I know....it is hard to believe..but if you lived where I live...)
3. Being asked for sponsorship for any activity somebody might actually enjoy.
4. The sinister noise that comes out of the Beach Boys
5. Stock photographs of models who are clearly American
6. iTunes

Move Over, Punk

There was a book a few years ago called Nudge.

It had a snappy little line in pop culture and caught the imagination of the politicians.

I didn't read it. But I feel by reading the title that I did. 

It's a pretty easy concept. (Possibly so easy it may not be true, but let's not let that stop a good self-help book).

A movement in a positive direction is a positive movement. Call it a nudge if you will.

The fact is in life you need your nudges.

If you know yourself well enough, you might know what form you prefer your nudges to take. Perhaps they will have the face of a family member, friends, a drug, burning the midnight oil, a hobby, a pastime, an activity, a good nights sleep, a tough workout, an interaction. Or a word. 

Perhaps just a kind word from a stranger. Just the extension. 

Of a hand.

You might find yourself sometimes needing two or three of these things at the same time to realign yourself.

Or maybe just one. I hope you get them. I hope you get what you need at the time you need it. But if you don't, have a reserve plan. Have enough things in play in your life where you can deliver your own nudges. It's one thing to be self-motivated, but be self protecting too.

And remember to contribute to the pot. You may have someone in your life who gives many kind words.

But notice it, appreciate it and when you have time in your own way validate it.

That's three different activities.

Notice it - to take the time to notice that it's taken an effort, a thought, the energy of a transmission.

Appreciate it - it may be easy to feel but it may not be so easy to externalise, to show. Particularly if you're British. And male. And Northern. Let's not get overexcited, it may not even be necessary. Getting giddy with appreciation may not be your style. I'm happy to say it's not mine, but most of us can learn to say thank you to a well meant sentiment. Not necessarily just a kind word, as that may have manipulative subtext but rather to a well-meaning thought but feels genuine.

And then finally, not necessarily now but when you can,  validate it - we don't need to have the same styles to nudge back. You can do it with a wink or a drink, by running a bath or picking a daff.

Keep nudging, nudging on, nudging along in a way that is true to your character.

And we'll all nudge ahead.

Together.

Here Is The News

It's all bits of life, isn't it?

Very sad to hear of Lewis Collins death, suffering from some sort of cancer for five years. I think I'll assume it's bowel, a nasty enough disease to fell a Professional hidden behind previously washboard abs. The breathtaking raid at the end of Who Dares Wins left a permanent mark on boys such as I.

But it puts into perspective the papped photographs I saw a couple of years ago, claiming he was dishevelled. Of course he was. Life had taken on a new perspective.

It's annoying when we only hear half the story but the medical detail is important now that the nature of celebrity is seeing our own lives reflected in little fragments.

What else do we have this week? 

"I'm a Celebrity Jungle..." celebrates a man who can't tell the time or do up his own shoelaces, because he doesn't "need to".

TV presenter Melanie Sykes (43) most famous for doing some TV presenting and tweeting pictures of herself in lingerie, has been arrested for assaulting her toyboy roofer (27) and husband of a few months.

Strictly contestant and Countdown mathematician Rachel Riley splits up from her millionaire husband after 16 months of marriage.

They've grown apart, apparently.

So that's the news.

I hope you've learned something.

I haven't!

Hanging by a Thread

Have you ever felt that you are hanging by a thread?

Have you ever felt you are holding onto something by a thread?

Have you ever felt someone is holding on to you by a thread?

You might feel this way through hope or expectation, but the thread isn't an idea. It's real. 

Maybe it's not a thread at all. Maybe it's a rope, maybe it's a steel rope. The sort they suspend bridges with.

If you're holding onto something by a thread, maybe you're responsible for its strength? 

If the thread wasn't there, maybe it would fall.

That's the thing about threads.

They can suspend (actors playing) super heroes. They can make David Copperfield fly. You don't see them. But they're there. Vital. An invisible source of essential support.

Powerful. Flexible. Essential. Beautiful. 

Ask any spider.

If you're holding onto something by a thread, you might be the strength behind the something you're holding on to. 

Not just the thread.

Don't Ask Me For The Moon.

Do you have a song you like?

No, really. Really like? 

At work. At play. At school. Anytime.

No, you're not taking this seriously.

I blame myself. Some would argue that that makes you a lucky half-wit. Not me. It's not a bet. I'm no politician. As I say, I blame myself (and possibly a Merlot of questionable accomplishment). 

Don't think me too aggressive. Maybe I work too hard but I'm not a man with a gun. Let's try again.

Do you have a song you LIKE? I'm only asking. (If you don't ask, you don't get). But by "like" I mean universally,like. In the dark. In broad daylight. When you've prayed for rain. 

Now. 

Soon. 

Forever.

OK, I'll spell it out for you.

I'm talking about a song you "Like" enough to ... oh well, here we go... write out the lyrics. There I've said it. This is not a song you'd draw straws for. 

It's...stopping the tape, pushing the knob to pause play, wrestling with misunderheard words, trying to predict the artistic weather. And carrying on the impure belief that the neologisms "spoke" to you. YOU! 

While burying themselves in the belief that your belated transcriptions were actually accurate. (You're not religious, are you?)

But do you have a song like that?

Do you?

Take all the time you need. 

Because I know you do.

Because.........because..

I have two.

This is one.

And there isn't another person on the planet that is mad enough to guess the second.

(Well not correctly, at least).

Lock & Key

When you have the heart and output of a frustrated poet and life kicks you in the testes, the dispenser should eat a dose of his own medicine.

Cut a fat slice of his own rhetoric.

Eat it - swallow it, try it on for size. Pretend it tastes good.

Use the keys for the internal locks that he knows and try them on the locks he doesn't.

Maybe one lever will give. 

Maybe two. 

Maybe that's enough to force the door.

Or maybe not. 

