Sunday, May 09, 2004
::: NEW MIX :::
Click on the link above to download from biologikal.com.
"Broken"
Eclectic electro and techno
Godspeed You Black Emperor!: Intro to The Dead Flag Blues
214: From the Outside
Frequenzberater: Witness
Mystic Letter K: Robot Pornography
Cultek: Construct
Konfekt: Boxed [Estab]
Jeremy P Caulfield: Deft Baggage
Radioactive Man: Itisanditisn’t
Hard SK: Intro to Prince Far-i Busts the Mafia Lab
The Hacker: Dans la Salle des Machines
Detroit Grand Pubahs: The Suture the Future
Anthony Rother: Back Home
Omr: The Way We Have Chosen
Capitol K: God Ohm
Chris Clark: Shonny
National Parks Mobility Band: Radio Mantlepiece
Thursday, April 22, 2004
This week's obsession is fast turning into Friendster, a new online community which connects you to not only your friends but also their friends, and their friends' and so on.
On Monday I was sceptical and dismissed it as too self-regarding. By Tuesday I was hooked. Now in the early hours of Thursday morning, I'm still trying to decide what to write in the 'about me' and 'describe the kind of person you want to meet' section. I mean, I could be here all day. Who do I want to meet anyway?
I've been intrigued to find I have a eclectic selection of second-degree friends (friends of friends) to start with. A man from Germany who includes 'sitting' and 'standing up' among his list of interests. There's an American 'gym bunny', a bloke in a dress who likes 'music that makes you feel unclean' and a Mandarin music fan with a soft spot for David Hare.
This could be interesting.
On Monday I was sceptical and dismissed it as too self-regarding. By Tuesday I was hooked. Now in the early hours of Thursday morning, I'm still trying to decide what to write in the 'about me' and 'describe the kind of person you want to meet' section. I mean, I could be here all day. Who do I want to meet anyway?
I've been intrigued to find I have a eclectic selection of second-degree friends (friends of friends) to start with. A man from Germany who includes 'sitting' and 'standing up' among his list of interests. There's an American 'gym bunny', a bloke in a dress who likes 'music that makes you feel unclean' and a Mandarin music fan with a soft spot for David Hare.
This could be interesting.
Saturday, April 17, 2004
Last night I started writing a potted history of all the kinds of music I've listened to. This could turn into a long project, but a fun one as my musical whims have been so eclectic over the years. Here's the first part, covering that period at the end of primary school when I was starting to take a more serious interest in music, even if some of the music itself wasn't that serious. In fact, some of it was downright stupid. But I loved it anyway.
1981-1982
Ridicule is nothing to be scared of
The first band I ever got into was Adam and the Ants, but so much was vying for my attention in 1981 – men wearing makeup and frilly shirts, the 2-Tone scene, the Brixton riots on the telly and the Not the Nine O'Clock News Hedgehog Sandwich LP.
I started out listening to 2-Tone ska. I must have looked quite endearing in the M&S anorak I got when I really wanted a big green hooded coat or a satin flight jacket. No chance. My mum faithfully sewed on my Madness and Bad Manners patches to the anorak, and that's as far as the look went. On an album cover I'd seen a skinhead woman with the 2-Tone logo dyed in black against her bleached hair. That was out of the question.
I had a few of the records, like The Specials' Friday Night, Saturday Morning/Ghost Town/Why single and The Beat's Mirror in the Bathroom. I'd play them over and over, trying to make sense of the multicultural lyrics in my monocultural westcountry world.
To try and complete my frustrated young ska girl look, I acquired a pork pie hat. This sounds grand for a 9-year-old, but it was really only a felt one bought from Butlins in Bognor Regis – and there it was cruelly swiped from my head by an older boy as I sat gurning behind a curtain in a photo booth.
When something more glamorous was required, out would come the Adam and the Ants tapes and singles. I would play with my mum's eyeshadow and sing through a hairbrush in the privacy of my bedroom. I made a request for white lipstick to smear across my face, and she didn't have any. To this day I still haven't found such a lipstick. When I find some I'll finally live out a childhood dream: to walk down a flight of stairs crossing my arms in a vaguely military dance, nose and cheeks plastered in a white stripe like a no-entry sign.
