Why I Selfied

For Jill, because she was interested.

"And I'm a million different people from one day to the next" - The Verve, Bittersweet Symphony

Between the ages of 17 and 22, I took a lot of selfies. Hundreds. Probably thousands, although a mere few hundred ended up online. How very restrained I was. (Of course, they weren't called selfies then, and all this was fields.)

Why was I so obsessed with my own image, and with other people's reactions to me? I've given a lot of thought to this, because that is the kind of person I am. I do very normal things, then give a lot of thought to them, as if that somehow makes them worthy and important.

Many would say that it was vanity; the more perspicacious might say it was insecurity. I think it was both and more. I think that those years, late teenage and early twenties, mark the baffling, peculiar, and mercurial stage in which one looks like a different person every day.

This is undoubtedly true of one's childhood, too, but now the world is treating you like an adult. Suddenly you're considered ready for responsibility, for attention, for catcalls and compliments. When two different strangers can, within the same week, shout that you're ugly and beautiful respectively, we should not be surprised that people want to know what's happening that could provoke these responses.

So, we document. We try new hairstyles, new outfits, new angles; but instead of waiting for the opinion of a random on the street, we put them online and mentally chart the likes.

My peak of selfie-taking was probably age 19. My life got suddenly fuller, days packed with new experiences, and I never felt the same from one week to another. This was reflected, it seemed, in my reflection itself. Every time I got the camera out, I found that I looked less or more grown up than I expected, sometimes slimmer, sometimes lonelier, sometimes happier. I was in a long-distance relationship, which provided the perfect incentive (alibi?) to send photographs, and every one was a surprise to me as much as my intended. I was an adult now, who knew?

And why was it that I never saw what I expected? What is the strange dance we do with our self-esteem that prevents us from getting a reliable read on how attractive we are? (That's a whole 'nother blog post, I suspect.)

I still look like a different woman every day, but as the woman in question is merely getting older and fatter, I forgo the photos. That era has passed, for me. I'm done taking selfies. I don't see that changing, as I don't want to see myself changing any more. Maybe one day I'll be glad to have these to look back on, but they're not exactly things to show the hypothetical grandkids, are they?

Who knows. Maybe by then I'll be too old and too wise to be embarrassed of my fascination with my own changing self.

To my older self

When you are older, Anna, and working hard, and you look back on your university days with wistful nostalgia, I want you to remember how you felt now. Remember that the world caved in on you and you almost caved with it. Remember the feeling that any way out is better than writing another essay. It's not true objectively, it's just a temporary stress-based madness...

If you really do start to miss the drunken sundays and days off and creative coursemates, remember that it came with chaos, wasted weeks and deadlines that cracked your head.

Rose-tinted glasses won't suit you anyway.

Godforce

The world is weird and wider than we think, this is undeniable. And I can't make head nor tail of it.

For instance, I've seen the world as crackling white energy that blazes like lightning matter broken down into all that it is: structure (order) and the other stuff, energy, the force, the spirit. I saw that.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not talking full-on hallucinations, but I have a vivid imagination and it made sense to me because "in Him all things hold together." That's the stuff, the God-bond, that is in everything and everything is in Him. It made the world more magical and I was happy with that.

And that's us, too, sparkling brighter than the roads we walk on, full of more lightning than the seats we sit on and the beds we lie on, and why is that?

Or so I thought, back in the day, before things got a little more 'complicated' (which means boring and grey as everyone knows; it's what adults tell children when what they mean is that they got old and things stopped making sense. "Things are a little more complicated than that"). It's easy to convince yourself that you let your mind run away with you. It's really easy.

But then, well then something unexpected happened. On Monday night. A party, all dressed up as animals, I a cat of course; not the setting for a spiritual revelation but then isn't that always the way? And I remembered a poem, and asked for a notebook, and then... well then...

Do you remember I told you about a poetry Open Mic night? And how there was one guy - one poem - that snapped me to attention and made me wonder if he might live in the same world I've lost? It talks about "throwing the rocks Jesus told me not to," and there's a sensation of rain on pavement and part of it - part of the poem, it talks about seeing everything as bright white crackling energy, electricity, and I had forgotten he said those things.

But there they were, in the notebook, and I asked him about it. Yes, he's seen it, he's seen white-hot electricity in everything. And then he mentioned archetypes and I smiled and he mentioned Jung and I sighed and I nudged him back towards Ben, because those two could talk forever (Ben loves Jung, the collective unconscious and all that jazz) and it wasn't the time for a conversation about Godforce and spirit stuff.