He could lubricate the mechanism with a healthy dose of self pity.

Or get on with picking the rest with the arsenal of a locksmith.

Whatever it takes to find a way to recover and regrow, to recognise, reorder and repair.

And to see what tumbles.

Call The Doctor

Television history is upon us.

It is 60 minutes and 6 miles away

And I'm going to go to the cinema to watch it, even putting aside my intolerance of 3-D.

I'm actually a little bit nervous. The 50th has been so built up, but one man has always delivered.

One man never lets you down.

If I were in the hands of anybody other than Steven Moffat, I might not be so optimistic.

But bathe his writing in the skills of David Tennant, John Hurt and the fabulous Matt Smith.

This is television - the defining art form of our lifetimes and I know I'm about to witness history with a capital T.

Thin Ice

Would you like to go ice skating?

What a lovely idea! 

Only, don't do it with me.

Because I've started going ice skating.

You need more explanation?

Well, as delighted as I am with my new boots, my phase may not last long, and it's easy to give people the impression that you're doing it for fun. 

I'm not.

I have an exit strategy locked in.

The "sell" point is when I've achieved a level just below average competence.

See! 

I shoot for the moon.

Because ice skating is an intolerable, unnatural, bonkers activity.

Anybody with a normal level of under-competence, such as I, will be counting the minutes until they can get off the ice to click their rediscovered heels in the air (should they still have the capacity after removing the skates).

The trouble is that I have no doubt that it's good for you physically, if not mentally.

And I confess to holding out a hope that a certain level of competence might make it enjoyable, perhaps enough to see myself in scene from a Fred Astaire movie, in which case I could add the 'mentally' onto the list.

But of course, I won't know until I've committed a little.

Fitness wise, it ties in well with balance and core, and those other sort of yoga/Pilates things, that I might have scoffed that a few years ago but seem to make a little more sense to me nowadays as an alternative to pumping iron. 

If iron was meant to be pumped,cornflakes would give you wind.

Learning wise, it's even more appealing, forcing your joint position sensitive to compute a new set of variables, educating yourself nerve ending by nerve ending.

True, your life still seems to rely a little too heavily on the quality of the work of the fellow who sweeps the ice. And I'm pretty sure his minimum wage is not the safety net my ankles require. And if I was any good at it I would probably give up, my mission complete, for those of you with an passing interest in paradox. (How else can a renaissance continue?)

But you have to try to take part. 

Otherwise you just sitting watching. 

You've got to be more Torvill & Dean than Pearl & Dean.

Or at least more Torvill. 

Than Orville.

Quotable Me 11

I'm not into popularity contests. 

I would be, but I'm not popular enough.

Rules of Engagement

Yesterday I was talking to a heroin addict, who had been made into a methadone addict, courtesy of the medical profession. Well done, girls!!
He was not very keen to take more methadone as all his teeth had dropped out, but despite his low dose he topped up with extra purchases to keep his withdrawal symptoms at bay.

But at the time I saw him he was lucid, attentive and articulate. And it's always hard to resist spending a bit of time with people who are keen to listen.
He articulated a point I'd heard several times before by identifying the biggest distributor of drugs in my part of the country.
The name that came up once again was the female consultant for the local drug and alcohol programme, widely considered to be a soft touch for extra drugs, and always looking to increase the doses drug addicts
are prescribed.

This is a popular approach with supposedly therapeutic benefits, but can be articulated easily by people who prescribed before they talk to individuals. It is a level of disengagement dished out by linear thinking clinicians who rarely get to grips with what the patient's needs, wants and strengths are.

It's a failure of one of the first principles medicine. Which is this.
Listen to the patient. He's telling you what's wrong with him.

It's more than that of course he's even telling you what he needs.
Just listen.
Please... for a second put down your pen resting, itching and aching
over your prescription pad, and engage your ears and brain.
Listen.

And then he asked me a question.
He even prefixed it with the phrase. Can I ask you a question? (which is always slightly charming, if a little too deferential).
So I was kind of expecting a tricky one.
But it was the easiest question in the world.

"Do you believe in once a smack addict always a smack addict ?"

Surprisingly simple. Highly articulate. A simple straightforward question.
With that rarity of rarities...a simple straightforward answer.

"No, of course not". The words were out almost as a reflex.

How could anybody in medicine ever continue if they didn't believe in the incredible, (possibly best thought of infinite), potential of the human... well, the human being.

And yet...I can imagine the drugs workers saying or implying this to him.
Who hasn't heard of the same idea of the alcoholic.... once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic.
It's not much to look forward to, is it?
It is spectacularly undignified and ignorant clinical approach, an excuse for not engaging with the next set of motivations, (after hopefully controlling the primary problem).

I can imagine the defence of an articulate professor unable to see my view as anything other than that of a clueless dreamer.
But frankly I prefer clueless dreamer (me?) to just clueless (them!).

And I know the patient and I shared a clue. Because I listened and I looked and I saw and I heard it. And I felt it make a difference. And then I checked it had, checked that I wasn't kidding myself.

That he'd engaged with drug services to such a degree and not even have a clear answer in his head (or been given the wrong answer by rote) to that simplest most primal, most important of all questions, is not a sad indictment of him.
It's a sad indictment of the rest of us.

And when I say I us.

I really mean you.

Joining the Dots.

How much effort do you go to to join the dots?

To catch up on lost threads and trains of conversation that occur to
you, parked ideas, forgotten dreams and ambitions, friendships and
relationships that stalled or decayed?

Do you bother to build bridges to the things that the ebb of time and
flow separated?

Maybe not and maybe you shouldn't.

Plenty of people feel as though they move on.

And of course they do in some ways.

And of course they don't in some ways.


I'm not talking about something as crass as closure. I'm not Freud.
And frankly I am not sure I fully believe or have any interest in the
concept.