To think of myself as a true fan, I bought the band's first album from 1979, Dirk Wears White Sox, and saw a side of Adam I hadn't seen before. No camp videos, no tight silver trousers. Instead there was a collection of stark, edgy tunes wrapped up in a beautiful cover. It was black and arty, with an angular typeface. This was a proper grown-up album; raw, angry, sometimes obscure and, well, it had a black sleeve.
To my joy I was allowed to buy the album with my pocket money while my friends weren't. Prudish parents said no when they saw the lyricsheet, with gems such as:
I was your favourite rubber slave
There's a whip in my valise oh yeah
Day I met God, I got so carried away
Not with the vision, but the streaks in his hair
Not with religion, but the size of his knob
There was another line about "piss weak tea and buns" which I'd hastily turn down if I thought anyone in the house could hear it.
But it was in pop that I found most of my musical joy for the next few years after, and specifically synth pop. There was so much of it around, a burst of of plinky-plonky synths and fashionably rustic-looking people on Top of the Pops surrounded by balloons and permed pre-teens.
Yazoo were everything I wanted a synth duet to be, an amalgamation of science and emotion, with Alison Moyet's beautiful, soulful voice in direct contrast to Vince Clarke's ordered and cool keyboard work. I got Upstairs at Eric's for Christmas in 1982 (along with my first Smash Hits yearbook) and played it over and over again the whole day, stunned by how good it sounded. Perfect pop; I was hooked.
Another duo, Soft Cell, worked on the same model of plaintive voice against synth, to great effect. Meanwhile OMD were churning out some solid classics: Souvenir, Joan of Arc, Enola Gay. They flexed a more experimental muscle with their earlier albums, and it wasn't until later in the 80s that they became more commercial and their sound lost its edge.
Electro-pop was flourishing in different styles. There was serious, like some of OMD's work, and there was OTT, such as ABC's The Lexicon of Love. It took shape in a string of artists from The Human League to Trio – their Da Da Da showed anyone could have a hit even with just a beepy Casio. Even Haysi Fantayzee sounded good.
I loved it all. It was a good time for pop, not just because it was the early 80s but because I was a kid and the bitter cynicism hadn't kicked in yet. There was a time when I could dance to John Wayne is Big Leggy without shame. Thankfully that period didn't last too long.
The Church of Me blog – 1982: a year of singles
I Love Music's Dirk Wears White Sox discussion
Unofficial OMD site
Three Waves of Ska essay
2-Tone info
The man to blame for Haysi Fantayzee
1981-1982
Ridicule is nothing to be scared of
The first band I ever got into was Adam and the Ants, but so much was vying for my attention in 1981 – men wearing makeup and frilly shirts, the 2-Tone scene, the Brixton riots on the telly and the Not the Nine O'Clock News Hedgehog Sandwich LP.
I started out listening to 2-Tone ska. I must have looked quite endearing in the M&S anorak I got when I really wanted a big green hooded coat or a satin flight jacket. No chance. My mum faithfully sewed on my Madness and Bad Manners patches to the anorak, and that's as far as the look went. On an album cover I'd seen a skinhead woman with the 2-Tone logo dyed in black against her bleached hair. That was out of the question.
I had a few of the records, like The Specials' Friday Night, Saturday Morning/Ghost Town/Why single and The Beat's Mirror in the Bathroom. I'd play them over and over, trying to make sense of the multicultural lyrics in my monocultural westcountry world.
To try and complete my frustrated young ska girl look, I acquired a pork pie hat. This sounds grand for a 9-year-old, but it was really only a felt one bought from Butlins in Bognor Regis – and there it was cruelly swiped from my head by an older boy as I sat gurning behind a curtain in a photo booth.
When something more glamorous was required, out would come the Adam and the Ants tapes and singles. I would play with my mum's eyeshadow and sing through a hairbrush in the privacy of my bedroom. I made a request for white lipstick to smear across my face, and she didn't have any. To this day I still haven't found such a lipstick. When I find some I'll finally live out a childhood dream: to walk down a flight of stairs crossing my arms in a vaguely military dance, nose and cheeks plastered in a white stripe like a no-entry sign.
