Category Archives: General Rambling

For posts that just go on and on and on and on and ……

Some things

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Some_things

I stand in the middle of the car park, my cigarette in my left hand, my eyes closed and facing left and upwards, towards the sun. I have to do it now, at 10, before it gets too hot to be able to do it. The warmth is so nice, filling my body, making me feel happier. I could go to sleep.

Talking of which, I’m sorry that the post below is protected. You will have to email me if you want to see it because it is, ahem, not my usual style of writing and I don’t really want anyone reading it except those people who really want to, knowing the subject and style and all.

I am angry with myself for putting on the tie that, a couple of days ago, I managed to splash with tomato sauce, at lunch time and although I used the special cleaning spray-on stuff they have here, in Italy, it has left a kind of water mark (though it’s not water).

>I wonder why I still wear a tie? I conclude that it’s some sort of hang-up I have. It’s like those of extreme religious belief who do a bit of self-flagellation. I wear a tie only at work; it’s a punishment to myself by myself for being stupid enough to be in this situation of working. It doesn’t hurt me but it reminds me that, whilst I have the tie on, I must suffer the degradation of working, and for what?

I wonder if I got that particular hang-up from my parents or is it just my screwed-up brain that deigns it should be so? I think of one of my other hang-ups. I’m pretty certain I got that one from my mother. I don’t exactly blame them but I wish that I could expunge them, clear my mind of these things that are not important but are so ingrained that I care and I hate the fact that I care – and they’re really just my hang-ups.

>And, I don’t know why, but a little earlier, I thought, briefly of my childhood and I thought:
I was unhappy all the time.

And, then I thought:
But that cannot have been so.< >So I tried to think of a time when I was, really happy.

And, I could not. I mean, there were some times – but only when I was on my own.

Maybe that’s where all my hang-ups come from and why I am less sociable than I should be or why being sociable is such bloody hard work?

Perception; A picture of Michael Foot and tramp

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I find myself re-reading the thing again.  I remember, one time (or maybe it was a few times over a few days, or a week, or a month but, in any case, it was quickly) reading as far back as I could go, being intrigued and interested and savouring it all as if I was the only person reading it; as if it was written just for me or I had found something secret that no one else knew about, like an old diary or papers full of writing, hidden away from public view.

But the re-reading is slower.  Now I have a ‘thing’ to hold on to during the imagination.  A voice.  A real, live person.  The smile.  The hands, the hair, the look.

And, strangely, because I didn’t think it would be possible, the words take on an intensity that I can hardly bear.  And that’s why it’s slow.  The intensity is almost too much but I find that it makes it even better; better but harder.

But now I think each story is different than I had thought before but that, of course, is not so true.  It may be different in my own head but the story remains the same it is only my perception of it that is different and my perception means nothing to anyone else except me.  It certainly doesn’t make the story or the protagonists different or change their view of the story in any way.

I have mentioned before how a voice can make a difference to me (take Alan Bennett as a good example) but, I suppose, and I had never noticed this before, so does the physical person.

Margaret Atwood, whose Canadian accent makes each English word a new word for me, I like not only for her voice.  She is kooky with her frizzed hair and her round face and, somehow, perfect for the books she writes.  Maya Angelou, the truly great American poetess, who still fills me with some sort of awe, just to write her name, because of her voice and the fact that she is, as one would expect, or, rather, not as one would expect but as she is, a rather large and imposing lady suiting, so perfectly, her voice and with a power that is both from her voice and her physique that made me the gibbering idiot when I wanted to say that I thought she was great and that I loved her and her power with words.

And Joan Armatrading, who, when I first met her was this rather small lady, so shy, so quiet and with her voice so deep, so powerful who has, actually, grown into her voice, if you see what I mean.

And so, the person and the voice are important and are what is now making me re-read so slowly and deliberately, trying to understand more than I did and knowing that is futile, really, since who can know anyone else by anything they do or say or write or sing.

And so I read and picture and imagine.  There are bits that, although I know I have read them before, seem new and interesting and different, like they’ve been added just now, today, for me, to make it worth the effort to re-read (even if it is no effort on its own, just effort because of that intensity I mentioned before).  And, somehow, more meaningful.  And, again, I realise that it is my perception.

