Welcome to Acerbia; population: π
This is the archive of the many and fabulous adventures of . Like a hard-bitten son of Michael Moorcock's Jerry Cornelius taught to write by William S. Burroughs; continually reincarnated, debated over by intellectuals and literati at cocktail parties the author can't get invited to, the target of scorn and ire from women everywhere, frequently mistaken for a former member of the Warsaw pact, named after the Italian explorer Giuseppe Acerbi, slowly rewriting the Book of Cataclysm, this is postmodern fiction at its most playful and creative.
Deep beneath the rocks and stones...
The temperature may have been just above freezing but the sun was out and the skies were clear. From the 13th century town of Provins we could see for miles in every direction. The town had been built on the large stone shelf specifically for the inherent natural defensive properties of the surroundings. Added to that three rings of defensive walls, portculises, towers and moats and it was easy to understand why the Knights Templar had made Provins one of their central bases of operation in France.
Provins was on the trade route to Paris and all merchants and travellers had to pass through their gates to reach the French capital. This was one assured way for the Knights to always have a good idea of what might be going on in Paris. The Knights Templar had been entrusted with preserving the Holy Grail, which, depending on your choice of mythology was either the cup that caught the blood of Christ on the cross, the sacred blood lineage of the jewish king that inspired the stories of Jesus, or they were just a bunch of British comedians starring in their first film wearing woolen chainmail and saying "Ni" every so often.
We wandered the cobbled streets for most of the afternoon, with the intention of later going down into the vaulted catacombs that had been carved into the stone base of the rock shelf through a sedimentary layer of chalk. All of a sudden a cry went up, in the ancient tradition of alerting the local citizenry and raising the alarm. The cry had been all but forgotten to those few who remembered it and to whom it still held any meaning, but was bellowed from the highest point in the surrounding lands, the tower; "whasssssuuuuuuuup!"
A few moments later the reply echoed back from the second highest point. The top of the church tower; "whassssssss-uuuuuuuuuup!!!!" I shook my head in dismay and dodged to one side as a BMW 3 series with loud rap music blasting out the open windows tried to turn me into a smear on the cobbled stone road.
We got down into the cavernous rooms that had been tunneled into the rocks as natural defensive hiding places and storage bins for the long winters and hardy sieges the city endured as the bastion of the Knights Templar. Etched into the corridor walls, illuminated by flickering candle light, were the names of many of the visitors, Guillaume Le Grand, Comte Thibaut IV, George '99 (some were obviously more recent than others), and I began a rough translation of the tour guide's monotonous explanation of the labyrinthine passageways...
"Dating back to before the year 1000, the corridors were initially dug out with bare hands and small pick axes, the walls were then finished with fine-toothed comb like instruments... the church would exploit the workers and the masons formed the first unions, with three classes of masons, this then became the basis for stone-masonry and as such the Knights Templar took an affinity to the town of Provins and it became steeped in their lore until the 15th century when the Pope at the time ordered them burned at the stake and the passages blocked up. This is why there is no written history of their presence in the city and the only remaining evidence are the carvings on these walls..."
But then I got bored and started making stuff up when I noticed that another English-speaking couple were listening in on my pro bono translation services.
"Through there small children would be sacrificed to a large goat-headed diety, young virgins would be lead along this passageway to the room at the end there with the tiny doorway, only the most holy of the monks were allowed to enter the sanctity of the virgin's chambers and more besides... The morlocks and mole people would occasionally appear through there and the cries of lost children can still be heard after nightfall."
My father is a mason, either that or he really didn't like the knuckle between my index and middle fingers.
So when do I get an apology?
The last thing I ever played on a piano was "Suicide Is Painless". Some of you may remember it as the opening credits to M*A*S*H, some of you may know the actual lyrics to the tune. I'd love to claim that this declaration was to continue in the vein of "and as I played the notes and brought life to the tune, reading the lyrics as my fingers danced across the ivories a tear came to my eyes" I'd be lying. It was the last thing I ever played because it was too much work.