To think of myself as a true fan, I bought the band's first album from 1979, Dirk Wears White Sox, and saw a side of Adam I hadn't seen before. No camp videos, no tight silver trousers. Instead there was a collection of stark, edgy tunes wrapped up in a beautiful cover. It was black and arty, with an angular typeface. This was a proper grown-up album; raw, angry, sometimes obscure and, well, it had a black sleeve.
To my joy I was allowed to buy the album with my pocket money while my friends weren't. Prudish parents said no when they saw the lyricsheet, with gems such as:
I was your favourite rubber slave
There's a whip in my valise oh yeah
Day I met God, I got so carried away
Not with the vision, but the streaks in his hair
Not with religion, but the size of his knob
There was another line about "piss weak tea and buns" which I'd hastily turn down if I thought anyone in the house could hear it.
But it was in pop that I found most of my musical joy for the next few years after, and specifically synth pop. There was so much of it around, a burst of of plinky-plonky synths and fashionably rustic-looking people on Top of the Pops surrounded by balloons and permed pre-teens.
Yazoo were everything I wanted a synth duet to be, an amalgamation of science and emotion, with Alison Moyet's beautiful, soulful voice in direct contrast to Vince Clarke's ordered and cool keyboard work. I got Upstairs at Eric's for Christmas in 1982 (along with my first Smash Hits yearbook) and played it over and over again the whole day, stunned by how good it sounded. Perfect pop; I was hooked.
Another duo, Soft Cell, worked on the same model of plaintive voice against synth, to great effect. Meanwhile OMD were churning out some solid classics: Souvenir, Joan of Arc, Enola Gay. They flexed a more experimental muscle with their earlier albums, and it wasn't until later in the 80s that they became more commercial and their sound lost its edge.
Electro-pop was flourishing in different styles. There was serious, like some of OMD's work, and there was OTT, such as ABC's The Lexicon of Love. It took shape in a string of artists from The Human League to Trio – their Da Da Da showed anyone could have a hit even with just a beepy Casio. Even Haysi Fantayzee sounded good.
I loved it all. It was a good time for pop, not just because it was the early 80s but because I was a kid and the bitter cynicism hadn't kicked in yet. There was a time when I could dance to John Wayne is Big Leggy without shame. Thankfully that period didn't last too long.
The Church of Me blog – 1982: a year of singles
I Love Music's Dirk Wears White Sox discussion
Unofficial OMD site
Three Waves of Ska essay
2-Tone info
The man to blame for Haysi Fantayzee
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Doing bird
I've just finished reading Ben Schott's Food & Drink Miscellany, the follow-up to the excellent Original Miscellany, which I'd devoured a year before in search of quality trivia and not-so-useless facts.
The Food & Drink Miscellany is satisfyingly packed full of those facts, and this time Ben Schott turns his curiosity to gastronomy. In fact I discover on page 103 that there is a whole hierarchy of gastronomy, with the the gastronome at the top, followed by the gourment, the friand (epicure), the gourmand, the goulu (glutton) and the goinfre (greedy guts) at the bottom.
The breadth of subjects covered is impressively eclectic, including a comprehensive list of Ben & Jerry's ice cream flavours, and a list of euphemisms for testicles – prairie oysters, anyone? We also get an invaluable insight into the favourite foods of 70s teenyboppers The Bay City Rollers. While Les McKeown likes nothing better than plaice au gratin, roast duck and a Cointreau with lemon and lime, Derek Longmuir is content with "curries, Coke and milk".
The most disturbing entry in the miscellany concerns the last dinner of President Mitterand in 1995, and a tiny bird called the ortolan, a 15cm-long creature which it is illegal to buy, hunt or eat in France. However, they are the height of high gastronomy, with a reputedly heavenly taste. One discussion group post says, somewhat reminiscent of Renton's paean to heroin in Trainspotting, "it is supposed to be the most incredible gastronomic sensation a human can ever experience, like a lifetime's worth of orgasms flooding over you at once".
Sounds good? Not so for the poor bird, which is trapped alive and kept in the darkness so that they stuff themselves with grain. Then, fully bloated, they are drowned in Cognac before being plucked and roasted.