But now I feel a little bit less delusional and a little bit more sure of the thing you can't be sure of - that someone is in charge of this mess; someone is in control. And in us.

The man on the bridge

Christmas is, of course, a time for celebration, family, and the observation of custom. But one way or another, it always seems to be about loss as well. Our minds go back to Christmases past, either with regret or nostalgia. It's the time when we remember those lost to us through death (RIP, Nana) or circumstance (single at Christmas again...). And, for me personally, it's the time I grieve my biggest loss.

Being home with my family and going back to my church always stirs up the subject of my faith again. It did last year; and this year, once again, I'm looking back on my faith and wondering what happened, and what happens next. It's not as simple as being an Atheist now, despite everything, because occasionally very specific messages seem to get through to me.

I mean, it's probably just coincidence. It MUST be superstition. It must be that I want to believe so much that I see links where none exist. I mean how could it POSSIBLY - but - oh, I don't know. Here's what happened; you decide.

When I was in my late teens, and passionate about my faith, I had a story I used to tell myself to explain forgiveness. It's extremely personal, and I don't want to go into details here, but I will explain the setting: a river by a willow tree, where Jesus stands on a stone arch bridge. As I began to lose my sense of connection with God, I'd try to picture this place, but it would be cold and empty, deserted.

I was going through a rough patch a couple of months ago, and I actually started talking to Ben (my housemate) about all this stuff. I was in tears as I told him that the important thing, the thing that really matters, is whether there's a man on the bridge. Or whether I am alone. I told him about this picture's huge importance and significance in my life, and bless him, he didn't make me feel like a crazy person for it.

A couple of days later, Ben and I are wandering around the shops, and I start to feel stressed and freaked out by the crowds. "Can we go get a drink? Chai, or something..." He'd introduced me to chai tea recently, and I found it to be very soothing. There are five or six coffee shops on Albany road alone, but I chose coffee #1. "Upstairs or downstairs?"
"Upstairs," I replied, already heading for the comfy chairs.

There was only one table free up there, and while Ben got our order, I sat in the only place available to me and stared at the wall.

Painted onto the wall was a tree. By a river. Over the river, a stone arch bridge. And on the bridge... a shepherd.

So, what that means, if anything, I don't know. But it's one of the reasons I don't call myself an Atheist. I may have been hurt by the loss of my certainty, I may not know what or who is in charge of this mess, but maybe there's something.

So, I'll be going to church on the morning of Christmas day. Because it's traditional, and because my friends and family will be there, and because maybe if I'm very lucky, another clue will get through.

Day x3

Yesterday, the government voted through a rise in tuition fees by a majority of 21 - 302 votes against 323. Meanwhile, the streets of London were overrun with a protest that became nothing short of a battle between the police and the public.

There are dozens of breathtaking photos from Boston's The Big Picture - I've linked to that site before. They're incredible. This is my favourite, but I really do recommend clicking the above link to see the others:

We are living in interesting times, no doubt about that.

I have to say that I was extremely disappointed by the BBC's live coverage on BBC News 24. Their reporter was behind police lines, unable to see anything but projectiles lobbed at the coppers, and certainly unable to see any violence against protesters (which photos, videos and tweets from protesters tell us certainly occurred). Their studio voiceover reflected this, and their emphasis was very much on police injuries sustained, barely mentioning the other side of the story. There were also a lot of leading questions when they interviewed protesters, along the lines of "How can you defend this violence?", never asking the same question of the offices taking batons to the public they're meant to protect.

I'm reluctant to be too opinionated on the violence, as I wasn't there, but it seems clear that there was a lot from both sides. Several police officers were injured, including one who was thrown from his horse, and several students were taken to hospital (or, in some cases, left in the kettle despite urgently needing medical attention). Jody McIntyre was dragged from his wheelchair (read his account of events here), Guardian journalist Shiv Malik was beaten until his head was bleeding, and one girl had her collarbone broken although I haven't found her name or the circumstances yet (I think it was a cavalry charge). These are the stories I've heard because, I confess, there's a political bias to the left in the people I follow on twitter, but I will say it again: there was violence on both sides. Too much violence.