I suspect many people seek closure on things that are already closed.
That's more like a disease process than what I think I'm talking
about.

I am just talking about linking things up, little fragments of life
scattered through time.

Like a join the dots book.

Like a mind map. God knows it's been a popular enough concept in
recent years, because this is how our brain actually works, ideas
linked in multi-colours from felt tip pens.


We do this all the time. The Internet allows us to track down any song
lyric. It ruins every radio competition for us unless we are listening
in the car. Any little funny fact can be nowadays be drawn, clarified
or refuted by QI or Wikipedia.

Pub quizzes lost their innocence years ago. There's bound to be
somebody clicking away on his mobile phone whether or not he makes the
effort to disguise his action with a visit to the lavatory. Apologies
for the gratuitous use of the word lavatory. But I'm just try to make
a point. (And while I'm at it…..lavatory, lavatory, lavatory. That's
closure for you).


How much should you try to complete your pictures? Well, you can
sometimes tie an invisible loop with a letter to the past, or the
present. There are even modern applications that will send an e-mail
to yourself or somebody else in the future. The alarm clock has
finally woken up. When we finally sleep there will be a digital legacy
that in some way represents us. This will be mine.

But when you sketch your way through life, it is sometimes nice to
take a moment to go back and fill in the colour.

I'm not talking about reminiscence.

Okay well maybe I am. But not in the 'let's all gather round the photo
album' kind of way. I am talking about the version that is a bit more…
a bit more.. a bit more…. well….. me.


How much effort should you go to?

I'll tell you.


Some.

Fall and Rise

It's a beautiful autumn day, you know one of those days.

And a little walk in the local churchyard the leaves falling from the trees, sun peering between the branches. Warm in the face, but appreciating the sweater in the wind.

Rustling leaves, falling sycamores. You know the stuff. The stuff of children's poems from an illustrated book.

But here's the thing.

I didn't know what the leaves were.

I didn't know what the trees were.

I didn't know the name of the plants around the church.

And I didn't know anything to call the fly that landed on me anything other than "fly".

It's not very good is it?

We learn to rub stencils of leaves in our school exercise books.

But somehow, some of us get to the stage or the age where we don't know our oak from our maple.

It's pretty poor.

Psychologists harp on about mindfulness quite a bit nowadays.

Well how about being mindful of an environment?

Once you become a little aware of it, why not then become a little inquisitive and then perhaps a little informed?

Just one interesting fact about the tree you looking at should do it. It's history, journey, geography, biology, anything...

It's like flossing. It's a nuisance but all you have to do is floss one tooth. Floss one, and you're away.

Start.

Improvised theatre speaks a lot to environment.

Once you're aware of it, you can engage with it.

So become aware.

Wonder.

And find a way to engage.

This is your world, just as much as the one you've been living in.

But this isn't a general lesson, this is a lesson for me. I know plenty of people are brilliant at knowing plants, people who know can tell their larch from their ash, their beech from their maple.

It's me that is behind the pace.

So I'm finding ways to pick their brains. In fact I started last night. I happened across a twitterer who identified plants.

I tweeted him a leaf from the churchyard. And he gave me back its name and a bit of history within a few seconds.

Finally...social media is good for something other than selling.

Press Play

We need to play. The artists have it right. They let ideas dance around their heads, they give space and flow and air to their thoughts. They give them love, opportunity and consideration. They give their ideas oxygen. And they approach their brushes to their canvas with eyes that transmit as much as they see.

Play is the way that children learn.

Adults need to copy their homework.

But so many feel they are not allowed to learn way.

That's the problem with our teachers. That's my objection to them. Of all the things they didn't try to do, in the vast majority of cases, they never taught us how to learn.

But children is what we are, deep down. That's when our circuitry was done. When we were being hardwired as children, we were not being hardwired into adults, not really. We were being hardwired into being successful children. Of course. It's obvious.

The fact that some others may have "dressed up" their (inner)child up later to make them appear adult is just that… dressing.

The fact is that they may have exploited their inevitable, poorly-won adulthood as an excuse to grow needless quirks or idiosyncrasies or unpleasantries. Or coated it in humourlessness disguised as sincerity and seniority. Or covered their child in pinstripe suits, too much tweed or solar keratoses.


Why can't I collect stamps,tell a policeman he wears a silly hat, trample in the leaves, climb a tree or push someone in the pond?

And more to the point, why can't they?

Press play.

I say.

Masks

I've been looking into a few things, dabbling in a few areas. And I've been thinking a bit about treasure hunts, thinking about Masquerade and thinking about geo-caching recently. It just sounds like fun, doesn't it?

And I was looking today on the way that people hide these little notes and trinkets for tracking down by others using satellite technology. A brilliant little fun activity highly accessible to most people at no cost beyond that of the smart phone they will need.

Seems perfect, doesn't it?

Getting people out in the countryside with a clear aim, to track down a little "X" that marks the spot and the treasure hidden there. I was looking at youtube at some of the sneaky little places where the hiding takes place. They were spoilers if you like but something to get me understanding the game a bit more. And a lot of fun to watch.

The chap filming the video also set his own little hunts and treasure hunts, showing us all the sneaky spots, and little tricks he used at the culmination of the treasure hunt.

Fascinating fun stuff with upto half a million views on you Tube.

It gave me a real glimpse into an incredible, simple world of innocent adventure.

Everybody's happy!

I've never  "geo-cached" as yet but you can imagine your heart beat faster as you find your treasure.

The idea of  the treasure being worthless and therefore hopefully un-nickable...well, even better.

The provider of this content was called Sven. He'd videoed a few other practical jokes and japes too and would response to the many comments on his videos in YouTube.

At least he would respond... up until about a year and a half ago.

Then things went a bit quiet. Seemed a bit odd.

A look further down the comments identifies Sven as a chap called Steve Love born March 1981 who we are told became a successful businessman and had two kids he adored. 