There are few things in this world that will get me to stop and reevaluate my approach to any given situation, I have had the French arrogance of always being convinced that, from the outset, I am doing the right thing and everyone else is wrong. Must have been doing something right to be where I am at this young age, and yet, the words "I'm disappointed in you" coming from one of maybe five people on the planet will halt me in my tracks. Don't worry, you're not one of them.
My mother hasn't said it yet, but I know that ever since she lost the feeling in some of her fingers on her left hand, she's been disappointed that I gave up the piano in favor of another kind of keyboard.
Tonight on French television, since I'm sitting writing this in my parent's Paris/country abode, the channels are full of yearly retrospectives on the events of the year. In the UK they do a similar program on the last day of the year, rounding up everything that happened. A lot of the times you watch it and realise just how long a year is, just how much can be acheived in one year, and how much time might have been wasted.
I certainly wasted a lot of time this year and I know that without the need for anyone to shake their head and utter their disappointment at me. But I've also found myself disappointed at the world in return on a number of points.
Dubya has been an incredible disappointment, when faced with the alternative, I think everyone should have voted for Jed Bartlet.
Where was the large cartwheel space station? Moonbase Alpha? Space food in little tubes and pills?
Where, goddammit, were the aliens? This year if ever there was to be a year to announce your presence, would have been the perfect year to announce it. "Greetings Earthlings, having now survived until the year 2001 we bring you a cure to all known diseases and poverty and hunger shall be made things of the past. Utopia awaits you all. Klaatu barada nikto. No Gort, not on the White House lawn!"
This was their golden chance, and they wasted it. ET, I'm disappointed in you, arriving in 2002 just isn't going to look right "2002: The year they made contact" sounds like a bad sequel.
Hollywood disappointed this year without any truely outstanding films, unlike last years bumper crop.
Closer to home (for me at least) the peace process in Northern Ireland was let down by the terrorising of schoolgirls on their way to a Catholic school through a Protestant neighborhood. Religion, eh, the thorn in everyone's side. Nevermind that the girls are still too young to really know the difference.
I realise I haven't posted too much recently, there have been lots of other things that got in the way and some of them were really petty and pathetic really and not worth wasting my time on. Reports of my death have been greatly exagerated. I'll try not to disappoint in the year to come.
The A List
List of things to do before leaving the Company;
1) Change voicemail message to forward to my boss.
2) Put out-of-office on my mail account to notify all that I no longer work here.
3) Go and see the people who made my time here enjoyable, sneer at those who had opposite effect, grunt with indifference at the rest.
4) Return pass card and all company electronic devices to CIT department.
5) Reformat hard-drives.
6) Retrieve soul from safety deposit box in basement where it has been since I joined. Steal a few office supplies on the way out.
7) Have one final conversation with Ian the doorman from Mensa.
8) Walk out front door and enjoy the smell of fresh air once more.
Three Kings meets The Dukes of Hazard
A guy in my team (the entire team has been made redundant for January 1st, well merry christmas to you too) has a great plan for turning his redundancy package into a retirement package. We'll call him Mr Pink, cause I feel like it, okay?
Mr Pink is using his redundancy package to take a flight to Turkey. There he has arranged to purchase two second-hand BMWs with Turkish license plates from a most unsavory character. He will also be taking delivery of rather large amounts of a local product. Mr Pink and his friend Mr White will both drive these cars back from Turkey to the UK. The part I loved about this plan was they intended driving back within 24 hours.
In second-hand BMWs bought from the Turkish equivalent of a used-car salesman over the phone.
Mr Pink has already booked the flights, he has also booked the ferry crossing back from a European port to an English one, he is sadly lacking in brainpower if he thinks he can drive through Europe and two mountain ranges in 24 hours.
This has shades of Fargo meets Go here... I'm seeing Mr Pink kneeling in the snow of the Alps with blood on his suit over the dead body of Mr White and "produce" and Euro notes spread around them, caught in the icy December winds, with two BMW's crashed into snow drifts somewhere further down the mountain side.