Callous and horrible though it sounds, this direction this war takes depends entirely on who dies first. I know, I know! I'm an awful person for even thinking it, but it's true: if an officer dies first, the witch-hunt to find and prosecute anyone involved in the protests will reach unheard-of levels. If a protester is killed by an officer, the public opinion will swing back towards the students. Or there's a third possibility, in many ways the most horrible: a protester will die as a result of another protestor's stupidity.

If this happens, the whole movement will fall apart. Peaceful students will refuse to march with the Socialist Workers; unionists won't want to march with students; and absolutely everybody will scatter as soon as possible anarchists turn up. I would say that this is quite probable, but the police are proving so enthusiastic in their violence that they will most likely, pun unintended, beat us to it.

Every protest displays more violence, more public disorder, and more condemnation from the government and police forces. I'm sorry to say that a death is only a matter of time, because this hasn't ended with the vote. This isn't going to melt into the background; these students are not going to shrug their shoulders, say "Fair enough then, it's the law, what can we do?" because we know what we can do now.

This. Right or wrong, there'll be more of this in coming weeks.

Dear anyone in particular:

Hello! Hi! How d'you do! Sorry, sorry, I'm over-excitable, I know; I'm just so excited to meet you! I know, I know; it isn't technically the first time we've met. But, you see, I don't think I gave you due attention last time. You know how it is, I was busy, or tired, or a little self-involved. I apologise. The thing is, I've since realised - I've been thinking, you see, and you're actually rather fascinating.

Don't feel fascinating today? That's okay, we all have our off days, but there's a lot more to you than people realise, isn't there. Other people might say that the things you come out with are 'random', but I am drawn in, curious about what and how you think. Sometimes I watch the cogs turning when you think nobody's watching you. It amazes me, the things you notice! Things nobody else sees, things I could have missed.

Is it any surprise, then, that I want to know more about you? Sorry, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. I realise I didn't give much warning. And it's hardly common for people to... well, express such an interest. But all this was necessary, you see; absolutely necessary; because I'm after something very specific. I'm after an honest answer. They're not easy to provoke at the best of times, and the question I'm about to ask probably elicits more lies than any other. But now that you know I'm in earnest, how about trying to lower the defenses when I ask you?

So... how are you doing?

Kilt and céilidh

I spent the last week in Edinburgh, attending my sister's wedding and seeing the sights. I'm pleased to announce that, at the request of some very kind ladies and gents, I did indeed dance at the céilidh (pronounced kayley, it's a Scottish knees-up), at the expense of my ankle but not my enjoyment.

I'm sure photos will be going up, so you'll get to see my already-stunning seester looking radiant in her wedding dress. If that's your sort of thing. There will also be photos of my father and brother in kilts; if you're reading this, Mike, discretion will cost you.

I'm back in Cardiff now (after a pig-awful journey that was 7 or 8 hours, and 2 hours longer than it needed to be). I'm moving house in one week, so I've got to get on with packing and such, all while trying super-hard not to think of anything, because thinking makes me feel all confused and worried and I don't want that right now.

I really hope I get a dentist appointment soon... I'm so sick of this wisdom tooth being 'partially ruptured'; it's had at least 3 years to get its act together and has utterly failed to do so.

In other news, I'm going to be posting some short stories to Idle Scribe. I submitted them as university work and got pretty good feedback, so do have a read if you're interested.

Copyright and the future

Information wants to be free. Copyrighted information, government information, my information.
I can't locate the quote, frustratingly, but someone once said that computer memory will never get more expensive, slower, or less convenient. The world is opening up for people to share ideas, books, movies, and personal data across the world almost instantly.

To do so in the case of movies, for example, is definitely illegal; arguably immoral; but still very easy. And likely to get easier.

Did you know that copyright law, when first invented in 1709, applied for 14 years? By contrast, Paul McCartney (and thousands of other artists) hold the view that 50 years of royalty cheques aren't enough. (Please discount my opinion, but if you're not currently earning, maybe you don't need to live a life of luxury.) Most performers around today are aware that customers have the option to pirate their songs, and their responses range from the overzealous ('let's sue them into the ground as an example') to the cool ('I make this awesome stuff you might like, oh and also I need to eat.').

This blog is licensed under an Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Creative Commons license. Click on the CC license at the bottom of the page for more info.

I bring this all up because I'm trying to picture the future. It seems to me that, whether the privacy activists and lawyers like it or not, our society is tending towards total freedom of information. Everything about us will be available to anybody who cares enough to look. It will fundamentally change the nature of our society. It will change how we treat others (because we'll know we're being 'reviewed' online); it will change why we create things (because anything we write or film or draw will instantly be available to everyone); and it will change how we keep secrets (if we even have them at all).