He took his own life after his divorce proceedings got too much for him in February 2012.

He seemingly could have a laugh at everything - best medicine, right? But not enough in itself it seems.

I confess I wondered if this was one of his practical jokes.

But it's not.

It's  true. It's sad. It's inexplicable.

It's life creeping in. And life oozing out.

I suppose it's a reminder. 

But of what I am not quite sure.

Yardsticks? ...Fiddlesticks!

Do you know what you're looking for in life?

I'm not sure I do. But then I don't pretend that I do.

And I don't pretend I know what you want either.

But if you bump into me, I'll try my best to work with you on it. Who knows I might help you find it? (I'm quite good you know).

It seems to me a lot of people who get what they think they are looking for… well...screw up.

Then what?

What do they shoot for then? To correct an error or just to repeat a mistake. Plenty do just that. Or do they dare to have the originality to ask themselves the question again...

Do I know what I'm looking for in life?

If you do know, I won't doubt you (out loud),so go for it, get on with it, get it done. Then calm down and shut up. Job done.

If you really believe it's that simple, frankly, it might not just be the task that is simple.

But if you have a clear immovable life aim that works for you, go right ahead. You have my blessing.

I'm not sure I know what I'm looking for.

But I know I like the ability to keep looking.

I'm pretty sure I'm not looking for something as ephemeral and ill-defined as "happiness". It speaks to me of too many smiley faces, too many tablets with doves on, Glastonbury, and lists of cliched hobbies on a too tired CV that still has to mention walking and reading.

If you're searching for happiness, so impure a concept, you might as well be searching for Eden. Or god. Or an honest lawyer. But let's assume just assume for the sake of argument, you find "it", what you do then?

Do you settle? (Because that is the word that comes up repeatedly)

Surrender the mission of your lifetime - and do what…exactly?

What happens when the game of your life is over? What happens when it's game over?

Life is supposed to be a series of challenges, isn't it? Where is your settling going to get you then?

I'll tell you. Out of your depth.

You like the idea? Of course! It's warm and fireplace-cosy. But do you really, really want to settle? Do you? Just settle?

OK, how much do you want it?

Because settling is settling. It is closing down that drive the brought you to where you are.

For me, it is too close to stopping.

And I have no intention of doing that anytime soon.

So don't measure me by your yardsticks.

And I promise to continue not to measure you by mine.

Getting Your Rocks Down

Life is about transitions and genuine skill at doing life is the speed and ease at which these transitions can be accomplished.

Maybe you've had a bad day. What are you going to do? Maybe you'll have a bath or read a book or watch TV.

Maybe you will go for a run or play on your phone.

What if you had a really bad day? Will the things you used to relax you work instantly?

Will those bad feelings pass in a few minutes or a few hours. Will you need to sleep on it?

If you do will everything be better? Or will resolution take a week or three. 

Or years.

If it takes years, maybe you be medicalised. Maybe you have to see some ex-polytechnic student who thinks they are a non-medical generic counsellor, and the answer to all your problems. Maybe you'll even be disillusioned enough to think it was necessary. Or wonderful. Or just happy for the company. Which is what it is of course.

Things come at you in life.  They must do,  or where have you been hiding? If they don't, we must go out and find them. Poke your nose out, sniff the morning air. Yes they disturb our world like a dirty stick drawing circles in the sand. 

But the deepest scores can clear with a single stroke of the tide, a single wave.

But.

Sometimes the sand and cement is full of glass, clay or rocky aggregate. 

Even then if your waves are powerful enough, there will be settlement. 

One sweep clean. 

One clean sweep. 

Or maybe the rocks will settle in the wrong position. Like a scar that develops where tissue should simply have joined together.

You might think they will need patting down. Or that you need someone else to pat them down for you. Maybe you do.

Or you just need to set your sail to the winds.

You can hang your washing out in the rain and it will dry eventually.

You need to know what sort of hurry you are in.

Attracting artificial interventions that are over-medicalised to pack down your rocks, to pat down your sand, is not something to be taken lightly.

Read a book.

Learn a skill.

Light a fire.

Pick a lock.

Pick your nose.

Just do whatever it takes to relax.

But make sure it's the thing that relaxes you. 

It's no business of anybody else.

Love Heart - Part 2

About a year ago I wrote a poem called Love Hearts.

It was a simple idea, apropos of nothing, written at a time when I was on a packet a day.

So simple an idea that I wondered if it had been done before. But I'd no reason to believe it had.

The idea was to turn the popular Swizzels Matlow sweetie into a poem.

I knocked it out in a few minutes. It was never designed to be a masterpiece, just a throwaway.

But this month I thought I'd try an experiment in putting it to music.

So with the power of the Internet I hired an excellent US singer who put a little tune to it.

What started out as cheeky little pairs of couplets, turned into a simple melancholic, you might say bittersweet, performance.

I am going to remind you of the lyrics, in case you have forgotten them (!).

Like You
I'm Shy
My Girl
Don't Cry

Trust Me
Be Mine
True Love
Good Time

My Girl
Your Boy
In Love
Your Toy

Find Me
You Dope
New Love
My Hope

Aim High
Catch Me
Lucky Lips
You'll See

Now you can play the song....

Is this what they call teamwork, liaison, dare I say.....community?

Stripper In The House

What do you do when you want to get rid of something?

Well, I had a wallpaper stripper and a heat gun using up space, but I don't own any wallpaper any more and I hate to throw good things away.

So on it went to freecycle.org late last night.

By morning I had 19 replies and had to choose on which of them to bestow my favours.

A dizzying position of power that I am simply not used to.

This being a three-pipe problem I sunk into my easiest chair while the concubine dropped peeled grapes into my barely cooperating gob. Periodically, I made noises of apparent musing, as I agreed and disagreed with my current view on which individual to make my inhumanly generous gift.

In reality, I zipped through the "applications"and wanted to choose one who seemed relatively available to get the business completed quickly.

