In The Bedroom

2003-09-20T19:40:00.000-07:00

So I go to the cinema this evening, to avoid having to endure my sister's birthday party (for a few hours at least - it's still raging on in the next room as I write this, only with less people than when I left) and with a limited selection from the one cinema in Luton town centre, I decide I'll just pick the one I've heard least about, which happens to be of the Bollywood variety (nothing to report on that front, I went out just to put something in front of my eyes rather than to judge it. I guess I thought it would be more fun than the fucking Italian Job remake).

So, with my being WHITE and all:

Young Asian Cashier: that's £5.80 please

(pause)

I should tell you this is a bollywood film..

Me: Yes. I know. (exit)

I get to the (race unremembered) guy who rips your ticket before you go to the screen. He says nothing, but he is accompanied by an Asian lady, evidently a supervisor or some sort:

Asian Lady Supervisor: You do realise this is a bollywood movie, sir?!?!?!

I mean, jeez.

2003-09-16T06:08:00.000-07:00

NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED TO PROTECT THE INNOCENT

It was about two months ago that a good friend of mine said to me that my judgements of his character run "pretty much parallel" to that of his own, in that when I offered advice or approximations as to where he stood in life I was deemed to be quite accurate, and - I gather - quite helpful. Of course I was flattered to receive a compliment such as this, and my general feeling afterwards was something similar to an "aww, shucks" response (although this was never made public due to the initial admission being made via email), like if you were meaning to plant some new shrubs, and a sibling, spouse or similar loved one buys you that special garden shovel you've been eyeing in the DIY store for months for your birthday.

But lately my contact with said person, (let's give him a name shall we? okay, first random name generated by my received hotmail spam is...) Thurston Tye, has dwindled, and it's got me thinking about the role I play in other people's lives - people who genuinely mean something to me - I mean, if what Thurston Tye said is truly what he thinks, would he willingly let communication breakdown? Can I legitimately feel comfort in meaning something to somebody else, or am I simply a crutch?

I know it sounds arrogant to assume importance in someone else's life. But having been supported in the past by many crutches whom I no longer speak to now, and how guilty I feel about it, I just wonder whether it is now happening to me, and whether Thurston Tye realises it, whether it is intentional, and whether the value I placed in that person was at my own expense.

This situation is similar in a way to that of a relationship I recently had with a girl from work. I use the term 'relationship' in the strict literal sense, since we were never together as any kind of couple, despite my best attempts to charm her. Not that she was unaffected by those attempts - I was sure she was attracted to me and I to her, and I had these assumptions fortified to me by two separate onlookers (of their own volition and judgement I stress to add, I DID NOT ask them ¬_¬).

Now I am relatively inexperienced with 'relationships' in the other, dialectical sense, and - predictably given my naïveté - I placed some importance on my interaction with this girl. It helped as much as it didn't that she was from Spain, and consequently did not speak English exceptionally well, in that it demanded a more thorough reading of body language and facial expression than normal. This confirmed, assuming I read the signals correctly, her attraction to me. On the other hand, it made it increasingly difficult to progress to a 'relationship' per se, for obvious reasons. A little while later she jetted off back to Spain, and that was the end of it, a little flirting, nothing more, nothing major to report.

This led me to think that the relationship had not progressed to a 'relationship' because all I could have learned from this girl was available to me in flirtation. And I did learn things. It felt like the purpose for my meeting her, for our paths crossing had been realised and there was nothing more that could be added, so it ended. I'll almost certainly never see her again, so the part she has played in my life is well and truly complete.

This is how I feel the relationship with my friend Thurston Tye is heading. We both leave for separate Universities in a couple of weeks' time, just like my Spanish Se?orita left for her homeland. Only this time I am on the other end of the scenario, where I am the expended instrument, that my friend has gained all the knowledge he can from me, and now he wishes to close the chapter. I do not at once admit that I may have learned all I can from him, the causality is one way - I must be the thing learned, not the learner, because more and more convincing to me is the conclusion that he did mean what he said about the accuracy of my personal reflections on his character, but sees that as the reason for me crossing his path, and deems it no longer necessary to entertain my point-of-view, since he feels he has already gained all he ever can by experiencing it.