I'm not trying to present some horrendous dystopia here; nor am I condoning illegal downloading or the abolition of copyright law. I'm only trying to sort out, in my own head, where I think the human race is going, and (accidentally, in the process) who's stopping us from getting there. If I knew no other life, would I really mind living in a world like that? I think my answer is no.

What do you think? Where are we heading?

Home

I feel oddly restless when I come online. There was a time I'd go to a forum, but I've more or less abandoned those. Or I'd log in to IRC, but I don't do that any more. And since I restarted my twitter account (foolish, foolish me), there aren't many people to talk to there either. So I fire up my laptop, open firefox, and feel...

Unsettled. Unhomed.

My dissertation is going to be about home, and what that means. As a student, I move from house to house every year, so that's not home. My parents' house isn't home, not any more. Home has become something a bit more elusive, a bit less defined.

So, I suppose part of me is looking for something to get obsessed about. A website or event or group of people I can relate to, connect with, belong with. Likeminded people. Ah well, I can keep dreaming. There may well be thousands of people with minds a lot like mine, but I wouldn't know where to find them.

Fancy pants

Some of you might remember my curious fascination with Wrong Jeans. For those who don't, or just want to look at bits of lady again, check the link. Well I've done a bit more hunting, and guess what! There are more Wrong Jeans out there, ranging from the sexy to the strange. Enjoy.

Not so much 'ripped' as 'carefully dissected.'

Ohhh... that's why they're called distressed...

Knees! Flaunt 'em if you've got 'em

A rare case of Doin' It Right

And, to close, What? No.

I promise to be back with some actual writing as soon as I get my essays etc. finished. In the meantime, please excuse me - I have to go kill some worms. Usually my conscience would object, but these worms are a) cartoons and b) armed, so they know what they're getting into.
Armed with weapons, not arms.
Worms with arms would be terrifying.
Worms: never grow arms.
For me.
Please.
Thanks, worms.

"Humor is the only test of gravity, and gravity of humor; for a subject which will not bear raillery is suspicious, and a jest which will not bear serious examination is false wit."

Aristotle

A title

I had such a lovely weekend. Gavin, his parents and I went to London on Saturday to see Twelfth Night being performed - it was great! Properly funny, not 'Shakespeare-funny' as I was expecting.

I've been reading Ten rules for writing fiction. Warning: there's more than ten of them; I got fooled by that one, and by the time I realised how many there were, I was learning too much to stop! I've been thinking a lot about my writing lately... I seem to suffer all the anguish, procrastination and self-doubt of even the best writers, but without the actual... you know... writing. Until I've finished something substantial, I've no business even calling myself a writer. (Which I don't, by the way - I call myself a student.)

Anyway, I'll put the link on the left, it seems like forever since I updated my Interesting Thing of the Day bit. Do you ever go there to look for a game or something to kill ten minutes? I do, so I don't really mind either way what your answer is! Ooh, that reminds me, Shopping Cart Hero is an excellent, addictive little flash game. Great time-killer.

I keep thinking of ideas for blog posts, but by the time I've written a note to write it up later, I've lost all interest. I feel like a lepidopterist pinning down butterflies. Either they're elusive, or they're dead... ideas are crafty little blighters.

I wouldn't call this Writer's Block, not exactly. More like a blasted tendency towards introspection and idleness. Ah well; that's life, that's what all the people say.

Friends like these

Stupid changeable weather.

There comes a point, on days like this, when the abruptness of the weather change makes you question your choice of clothes. For me, today, it was at about the point the rain turned my t-shirt seethrough.

On the plus side, I did meet a lot of friendly people on the way home!

Speaking of friendly people, I was trying to explain Twitter to Ross last night. We were trying to explain to Dan why friendships with people you'd never met were perfectly valid and rewarding, and he raised the very interesting argument that I could be going out and meeting real people in the real world. Which is, of course, a perfectly valid point, and therefore made me want to cry and hit him with the keyboard until he stopped twitching.

Because, I mean, it was all very well being the introvert when I lived in Plymouth. Understandable, if not excusable. But now that I've moved to the promised land, why does it still feel so far beyond my reach to actually meet people by myself?

Well, the answer's obvious really. I'm horribly insecure. I don't really feel worthy of the friends I do have, and the thought of trying to make more is as daunting a prospect as it was when I was nine.