But what I finding myself wanting to know was to do with identity, a name of somebody you was probably about to come to my house, but the name frequently did not appear to be part of people's e-mail address. (Which is fair enough it isn't part of my shopping e-mail address either).

And it really helped to see a picture. This gave me the opportunity to exclude anybody who couldn't be bothered to smile on their chosen picture. It's nice to know in advance there are keen to advertise themselves as miserable so-and-sos but it's a wet Thursday morning I don't want to do therapy on anybody just yet .

It's not that I think you meet many maniacs on freecycle. In fact I strongly suspect we are the very pinnacle of humanity in thought, word and deed.

But my humanity drew me (as the selection process had been forced upon me) to somebody who wrote a short e-mail implying the items would be useful. I think I smelt a rat on some of them but that's part of the game, I think. Not everybody can be redecorating grandma's house this weekend!

So I went for someone who could be bothered to write a sentence, someone who would allow their name to appear somewhere in their application, and, courtesy of Google Plus, someone who's picture I could see who was smiling. And this is who I went for.

It's simple things isn't it.

Simple things give people confidence.

A word. A smile. A politeness.

Not. Rocket. Surgery.

Day of the Discards

This is my pop-up book.

Skylab: America's first space station.

I'll be honest with you. I've had it a while.
But now I have it in my hand.

By rights, it belongs in the recycling bin.

It may have images that are locked in my mind forever. But they can't really be particularly meaningful to me can they? After all I've never been to space. 

(Or I have been to space but I've never been to me.. I'm not sure... I can never remember which way round that is)

But it is decision time.

Time to throw.

A few years ago I wouldn't have even had the satisfaction of putting in the recycling bin. Unfortunately, more recently than a few years ago I realised the contents of the recycling bin went to landfill. It is a little council joke they play.

It's probably not in good enough condition for the second-hand market.

You can still pick one of these up on the Internet for a few dollars.... although it gets you thinking doesn't it, perhaps somebody could use it?

No, it should be thrown away.

That's what common sense tells us.

So, riddle me this...

Why am I sitting here repairing the damaged spine with PVA glue and cotton buds (otherwise known as piggy sticks) when I really should be getting on with something else?

The good thing about "thrown away" is that it doesn't need to be done all at once.
Skylab may or may not make the cut this time, but its day is coming.

A simple repair and an Oxfam drop off maybe turn out to be a saviour and its destiny.

Spot the Dog

I talked to a guy today who was in distress. He'd been accused of a serious charge and had been arrested.

He was pretty fed up about it and had been unsuccessful at a recent, and pretty substantial, attempt to end his life, reliably informing me that it was trickier than I would imagine.

I was pleased that every cell of our bodies recoil in protective reflex (if not anaesthetised) at this most un-Biblical action.

When chatting to him, his face really lit up when he talked about his dogs.

The unconditional love, the need for him and his attention. The playfulness. The reason for a good long walk. The whole "man's best friend" shebang.

We passed a few pleasantries on cats as well, mentioning their undoubted evil, filth, disloyalty and devil-may-care attitude, while also recognising that they have their place. Generally, that was squatting over next door's plant pots.

But every time he returned to the dogs, his face lit up, with genuine affection, genuine interest. The stuff of life. It was a genuine passion for his three, it has to be said , quite miniature dogs  (Chihuahua, Yorkshire terrier , you know the sort). He appreciated their clear needs and feedback.

He understood their their expectation of routine. He was fully aware that should that routine be transgressed, certain behavioural manifestations of disapproval would be the result, but the playful way they jumped around when happy and exercised and the mutual affection, they shared covered all the gaps. It hit the spot. (Not Spot.. spot)

Every time he returned to the dog, his face lit up again. With a big smile.

Not the smile you would expect from somebody picked up on a historical offence, highly distressed with the situation, and recently discharged from hospital after partially skewering an internal organ.

But nevertheless there it was, in the most unexpected of areas. A genuine smile.

It got me to thinking.

These dogs.

They may be much more than man's best friend.

They could be the ultimate saviour of the human condition. 

Character Counts

When does a positive thing like a strong sense of morality become an apparently negative thing like moral outrage?

When is backing the truth turn into being a whistleblower or "not a team player"?

When is having character and confidence judged as arrogance?

The answer, of course, is when it suits some agenda to label it thus.

With the richness of the wordplay of the English language, it will depend on which side you take. 

Your fingers will dance over your choice of weapon like a Victorian duellist.

You will choose the flavour and concentration of wordplay to support your purpose whether that be to educate, to inform, to discuss, to insult, to hurt, to discredit or to destroy.

If you do it in a charming enough way, you could sell tea to China, get a villain back on the streets, talk your way out of a parking ticket or get away with murder.

With the power of words, comes great responsibility.

Someone needs to tell the politicians and teachers.

Someone needs to tell the doctors.

Someone needs to tell the lawyers.

Blog 500

Life is about control isn't it? 

It has to be to a degree.

It's about what you think you have control over, what you actually have control over, perhaps who you have control over, and in what environment those rules apply.

To not have control over some things is too, well too… out of control. And that is a feeling that might increase stress. Agreed?

We all have areas of knowledge, expertise, geography, hierarchy that we feel entitles us to a basic feeling of control.

But maybe you want to broaden your mind? 

Do you? Really? Think it over.

Maybe you think that travel will broaden your mind?

OK but come on… is that all you've got? A simple alteration of your personal geography as the secret of mind expansion? Really?

Imagine your world like a cartoon brain, pulsing with a regular frequency and a low background hum. Stretching to grow, then easing off for comfort. There are probably lots of sandpits you can go and play in, where you won't be in control. But why would you expect to enjoy it? 

Well you could keep it trivial... the aforementioned travel.... going on holiday isn't a huge mental mountain to climb.

