The photograph in the last blog entry is, unsurprisingly, not actually of me arguing with a member of the paparazzi whilst drunk.
It was - less excitingly - a picture taken whilst I suffered with a virus. The similarities between the drunk me and the virus-riddled me are numerous!
I realised I had been inflicted with it last Saturday night when walking back from work. Ordinary objects of nature took on new forms and characteristics: tree stumps were dancing, or were they waving their arms helplessly as they burned in a fire that I couldn't see?
A metal bridge loomed in the distance, resembling a sad, green mouth in a child's drawing. Or was it a monocoloured rainbow, hung there by man?
When sleep came, it was brief and filled with images of destruction and fatalities that caused my body to jerk and thereafter wake up with a thumping heart.
The body that jerks and the body that wakes up are one and the same, but illness seems to cut the cord which connects the two. It wasn't me dreaming such terrible things, so why have I just been dragged away from sleep - again?
Sleep and virii serve to confuse - dreams are more real than the waking which follows them: a man sweating and cursing on top of a bed. I think I prefer it that way.
Saturday, 28 June 2008
Monday, 23 June 2008
Celebrity.
NOGGA: I'LL RIP YOUR F*****G THROAT OUT, YOU C***!
THIS is the shocking photograph of foul-mouthed logistics star Paul Nogomet lunging at a Celeb! snapper.
Troubled route man Nogga, 29, lost his cool when our photogapher caught him in a tender embrace with a mystery blonde.
The £22,000-per-year ace hit glitzy Barnsley to celebrate Genericelectricretailer bosses swelling his pay packet by a whopping two per cent as they fight to keep hold of him.
Dressed in a shapless red t-shirt, Nogomet flung himself at Reg Lightwriter as he emerged from the exclusive Sheath! nightspot.
Slurring his speech, Nogga demanded that Lightwriter hand over incriminating film 'before I rip your f*****g throat out, you c***.'
This morning, concerned friends of the route-planner rallied around him. His agent Roger d'Agent said: "I can confirm that there was an incident on the forecourt of Sheath! nightclub involving my client and a photographer.
"Paul was provoked, and he was standing up for himself. He wanted to have a few drinks in his home town with a female friend. As ever, though, the Press can't leave him alone."
South Yorkshire police confirmed they had received a complaint from a 47-year-old professional photographer.
Friday, 20 June 2008
Loneliness.
The lonely people in the world can be split more-or-less into three distinct categories:
- those who accept their fate and seek not to change it;
- those who seek to change it and cast off the label forever;
- those who seek to change the situation, cast off the label, but thereafter engineer their return to loneliness.
Of the three groups, the last one is probably the most interesting and worthy of further investigation.
Such people have have shown themselves capable of being entertaining, sociable, and fun. The scales have fallen from their eyes (whether the scales were put there by a traumatic event, or existed from birth) and the novelty of conversations with strangers, a retinue of lovers, and a feeling of having [re]connected with the world sustains them for weeks.... months.... a whole year.
Sooner or later, though, and without warning, their eyes must surely heal up again. They realise that they attended some event in a crowd of 50000 people a fortnight ago, and the delayed shock arrives: I was the loneliest person there.
The person I got talking to on the train the other morning? I was just going through the motions. I no more cared to spend my time with you than I wanted a passing delivery van to puncture the side of the carriage.
With that recognition, the tumble from the firmament begins. Gravity takes its hold, and one falls inevitably back to the earth of one's solitude.
When the hardness of the self is struck again, a renewed determination not to step outside the ever-decreasing circle of one's own being occurs. A statement, followed by a promise: I departed, but now I make my return. I shall not relinquish you again for something extrinsic!
The third category indicates a person who becomes sick of the self and its inability to leak into other selves. Its negation is one who has leaked enough, and has nothing left for himself.
Thursday, 19 June 2008
Repetition.
When I think of my mother's mother*, it is not the blue hair, Irish accent or extreme political views that come to mind initially.
*Of course, I can bring other thoughts to mind - hair, accent, politics, an almost ceaseless list of characteristics and associations. 'Think of' in this context means 'that which more often than not comes immediately to mind without being forced - that for which no concentration is required.'