I've been promised a phonecall when he gets back so he can gloat on how much money he has made in this venture. My guess is it'll be from a Turkish prison cell and there will be someone called Big Omar talking in the background.
Two further details that make this the dumbest plan ever, Mr Pink and Mr White are black South London wideboys, neither of them speak anything other than English.
Blogging in the key of Michele
Okay, here's something new (hopefully), the biggest reaction ever seen on Asmallvictory/Afireinside was brought about by some rather dim individuals criticising that Michele needs to be more consistent. Maybe if she tried prune juice? Nah, that joke lacked fibre, my regular ones are much more satisfying. Anyway, here's something I encourage anyone else who cares to, to have a go at with someone they know they won't offend by doing so. So, in continuing in this week's vein of linking Michele every single day with a big soppy post...
Presenting, blogging in the key of Michele:
Today when I arrived in the office after spending two hours cursing and screaming at the various automatons on the parkway I was not met with the box of Krispy Kremes I had been hoping for. Instead, fliers for the one true loving God had been left behind by one of the more biblical of my fellow employees. I've told the woman a dozen times that I'm a satanist and asked her to join me dancing naked around a sacrificed baby as we chant the lyrics to Filter songs, but she just steps back horrified and crosses herself repeatedly. I wrote a few more hate mails to Ashcroft, signed in red ink and I sealed the envelope with a big gob of spit after sprinkling powdered sugar inside. I hope this one gets to him.
Last night was spent arguing with Natalie and dj about the best way to cut paper Christmas trees, I tried to show them that folding the paper in half and cutting up one side made a nice symetrical tree but Natalie refused to conform just to be difficult and smooshed lipstick onto the lop-sided trees she cut out so I'd have to buy her a new one. dj cut out what he called "gay christmas trees" because they daisy-chained just like when you cut out stick figure men from folded paper. Someday I'm going to get Justin to take dj to a quiet spot in the wilderness and hand him a shotgun, some beer and a few issues of Playboy. I've got plenty to spare.
More lucid dreams followed that, involving the guy I hung with in seventh grade, Sonic the Hedgehog and Ashcroft. When I spit a great big mouthful of spit at Ashcroft he dissolved like the witch in The Wizard of Oz and I could swear I was dressed as Motoko Kusanagi from Ghost In The Shell, with blue hair and big anime eyes. I can blame the big dancing lesbian polar bears on D though.
< end >
How was that? Did it seem like you were actually reading Small Victory just with different graphics around the place? Who's next? Requests and nominations to the usual place... the comments!
Take a dollar, leave a dollar
When I was a kid with no money I'd worry about being stuck somewhere and really desperately needing cash. I was always very conscious of exactly how much money I had on me at all times and how much it would cost me to get home... mental calculations like;
Eiffel Tower: 8 francs to buy ticket, take Metro to Levallois, walk from station.
Buchanan Street Glasgow: fourteen pounds to get to Prestwick airport, sixty pounds to get back to Paris on a plane, sixty francs to get from airport to Levallois Metro station, walk from station.
Then of course I'd get silly. $2000 to bribe a Republican guard, $1500 to get a ticket out of Kuwait, and sixty francs to get from Charles De Gaulle airport back home again, safe from the clutches of Saddam.
Damn, I had escape routes planned from countries I'd never even been to.
So after a childhood of monetary omni-consciousness, imagine my surprise today when I went to pay for lunch and found nothing but receipts. I'm convinced I was either robbed at some point (but they left the credit cards, they must have known my credit limits and realised it wasn't worth the hassle) or given all my money to Pix again.
Damn.