And now I feel like surplus. Is this wrung out, washed up reject a role I now have to play for the rest of my life? Will I continually be the faceless drifter from whom people take their thrills and leave, existing for no other reason than to provide an anecdote on a rainy afternoon when someone I knew runs out of things to say in attempt to sustain some attention out of spoiled grandchildren?

Or is it a role played eventually by everyone? In alternating from learner to learned, living to dead, the one constant factor is reciprocity. If learning can only occur via experience, then the experience has to be reciprocal, even if it means less or more or different from one party to the next. Any given person will always mean something to somebody else.

So perhaps the idea is to leave the protagonist's role to others, and to have enough humility to get behind them if they are worthy of it. If I can stop assuming the importance of my own actions and choose intead to value, support and encourage the individuals I meet who embody my beliefs, then surely I will do more good than to bluster on about my own self-contained, impenetrable nuclear problems.

2003-09-13T15:13:00.000-07:00

CHOREOGRAPHY

This guy at work looks almost seven feet tall and built out considerably. My brother and I call him Bill Egghead - after the character Bill in the board game Guess Who, the one with the shaved Duncan Goodhew bald head and ginger beard, who would you believe has a head the shape of an egg (my brother and I made up the nickname when we were kids and it stuck). Not only is the Bill Egghead at work the spitting image of the Guess Who version (only sans beard) but if one were to imagine the Guess Who character's body, one would surely conjure up something similar to the fearsome hulk of this guy. To keep himself occupied throughout his shift he brings in a midi system and plays his own tapes and cds, seeing as he stays in one place and evidently doesn't want to put up with the radio. A quick run-down -

DATE: Mid July 2003 SONG: Red Hot Chili Peppers - "Can't Stop"
Bill Egghead sees me walking around the warehouse with a mop of hugely grown out seventies rocker style hair and noticeably erm...notices this. His eyes light up. I can tell he's thinking "Hey, somebody else who likes GOOD MUSIC, you know REAL MUSIC, with guitars and stuff". I approach to claim one of the cages he is distributing, and he's immersed in his Chili Pepper flavoured paradise, waving a fist in the air so that everybody knows how much the CHILI PEPPERS FUCKIN' RULE DUDE.

Of course, he's looking in my direction for acknowledgement, appreciation, mutuality.

DATE: Late August SONG: Oasis - "Rock And Roll Star"
Clearly unperturbed by my silent decline of his previous attempt to forge a REAL MUSICAL BOND BABY YEAH and by some strange coincidence (no sarcasm) now playing a song that corresponds to my recent mod-style cut, He pipes up, bellowing above the roar of one Gallagher or another some random work-related query to do with Chiswick. Seemingly innocuous, but he stalls on a response to my answer, raising his eyebrows. Just before I have left range of earshot, he pipes up again - "YOU KNOW WHERE CHISWICK IS MATE? WEST LAHNDAHN! YEAH! JUST LIKE THE WHO!!!"

DATE: Mid September. Last Night, actually SONG: The Darkness - "I Believe In A Thing Called Love"
By this time myself and my brother have begun a jovial second-guess construction of our Bill Egghead's cd collection and character. My brother had overheard Bill Egghead talking with another employee about how downloading music is wrong - "IT'S LIKE STEALING, MAN! YOU SHOULD BUY CDs COS THE ARTISTS DESERVE YOUR RESPECT IF YOU WANNA LISTEN TO THEM! THATS HOW THEY GET PAID! FUCK ME, IT'LL KILL THE WHOLE INDUSTRY!!!".

The Darkness' song had also been playing regularly on the radio while we work and we enjoyed several jokes about what is a cringeworthily bombastic and overblown record, built entirely round the singer's insistent falsetto - an attempt at glorifying, replicating and celebrating the thirty-nine-year-old Mondeo Man's self-amusing moments where he'll sing along with Robert Plant in a croaky falsetto of his own, "cos it's funny to sing high-pitched, huh huh".

Queue another similar work-related query as I accept a cage distributed by Bill Egghead. This time he raises his eyebrows on my response as before, but makes what seems a conscious and deliberate attempt to mouth the falsetto chorus of "I Believe In A Thing Called Love" in full view of me, so that I know he's trying to grab my attention with it. I know the question he wants me - the person he aspires to being his big musical buddy - to ask.

The moment is choreographed. I had to ask him.

