Thursday, 29 December 2011
Where the doors are moaning all day long, where the stairs are leaning from dusk 'till dawn, where the windows are breathing in the light...
Saturday, 10 December 2011
Or more precisely when the fuck. I mean I knew what had just happened and when it started - judging by the colour of the urine and the rough estimation of time it would have taken to grow that much biofilm - I had no problem explaining in frankly arsehole-ish detail to my woefully innocent doctor mother what everything was, how it came into being and why urine is the beverage of choice for the tweaker's tweaker.
I only feel sympathy when removed from the horror of tipping open cans of urine with a huge aerobic biofilm growth down the toilet. When I allow to fade the gag reflex I managed to pummel into submission. When I force myself to see it clinically.
But it's hard.
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
Sunday, 10 July 2011
By this point I sigh and wait for it to cool down like a patient lover.
But not this time.
This time he crossed the line.
I was creating a Sim.
A SIM, DAMN IT. I had spent a good half hour or so messing around with the shape and the clothes - I had freaking graduated to giving it a personality, was just about to click save aaaaaaaand - 'SCREW YOU' - goes the screen.
You cannot imagine the trauma. One minute I was staring lovingly at my Sim-self and the next I was looking at a monochrome equivalent of The Scream. Never mind if this has you completely at a loss as to how it ties in with the title - it doesn't. I just felt the need to share my trauma.
Now. To the main body of this excursion into my myriad rants.
Travelling on the underground is not always the most pleasant of experiences. This is news to no one. However, over time you get over your absolute terror at the swathes of people deigning to conform your body to their elbow/bag/pregnancy and begin to take note that there are some serious assholes that you must share this public service with.
Recently I took note of one particular type - the people who sit down despite the fact they have only one stop to reach their destination. Apparently they could not maintain a centre of gravity and prevent their backside from dragging them down to the floor under the sheer weight of it in the time it takes to get from Warren Street to Goodge Street (2 minutes). So, hey, ignoring the people carrying most of their house on their shoulders, they proceed to settle their self-indulgent behinds on the most inconvenient seats available. For those of you who do not understand a London tube carriage layout let me paint a mental picture.
You have double doors separating each seating group in the middle of the carriage. Between the doors are 4-6 parallel seats. One person leads an entourage of sweaty business personae into the carriage and sits down in seat 4.Fair enough.
But then comes person 2 and they decide to sit in seat number 1, effectively forcing anyone else who wants to sit down behind them to hurdle over their inconsiderate backside to get to the next available seat - by which time some spry prig carrying nothing but a minipurse or their plans for dinner beat exhausted person 3 to the seats. Person 3 (and possibly the rest of the remorsefully sober conga line) are left to hang on for dear life for a respectable number of stops. Spry prig meanwhile, manages to plan their selfish bastard exit between Bermondsey and Canary Wharf. Before even reaching Canary Wharf, spry prig has gotten up halfway through the Canada Water exit, forcing the exhausted persons to make way for their highness, and has managed to piss off most of the carriage by insisting on parting the Red Sea to make way for their exit.
My most recent experience of this was with a disgustingly self-important American woman who all but announced to the carriage that someone died and made her Queen and 'would you all get out of the way, she can't miss her stop' - never mind there were five freaking people infront of
Sunday, 6 March 2011
'The Thing' is not unpardonable but it tends to be attempted by little girls in fraying clothing of dubious pricing, midlife-crisising their way through high school.
Introspection and reflection.
Commonly confused with self-gratifying ranting, rambling and bitching, this little state of mind has been abused and used and pounded like a bloated carcass in a Francis Bacon, framed and called 'self-expression' (now synonymous with the once respected term, 'Art'). I'm pretty much about to churn out another grotesque imitation but hopefully with bigger words and less guest appreances of the following: like, OMG, LOL, GTFO and whatever.
So I've been lamenting the sarcastic put-downs and cynicisms that seem to define the proverbial prison society raises you in...and yet unabashedly prefacing my entire derision of it with bucketloads of what David Wallace termed 'hip cynicism...a hatred that winks and nudges you and pretends it's just kidding'. I'm not just kidding, I'm pandering to people who would read this and laugh, jerking up a mocking corner of lips and expelling sardonic plosives. I'm self-deprecating and disguising honest concern and sadness for the state of a society which is beyond caring. And it's disgusting. And you know what, I'm nothing different from the apathetic masses...except today.
I've made an observation. Or, I should say, I've re-written what countless people far cleverer and far more eloquent have discovered before me.
We are contrary, dichotomous, hypocritical and at war with ourselves. Unfortunately we're so mired in our own minds we can barely scratch the surface of how deeply unstructured and incomplete we are as individuals and as a species. So instead we have vague anxieties, inexplicable habits and self-destructive patterns raging against one another, ourselves and what it means to be 'human' (undefined as of yet but seemingly full of negative connotations of the 'you are so messed up but c'mere you little rascal' variety).
One probelm is our obsession with individuality, our carefully cultivated layers of 'me' and our absolute fear of being found out to be nothing more than magpie nests of other people. We don't seem to know how to be original; it has become increasingly difficult to find appreciation and laudation.
Our self-damnation into the ineptitude of ‘humanity’ is but a product of a subconscious hierarchy. When viewed from below, everything and everyone towers like a God. We hate the niche yet burrow ourselves deeper into it, pulled by subconscious doubt and conscious contempt for it – a species with deeper fathoms than oceans drilled daily that they are nothing but a functional unit in their niche, an in-out machine of tangible and intangible resources with one aim in their statistically calculated existence - productivity. And the sad thing is, so many people know this but no one has any idea how to do anything about it.
I have such hatred for this cynicism, where we quash creativity, inspiration and curiosity. We boil and boil young minds until they fritter away or harden to be replaced by an absolute value, a use, a purpose. We order them into line and teach them the only way is forward, up is kinda really hard and down is just dying to meet you.
And that is all so subjective.
Education and the cultivation of minds has become a huge concern which hardly anyone is spending enough time thinking about. So long as we are blindly standardising our children and forcing walls and unwanted barricades into their minds, we risk brain-draining our societies.
However, the discrepancies in education and thought are so great as to make you wonder what, exactly, we prioritise when it comes to raising the future.