The other end of the spectrum
When I was younger I could form a circle with my hands, my thumb tips and index fingertips touching... around my waist. My mother and sister would joke that I was too skinny, my step-mother constantly encouraged me to eat more. Lots more. I didn't see the problem. I always reasoned with myself that it was because I ate three regular meals, cereal in the mornings, a sandwich at lunchtime and a well balanced dinner in the evenings. My occasional snack binges included ginger biscuits and milk while watching NYPD Blue and the occasional packet of chips.
To say I was anorexic would be unfair to the people truly suffering from anorexia, I simply wasn't hungry, I didn't feel the compulsion to eat and I had, what I considered to be, more important issues to deal with, like excelling in school. Turns out this is archtypical behavior of anorexics, I just wasn't a very good one. The need for control, when you feel that you don't control anything. The pursuit of excellence to the detriment of your own physical and occasionally mental health. The logic behind it goes something like "I'm forced to be the best at school, I have to be the best at everything, my teachers control what I do, my parents control what I do, but by God I can control what I eat."
Eventually a sense of loathing sets in where you can't stand to put food into your mouth, you feel repulsed by the taste and texture of anything, you want it out of your mouth as fast as possible, be it by swallowing or regurgitating. Again, thankfully I never reached that stage. So, what is my point here? Control, the ultimate goal is to maintain control over the single most important aspect of your own survival.
Dubya Bush is a metaphorical anorexic. At the expense of a growing restriction of civil liberties and tolerances the United States government is slowly starving America. Isolation from the outside world, the desire to show short bouts of control over things like the environment with the Kyoto Treaty renegation and world peace with the ABM treaty at the expense of global respect, but hey, what do we care, huh? We're making the world a safer place.
No, you're making America a scarier place. When some fool can demand that a pledge of allegiance from every schoolkid in the States should be mandatory, when ID cards and questions of "how much of a citizen are you genuinely?" are bandied about, when your own President starts classifying documents under Executive Priviledge, well my friends, it was nice knowing you, we'll try and sneak some chocolate in over the Canadian border for the lucky few.
When your own Emperor... sorry, President, decides that the country can only be protected by withdrawing in upon itself, and that the very governing body supposedly in place to keep him under control can't be allowed to see certain evidence deemed too sensitive to national security to be open for debate, you've got to ask yourself, how long before the Stormtrooper armor gets handed out to the "true patriots".
Got a passport? No, probably not, statistic are against you there. Assuming that every passport issued between 1981 and 2001 lasted for ten years (instead of five for kids) there were 87,357,179 passports issued to US citizens, with the trend heading towards 6.5 million a year so we'll add a further 13 million, makes 100,357,179 passports in circulation, minus however many of those expired beforehand because they were kids, also minus the 3.5 million that expired this year. As of July 2001, the US population was 278,058,881, not including illegal immigrants. Based on estimations that would be less than 30% of American's own passports, with some sources saying that of that 30% only 5% actually ever use them to travel outside of the country. All that freedom and you just don't use it. So guess what's likely to be the first freedom they take away from you? That's right, the ones you don't even make use of.
Again, what's my point? Your anorexic President is starving the country slowly with executive decisions you have no influence over because your appointed State officials aren't allowed to determine if your elected President is saying and doing the right things. He has control, he just doesn't realise what he's doing with it.
I demand a recount and you can send the Secret Service whenever you feel like it, I'm right here.
What I was thinking at 1 a.m. as fireworks went off outside...
I didn't write this. but I doubt I'd get tired of reading it.
"What I was thinking at 3am during a monsoon-like storm...
There's this strange thing about being divorced. It's that you live in constant knowledge that on some level, you failed. It's a daily thing, something that never goes away, that hovers in your mind and occasionally smacks you in the face to remind you. I am an ex. Not just any kind of ex, because I've been exes before. Ex-girlfriend, ex-catholic, ex-English major, ex-Jets fan. But this ex is different because there is a legality to it that makes it binding and forever and public knowledge. I can always deny having been Jean Bergeron's girlfriend in 11th grade. It's not something I have to think about every day. But each day, when I look at my kids or put the child support payment in the bank, or see my ex at one of DJ's games or Natalie's plays, I am faced with it. I failed. Yes, he failed too. And in a much bigger way than I. And I bet he thinks about that every day, too.