So! Food for thought there, for me anyway. Hope you're all well.

Stream of consciousness

I tell you what, you know you're a creative type when you almost wish you could get your heart broken just for the kickass poetry / music / art you'd get out of it.

It's been a long time since I seriously put out creative content regularly. I don't count these blog posts because, if I'm brutally honest, I put less effort into these than I would a poem or a picture. I guess that's one of the drawbacks of finding writing easy; it makes you lazy.

The past couple of nights, I've been staying up far later than I should wishing that somebody in particular was online. Somebody I've never met, and have nothing to say to. A sure sign of mental illness! He's... I guess, a blogger, and before that he was a youtuber, and I get the chance to chat with him every now and then about how things are going. I find him very exasperating, for reasons I won't go into here, and I have no idea why I suddenly feel like I need to hear from him.

Also, sheesh, how many times can you put "I" into a paragraph.

I used to have youtube vids up myself, actually. Only three or four. I found them today, having not watched them for a couple of years I guess, and it was really interesting to get a fresh look at myself. I could see how eager I was to please, to seem confident and interesting and fun. How much I wanted to look pretty and unique. It's interesting how deep-seated the need for approval is in some people. Aww, I told myself I wasn't going to do this, but: name-drop ahead: I was talking to Robert Webb on Twitter, and he seemed very aware of the fact that he seeks approval from everybody. He said it was the performer character-type, and I think I understand.

So here I am again, up at 3:22am, thinking too much about the wrong things instead of sleeping. I've got church in the morning and everything.

Nice people

I know that ‘Nice’ isn’t the most hardcore word ever. The other words pick on it and call it names. It’s associated with weakness, spinelessness. The sad truth is that true positivity, a proper "la la la everyone's lovely" mindset, is despised at worst and pitied at best. They call it naivety, but naivety is a better kind of positivity; vastly preferable to the because-I'm-worth-it narcissism that leads people to believe that they could be the next President of the USA if they just follow their dreams, despite all the pressing evidence to the contrary. I am not that kind of optimist. I know that the world is an ugly, brutal place. I just think that stubbornly refusing to accept it leads to a marginally more beautiful, gentler world. (In figurative terms, think of it as if I've superglued a pair of rose-tinted glasses to my face.)

When I really think about it, I believe that people are fundamentally good, or at least that they have the potential for good. They might not always seem that great but first impressions count for a lot, you know. Sometimes when you meet someone and they seem distant, angry, or just plain rude - well, maybe they're having a bad day! Maybe a smile and a kind word will brighten up their day a little! Maybe the knife they're showing you is for a surprise cake!

I try to go around constantly believing the best of everyone. Constantly believing that a little love could thaw them out, that a little friendship could stop them from being such an unmitigated bastard. (But to be fair, I'm only human, and I have bad days too. Many, many bad days. Sometimes I'm a bitch. But I promise, I didn't know she was pregnant, and it was hilarious at the time! Ahem.) Sometimes my reserves of goodwill run dry long before their reserves of pervasive crapness. I still don't know how to let go, of course; I still cling onto their ankles yelling "I KNOW YOU'RE A SWEETHEART REALLY, IT'S OK, YOU CAN BE VULNERABLE WITH ME!" as they dance around the burning orphanage, laughing.

That's the exception though. In general, expecting great things and great behaviour from someone really does bring out the best in them. It gives them something to live up to. Of course, this goes hand-in-hand with expecting better things from yourself, and that requires effort, and oh God wouldn't it be easier just to stay the way you are and eat ice-cream?

Ladies and gentlemen, I dream of a better world. A world in which we all have ice-cream and surprise cake. Thank you.

Women being honest

"So last night, I totally overreacted to something my boyfriend said, cried completely irrationally, got angry at him for no reason and now I'm not talking to him until he apologises because I'm slightly embarrassed about how I was just being hormonal."

"Oh honey! I wish I could blame it on your boyfriend. That would provide a bonding experience and draw us closer together in our friendship. Instead you just seem slightly crazy, even though I've done the same thing. Well, I guess I'm slightly crazy too."

"Let us instead bond by shopping! The mindless act of consumerism provides relief from any serious introspection. It helps that there are so many so-called fashion 'experts' to tell us that all our perfectly serviceable clothes are no longer acceptable."

"Good idea! heaven forbid we stop buying shoes and makeup long enough to realise what the real problem is here!"