Instead, I think of cats. Millions of cats, though of course there were perhaps not even ten, maybe not even five.
Cats everywhere, slithering underneath the door of the coal chute with huge, scared eyes reflecting the light as human footsteps passed; cats stretched idly across the tops of pieces of furniture; cats crying in stereo at the door of the flat for a mouthful of food and attenuating the beat of metal fork against tin.
I remember my grandmother's tetchy disposition towards her husband, her children, and how it contrasted with her attitude towards the local felines - the homeless ones she sustained, and the cunning ones who tapped her for a mid-morning snack. Outright hostility on the one hand; a deep well of patience on the other.
Lonely people - more of them later! - complain bitterly that there is not enough love or attention in the world to go round. Somewhere along the line, somebody has appropriated their share, and they have to go without. My late grandmother is proof that the opposite is the case: there's too much love, an EU surplus of the stuff.
It exists in sufficient amounts to dish out liberally to random cats demonstrating husky purring sounds and pretty faces.
____________________________________________________________________
Like my grandmother before me, my breath is utterly taken away by cats. They are insanely flirtatious creatures.
The monochrome specimen who owns me is capable of purloining a meal at any hour of the day or night.
No sanctions are forthcoming when his whiskers arouse my sleeping face at something after five in the morning; laughter stifled (because I'm supposed to be asleep. Laughing aloud is proof that I've snapped back into reality, thus ending the game) at his latest plan to wake me for an early feed - knocking small objects from the bedside table and onto the floor. Batteries, pen-tops and coins cascading earthwards in a short-lived weather system of plastic and metal.
Ours is a relationship based on my wish to be amused, comforted and have the surroundings beautified; and on the necessity for him to obtain regular meals and receive occasional, short bursts of affection (on his terms.)
Other cats, though, hold endless fascination for me. I stalk them late at night when walking home from my friend's house, trying to grab their attention. Yet I curse them when they run towards me, and say out loud: "Hey! Not all humans are this easily pleased! You need to be more careful in future!" Nevertheless, I am secretly pleased.
If nothing else, then, my grandmother and I have a fascination for cats - the ones that own us, and the ones we're not fortunate enough to be owned by - in common. Does this one statement, from which our two lives thereafter diverge, contain enough predictive power to draw the conclusion that if she was catwoman in the last years of her life, I shall likewise be catman?
I suspect I shall become catman, cramped in a tiny flat stinking of cat piss, with the fridge empty save for rotting, half-eaten tins of Whiskas.
My grandmother's life ended ten years ago last week, her mind splintered into a trillion pieces and sustained only by a retinue of machinery. I never really knew her - this taciturn, loud woman with terrible language caused me to recoil. She was catwoman, though, and she fixed it that I shall one day be catman.
The pull of an ancient, long-gone lady catapults me inexorably towards a similar ending.... a dotage punctuated by squabbling cats and their dumb, directionless beauty.
*Of course, I can bring other thoughts to mind - hair, accent, politics, an almost ceaseless list of characteristics and associations. 'Think of' in this context means 'that which more often than not comes immediately to mind without being forced - that for which no concentration is required.'
Instead, I think of cats. Millions of cats, though of course there were perhaps not even ten, maybe not even five.
Cats everywhere, slithering underneath the door of the coal chute with huge, scared eyes reflecting the light as human footsteps passed; cats stretched idly across the tops of pieces of furniture; cats crying in stereo at the door of the flat for a mouthful of food and attenuating the beat of metal fork against tin.
I remember my grandmother's tetchy disposition towards her husband, her children, and how it contrasted with her attitude towards the local felines - the homeless ones she sustained, and the cunning ones who tapped her for a mid-morning snack. Outright hostility on the one hand; a deep well of patience on the other.
Lonely people - more of them later! - complain bitterly that there is not enough love or attention in the world to go round. Somewhere along the line, somebody has appropriated their share, and they have to go without. My late grandmother is proof that the opposite is the case: there's too much love, an EU surplus of the stuff.