I knew exactly who the song was by, and I knew just how perfect and hilarious it was that two personal jokes could converge so smoothly at one time, but I still had to ask. I had to ask because the moment expected it of me, I couldn't possibly go on second-guessing his reactions to the kind of music he listens to, I couldn't pass up this opportunity to see his reaction to somebody acknowledging his affinity for a single like "I Believe In A Thing Called Love", even though I knew just what it would be - one of muted elation, of total self-congratulatory gratification, of the harmonious bliss he no doubt finds on every meeting of a person he considers to be a fellow long suffering dyed-in-the-wool rock purist.

With all the preconceptions he had of me and I of him, and how prominent they were in their corresponding mind, that moment could not have been more different for the two of us, even though we were witnessing and contributing to the same event.

For him, the moment meant that he had found another follower, another believer, another torch-bearer. He could be safe in the knowledge that his musical taste is something others covet, admire, revere. Just a small intonation of acknowledgement confirmed to him that there really are people who care as much as he does, who suffer for their musical integrity as he does, who know that rock music is an establishment in itself, a grand old tradition being kept alive by only a chosen few.

For me, it was the instance where the ideal that the guy was exactly as my brother and I had caricatured him was realised, even surpassed. It was the confirmation of every facet of character I had already ascribed him, and paid him the tiny acknowledgement he wanted out of gratitude. Good boy. You are what I say you are. Now here's your treat.

2003-07-27T04:44:00.000-07:00

<"Nick Southall 'defines me' (and doubtless many of us)">

2003-06-12T09:19:00.000-07:00

The reason for Tatu's appeal (primarily to indieboys and recovering indieboys) -

It took until I saw Tatu's astonishing appearance at the MTV Movie Awards for me to really Get It. Approaching the stage via two separate aisles and singing the opening lines of "All The Things She Said" to eachother across a channel of seated audience, Lena & Julia are clearly making no attempt to mask their distinction of "Them" and "Us". On this evidence, it's of course the 'ordinary folk' that get in the way of their being together.

Then suddenly -

DRUMS!!

and we are catapulted into the intro of "Not Gonna Get Us" - which could possibly be the best single I have heard released in my lifetime - and Tatu in a flash are onstage, cueing a barrage of school-uniformed teenage girls to flood every aisle in the auditorium, all converging before the stage in what could only be described (and think about that combination of 'only' and 'described') as Anthony Easton did on <"New York London Paris Munich">

as a "grand sapphic revolution...a bacchanal".

But on reflection it appears less of a bold statement of sexual liberation, or of another brash (groan) "fuck-you" to the straight-edgers, or other any kind of sexual expressive device. In fact I see it as an almost complete reversal. It finally struck home to me why "Not Gonna Get Us" was able to pierce straight through me every time I heard it - Tatu are not about sexual liberation but inversion. Why put 137 girls on stage instead of just two? Clearly the event organisers had not thought much of their performance as a duo and felt it needed reinforcing. But why, if we are to be convinced by the strength of the girl's love for one another, should there not be sufficient intensity to constitute a 'performance'? If the White Stripes could convince with less of a powerful connection, why not Tatu? Maybe the distance between them during the opening bars is not symbolic of "Them" and "Us", but instead signifying the distance they feel between eachother within the relationship itself?

In this sense the bacchanalia is all about strength in numbers - that the girls' own reciprocal doubts over themselves and eachother are being placated and shrugged off their consciences by a wall of schoolgirls following their example. They've passed the point of no return, the decision made - to back out now is unthinkable. "Look, LOOK what we've achieved! Look at what effect we're making!" The stunt is symbolic of the aversion, rather than expulsion, of doubts concerning their relationship and sexuality - a necessity for the sake of the girls' consciences, since they are now too scared to go BACK into the mediocrity of the heterosexual world that turned them away. Their sense of rejection so great that they will not allow themselves to be supplicated no matter what level their doubt gets to, because to be misunderstood in a socially-discarded relationship is more comforting than to attempt to permeate a whole world that you feel has already deserted you.