And you might meet some people who appear on the surface to be nice (and may even be nice underneath. Nothing is impossible).

What about going back to school?

What about jacking it all in and trading up. Or down?

Oh... but imagine the stress. Imagine the loss of control.

All the things you thought you wanted, you never wanted after all. They turned out to be a bit hard. Pity. 

What is the option? Live in your current bubble. Yes that's it, nice and familiar. You don't really need it to be any bigger. It's not like the world is changing or anything. You could even push occasionally at the edges, to extend or reduce participation/control. 

Or how about this? Why not become a parent? Not only do you have genetic control, it's also legally enforceable.

An instant personal genetically obligated army. Well done.

You can rule the roost.

You can set the rules on dinnertime and everything.

Or why not run a company? Why not employ people?

They have to do what they're told, or you take away the biscuits at coffee break. Great! Imagine the fun.

But these complicated environments are still very simple examples of testing the edges of your bubble.

How far do you go?

Do you follow a specific coherent path (recommended) or many different lines (tricky).

When do you tire?

When do  you rest?

And when do you stop and just polish the bubble you have today?

Sledging With Sister Frankie

Today was the 'mental patient' scandal. Asda marketed a fancy dress with an image we've all seen from horror movies, forgetting that this is Britain in 2013 and patients with mental problems cannot a) be referred to as mental patients and b) the otherwise abstract association with bloodstained white outfits is currently considered offensive.

The comedian Frankie Boyle tweeted "ATOS examiners have killed a lot more people than mental patients".

Somewhat uncharitable, I thought. I braved a positive upbeat tweet back and soon Frankie replied...

"I'm sure sufferers will appreciate advice on dignity and worth. From some bigot with 12 followers"

So at let's call it "half-time", in this "debate", Frankie Boyle decides to call me a bigoted loser.

Loser because I have 12 followers (which in my book is 12 too many). And bigoted because, well I don't know... erm because he wants to bully me with a little name calling, I think.

So a controversial comedian whom I have (previously) liked and worked very hard in the past to get tickets to see (and succeeded), uses twitter to call a follower/stranger (who knows quite a bit about mental health) a nasty name. Uses Twitter to call me a bigoted loser.

That's Frankie Boyle.

It's sad isn't it?
Preserving freedom of speech for himself, resorting to name-calling, and using the thunderbolt of the celebrity tweet/troll to do it.

It's tough to talk truth to power. Because when he has thousands of loving followers, he is the power.

One or two of his fans joined in.. suggesting I'd been "owned" by Frankie or adding a sinister "hahahaha" (not a good "hahaha").

Nice isn't it? 

After all if Frankie did it, it must be okay.

I have one of his recent books in the room next door. I shan't read it now, but I think it mentions the concept of kindness (a concept many decide to discover when they hit middle age).

He doesn't have that quality. Though he'd like to think he does.

I've defended him in the past when he delivers a joke. 

But there was no joke.

There was just nastiness.

He just uses weapons even though he doesn't know their power, doesn't know when to deploy, doesn't know what harm it does and doesn't understand the complex subject he comments on. He doesn't have his wings. And on his page he calls himself a "Truth Diver". Maybe the nitrogen bubbles got to him.

So be careful with this Twitter.

If I did this every day, that sort of stuff would hurt.

It would tie a band around your brain like a belt and keep pulling. It would cause lives to be lost.

Frankie Boyle would have to power to do this. 

He is a well-known name. In fact, these are the only people who should use twitter. They have plenty of time on their hands and that's where a lot of nastiness grows from. Just engaging with it today has stolen a lot of time from me although has been a worthwhile social experiment.

If you have to engage with minutiae, it can make your head shrink and crunch so make sure you draw some contrast. You need to re-expand, reinflate, open your squeezebox. I turned on the TV and watched a bit of Horizon looking at the secrets of life on the planets. That's enough to put things in perspective. Chunk up. Chunk down. It's all very well testing the water, but don't forget to sniff the morning air.

I did add another tweet helpfully pointing out areas Frankie might look to improve.
In the last 10 minutes alone, it's been re-tweeted to 700 people. (Who needs your own followers?)

So sorry Frankie.

Twitter is like the Hokey Cokey. 

If you have to do it, put your left foot in and take it out again. 

If you must, put your right foot in and take it out again.

But really, unless you are selling, it's best not done at all.
I'm putting my feet up.

Flies, That's What.

You know flies? You are resting your eyes lying in a garden chair
And a fly lands on your hand.
It tickles.
You shake your hand? Right? You don't open your eyes.
You shake your hand. The particular effect of the presumed fly disappears.

Then a few seconds later the tickle returns.
You're a bit more irritated.
You have a right to be. You made the situation more than clear.
So you shake your hand again. More vigorously, this time.
But you are still resting so certainly don't open your eyes.
Now the fly could not possibly be confused.
He won't be back.

Except, a few seconds later the bloody thing lands again.
Three times.
Same place.
Why hasn't he got the message?
Your willingness to share or not share your space with the fly should have been fully understood by now. There was no room for doubt.

So now we have to.. we are forced to...open your eyes.
You shake even more vigorously.
Perhaps even raise your voice.
Consider a little fly spray or a rolled up newspaper.

And of course he doesn't come back.

But it wasn't the raising of the voice, the vigorous shaking, the considering of the newspaper, the inherent all-pervading threat of a face full of fly spray.
Of course not.
Because they are stupid.
When you think about it, it can only really be this. Flies try their luck three times.

They don't land three times because they're playing a psychological game with you.
They must land three times because three times is the times that they land.
Isn't that the real truth?
Isn't it?

Bloody flies.

The Empty Space

Life is about the empty spaces.
The one between your ears of course is well, the main one.
A mixture of neurones, axons, dendrites, synapses, white-matter, grey matter.
Little stars connected by little threads, highly fluid but poorly understood.