-fin-

Reassuring thoughts on the economy

I know it's all doom and gloom at the moment, but I'd like to bring a little ray of financial optimism into your life.

Think about it like this: If the economy got into a terrible state, and we were all suddenly very poor, and prices went up, nobody would be able to buy anything. Nobody would be able to buy anything from Tesco, or from Rupert Murdoch, or from Microsoft. This is a classic case of the goose that lays the golden egg shitting itself to death, and you can bet that these huge GloboHyperMegaCorps with billions of dollars at their disposal don't want that to happen. It is in their best interests that things stay basically ok, and they've got the leverage to make sure that happens.

I do research for these posts, you know. I even looked up Forbes' list of the top 2000 companies, but it was boring.

So to summarise: Very rich and powerful companies want you to be able to buy what you need to live, and also plenty of stuff you don't need. We also want to be able to buy this stuff. Happily ever after.

Change of subject. I was thinking earlier...
Chocolate in winter doesn't melt as quickly. Somehow this gives it an entirely different feel. I'd go so far as to say that it seems to have far fewer calories than the heavy, sweet, sticky-as-sin summer chocolate. Not as nice though, especially when your face is so cold that you can't taste it properly and the momentary look of mild disappointment gets frozen onto your face and you spend the rest of the day looking slightly despondent until you find a radiator to hug.

Programmes I used to love

... and I still do, to be fair.

I'm not going to go with the obvious thing, which would be to dive through YouTube unearthing clips from 1980s children television (amazing though that would be); instead I'm going to address the programmes that had an impact on me in my teenage years.

First of all, Buffy The Vampire Slayer. I am not ashamed of this. I think it was absolute quality, with enough 'normal teenage stuff' to make it relatable. For example, there was a wonderful episode in which students started disappearing, fading into invisibility, and all it took to bring them back from oblivion was some eye contact or a quick conversation. It was a wonderful metaphor; directly relevant without being overbearingly obvious.

My favourite episode would either be Hush, or the musical episode (which was truly amazing if you loved the show as much as I did / do). Hush hardly had any dialogue, which many people would argue was an improvement (these people would be wrong and silly. Silly wrong people). The sheer horror levels of that episode were at an all-time high, and The Gentlemen were unforgettably creepy.

The Gentlemen

Also, eyecandy is always a winner. The series was around for long enough - six years, apparently - for my interests to phase from Xander to Spike. Even to Giles on some days. And Willow on others (no homo). Never Angel though, the big broody stump of emo that he was. He was all sad and pathetic and in love with Buffy, which held far less appeal than Spike's wannabe-rocker mojo. Of course they eventually cut Spike's balls off in an attempt to redeem him, and he turned all sad and pathetic and fell in love with Buffy. I mean dammit people.

Another programme that influenced me was Star Trek: The Next Generation, shuttup, it's awesome. And here's why. The spirit of adventure - of scientific discovery in space, and of pure indulgent fantasy in the holodeck - really caught my imagination. If I'd been any older I'm sure my imagination would have been elsewhere, no doubt musing on the contents of that secsi uniform (muscle padding, apparently. *Noise of disappointment*). So it's just as well TNG got me while I was young and innocent; I was too young to find Wesley Crusher irritating, so I just harboured confused daydreams of making friends with him and, I don't know, discussing dilithium crystals.

Wesley attractive?
Now you kinda see it...

And now you really, really don't.

You SO don't.

It's sad but true: if I watch something enough, I start to fantasize about having conversations with the characters. That's not insanity, it's imagination, and anyone who disagrees can take it up with Frank the 6-foot rabbit, can't they Frank.

YES

Also, I'd like to cast an obvious yellow vote for the Simpsons. I'm pretty sure the Simpsons affected everyone in some way. They informed American and British humour for over a decade until South Park took the reins. I still hold a tremendous affection for the characters, although not to the point where I'd willingly watch them in anything for quite a while.

He likes doughnuts LOLLLLLL

So, yes. Those are my three nominees for "Programmes I used to love." Feel free to share your special memories in the comment box. You too, Rich, don't be shy!

OH by the way, Dan, Stephen Fry, the ACTUAL Stephen Fry, is following me on Twitter. I Shit You Not. Admittedly he's got as many internet friends as MySpace Tom, but this IN NO WAY (slightly) cheapens how awesome this is.

Words are not enough - or too much

I was walking home from Gavin's just now when I noticed a cat sitting by the side of the river. She was just waiting in the dark, watching. As I passed, she turned to look at me, then resumed staring and thinking.