And, of course, it is our perception that makes the world as it is, not the world.  The world remains constant, constantly changing of course but changing in a way that is the same.  We change, however, or, rather, our perception changes and the re-reading points this out so clearly I wonder why I hadn’t realised it before now; why anyone hadn’t realised it before now – or perhaps they did and I was just late to get here. Perhaps the joke’s on me and everyone else has realised this, almost from birth.

And now I feel quite stupid for not understanding this much better.  Not that it matters as most people who read this (few they may be) don’t know me and so, will nod sagely or laugh or whatever it is that one does when one knows the truth and reads about someone else just getting there.

And I thought I would post a picture of Michael Foot because he came up in conversation, recently, and I said that he looked like a tramp.  And it might seem that this is unimportant (and, in reality, it is) but it is important to me.  And I’m sorry that the picture didn’t come out in the same way that I had saved it but I hope you get the idea.

How to be needy for something impossible

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V asks me if I am well ‘or at least, better than me, which is no great feat, to be honest’.

We haven’t spoken or emailed for almost a week, now. Having left the flat (though there is still some finishing off to do), there has been no real need and also, me; because it would feel far too needy and him because of (my imagined) him having a good time.

And so am I to believe what he wrote?

I know him so well. I know that, even if he were to be having a good time, he would tell me how dreadful it was. Conversely, if he were having a terrible time, he would tell me how good everything was going. Or, maybe, I’ve got that the wrong way round? And, how would I know?

So here I am, in this limbo world not knowing the truth and in a position where I will never know the truth and, therefore, I can never trust anything he says even if it were to be the truth.

Of course, I must reply. I shall say I am sorry that he is not having such a good time and that I’m sure it will improve. I will say that, in spite of part of me hoping that it won’t, the same part that is glad that he’s suffering and still, even though I know I should not, hoping that, eventually he will realise what he has lost. The same part that is wanting his suffering to be worse than mine because then it’s ‘all right’. God forbid that my suffering should be worse than his.

Even if there would be no suffering on either side, this part of me hopes that my ‘not suffering’ will still be better than his ‘not suffering’. Is this the competition thing or just jealousy?

And to think, recently, over the last two days, I had convinced myself (nearly) that he was already living with someone else; someone who could fulfil his every need in a way that I cannot, right now.  I had prepared myself for the inevitable.  Maybe it’s not happened?  In a strange way, that’s almost worse.

Of course, I could have emailed over the last few days and had thought to but, again, I don’t want to seem too needy or, in fact, needy at all – even though the reality is that I am needy, needy of him for his life, his vitality and his undying love….and that’s where it all starts to fall apart again, crumbling into ashes before my eyes.

I am needy for something that I believed was but that is not and may not have been for some time, if ever. So, I am needy for nothing possible.

Don’t come into my head

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In spite of an earlier post (which, to be honest, I just can’t be bothered to find), there is, after all, another side of me.

It is well hidden from the rest of the world. It is dark. It is gloomy. It is cold. It is like a deep well, with straight, slippery sides that go down to the centre of the earth

It’s not a new thing that has happened recently. Rather, it is an old thing from way back, if not all my life.

>I keep it in check. I know it’s there and I know it has power over me but I try to push it back. So far, I have succeeded and sometimes, holding on to the reality that ‘is’ rather then the reality that very well could ‘be’, is a struggle.

If I am honest with myself, I have relied on V too much. The first time I thought that, perhaps, he ‘didn’t really understand me’ (although, given that I keep it quite well hidden, why should he?) was about 6 or 7 years ago. It sticks in my mind. Although I often have the feeling of being lonely whilst with others, I had never really felt this with V until this time. It was his response – ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be alright’, in an unconsidered way, that made me feel all alone. Strange how these little things stay with you, isn’t it?

It’s the overwhelming feeling of dread; of panic; of impossibility that gets to me. Of course, like my imaginary conversations, the things do not exist, except inside my head. Or maybe they will exist? And there’s the rub.

Sometimes, I feel, I want to take my brain out, give it a good wash and get rid of these stupid things which cling and grow like some sort of fungus on, say, an apple that is going bad. In fact, in the Tate Modern, there is (or was) a video film that I really loved which showed a bowl of fruit over a period of time, going bad. The fungus started as specks and grew and grew as the fruit collapsed and became smothered by it. I wonder if I loved it because it was how I feel about my brain?