And the brain does seem like a star chart, like a map of space.
And what is space full of?
Well, it's full of... space. Largely. It's easy.

Except, of course, it isn't. Most of our universe is missing, unexplained, currently labelled 'Dark Matter'. And we were all probably born at the wrong time to ever understand what this will turn out to be.

Space screams to be filled, with theories, with unexplained matter, with spaceships, with building blocks, with heroin.
Nature abhors its vacuum. It screams for substance.. maybe bricks and mortar, maybe new ideas. Maybe vapour or dust or dirt.. or failing that, absolutely anything else at all. Whoever heard of a choosy vacuum? (Hoover, that's whoever).

From these spaces, of course, evolve new ideas, new interests, new relationships, a new job, a new direction. Limited, stupid human concepts that are the trivia of our lives.
But what else can we do?
Nobody can deal with too much space. It's overwhelming.
Nobody can deal with too little. For pretty much the same reason.
We exist in constant renegotiation.

So we are each a squeezebox.
Squeezing in to settle well loved ideas, right ones and wrong ones. Pack them tight enough and they become delusional. Pat them down too much and their energy bleeds away.
Then recharging our squeezebox by stretching it out, creating space and giving some thought to surrendering that space to some new thing.
Squeeze in, squeeze out. Repeat.

How much gusto you do this with depends on your personality.
Like a force of nature or a ripple by lake.

The challenge is... while you're at it, try to carry a tune.

Icons for Icons.

I was clearing out the family home recently with my brother.

We share little pools of pictures, of course. 

Little image-based memories.

Pictures that represent synapses permanently formed in the shape of those images.

But I don't mean furniture, the piano, the chest freezer.

I mean the empty tins of Meggezones and Phillips tape (although I never saw tape in the tin, just screws). I mean the wall clock which wasn't Louis XIV. It was plastic. It ran on a double-A battery (although it took me about 15 years to work that out).

Meggezones by the way were available up until April 2013, this year, according to Amazon. With reviewers appealing to the better nature of Merck Sharp & Dohme (rather than Meggeson, the now redundant name I see written inside the tin, and who used to add a line of heroin to their popular bronchitic mixtures). 

But all is not lost for the sore-throated. Those old pastilles now look a lot like the new Vocalzone Pastilles, as recommended by Tom Jones. Icons for icons.

There were bigger things of course such as the table tennis table.
And a final few games. But this time with the maturity not to play the decider (well, what are you going to do, he'd won the second game and there was a distinct possibility he was gaining momentum. And anyway, he knows I would have thrashed him).

None of these items were of real value, but the word we repeatedly used to describe them was.....iconic.

Pictures that were the iconic elements of our shared life.

It was the only word that could be used. Absolutely the correct word but none of the definitions in the dictionary adequately represented our use.

Iconic, unshakeable pictures.

I might even forget Meggezones were disgusting and reload my tin.

Quick Quick Slow

Life is getting quick.

We are quicker at shopping, quicker at making, we have quicker turnover, quicker paying.

When food isn't fast, it is still pretty quick, cut into portions for our convenience, vacuum packed.

But real engagement with life isn't quick. It has to be slow.

What, you never heard of a long engagement?

You only fully understand something when the process is considered. A meal carefully prepared, even if it's thrown into a slow cooker. A kipper slowly smoked. A whiskey tediously distilled.

A card that is handmade. A little something you designed and brought together yourself.

We need to get the balance right.

We've got pretty fast, pretty quick. But you only own something when you do it from first principles. You only have expertise when you can improvise from a foundation, when you can teach from experimentation as well as learn from it. 

That's what expertise is. 

If you apply that principle to the things of life, then that is life experience. 

It's a good thing. Something to be admired. A solid foundation. Not too many have it. 

Life experience isn't just experiencing life. (You get that just for turning up). It's becoming experienced through life. It is developing expertise at life. It is the difference between longevity and wisdom.

It is the reason you may not choose to be treated by an "experienced" doctor, who may have lost his way years ago. Whose foundation became redundant and whose "expert" improvisation continued unabated.

You're not a chef, just because you can microwave a ready meal.

You're not an artist, just because you can trace.

You are not a 'pathway'.

Fast is good, and, yes, slow seems to be a luxury. But it's not. It's a necessity which should be reinstalled, re-evaluated, and elevated, trusted and acknowledged.

Without recognising that balance, there is no foundation, there's no strength, there's no base or basis.

Iconic pop outfit 'Bucks Fizz' said it best.

"You gotta speed it up. 

Then you gotta slow it down".

Moments of Madness

Well, it's all the same news at the moment.. a season of mass shootings. We are hitting one per day at the moment.

And another sensitive actor takes his life. I didn't know Lee Thompson Young till I saw the news today, but he died a month ago.

Not drug addled and unemployed, but with a part in a major series.

He was in another major series a few years ago called Flash Forward.

This was a sci-fi series. (At the time, I tried the first episode but got bored. Others must have agreed as it was cancelled pretty quickly).

It messed around with time and characters could flash backwards and forwards.

His character was apparently destined to commit a terrible deed, and try to figure out desperately if there was any way he could change these events.

It's a familiar staple of the time travel plot.

But Young spoke about the role he played at the time...

"...everything in everyone else's flash forward seemed to be coming true, step-by-step. He was unable to sleep at night. He was depressed, frustrated, angry. He felt powerless. And, in the end, he finally decided that this is how he could change that".

His character commits suicide by jumping off a bridge to prevent the event happening.

Young, it appears, shot himself in the head.

There is a time for sensitivity, and a time for resilience.

A time to open the doors, and a time to slam shut.

People will try to open your doors for you. But they are your doors. 

There is no key.

Because. They. Are. Your. Doors.

No one opens them but you.

I wonder how responsibly the acting teachers assess the resilience of their students.

Whether Stanislavsky was deluded.

And how much method...is madness.