The next day I finally felt coerced into buying the album, something I had put off for months for various preposterous reasons, and it is by the lyrical indication on it that I refer to "doubt" and "decisions". For although it is titled "200 Km/H in the Wrong Lane", it sounds more like they've blown their engine and are coasting over to the hard shoulder, silently debating with each of their individual consciences whether to get out and try to hitch a ride once they reach the road's edge. Embodying this sense of detached despair is "Not Gonna Get Us", the album's breathtaking opener. A sampled aeroplane engine precedes Julia's repeated cries of the title lyric in the chorus, rasping it out as if the plan(e)'s fuel tank has blown and they're about to crash without any hope of survival (if only that this is surely the only way Julia can be certain of her claim?) and she's echoing the phrase in desperate hope of comfort and distraction from the inevitable rather than as an assertive boast of her/their elusion of the discrimation its supposed to connote.

The first instance of a longing for simplicity and acceptance occurs in "All The Things She Said", embodied by Lena's nails-on-chalkboard wail of a confession - "THIS IS NOT ENOUGH!". Given that the context of the song's narrative concerns the perceptions of the outside world make of the couple in question, this shrieked revelation of Lena's implies that no matter how euphoric it may feel to be with Julia, she feels that she needs the security of being accepted and loved by everyone else as well.

"Show Me Love" starts with a telephone conversation between the two girls in which their Russian utterances are preceded by a vacuous gap - the speaker's timidity or reluctance to reply. An obvious and quite superficial instance of 'distance' I know, but relevent nonetheless and certainly lacking no poignancy. The underlining of the distance and doubt between the two is their reciprocal inquiry - "Do you still have doubts/that us having faith makes any sense?". They are still wrestling with the decision to openly refute convention for the sake of their still undefined sexuality, as reinforced similarly in the following track "30 Minutes" - "30 Minutes of bliss, thirty lies/30 Minutes to finally decide". Surely a sexual attraction entails no decision?

"Malchik Gay" is one song that betrays the subversive, brooding tone of the album with its perky hooks and linear, seemingly one-dimensional lyrical format. But, like "Show Me Love", this Euro-Pop sheen is irrelevent, and gives way to the underlying doubt of the protagonist. The appearance of a male Other ("I long to hold you/like your...boyfriend does") in the context of this album - these girls - is indicative of further uncertainty, where the possibility of a U-turn in sexuality for either girl is clearly still a prominent concern - and it scares them both.

But is it a possibility that either girl could be straying back to hetero-territory? Consider the minimal contribution of Lena's vocals on the magnificent cover of "How Soon Is Now?" at Track Five - there is not one line that she sings the lead on. It is, effectively, a monologuous account of Julia's subjective frustration. What makes this doubly significant is that it is the single cover version the pair attempt, and therefore the message of the song is thoroughly received and understood by Tatu's controlling svengalis before it is even recorded. The fact that there has been a conscious choice to have Julia sing all the lead vocal on the track inevitably prompts this listener to think that they have moulded her persona on the record, the role she plays as such, around this widely regarded anthem for the suppressed homosexual.

Consider now the photographs on the sleeve of the record, and particularly how Julia dominates all of them. This can (as my brother suggested) be simply because she is more photogenic, just as it can be taken that she has sung "How Soon Is Now?" because her vocals suited the track more. But I am convinced that her public image has been intended from the outset to be the embodiment of the stereotype of the "indie-unattainable" female. What clinches this is the watermark pictures set on the inside of the sleeve behind the lyrics. Julia is posed blowing a sardonic, disdainful and knowingly ironic kiss at the camera, whilst Lena regards her from across the page, laughing. Whilst Julia entices, teases the unwitting indieboy, Lena is more than willing to take the back seat and allow her lover to represent their combined public persona of 'Tatu'.

This is all summised by the track "Stars", which is the last on the album before the perfunctory space-fillers (remixes and Russian versions, making "Stars" the concluding track in earnest). In effect this is Lena's concluding monologue, as Julia is only present in the mumbled Russian-language inserts, of which of course I cannot understand. Lena yearns to the listener - "Do we belong/Someplace where no one calls it wrong?" - note the prominence of the question mark in that sentence, and parallel it to her final unflinching impugnation of "Are We In Love?". ARE THEY IN LOVE?!?!? Striking home the reality of Lena's personal despair, she even feels she can doubt whether they love each other at all, and the proposal in "Not Gonna Get Us" and "All The Things She Said" of fleeing from all their problems becomes conclusively desolate - they will never belong in either the utopian world they dreamt of nor the 'real' world of rejection and disillusionment.