I've moved on, I've rectified, I've rearranged and refurnished and adjusted nicely to my role as ex-wife. Granted, it's easier to be an ex when you are a current. I don't have to (any longer) think about being alone or lonely or making dinners for one or finding someone to have a conversation with. Hell, I did that all when I was married anyhow. My point is, some people wear the role of ex like an ill fitting suit. And some people wear it like a slinky cocktail dress. Me, I've grown from wearing that one size too small pair of pants to some real baggy comfortable overalls. And sneakers. My ex, on the other hand, still walks around like David Byrne in an oversized suit, drowning in its hugeness. It's been 4 years. 4 years officially. The marraige was all but null and void years before it became stamped on a piece of paper that it was over. And still, he can't seem to get used to the title of The Ex. Even now, with a girlfriend and potential step kids, he still looks at me like I robbed his piggy bank. He still stands at the opposite end of the field at DJ's games and sits on the other side of the auditorium at Natalie's plays.
I am a constant reminder to him of his failures. I know this. Just as he is of mine. But I try to look at it differently. While I will always and forever walk around knowing I failed in that aspect of my life, and it's a big one, I also look at him as a turning point in my life. I look at him and see what I've become since. While I will always be the an ex-wife, that is not necessarily an evil, horrible thing to carry around. Because it also means that at some point I thought more of myself than the need to be with a person who thought nothing of me. It means I rose up above the fray and gave myself a voice.
You live, you learn and you take all those lessons with you. You also take labels and tags and whatever the them in us v. them lays on you, and you make of it what you will. Once divorced, once severed from the hand that held you down, you assume the title of ex. But you get to un-assume all the titles that you hated. Fair enough trade off.
posted by michele c | 01/09/01 6:56 AM say anything: "
How about "This is my other perspective on life, may it last a long time"
Zen & the Art of Tube Train Surfing
Some mornings Pix and I time our routines perfectly and end up actually leaving the house at the same time. I didn't say on time, just at the same time. We got on the Tube train heading south and I fed her a Polo mint.
"Every morning I have the same idea for a post, but by the time I can sit down and write it, the idea is gone."
What's the idea?
"No, if I tell you it you'll write it first."
I won't. Tell me the idea.
"Zen and the Art of Tube Train Surfing"
As the train swayed back and forth rattling ever forwards I realise what a fabulous idea this is and decide there and then to steal it (giving her full credit of course) I ask her to demonstrate.
Pix took a deep breath and let go of the hand rail. I imagine she cleared her mind and thought peaceful thoughts, a slight prescience allowing her to bend and sway in time to the train, keeping her balance perfectly, anticipating the bumps in the track and the curves of the rails...
Until the curves get too curvy and the bumps get too bumpy and she realised she was about to be thrown across the carriage and flailed out wildly to grab a bar. Which was a shame, I could have seen this developing into something more, performing tricks and stuff, like doing a 180 or a switch-back.
Coming soon, Zen and the Art of Rush Hour Moshing
Footnote: Once again the London readers get it and the US readers are all "Huh?", "What?" well, unless you're a New Yorker. Or you've ever been on a Subway or Tube train... or just a train... okay, so you all get it? Cool.
Song of the Nightingale
Once upon a time, my family was left to look after a friend's pet nightingale. The nightingale was called Bouleboule. Occasionally Bouleboule would chirp or start a tune, it was a tad irritating, but usually quite nice and relaxing.
My sister baked chocolate-coated Rice Krispy cakes, which involves a base of Crispies held together with treacle or toffee or something gooey and sticky, the whole tray was then coated in melted chocolate for that two-layered effect when sliced into squares.
What does this have to do with the nightingale? What did you do to the nightingale D? I hear you ask.