It is not just the killing of the bird which is exotic (not to mention barbarous). The eating of ortolan is a grand affair as well. The head is cut or bitten off, then the entire bird is eaten from underneath a napkin. This is apparently so the cruelty and gluttony can be hidden from God.
And so Francois Mitterand ate, along with oysters and foie gras, an ortolan for his last meal. In fact, he ate two.
So what does it actually taste like? I have no wish to find out, but have been happy to read descriptions. The writer Michael Paterniti wrote about it in Esquire magazine, after recreating and eating Mitterand's last meal:
Here's what I taste: Yes, quidbits of meat and organs; the succulent, tiny strands of flesh between the ribs and tail. I put inside myself the last flowered bit of air and Armagnac in its lungs, the body of rainwater and berries. In there, too, is the ocean and Africa and the dip and plunge in a high wind. And the heart that bursts between my teeth.
It takes time. I'm forced to chew and chew again and again, for what seems like three days. And what happens after chewing for this long – as the mouth full of taste buds and glands does its work – is that I fall into a trance. I don't taste anything anymore, cease to exist as anything but taste itself.
And that's where I want to stay – but then can't because the sweetness of the bird is turning slightly bitter and the bones have announced themselves. When I think about forcing them down my throat, a wave of nausea passes through me. And that's when, with great difficulty, I swallow everything.
'Mr Crank', at ecis.com is more succinct, but equally effective:
When you stick the whole damn thing in your mouth and bite down, they speak of an explosion of wonderful flavor, unlike anything you've ever had before. I dunno... an explosion of brains, guts, shit, lungs, blood, muscle, gristle; crunching, collapsing bone perhaps – I'll just have to believe the flavor's in there somewhere.
Discussion on ortolan at egullet.com
I've just finished reading Ben Schott's Food & Drink Miscellany, the follow-up to the excellent Original Miscellany, which I'd devoured a year before in search of quality trivia and not-so-useless facts.
The Food & Drink Miscellany is satisfyingly packed full of those facts, and this time Ben Schott turns his curiosity to gastronomy. In fact I discover on page 103 that there is a whole hierarchy of gastronomy, with the the gastronome at the top, followed by the gourment, the friand (epicure), the gourmand, the goulu (glutton) and the goinfre (greedy guts) at the bottom.
The breadth of subjects covered is impressively eclectic, including a comprehensive list of Ben & Jerry's ice cream flavours, and a list of euphemisms for testicles – prairie oysters, anyone? We also get an invaluable insight into the favourite foods of 70s teenyboppers The Bay City Rollers. While Les McKeown likes nothing better than plaice au gratin, roast duck and a Cointreau with lemon and lime, Derek Longmuir is content with "curries, Coke and milk".
The most disturbing entry in the miscellany concerns the last dinner of President Mitterand in 1995, and a tiny bird called the ortolan, a 15cm-long creature which it is illegal to buy, hunt or eat in France. However, they are the height of high gastronomy, with a reputedly heavenly taste. One discussion group post says, somewhat reminiscent of Renton's paean to heroin in Trainspotting, "it is supposed to be the most incredible gastronomic sensation a human can ever experience, like a lifetime's worth of orgasms flooding over you at once".
Sounds good? Not so for the poor bird, which is trapped alive and kept in the darkness so that they stuff themselves with grain. Then, fully bloated, they are drowned in Cognac before being plucked and roasted.
It is not just the killing of the bird which is exotic (not to mention barbarous). The eating of ortolan is a grand affair as well. The head is cut or bitten off, then the entire bird is eaten from underneath a napkin. This is apparently so the cruelty and gluttony can be hidden from God.
And so Francois Mitterand ate, along with oysters and foie gras, an ortolan for his last meal. In fact, he ate two.
So what does it actually taste like? I have no wish to find out, but have been happy to read descriptions. The writer Michael Paterniti wrote about it in Esquire magazine, after recreating and eating Mitterand's last meal:
Here's what I taste: Yes, quidbits of meat and organs; the succulent, tiny strands of flesh between the ribs and tail. I put inside myself the last flowered bit of air and Armagnac in its lungs, the body of rainwater and berries. In there, too, is the ocean and Africa and the dip and plunge in a high wind. And the heart that bursts between my teeth.