And we are left hanging on the sublimely empathetic catharsis - "Like the night we camouflage/Denial" - and I can only conclude this is Lena's personal denial. A denial of the outside world, a denial of her conscience, a denial of her identity, a denial towards her lover's affection. Finally, a denial of her own ability to love - whether same sex or otherwise.

2003-05-26T16:01:00.000-07:00

Things currently bugging me:

Big Brovaz - Favourite Things
You can't FIT a Bentley in Sahf Lahndan for Chrissake!

24 - Second season
It's a god damned soap opera. Just how many times does Lynne Greskey have to say "and No, Sherry, I DON'T like you!" before people realise this?

R Kelly - Ignition (remix)
Because I know I should hate this. It is, after all, a really bland song (but then again he does rhyme ignition with kitchen, I don't know). More coming on this soon, I guess.

CRAIG DAVID & STING - RISE AND FUCKING FALL OFF THE FACE OF THE EARTH YOU BIG CHINNED WHINY TWAT

ahem. Lastly, the Stereophonics being big enough to SELL OUT all their stadium-gig tickets SIX MONTHS before the show. The extent to which this is distressing is really quite unbearable and I think I'm need to go sleep before the hideousness of the thought engulfs me like the very breath of satan himself.

2003-05-22T16:12:00.000-07:00

BRIEF INTERVIEWS WITH HIDEOUS STUDENTS

# 1

BOY: okay, its the last day of term. i've been going round trying to set things straight with people all day, you know, so they dont get bad lasting impressions of me. I want to apologise for my approaching you in the imposing and presumptuous way you'll remember I did. I hope you don't think of me as a bad person for it, I guess.

BOY: if you want to make all this, like, formal, whyn't you get your girls together and I'll get my rabble and we'll go out, have a good time to clear the air, and all the bad impressions get swept away with the night?

2003-05-20T14:51:00.000-07:00

YET MORE TALK ABOUT INNER STATES AND REALITY

The teenage boy walked with a spring in his step. Fifteen minutes ago he was leaning over a kitchen table engaging in his first sloppy but nonetheless euphoric sexual encounter. The subject of his fervent pubescent lust was a depressed housewife named Cheryl, who after nursing his wounds inflicted by falling through the roof whilst trying to steal her satellite dish, made a sudden and inescapably robust lurch towards him, her tongue groping around the boy’s face like an insect’s probing antennae. It was coincidental that the folding kitchen table could only withstand her considerable bulk for the necessary ninety-six seconds, so the boy was not present to witness the embarrassing sight of the dissatisfied housewife hunched over herself on the linoleum floor (to which her naked buttocks had clammily and comically stuck from sweat and floor-grime), jeans crumpled round her ankles, spread-eagled, dripping guilty self-pitying tears onto her otherwise undisturbed sweater-blouse combo.

It was fitting for the boy that he slunk away so abruptly, ignorant of the emotional entrails of the liaison, his elation not at all affected. Even in those subsequent fifteen minutes, it seemed to the boy that he surveyed every female passer-by in a distinctly more lecherous fashion than he had ever done previously. He noticed the car drawing closer, at its wheel a brunette in dark glasses. He glared, transfixed, through the double glazing of windshield and eyewear, where a half hour previous his gaze would have gravitated to the perfunctory dull sheen of his undersized combat boots.

It didn’t surprise him in the least that, as the car slowed in front of the traffic lights, the driver returned his glance. He suddenly felt confident that the origin of attraction is envy of youth. He was even more confident that people envied his youth. The incident on the kitchen table that day would incite a ritualistic examination of his exposed frame in a full-length mirror before and after each morning shower for forty years (until his alcohol-induced heart attack in the middle of a long midnight walk - which he would take to try and calm himself down after some petty nondescript domestic quarrel - along the old pier would topple him over the side to be property of the ocean), sure that he at least was a fine specimen of a human being. It wasn’t until now that he truly believed anyone else could match his opinion of himself. It seemed to him now that every female, even those with dark glasses, were worthy of his attention. The teenage boy enjoyed unrivalled self-gratification as he turned the corner, put on his headphones and paced buoyantly homeward.

2003-05-16T11:35:00.000-07:00

BOY: Look, I know what your problem with me is.

(Pause. The GIRL laboriously turns, expressionless, toward him)

Okay, so imagine you don't know who I am.

(the GIRL stares vacantly at him. He appears to be more coincidentally in her line of view than specifically being looked at or listened to.)