There are times, when some good thing happens that this deep, dark well seems many miles away and other times where I am already in the well, clinging for life by a finger of one hand on the edge of the well; looking behind me and down to the bottom which, without doubt, I cannot see because, without doubt again, there is no end; no bottom; I shall just keep free-falling forever.

And, if in previous times, when I hang so precariously, I have come back from the brink, it may have been because of some (misguided?) sense of responsibility to others around me (for example, V). Right now, what is the reason that I should fight it? For whom? And wouldn’t it be easier to succumb to the inevitable and allow myself to let go and slip into the darkness without a care in the world?

Sounds a little depressing, I know, but you should be in my head for a moment! Or, rather, you shouldn’t.

The voices in my head

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Alan Bennett, with the exception of the one monologue I saw with Mrs Bucket, has never really been one of those authors I would wish to read. I don’t know. It’s a bit like Hockney or Lowry. It’s a form of racism on my part, I suppose, against people from ‘The North’.

It’s not that they look any different, although they seem to, once I know they’re from the North. It’s when they speak. I apologise to those of you from the North (and here I should stipulate that it’s not the North in general but, rather specifically, Lancashire, Yorkshire and parts of Cheshire and Derbyshire) but I’m afraid the accent really doesn’t do it for me – and I lived there for a number of years!

So, although I wasn’t so interested in hearing him at the Hay Festival this year, I went because, if I am being frank (and here, if nowhere else, I should be so), I thought he was dead already or, at least, nearly dead and I further thought that if I didn’t see him now, this time, I probably would never see him.

And, as I posted (or twittered, or told someone, or something like that) he was, actually very good. He is old and pasty (but then, to me, he’s always seemed old and pasty – so no change there) but he didn’t look like he was going to die any time soon and, for good measure, he was well worth seeing and hearing.

>He was highly entertaining and his flat, monotone, Northern accented voice was quite perfect for the short extracts of stories that he told. It made them seem funnier; gave them an edge that, related in a different voice, would have been missing.

When I got home, as I was about to finish ‘We Need to talk about Kevin’, for the umpteenth time, the next book I picked up was Untold Stories! This was quite freaky. If you had asked me a month back, if I had any books by Bennett, I would have been certain that I had not even one.

I suspect that this came from L, one of the many books that she was giving away when she left Milan for London.

I am enjoying the book and find it both interesting, funny and an interesting historical book – historical in the respect of it being details of the minutiae of ordinary life which, of course, is not ordinary at all at a time that is seemingly (and is, in fact, truly) my early years of life. But then, he is a storyteller. I would probably write something like:

My mother became ill. I ferried my Dad to the hospital very often. We didn’t really talk that much. I did find out, however, that my Grandfather who, supposedly died of a heart attack actually committed suicide. I was quite shocked.

He does not.  For him, of course, these are a load of pages with descriptions and details that go to make up a complete picture.

It’s interesting that, as I have posted before, it’s the voice that really works for me. As I read the words on the page I can hear him saying them; the same dry, flat voice with that Northern accent, that makes the story more real and more alive. Whereas, with most voices that I subsequently read, it’s the enjoyment of the voice itself that is the key, I’m afraid I cannot quite say that I find his voice enjoyable per se but, still, the voice does make the story. Of course, that’s only in my head

And from this (and more recent posts and another to follow) I am becoming increasingly concerned that everything that I find worth blogging about seems to be in my head (even if there are slight connections with the real world). Either my head is very large to contain all this rubbish or my ‘head life’ is taking over from real life!

A striking moment of clarity

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I was ironing.  Having been away so much, there are many things to do including the small mountain of ironing.  I hate ironing almost as much as cleaning.  Let’s face it, I am not really domesticated.  The dogs are probably better than me.  I am doing a bit at a time since to do all of it in one go will just be too much!

However, ironing must be done if I am to have any clean stuff to wear and, in this weather (yesterday, when I got in the car after work the temperature read 43 degrees, so it’s quite warm), it is necessary to wear a lot of clean stuff after a lot of showers.

I have the telly on (MTV as we get it free here) but, really, I am paying no attention to either the telly nor the ironing.  The ironing is automatic and the telly plays music that I, generally, don’t really like.