It takes time. I'm forced to chew and chew again and again, for what seems like three days. And what happens after chewing for this long – as the mouth full of taste buds and glands does its work – is that I fall into a trance. I don't taste anything anymore, cease to exist as anything but taste itself.
And that's where I want to stay – but then can't because the sweetness of the bird is turning slightly bitter and the bones have announced themselves. When I think about forcing them down my throat, a wave of nausea passes through me. And that's when, with great difficulty, I swallow everything.
'Mr Crank', at ecis.com is more succinct, but equally effective:
When you stick the whole damn thing in your mouth and bite down, they speak of an explosion of wonderful flavor, unlike anything you've ever had before. I dunno... an explosion of brains, guts, shit, lungs, blood, muscle, gristle; crunching, collapsing bone perhaps – I'll just have to believe the flavor's in there somewhere.
Discussion on ortolan at egullet.com
Saturday, April 10, 2004
My Utopia: compassion, equality and poodles
The NationStates quest continues – to build a vision of a perfect society. I don’t know if I’ve reached it yet, but here’s the latest news on Biologika:
The Republic of Biologika
National motto: "We Come in Peas"
UN Category: Democratic Socialists
Civil Rights: Excellent
Economy: Developing
Political Freedoms: Very Good
The Republic of Biologika is a massive, safe nation, notable for its punitive income tax rates. Its compassionate, intelligent population of 1.288 billion are fiercely patriotic and enjoy great social equality; they tend to view other, more capitalist countries as somewhat immoral and corrupt.
The enormous government juggles the competing demands of education, the environment, and social equality. The average income tax rate is 51%, and even higher for the wealthy. A healthy private sector is dominated by the information technology industry.
Max Barry is this year's Miss Biologika, all forms of advertising are banned, government-run brothels can be found on every street corner, and pharmacies close down as medicinal drugs are sold freely by the government. Crime is totally unknown. Biologika's national animal is the poodle, which frolics freely in the nation's many lush forests, and its currency is the farthing.
Biologika is ranked 21st in the region and 15,740th in the world for smartest citizens.
Well, if we’re 15,740th in the world for smartest citizens, just what do you have to do to be the first? Perhaps the creators of this website might have an idea:
NationStates Political Map Project
And 'crime is totally unknown'. 1.288 billion people and not so much as an illegal poodle dropping. Must be all those government drugs keeping the Biologikans happy. That or the brothels.
The NationStates quest continues – to build a vision of a perfect society. I don’t know if I’ve reached it yet, but here’s the latest news on Biologika:
The Republic of Biologika
National motto: "We Come in Peas"
UN Category: Democratic Socialists
Civil Rights: Excellent
Economy: Developing
Political Freedoms: Very Good
The Republic of Biologika is a massive, safe nation, notable for its punitive income tax rates. Its compassionate, intelligent population of 1.288 billion are fiercely patriotic and enjoy great social equality; they tend to view other, more capitalist countries as somewhat immoral and corrupt.
The enormous government juggles the competing demands of education, the environment, and social equality. The average income tax rate is 51%, and even higher for the wealthy. A healthy private sector is dominated by the information technology industry.
Max Barry is this year's Miss Biologika, all forms of advertising are banned, government-run brothels can be found on every street corner, and pharmacies close down as medicinal drugs are sold freely by the government. Crime is totally unknown. Biologika's national animal is the poodle, which frolics freely in the nation's many lush forests, and its currency is the farthing.
Biologika is ranked 21st in the region and 15,740th in the world for smartest citizens.
Well, if we’re 15,740th in the world for smartest citizens, just what do you have to do to be the first? Perhaps the creators of this website might have an idea:
NationStates Political Map Project
And 'crime is totally unknown'. 1.288 billion people and not so much as an illegal poodle dropping. Must be all those government drugs keeping the Biologikans happy. That or the brothels.
Monday, April 05, 2004
Big beach boutiques
"Get out of here, head for the sea,
The sun is hot and the air is clean,
The best things in the world are free..."