Imagine I don't know who you are. Imagine this isn't a bus stop, it's a bar...it's a bar and there's a bartender opposite me here (he slaps the top of the wall with his hand as much for dramatisation as for indicating what he's talking about). He's getting anxious 'cos I haven't finished my order yet. The bar's busy and he's the only guy working the till this evening and if he doesn't keep it ticking over he's sure to get the sack 'cos his boss is the kind of asshole who wouldn't care about laying off his nephew if he lost profit. Meanwhile I'm standing here deliberating over which drink to order for which person, which is more than a little strange - it's obvious that no one accompanies me. The bartender begins to mix snakebite into a glass. I ask him if I look like the type to be drinking such a vulgar concoction. He looks startled and says a trifle too politely that he cannot tell. (He begins to circle around in front of the GIRL, but always keeps eye contact. The GIRL remains expressionless, but she does keep her view on him) A couple have started fondling each other to my left 'cos they're bored waiting and totally hammered - I mean, the guy has practically his whole arm up her and neither of them make any effort to hide it. They're past caring 'cos they, like everyone else, have been waiting so long for me to order. They're going to enjoy themselves in spite of my indecisiveness, and they want everyone to know about it. They're trying to set an example. I'm shaking like a leaf because I know I'm the cause of all this anxiety, and all I want is for you to come up to me and tell me - implore me - to buy you your favourite tipple, which happens to be the one I cannot myself bear to consume and consequently I cannot utter the words to order it.

I turn around and take a preliminary gasp of air before I speak, and notice you have done the same. Which of us speaks first? For whose benefit do we speak?

(the GIRL turns around with her arm outstretched, but still maintaining her blank expression, as the bus is heard screeching to a halt).

2003-04-13T08:46:00.000-07:00

reading this

2003-03-30T14:19:00.000-08:00

I have been informed that Melvyn Bragg is exceedingly dull.

This concludes the matter.

2003-03-30T13:01:00.000-08:00

Although I will probably infer that my literary starting points were Scott Fitzgerald and Salinger, I feel - and justifiably so - that I have yet to even dip my toes into the ocean of prose writing (Incidentally, if you ever read this Thom, humour me). I'm considering whether Melvyn Bragg novels would appropriately serve as suitable inflatable armbands, since I remember Thom comparing him to George Orwell, and if I assume that most of my generation will take the latter to be their personal literary armbands (perhaps, less humbly, as their springboard) after having conceivably studied Animal Farm at GCSE and 1984 at A-Level, then I can at least seek solace in my being able to relate to their choice of direction but not get immersed in the seemingly compulsory political standpoint that attaches itself to Orwell affectation.

2003-01-15T09:01:00.000-08:00

I was going to write about how I went to see the Elgin Marbles yesterday and the effect it had on me, but I thought that was too wanky even for me.

Instead I'll say that I drew a great deal of satisfaction that I sat on both coach journeys there and back on my own, reading 'Tender Is The Night' and something on Existentialism WITH EARPLUGS IN to drown out the garbling first-year sixth form art students, whom would no doubt love to be described as 'playful'.

One thing I did pick up however was a girl sitting behind me to my left, talking in a meandering fashion about representative realism, which incidentally is one of the primary areas of study for first-year AS Philosophy. What interested me in this girl was that she wasn't referencing the theory directly, she thought she was expressing her own views rather than being influenced by another, as if she was awakening to a whole new concept of thought never before perceived on Earth. She was blind to the influence the college course was having on her, and therefore believing her rationality was original and ground-breaking, not exactly curtailed by her speaking-partner, who just nodded and offered verbal props to her friends' stream-of-consciousness rant. Of course I have no problem with this, I'm not saying she is deluded, only that it seems to me that this kind of thinking method must be a rites-of-passage for any Philosophy student relative to this social and intellectual level, since I immediately identified with her style of speech as that of my own eighteen months ago.

I have been noticing recently how I have always talked in a similar manner to this girl. I think on my feet, express without reflection and meander the way she did, in a stream-of-consciousness. This makes me sure that philosophy is essentially a falsehood, something I have used as a crutch for teenage angst and to understand myself better. Hence when once I would argue fiercely for rationality and essence over existence, now I'm reading Kierkegaard.