As normal, I am playing through conversations in my head as I have nothing else to distract me, really.  Of course, the conversations were not conversations that had actually happened but rather ones that may happen but, if I’m honest with myself, won’t happen and, anyway, if they did happen, the other person wouldn’t say the things that I had predetermined they would say so my replies would not be so certain and, most probably, I wouldn’t be so sharp or so clever.

The basic nature of the conversations is this:

V wants to get back together.

V says he’s sorry.

I say (without completely closing it down) that that will be very difficult.

I say that he needs to be honest and open with me.

I say that to do that, he first needs to be honest and open with himself.

V asks what things he needs to be honest and open about.

I say that that is the point.  I cannot tell him, although I know some things, but that, to be honest and open, he has to decide to tell me everything and I will know if he has.

This is a stupid conversation as this will never happen.

Suddenly (and I really don’t know why this happened), I think of another situation.  I think of my parents who, apparently, are or, at least were, waiting for me to ‘come home’ asking for their forgiveness (for what, I really don’t know).  I think how stupid they were and little they knew me, even if I was their son and even if they did raise me for almost 18 years before I left, for good.

And then, I realised, in one of those moments of complete clarity that, in spite of my efforts not to be like them, I was, in fact, doing the same thing.  I was waiting for V to come to his senses and come back begging to be together.

And, then I realised that, of course, he is not coming back – begging or not – and that my life has been in this limbo state, waiting for him to appear on my doorstep whereas, in fact, he has already moved on and, damn it, so should I.

It won’t be the last time that I will enact these meaningless conversations and, for certain, I am catching myself wanting a man again, which makes me vulnerable but I know that, as these future enacted, made-up, incredible conversations happen, I will be able to stop it following this ‘moment of clarity’ by remembering that, in fact, the situation is not going to happen.  It will get easier each time.

The wanting a man part, though, will not.  At least, not for a while.  The problem with that, other than my previous track record in this situation, is that, this time, a) I really find so few men attractive and b) how the hell do I tell whether they’re gay or not, at least here, in this land where men don’t seem to have a problem with their sexuality and, therefore, have no need to be give off the right signals?  Or, rather, give off signals that I find perplexing and unclear.

And the point of this post?  None at all really!

Why?

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Why?

I do have, from time to time, and overwhelming feeling of dread. This usually happens just before I get to sleep or if I wake up in the night. I do and don’t know why.

But it always comes back to V and what has happened and whether anything was really real or not and, therefore, whether anything can be real in the future – with or without V.

V is due to move out in the next few days. This is good and bad in that, finally, there will be some sort of closure, which I certainly need. It’s bad in that, from that point, we shall drift apart, as yachts on a still lake, without means of steering, or, maybe, race away from each other as if down different ravines; the threads that once held us together becoming more stretched and thinner until, finally, they snap or melt to nothing.

And my thoughts turn to ‘home’ and what it is and what it really means. And to why we are here and why we even have to struggle through life – to what end? Does it all really serve any purpose?

For if there is no ‘life after death’, other than the memories of others and if, like me, one remains childless without anyone to need to remember me, then there really is no point.

And, therefore, people believe in ‘life after death’ because it fulfils their need for a point.

But, tell, me, if we have that wrong, then why?

The police versus the courts – opposing situations?

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It was written ‘The law is an ass’, supposedly said by one, Mr Bumble.

And there have been a couple of stories on the Guardian website today that bear more scrutiny.

The first is this. When first reported, some weeks back it reminded me of the BNP. There he was, this Chief Constable, a person who is supposed to uphold the law as it is and follow the instructions of the courts, saying that he would not. He gave his reasons which, on the face of it seemed very reasonable.

The problem with this, though, is that he is charged, as part of his job, to ensure that the ordinary citizen upholds the law and the rulings from the courts. Surely he cannot, therefore, decide to go against the court.

But reading a little deeper, the claim is made by the man whose goods his police force seized, that the police are, in fact, out to get him. And the judges in the case criticise the Chief Constable ..

.. for attempting to smear Bates in a series of newspaper articles “all of which were directed to bring Bates into disrepute as a result of suggestions that there was salacious material which he had on computers otherwise than for purely professional purposes”

Maybe the Chief Constable should have used Nixon’s line with a little change thus:

When the Chief Constable does it, that means that it is not illegal”?

The other case was that of the blogger who wanted to remain anonymous. He wrote a blog called NightJack (no longer available). I’ve never read it but it won the Orwell award for his blog, so I’m guessing it was good.