Yesterday, When I Was Young

As I was preparing to go out tonight, I turned on radio 2.
Well, what are you going to do when you want some music and no adverts.

In the evening at least there's a reasonable chance most of the more moronic DJs will have set up home, or being arrested by Operation Yewtree. (I am not fully sure that the Yewtree will recover from this latest blight)

And just to prove that I'm older than you might imagine, I stayed listening to Desmond Carrington, and almost missed my shower.

Yes, big Desmond Carrington fan, me.

What you've never heard of him? Well I don't have time for that now.

But he was playing a song. (Newsflash)

"Yesterday, When I Was Young".

I had never heard it. It could have been from the 60s, but I think I recognised Elton John's timbre  as more naughties Elton, 2000s Elton, or maybe a little more.

It had the breadth and depth and heart and soul that older singers grow.

And it was lovely.

But it was French.

Everybody has a love/hate relationsh with the French. Generally it's hate. That's why they're the French.

But the sweet chanson is something to behold.
The story of the chanteur is something to be treasured.
The silk of the chanteuse is something.... Which deserves some considerable thought.

It is, alas, romantic.
Simple and beautiful and sweet.

And this was the song I heard.

I don't how long it will last, but today...it's my favourite song.

The 80s

Why can't American movies from the 80s work now
Why can't we go down to the cinema to see a montage accompanied by a little bit of American heartbeat?
Why can't we feel a bit of yougoddagoforit?
Why can't we wistfully share a bit of teenage angst?

What's wrong with making the prom queen pregnant?
What's wrong with taking the class nerd in detention?

Is it because the guy who Rocky V fought died this week, of AIDS?
Is it because women just not allowed to.....  ....... feeeeel?

Why can't we have our emotional fallout accompanied by a little 80s rock?
Why can't we have heart?
Or Heart?

Anymore.

Nine things I'm right off

• Buttering a cracker (too risky)
  
• People who email me and haven't capitalised their own name
  
• Spelling hygienist (too risky)
  
• Simon Mayo
  
• Anybody who feels the need to dry their used teabags
  
• Biros that trick you into thinking they still work
  
• Accidentally sitting on the toilet when the seat is up
  
• Coffeemate sticking to the spoon
  
• That bit of the Tom Jones song when he goes "I think I'm going to dance now"
  

Quotable Me - 9

Strength isn't tall. It's wide.

Red Bastard

I've just seen a provocative clown who aims to get as to change our lives.

Red Bastard is an edgy, dangerous act. It has good intentions again reminding us that we need entertainers to break out of our own patterns. (Why is that?) 

At the end of the show he strongly encourages (or gives the opportunity) to someone to do exactly that. He doesn't know how it will end, but in my show a man telephoned his girlfriend in Australia and told her she needed to respect his parents more.

At this, another man leapt to his defence (although thinking about it now perhaps a little late), suggesting that he was bullied or provoked into it. The performer took off his costume, articulately disagreed and offered himself for a post-show, well, let's say debate.

The person who took the opportunity defended the performer and the situation, henceforth to be known as the choice he made for himself. He agreed with the entertainer that he done something that needed doing.

Perhaps the entertainer judged it perfectly after all. I think he did. I think he knew what he was doing and I speak as someone who's leapt to the defence of many.

Not every exploration needs closing down. Sometimes you must encourage the opening of a door, even if you know it leads nowhere. Help them through it anyway and it may lead to another door. Tell me you know where that one leads, Nostradamus.

Dreams were discussed in the show - the dreams of the audience.

But who cares if you write that novel you always wanted to write?

Well first off, you do.

Do you want to write it and expect it to be a bestseller? Maybe it will be. Maybe it won't.

Maybe if you write it, another door will open. But either way it certainly won't occupy the same space in your head anymore.

You'll probably learn something through it. And you will be able to give yourself a big pat on the back and get on with your life.

Yes, you need to protect people from doors with precipices on the other side. Of course.

But you can also put protect someone by putting them in harm's way, letting them play in the mud a bit, building experience, creating resilience.

As my mother would say, a little bit of dirt never did anybody any harm.

This was a show of controlled harm, with clinical execution. 

And if that's OK for surgeons, it's OK for clowns and comics and it's OK for me.

I wouldn't be at all surprised if at tomorrow's fringe nominations, a little red bastard makes an appearance.

It's True Is That

Entertainment is changing.

It always changes. 

What would you say you like best - theatre, comedy, music? 

Story or tunes?

In songs you really like, why do you really like that song? 

Maybe you've written a song, perhaps just in your head. What came first the melody or the words?

Whatever the song, surely it can be enhanced and advanced by a little story. A journey, even.

Made you like poetry, but might not you like some better if it were put to music?

The battleground is changing, the lines are blurred.

Standup comedy isn't standup comedy anymore. It's just standup.

Comedy Improv isn't comedy improv anymore. It's just improv.

Experimental theatre isn't experimental anymore. It's just theatre. Nowadays, frequently it might be developed by improv techniques, and know exactly where it's comedy lies.

So whether we prefer theatre, or comedy or music, we're all a little bit wrong. Because we like a little drama. We like the truth. We like a little angst, and sometimes we even take pleasure in a little pain, even our own. We don't really understand why. But it's all to do with connection. Connecting. Connect out.

It all comes down to truth.

Bizarre slapstick is fine, but it's funny because it accelerates and exaggerates the truth.

Is there a form of entertainment that you can identify, that does not trade in the truth? Well, perhaps simplistic pop is cynically overwritten. But we all need a little light relief, now and again.

We gobble it up. They tell us nowadays that we consume it.

So if comedy is truth, and all forms of entertainment and drama lean towards this. Then everything is funny, right. Well, you probably don't think so. But I'm going to disagree with you, while you reach for your well-worn examples..

Only the bleeding hearts tell us certain things are off-limits. But they are dangerously wrong.

Entertainment never changes. It just keeps telling the truth.