It exists in sufficient amounts to dish out liberally to random cats demonstrating husky purring sounds and pretty faces.
____________________________________________________________________
Like my grandmother before me, my breath is utterly taken away by cats. They are insanely flirtatious creatures.
The monochrome specimen who owns me is capable of purloining a meal at any hour of the day or night.
No sanctions are forthcoming when his whiskers arouse my sleeping face at something after five in the morning; laughter stifled (because I'm supposed to be asleep. Laughing aloud is proof that I've snapped back into reality, thus ending the game) at his latest plan to wake me for an early feed - knocking small objects from the bedside table and onto the floor. Batteries, pen-tops and coins cascading earthwards in a short-lived weather system of plastic and metal.
Ours is a relationship based on my wish to be amused, comforted and have the surroundings beautified; and on the necessity for him to obtain regular meals and receive occasional, short bursts of affection (on his terms.)
Other cats, though, hold endless fascination for me. I stalk them late at night when walking home from my friend's house, trying to grab their attention. Yet I curse them when they run towards me, and say out loud: "Hey! Not all humans are this easily pleased! You need to be more careful in future!" Nevertheless, I am secretly pleased.
If nothing else, then, my grandmother and I have a fascination for cats - the ones that own us, and the ones we're not fortunate enough to be owned by - in common. Does this one statement, from which our two lives thereafter diverge, contain enough predictive power to draw the conclusion that if she was catwoman in the last years of her life, I shall likewise be catman?
I suspect I shall become catman, cramped in a tiny flat stinking of cat piss, with the fridge empty save for rotting, half-eaten tins of Whiskas.
My grandmother's life ended ten years ago last week, her mind splintered into a trillion pieces and sustained only by a retinue of machinery. I never really knew her - this taciturn, loud woman with terrible language caused me to recoil. She was catwoman, though, and she fixed it that I shall one day be catman.
The pull of an ancient, long-gone lady catapults me inexorably towards a similar ending.... a dotage punctuated by squabbling cats and their dumb, directionless beauty.
Wednesday, 11 June 2008
Timid.
Through the prism of sport, thus can we observe the internal workings of our own lives: the boldness of spirit, creativity and urgency, or alternatively the reticence, torpor and impotence.
So it was with the football match between Romania and France on Monday just gone. I've spent two days thinking about one particular incident that associates a country and a person (me) forever.
Romania had done well to restrict a powerful France team for ninety minutes. The French were frustrated and angry that they could not cause the yellow wall to come crashing to the ground.
With the score goalless, the opportunity came for Romania to build one last attack down the right-hand side of the midfield. Two outcomes were thus likely - either put the ball into the area and attempt to win the game; or run into the corner and waste time by kicking the ball off a French leg and into touch.
Romania ran the ball into the corner, showing reticence not boldness, torpor instead of creativity, impotence in place of urgency. I commented to a friend later: "They of course did the right thing. Why try to win when you can be almost certain not to lose?" It at that moment struck me that I frame my own existence on similarly conservative lines.
______________________________________________________________
One of the unresolveable debates in science concerns causality - that event a can be some way linked to event b.
Within the framework of the prevailing epistemology, does stroking cats lead to nosebleeds? Conduct your double-blind experiment, collate the statistics, and submit your findings to a peer-reviewed journal - 'Review of the American Cat-Stroking and Nosebleeds Society.'
Similarly, is the appreciation - no, enjoyment of - the Romanian football team's timidity somehow linked with a passive, cautious stance outside of the confines of Euro 2008?
Do those who felt a rush of empathy when the ball ran into the corner fail more, love less, and hope less than those who balled their fists in a rage? We need a thousand volunteers - the Romaniaphile and the Romaniaphobic - to test our theory. Does the first part of the sentence beginning 'do those' even imply the part beginning 'fail more?'
I remember distinctly one moment when the yellow line of Bucharest reared up in front of my own eyes - a terrible, destructive truth that emptied my then-girlfriend of all her willpower, even if only for a moment. It confirmed, as if I didn't already know it, that I belong in the empathic and not the fist-balling camp.