He needed to stay anonymous so that the cases detailed on his blog would remain untraceable and, also, so that he could continue to blog truthfully about his cases and the police force (from what I have gathered).

The Judge, however, thought that he had no right to privacy regarding his identity because the act of blogging is in public.

Now, for sure, this, like most other blogs is available to all who wish to read it, even those people at work (if they can find it like Pietro did). I don’t wish to be anonymous, particularly, although I have no wish to be absolutely open either, if you see what I mean BUT, if I were writing a blog about work and, say, there was some aspect of my daily work that I felt the public should be made aware of that, maybe, my workplace would not be in total agreement to, then I probably would prefer anonymity. In fact, it might be crucial.

And, in this case I think it was crucial as now, as a result of him being ‘outed’, the blog has been deleted. What a great shame.

But it does beg the question – if a blogger has no right to anonymity, then, surely, a journalists sources have no right to anonymity since, through the journalist, they have allowed their comments to be made public? And, since it was a journalist who ‘outed’ the policeman, I wonder how he would feel if all his sources were to be made public? Surely, then, it would be harder to get their scoops? And that must be bad, don’t you think?

And, therefore, for me the writing of a blog anonymously fits neatly with the source of a journalist remaining secret. The only difference being the person who actually writes the words

It seems that, in both cases, there is one law for some and another for others, depending upon who you are and this cannot be right nor just.

Not really missing the BBC; It must be summer; Looking forward to the weekend (almost)!

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Further to my post, I’m pleased to say that weaning off the BBC is a little easier than I would have thought. I always did enjoy the Guardian and now that I’ve had the chance to explore the website a little more, I am decidedly liking it.

I also like being able to comment on pieces, unlike the BBC which just had the “Have Your Say” which, quite frankly, was not really very good.

Just like in the UK, people here complain about the weather – often. At the moment we are getting above 30 degrees in the afternoon and they are complaining that it is too hot and too humid. Certainly, as we are in a city, the humidity is worse (but nowhere near as bad as in the UK) but really, it’s not so bad.

Well, at least, there’s one person in Milan who is thoroughly enjoying this hot weather!

And, I have to ‘fess up. I don’t like travelling for work any more (or, really, travelling at all); I don’t like Paris; I don’t like working weekends and I don’t like shows (even less if I am working the stand). But….. I am almost looking forward to this weekend when I shall be in Paris.

Don’t know why, really. Possibly because I will be able to have some really good food? Or a nice bottle of wine? Or get some of the cheese (Boursault – and I shall have to get some for V who is looking after the boys) that I really like? Or, the chance that I will be able to do some reading during the boring bits (which is likely to be most of it, I think).

On the plus side, I go to the airport directly from home (about 10 minutes by taxi) and from the airport, directly to the hotel. So I only have to put up with the ‘show’ for two days. Then Monday is an all-day job driving back. There will have to be frequent stops for cigarettes, for certain, as I shall be with a colleague.

But, still I’m not quite sure why I am almost looking forward to it. Very strange.

Is this goodbye to the BBC?

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The BBC have changed the way their website works. It changed during the day on Thursday or Friday of last week. They changed it for me!

OK, to be truthful, they changed it for the likes of me – people who are abroad and access the BBC website.

The problem would seem to be something to do with advertising. See, us pesky ex-pats have this annoying habit of choosing the UK rather than the International version. This means they had their work cut out having to have two versions of the UK site – one without ads (for the people living in the UK) and one for us foreign-living folks which included slightly-annoying, irrelevant advertisements.

They did give that as a reason but also that, apparently, we found it confusing!!!!

I don’t think so. In fact, I know that this was not so. For me it was clear. I wanted UK news. If there was anything that happened in the world that was really important, it would be on the front page anyway.

The current news appeared on the ticker at the top of the page. I looked at the main page, then England and then Wales. Finally I would look at the Europe section.

Very rarely would I look at Africa, the Americas or Asia.

I don’t really trust the BBC for International news and so, now, having been given no option but to have the International version I have decided to leave.

Shame, really. But now I would rather have Google News set to the UK and the Guardian website to pick up on the other stuff.

I know it will take me a while to wean myself from the BBC but the International version that I now have to have is so annoying that I don’t think it will take long.

So, this may be goodbye to the BBC after all!