Elastica, Annie
An hour out of London and you're there already, stepping out of the station looking south to the sea and gulping all the fresh air you crave back home. All around you are seagulls, the smell of chips is in the air and everything is well with the world. Afternoon in Brighton. Instant pick-me-up cure.
I visited the place with Alef last Friday, eager for a walk on the seafront and a meal at Dig in the Ribs, but sadly they weren't open for lunch. So it ended in a rushed, miserable fish 'n' chip meal (Alef) and a half-hearted veggie burger from Red Veg in Gardner Street (Kim). According to these Bognor Regis vegetarians, Red Veg claim "no lentil and no meat, no pain and suffering, no hassle, no exploitation and no competition". And, sadly, no taste either. Chewing on a limp patty, I wondered if I only really enjoy veggie burgers at festivals when I'm too timid to try the meat - I'm still smarting from the horror of eating a Burger King sober a few weeks back.
So there was no margherita, but the walk on Brighton pier was as satisfyingly tacky as ever. After a look around the noisy arcade, I tried my hand at winning a stuffed monkey with Velcro hands and feet, a toy I've wanted since childhood but have never owned. Well, it would seem a little strange buying one in adulthood, but I figured it would be ok to win one on the pier. Anyway. The challenge was to knock a stack of six cans down with three balls, which seemed easy enough, but if it were that easy then everyone would be walking round with a monkey. I tried, and managed to hit four of the six cans, but they were very heavy to shift and I did a crap throw anyway. Close, but no simian.
After the pier we visited North Laines, the area of town next to the Pavilion full of cute shops and cafes. Everyone was out on the streets as the sun came out in the afternoon, eager to throw off coats for the first time this year. Every time I visit this area of Brighton, I have this blurred vision of myself at some future stage in my life running a shop. I don't really know what kind of shop. If it were in the North Laines it might well be a gift shop selling, I don't know, wind chimes, or a retro boutique selling ironic nick-nacks to nostalgia junkies. I can see it now: me in my shop surrounded by scented candles and 80s porn mags, the whiff of latte and aftershave coming from the well-dressed young men who frequent my salon for comedy gifts to send to friends. I've escaped London for a life by the sea in Gifte Shoppe Lande, I'm eating non-exploitative food and all is well with the world.
But would I get bored? Would the cruel, humdrum reality of running a trinket shop hit me in the middle of winter, when the wind and rain are bashing the windows and suddenly no one wants to buy zebraskin cushion covers anymore? I don't know. I have this romantic vision of living in Brighton, have for some years now, but I don't know if I'll ever really make the break from the capital and go to live a new life by the sea. After a decade in London, I've grown used to big city anonymity, and love the diversity and opportunity life in London offers. What would I do in Brighton when my chic boutique goes bust? Run a crazy golf course?
Mmm. Actually, it's not a bad idea, is it?
"Get out of here, head for the sea,
The sun is hot and the air is clean,
The best things in the world are free..."
Elastica, Annie
An hour out of London and you're there already, stepping out of the station looking south to the sea and gulping all the fresh air you crave back home. All around you are seagulls, the smell of chips is in the air and everything is well with the world. Afternoon in Brighton. Instant pick-me-up cure.
I visited the place with Alef last Friday, eager for a walk on the seafront and a meal at Dig in the Ribs, but sadly they weren't open for lunch. So it ended in a rushed, miserable fish 'n' chip meal (Alef) and a half-hearted veggie burger from Red Veg in Gardner Street (Kim). According to these Bognor Regis vegetarians, Red Veg claim "no lentil and no meat, no pain and suffering, no hassle, no exploitation and no competition". And, sadly, no taste either. Chewing on a limp patty, I wondered if I only really enjoy veggie burgers at festivals when I'm too timid to try the meat - I'm still smarting from the horror of eating a Burger King sober a few weeks back.
So there was no margherita, but the walk on Brighton pier was as satisfyingly tacky as ever. After a look around the noisy arcade, I tried my hand at winning a stuffed monkey with Velcro hands and feet, a toy I've wanted since childhood but have never owned. Well, it would seem a little strange buying one in adulthood, but I figured it would be ok to win one on the pier. Anyway. The challenge was to knock a stack of six cans down with three balls, which seemed easy enough, but if it were that easy then everyone would be walking round with a monkey. I tried, and managed to hit four of the six cans, but they were very heavy to shift and I did a crap throw anyway. Close, but no simian.