So my theory is that every Philosophy student goes through a rationalist phase in their first year at college. The second year is the existentialist (and I grimace when I read this) phase. I think university Philosophy will probably lead to a more grounded ethical phase, something which relates closer to society and makes me aware of my place in it and effect I have on it. Thus I will turn full circle, from being essentially insular with the belief that "no one can touch my thoughts - they are sacred to me", to being co-operative "what good can I do for other people 'cos my thoughts can wait".

I am in support of this, since it prevents me from looking as stupid as say, Zack De La Rocha or John Lydon do nowadays, because I will not be a pent-up aggressive thirtyorfortysomething possessing the ridiculous radical ideals of a seventeen-year-old pimply pseudo-anarchist.

2002-12-25T15:31:00.000-08:00

Bah.

2002-12-21T04:43:00.001-08:00

So I got the letter through concerning said job interview telling me I didn't get the job, but they've "filed the necessary details for reference if any other vacancies become available." Now of course I was a little upset at this news, so I took a long walk so as to not take it out on the house's other inhabitants, whom I lovingly call my family.

Soundtrack to my walk: Massive Attack - 'Blue Lines', Cocteau Twins - 'Heaven Or Las Vegas'

These are two albums I adore, and offered the best escapist closure to my current problems. I had to listen to 'Blue Lines' first cos its got that kind of dark, subversive quality that I was looking for, but also because its recorded in a loungy-relaxed style, so that its still really comfortable to listen to, even walking in the bitter cold of December.

It really is amazing how music can uplift you in the way 'Heaven Or Las Vegas' does for me. The frosty guitar effects complemented my surroundings and coupled with the beautiful pastel vocal tones of Liz Fraser gave me a perfect soundtrack to my thoughts during my walk. This allowed me to relax so much more and just ease into the music and forget about everything, Liz's wordless, meaningless crooning telling me that nothing really matters, and life's not that bad at all.

When I arrive home I put on Lambchop's 'Nixon', and my romantic tendencies are heightened even more. I realise that being romantic is nothing to be ashamed of. General philosophies of the record - 1/ That the little things in life, the subconscious eccentricities of people are beautiful beyond words and 2/ That everything is always as it should be, no one can do anything about it, so let it be. This stoical viewpoint, however absurd to practise, is what really gets me back on characteristic track. Its the thought that my romanticism can be felt by someone else, that it is possible to love and be loved in the same way Kurt Wagner does on 'Nixon', that someone, somewhere is experiencing the things I long for, and that there is something I can aspire to is what stops me from drowning in self-pity.

2002-12-21T04:43:00.000-08:00

Hooray for me, I'm getting over my cold!!

Also, hooray, my job interview went okay!!!

(Interviewer: What three words do you think describe you best? Me: Intelligent...Enthusiastic...errr......errrrr.....i dunno really. Helpful, I guess. Interviewer: Oh really why's that?Me: Dunno, I listen a lot?)

On second thoughts...

2002-12-21T04:42:00.000-08:00

"Come with Uncle, and you shall hear Angel trumpets and Devil trombones!"

"You ARE invited!!!!"

I am now realising what a sheltered life I lead.

Going four months without a job has finally worn into me, and what makes it worse is that the summer of this year has been one of the happiest times in my life. Coming down from that would have been a lot easier had I had some income, since my circle of friends seems to spend more money than college students should really be entitled to do. Not having any money exempted me from socialising, of course, and so now I am regarded as the freeloader and feel like the stone around everyone's neck. What doesn't help is that at parties, I usually end up drinking far too much or getting far too stoned and embarassing myself one way or another, which I have dealt with on previous occasions when I did it with my own money, but the drinks and the weed has recently been bought on an IOU.

I am an awful person.

I am a drain on my friends.

The reason for this, I see, is that I have not had the chance to buy any music. I can normally unwind from problems if I can unload them all as I feel my way around a new album, as I delve into it to find all the evocative moments, the harmonies symbolising the angel on my left shoulder, the guitars are the devil on my right. Only now I am denied this, I have no angels, no devils and A GAPING HOLE IN MY FUCKING SOUL.

So I'm discovering that music serves as a blanket of cotton wool I wrap myself in, so that problems seep through it slower, giving me more time to assess situations and give a better exoteric image of myself. Without the wool I am irritable, resulting in my atrocious behaviour.

Dear God, my soul belongs to The Man. Please give him ample notice on judgement day.