She asked, for whatever reason, whether I'd 'put up a fight' for her in the event that her exit from my life became a possibility. Whether the question was posed for the purpose of vanity/validation or genuine curiosity, I'm uncertain. The answer was given irrespective of motive: no.
I don't fight, and I won't fight. Should your wish be to disentangle yourself from me, then do so without a moment's hesitation, and I'll relinquish you. I built an attack down the right-hand side of my lover, and ran the ball into the corner of her being.
So it was with the football match between Romania and France on Monday just gone. I've spent two days thinking about one particular incident that associates a country and a person (me) forever.
Romania had done well to restrict a powerful France team for ninety minutes. The French were frustrated and angry that they could not cause the yellow wall to come crashing to the ground.
With the score goalless, the opportunity came for Romania to build one last attack down the right-hand side of the midfield. Two outcomes were thus likely - either put the ball into the area and attempt to win the game; or run into the corner and waste time by kicking the ball off a French leg and into touch.
Romania ran the ball into the corner, showing reticence not boldness, torpor instead of creativity, impotence in place of urgency. I commented to a friend later: "They of course did the right thing. Why try to win when you can be almost certain not to lose?" It at that moment struck me that I frame my own existence on similarly conservative lines.
______________________________________________________________
One of the unresolveable debates in science concerns causality - that event a can be some way linked to event b.
Within the framework of the prevailing epistemology, does stroking cats lead to nosebleeds? Conduct your double-blind experiment, collate the statistics, and submit your findings to a peer-reviewed journal - 'Review of the American Cat-Stroking and Nosebleeds Society.'
Similarly, is the appreciation - no, enjoyment of - the Romanian football team's timidity somehow linked with a passive, cautious stance outside of the confines of Euro 2008?
Do those who felt a rush of empathy when the ball ran into the corner fail more, love less, and hope less than those who balled their fists in a rage? We need a thousand volunteers - the Romaniaphile and the Romaniaphobic - to test our theory. Does the first part of the sentence beginning 'do those' even imply the part beginning 'fail more?'
I remember distinctly one moment when the yellow line of Bucharest reared up in front of my own eyes - a terrible, destructive truth that emptied my then-girlfriend of all her willpower, even if only for a moment. It confirmed, as if I didn't already know it, that I belong in the empathic and not the fist-balling camp.
She asked, for whatever reason, whether I'd 'put up a fight' for her in the event that her exit from my life became a possibility. Whether the question was posed for the purpose of vanity/validation or genuine curiosity, I'm uncertain. The answer was given irrespective of motive: no.
I don't fight, and I won't fight. Should your wish be to disentangle yourself from me, then do so without a moment's hesitation, and I'll relinquish you. I built an attack down the right-hand side of my lover, and ran the ball into the corner of her being.
Monday, 9 June 2008
Censored.
Below I give you the lyrics from four songs regularly played on the radio in England.
All four contain an offensive word (to a greater or lesser degree) so, as with the football scores on the nine o'clock news, those who do not want to know the results should look away now:
1) I'll be burning rubber, you'll be kissing my ass.
2) Always up for a laugh, she's a pain in the arse.
3) The girls come easy and the drugs come cheap.
4) And hell yeah! I'm the motherfucking princess!
Only one of the four lyrics is sung as I've typed it above. The other three have their undesireable word edited. Which one escapes the wrath of the censor?
The answer is 1). In 2), the word 'arse' is considered too risqué for UK ears, whilst in 3) we cannot be heard to be advocating the use of drugs! 4) is probably self-explanatory, but the interest lies in the fact that 'motherfucking' is overwritten with actual words and not the mere smearing of sound - hell yeah! I'm the one and only princess!
Why can the inhabitants of our little island be fed the Americanism 'ass,' but the British 'arse,' from which the former is presumably derived, crosses the line of taste and decency?
What, furthermore, does it say about Blogger.com that I can type expletives on here to my heart's content? Presumably the biggest concern of the people running the site is that I may or may not have infringed copyright by disseminating lyrics!