After the pier we visited North Laines, the area of town next to the Pavilion full of cute shops and cafes. Everyone was out on the streets as the sun came out in the afternoon, eager to throw off coats for the first time this year. Every time I visit this area of Brighton, I have this blurred vision of myself at some future stage in my life running a shop. I don't really know what kind of shop. If it were in the North Laines it might well be a gift shop selling, I don't know, wind chimes, or a retro boutique selling ironic nick-nacks to nostalgia junkies. I can see it now: me in my shop surrounded by scented candles and 80s porn mags, the whiff of latte and aftershave coming from the well-dressed young men who frequent my salon for comedy gifts to send to friends. I've escaped London for a life by the sea in Gifte Shoppe Lande, I'm eating non-exploitative food and all is well with the world.
But would I get bored? Would the cruel, humdrum reality of running a trinket shop hit me in the middle of winter, when the wind and rain are bashing the windows and suddenly no one wants to buy zebraskin cushion covers anymore? I don't know. I have this romantic vision of living in Brighton, have for some years now, but I don't know if I'll ever really make the break from the capital and go to live a new life by the sea. After a decade in London, I've grown used to big city anonymity, and love the diversity and opportunity life in London offers. What would I do in Brighton when my chic boutique goes bust? Run a crazy golf course?
Mmm. Actually, it's not a bad idea, is it?
A preface
I'll start this blog by saying I haven't got a great track record when it comes to keeping diaries. During adolescence I stopped and started more journals than I care to mention, scrawled on ring-bound notepads in creative use of felt tip pens. Every night I’d curl up in bed and pour out my teenage indignation, trying to make sense of my growing years.
Every night until I got bored, that is, and I got so embarrassed at having written such over-emotional fluff about my life. And I’d rip up the diary and forget about documenting my feelings until another time would come in my life when I again felt compelled to put pen to paper. My desire to keep a diary petered out as I went through my twenties, and my last diary was written at the age of 28, four years ago.
Recently I read one of the diaries I hadn’t chucked in the bin or burned in the garden. It was written in the months before I went to university, and concerns the losing of my virginity. Frankly, I wish I hadn’t bothered documenting the occasion, not just because the act itself was so disappointing, but because I’d covered it in such a juvenile, pompous style. Reading the words scribbled on an exercise book, I looked back to another time, another me, and felt glad I wasn’t there anymore. I was even gladder the internet hadn’t been around for me to use back then, or you would have cringed over my descriptions as well.
And so I start a blog, another journal, except now it’s not hidden under my bed but published online. Innermost torments? Not a chance. I’ll probably start some rants, though, try to make some observations and will, inevitably, post up lots of lists. Soul-searching angst… I’ll leave that offline for now.
I'll start this blog by saying I haven't got a great track record when it comes to keeping diaries. During adolescence I stopped and started more journals than I care to mention, scrawled on ring-bound notepads in creative use of felt tip pens. Every night I’d curl up in bed and pour out my teenage indignation, trying to make sense of my growing years.
Every night until I got bored, that is, and I got so embarrassed at having written such over-emotional fluff about my life. And I’d rip up the diary and forget about documenting my feelings until another time would come in my life when I again felt compelled to put pen to paper. My desire to keep a diary petered out as I went through my twenties, and my last diary was written at the age of 28, four years ago.
Recently I read one of the diaries I hadn’t chucked in the bin or burned in the garden. It was written in the months before I went to university, and concerns the losing of my virginity. Frankly, I wish I hadn’t bothered documenting the occasion, not just because the act itself was so disappointing, but because I’d covered it in such a juvenile, pompous style. Reading the words scribbled on an exercise book, I looked back to another time, another me, and felt glad I wasn’t there anymore. I was even gladder the internet hadn’t been around for me to use back then, or you would have cringed over my descriptions as well.
And so I start a blog, another journal, except now it’s not hidden under my bed but published online. Innermost torments? Not a chance. I’ll probably start some rants, though, try to make some observations and will, inevitably, post up lots of lists. Soul-searching angst… I’ll leave that offline for now.