I, uh... dropped a treacle-coated rice crispie into Bouleboule's cage. We didn't hear the nightingale sing for a few days after that, just the occasional pathetic wheeze and gag reflex of a small (former) songbird that looked like it was constantly yawning.
Bouleboule was fine by the time we gave him back.
Truite
Alors il se trouve que j'ai remarqué jamais avoir fait un post en Français. En pourquoi pas? Il-y-a des milliers de Français qui surfent le web, et j'ai jamais fait l'effort. Donc, en Français cette fois.
Alors que je vivais en France, j'allais a un Lycée ordinaire a Levallois-Perret, au nord-ouest de Paris. En cours de biologie un jours on étais censé proceder a la dissection d'une truite. On avait deja fait les cafards et des grenouilles, les cafards etait dégoutants et plein de... on aurait dit de l'ouate. Les grenouilles etaient plus fascinants, on appliquait un peu de courrant electrique et les jambes tremblaient.
Mon copain Guillaume voullait passer le temps, et plutôt que couper la truite, il a joué avec comme si c'était une marionette. Les truites avaient étes dans un frigo mais au moins deux heures avait passé depuis leur sortie donc ca commençait a puer un peu, la décomposition avait commencé fort.
Finalement, après avoir découvert qu'un peu de pression sur le poisson mort faisait enfler les yeux on l'a mis sur la surface de travail et j'ai pris un cahier. Et boom! Ecrasant le corps avec le cahier, l'oeil est partie comme une comète vers le plafond. Ce qui monte, doit descendre cependant et comme deux soldats qui réalissent que la grenade qu'ils vienent de balancer n'est pas partie assez loin, Guillaume et moi se sont jetés au plancher.
PLOUP
L'oeil est tombé entre les deux chaises et m'a regardé d'un air désespéré comme s'il me dissait "Pourquoi? Pourquoi t'as fait ça?"
On a arrêté de jouer après ça.
Amidst the throes of passion
The stereo wakes us up softly and as the music brings me slowly up to a conscious level I realise that at some point during the night we rolled apart from each other. Tentatively feeling under the covers I find her warm body and roll back towards her. She responds by turning in towards me and we wrap together in each other's arms, her skin is soft against mine.
On instinct our lips seek out and a short kiss is followed by a longer and more passionate one. The music has brought me to a level where I am able to string thoughts together; is this Saturday? Is it Sunday? I'm pretty sure I'm in bed with my girlfriend, I'd remember inviting a stranger in here. My eyes are still sealed shut from the sleepiness and I don't feel like opening them.
The fumbling gets more intense and nails are traced up my spine, fingers tickle along my neck and she slips her hand into my hair and holds my head tightly. Is this make-up sex? Is this break-up sex?! What did I do wrong? What did I do right? Should I stop analysing and just enjoy?
Bound together in the tangle of bed clothes and limbs there's a struggle for who gets to be on top. I decide I'll let her win and she pushes my shoulders flat onto the bed, throwing the covers back. I open my eyes and see her, hair tangled, a faint smile on her lips, the morning light an aura around her.
"I'm gonna go check for e-mail" she says.
Shit.
Go, stranger and to Lacedamon tell. That here, obeying her behests, we fell.
Xerxes was a child God. He ruled the expansive Persian Empire with an iron grip and was diabolically inventive with his punishments. Some would have branded him a tyrant for the subjugation of over a hundred races; others worshipped him as the living God he proclaimed himself to be. When three hundred Spartan warriors, free men who had been taught to fear nothing, and seven thousand Athenians, mostly peasants and civilians, stood in his way as he tried to cross the narrow gap of water at Hellespont and proceed north to invade Greece, Xerxes laughed at them; King Leonidas and his rag-tag army, facing Xerxes' 180,000.
The God child crushed them, drowning the defenders almost in blood as wave after wave of Persian slaves and soldiers under his command and the lash of the whip charged forth onto the staunch Spartan's shields and spears. The Spartans made sure the Persians paid a heavy price, and died heroes.