I was struck by curiosity - what was she thinking? How could I ever possibly know what a cat thinks about in its leisure time? As I reflected on this, I recognised the same awe and wonder I felt when my little sister was too young to speak. I'd stroke her short, wispy hair while she played with duplo bricks, and wonder what was going on in her oddly-shaped babyhead. She was thinking, all right; she was doing some of the most rapid learning any human ever gets to do - she just had no words for it yet.

This is something that affects all of us at some time or another. As we grow, our thoughts progress from "I don't want to go to Grandma's house, it smells funny" to "Her routine and standards are completely alien to me, and she reminds me of my own mortality and that of my parents." The same feelings, just different thoughts. Just because we learn new words.

Sometimes I wonder if words interfere with the experience. I've been writing for so long now that I can't sit and watch anything without describing it to myself, layering the sights, sounds and smells with words. This isn't a bad thing; words are beautiful, words are another way of digesting an experience - but between that and my obsessive photography, I don't often stay in the moment and just drink it all in.

It's at times like that I envy the cat. She has no words to describe the wind brushing through her fur; the sound of the river trickling over loose pebbles; the occasional sight of a lone human walking tiredly home. She just experiences it, raw and unprocessed; she just Is. She just Is a Cat, and things Are what they Are. Maybe that should be enough for me sometimes too.

This is what I was thinking about as I walked home tonight. The church tower chimed twelve, and I wondered how I'd describe it to you.

9/11 and the Fuckery of the Election Campaigns

Oh God, I'd forgotten how much I hate American politics. At least in the UK we have the decency to be politely embarrassed about the whole thing. In America, the party you support have the power and the strategies to change the world for the better. But the other guys? Oh, the other guys are in league with terrorists. They hate The Family (which family is this, by the way?), and will have us all being ridden around like ponies with Muslims and Communists on our backs by the end of 2010. The other guys couldn't possibly lead the Greatest Nation (tm) because their leader is a woman / black / inexperienced / a bitch / republican.

I'll be honest, I don't even know which party is which. Paint one turd red and one blue and I'll be just as unwilling to swallow either, thank you very much.

And if you think I'm exaggerating, that they're not really all overdramatic fearmongers, I'd like you to see how much of this video you can watch before nominating him for an Oscar.



The reason it makes me so angry is that America was supposed to be our big chance at a blank slate. A truly equal society in which freedom and justice were available to all. Such lofty aspirations, and yet the election campaigns are just pigs in dirt, squealing as many buzzwords as they can.

Disclaimer: I don't hate Americans, I'm not Jeremy Clarkson. I've just never heard a political diatribe yet that I liked or agreed with. By the way, if pressed for a vote, I like Obama because he has a nice smile and waves a lot. (At least I'm honest about it.)

Every journey starts with a single blog post about how you intend to take a step

Few things are as painful as the horrible realisation of your true self. All the little personality flaws, all the foibles that your closest friends and family know only too well (and like you too much to point out). In fact the only thing I can think of right now that is MORE horrible than that, is when you have to do something about it.

So here, in the privacy of my own public blog, I've decided to confess to a few of my faults with the express intention of weeding them out of my personality.

ONE.
If there is no drama in my life, I will create some. I'm nowhere near as bad as I used to be, with my weekly breakdowns at Soul Cafe where people would need to reassure me about all aspects of my body and personality, but I'm still pretty bad. Take Gavin for example. Occasionally - up to and including this weekend - I'll continue crying at him because it takes a lot more effort to calm down and be rational about things. This is clearly unacceptable.

TWO.
When I say I'll do something, I mean I may or may not and it certainly won't be soon. Despite my many layers of organisation - both an online and physical diary, phone reminders, www.rememberthemilk.com etc. - I still find ways of postponing pretty much everything. This comes down to poor time management; something that I will have to keep very tightly in check when university starts again. If it starts again. Oh God.

THREE.
I must, must, MUST work myself back into sensible sleeping habits. I've seen the wrong side of dawn far too many times in the past week, now being a prime example. If I am to have any hope of catching a worm, ever, I must stop relying on the blackout blind to provide me with an artificial night.

So! You may all bear witness to this pledge to better myself. I shall start tomorrow with a reasonable rising time (i.e. actually in the morning), a healthy breakfast, and a tidying spree.

Why can't I improve myself in a montage? Montages are easy. Rocky got a damn montage.