Three years later, in a single day, the Greek navy destroyed Xerxes' fleet and his army was faced with ten thousand Spartans leading thirty thousand Athenians. Outnumbered three to one, the Spartans reminded Xerxes of his heavy loses at Hellespont by routing his army and demonstrating the power that fighting for your freedom has.
Centuries later, under the tyranny of Edward Longshanks, self proclaimed "Overlord of the land of Scotland", men came together who had fought amongst their separate tribes for decades and, under the leadership of William Wallace, rose up and fought back as free men. After Wallace's death and the defeat at Falkirk the insurgent army rallied and fought once more, this time under the command of Robert the Bruce, fighting for their homeland and their freedom they defeated an English army twice their size at Bannockburn.
Seven hundred years later, on the beaches of Normandy, free men ran forth onto the sand under a hail of bullets and mortars, under no obligation other than their conviction that freedom should win over the tyranny of Nazism that had overrun Europe like a cancer. Fighting against well dug in troops and defences that had been prepared years in advance they clawed their way over the dunes and onto the coastlines and into the hedgerows.
Normandy, Iwo Jima, Burma, just like Bannockburn and Hellespont before them, where free men fought back against the oppressors, against the tyrants who thought themselves better and ruled with the sword and the threat of death rather than the right to chose and be wrong.
Thomas Jefferson challenges us with his declaration: "What signify a few lives lost in a century or two? The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure." No tears for the tyrants, and no relent in the campaign against them.
Three years to defeat Xerxes. Decades to defeat Longshanks. Six years to defeat Nazi Germany. The process is long and hard, it can't be condensed into an hour and a half in a theatre, it can't be written down in a 50,000 word novel, it can't be explained in a single post on a website, you just have to remember that this is the way it has always been and this is the way it shall always be. Freedom lost in the name of preserving said freedom is no better than an outright denail of freedom from the start. In the current conflict who is oppressor and who is oppressed? One man's freedom fighter is another's terrorist.
Sic Semper Tyrannis
Ben and Mena
They code fabulous blogging interfaces together. They also share clothes...
Ruby in the dust
Michele wanted people to talk about embarrasing memories of their parents and I don't know if this fits that bill so I'm writing it here.
I've always enjoyed writing, its something I feel a natural affinity to and it's fairly easy and effortless to write. Good writing is of course not as easy to come by, but there you have it, I'm almost on 600 posts, I'm sure you'll find there are diamonds in the rough.
I wrote a story in my bedroom once, and realising that nobody else knew just how good it was I went downstairs to the kitchen. To my step-father I proclaimed "I'm a great writer" fully meaning that by "great" I meant I thought I was good, not that I should be put up on the shelf with Wordsworth, Dickens and ol' Bill Shaxbeard.
That phrase was repeated by my family to the point of despair, constantly taunting me and dogging me every time I tried to write to the point where actually completed writing projects are the exception in my folder of saved Word documents. Some of the finished ones are quite good, a screenplay here a fanfic there, I'd post them up on the site but I'd doubt many people would want to read through them, like the aborted Nanowrimo we all have saved somewhere now.
I was taught that there are two things to do; always give something back when you take something and to find a way to leave something behind for people to remember you by.
People appreciate clever writing, they like being stimulated and challenged, bubble-gum entertainment will only take you so far. One day I'll write a book for you, then we'll see whether or not I'm a great writer.
I got a live one here
When I was 10 I was taken by a friend and his dad to see Tim Burton's Batman (certificate 12, well who'd have thought?) I've always been one for partially memorising scripts, so, recalling the passage where the Joker laments; "What kind of world is it where a man dressed as bat gets all of my press? This town needs an enema!" on the drive home I asked "What's anenima?"
The car probably swerved slightly as Drew was taken aback by my question and he asked why I was asking. I repeated the passage from the film verbatim. Drew is a very clever man because, without missing a beat, he told me that "ananima" was a word that described the feverent activity within a city. It was like the noun for "animated", he explained, and probably never thought about it again.
Within two years I was living in France and not exactly using English as often as my French so I never really had a chance to use the word... occasionally I'd say something like "look at all the ananima" in regards to the Champs Elysses but nobody would even notice.
I think I was nineteen before I used "ananima" in a sentence and finally realised what the hell it sounded like. Sure enough upon watching Batman again there was the line and... Jack Nicholson just said the town needed an enema! Holy shit!
Its not everyday you realise you can't ever trust an adult. Oh sure, they'll try and get you to buy into the gnosis, but unless you question everything you'll always be living a life built on truths you took for granted but never validated yourself.
The Operation Was A Success
Unlike the last time I went to a Post Office, this time I knew where I was going and what I was doing. I was the pinnacle of perfection in posting a parcel. I'd like to send this to New York State, no, nothing valuable (lies!), yes that'll be fine, airmail, customs details (value of contents £0, more lies) and pay...
I slid the ten pound note through the teller window slot just as a couple pushing a flat trolley with a large box pulled up at the window beside me.
"We'd like to send this first class please."
The guy stood up from behind the protective glass and looked down, the box most likely previously held a widescreen television. I suspect the couple have their children inside it en route for a cheap vacation.
"Put it up on the scales please" said the teller, referring to the squat electronic measuring scales sitting on the customer side of the window, a small LED display showing "00.000g". As if the size of the box and the fact they had to wheel it in from their car isn't some indication of what's in store for the poor thing as it sits there blissfully innocent.
"We can hardly lift it" they said, but struggled to anyway. Just as they were putting it down on the scale, dwarfed by the shadow of the box the teller said to them "If your box weighs more than thirty kilograms then you can't send it through the post, you have to ship it yourselves."
*FWUMP*
From beneath the box a single mournful beep of protest rang out as the scale discovered that it had never before endured a heavier load in all it's poor sad digital existence on the counter top. It was like the final shrill whine of an electo-cardiogram as the patient passes away, sorry people, but that box went nowhere.
What's new pussycat?
Yes, we really did see a guy with a tail on Saturday at the book signing.
He strolled past the queue innocently and went into the store.
"Was that a tail?"
"I think that was a tail."
"Maybe it was a scarf wrapped around his waist"
"No, he was wearing a tail. A big bushy stuffed tail."
Other people standing in the queue had noticed too. Pix and I started debating the insecurity complex he must have and how he probably avoids swing doors and rocking chairs... the woman in the queue ahead of us was noticably bemused by this.
Having bought whatever it was he'd come into the centre of London for we watched him stride past in the opposite direction back to Tottenham Court Road Tube, his tail beating against the back of his ankles, the other people in the queue watching him go by.
"Probably has some important mice to pounce on or something..."
"Maybe he's high on catnip"
"Hope his tail doesn't get caught in the escalator... imagine the scene, man on moving stairs, tail caught, meowr! {munch, munch, munch}"
And he was never seen again.
Another Tube tale
So I'm not bothered by the people who sit and read the Bible on the Tube. (bashing organised religion twice in three days? Hold me back) There is a lot of good advice in there about how to live a decent selfless life. There are of course a lot of conflicting bits, so you need to be careful what parts you read, but in general if a person spends their morning commute reading the Bible instead of say John Grisham or Brett Easton Ellis they're likely to be okay.
The people leaning over their Bibles scribbling furiously in the margins of Revelations... okay, they're slightly scarier, but I still think they've got to be pretty harmless, I mean Revelations is quite a good read. Not as good as Genesis for comedy value, but good nonetheless. So they're okay, they occasionally break the tip of their pencil and blaspheme so I'm okay with that.
Its the people who look normal, going over passages with orange or pink highlighter pens, reading the passage silently with their lips moving before repeating it out loud, hearing the words and deciding to themselves whether they like the sound of it, those are the scary ones. They're the ones looking for a cold-blooded thing to say to a motherfucker before they pop a cap in his ass.
The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.
Ezekiel 25:17