What does it mean to censor something? It is, in effect, preventing the individual from re-committing a crime against the self. When one first is made aware that the word 'fuck' is not to be used aloud, one experiences a frisson of pleasure whenever it is heard. This is the crime, as understood by censors - they exist to snuff out the pleasure of particular words.
All four contain an offensive word (to a greater or lesser degree) so, as with the football scores on the nine o'clock news, those who do not want to know the results should look away now:
1) I'll be burning rubber, you'll be kissing my ass.
2) Always up for a laugh, she's a pain in the arse.
3) The girls come easy and the drugs come cheap.
4) And hell yeah! I'm the motherfucking princess!
Only one of the four lyrics is sung as I've typed it above. The other three have their undesireable word edited. Which one escapes the wrath of the censor?
The answer is 1). In 2), the word 'arse' is considered too risqué for UK ears, whilst in 3) we cannot be heard to be advocating the use of drugs! 4) is probably self-explanatory, but the interest lies in the fact that 'motherfucking' is overwritten with actual words and not the mere smearing of sound - hell yeah! I'm the one and only princess!
Why can the inhabitants of our little island be fed the Americanism 'ass,' but the British 'arse,' from which the former is presumably derived, crosses the line of taste and decency?
What, furthermore, does it say about Blogger.com that I can type expletives on here to my heart's content? Presumably the biggest concern of the people running the site is that I may or may not have infringed copyright by disseminating lyrics!
What does it mean to censor something? It is, in effect, preventing the individual from re-committing a crime against the self. When one first is made aware that the word 'fuck' is not to be used aloud, one experiences a frisson of pleasure whenever it is heard. This is the crime, as understood by censors - they exist to snuff out the pleasure of particular words.
Thursday, 5 June 2008
Creative.
Is it the case that the creative process is almost always autobiographical at its heart? An example:
In the past week, two events of significance took place in the life of the person updating this blog:
a) I opined that my ex-partner should never contact me again;
b) I opined that I should look for alternative employment during a consultation with my manager.
The first was a sober e-mail exchange; the second a quiet-voiced conversation. No causality exists between the two. The creative process, however, allows speculative twists and trails without end.
Dateline: Monday June 2, sometime in the afternoon.
The two men walked up the stairs of their workplace in more-or-less silence, save for the periodic beating of their feet on the carpet.
The taller man was the senior of the shorter one, and the company's dress code made this self-evident. It was a Monday afternoon during what passed for summer in England - weak sunshine deflecting off teeming droplets of rain - and the pair were headed for a dark corner room for a 'quick chat.' Those two words are a 21st-century euphemism. We'll call the two men 'management class' and 'subordinate,' as the capitalist society prefers that real names, which hold no meaning, are abolished in favour of validation statements.
After the heavy door lumbered shut behind them, the pair of them sat down and began to talk. By dint of a microphone carefully hidden in an ornamental bowl of fruit, I can present to you a transcript of their conversation.
MC: So. Can you think of any reason why I might have taken you out of work to bring you up here today?
S: I would assume it's something to do with the direction the company's going in. I'm aware that some announcement has been made. That, then, would be my supposition.
MC: Not exactly. It is true that an announcement was made. I'll brief the team on that later. But no, we're up here because - unfortunately - someone's complained about you. Can you think why?
S: I'm not sure, and I mean that. As far as I can understand, the quality of my work is good, and nobody's given me any reason to think otherwise. Is that not the case?
MC: Do you remember.... sending an e-mail the other day when you were on your break? Does that ring any bells with you at all?
S: An e-mail, you say? Well, yes, I remember. It wasn't work-related, though.
MC: I quote: "It's better if you just fuck off. Whatever constituted my life disappeared when you left it. I can't believe that you have the audacity to contact me. You might as well ask me to put my heart in a box and send it over the water to you. Just fuck off. I'm sick of it."
S: I accept that I shouldn't have used such coarse language - certainly not on a work computer. I apologise to you and to the company for that.
MC: I'm sorry to have to tell you that you've broken clause 13(c) of your contract of employment regarding the bringing of emotional baggage into the workplace. 13(c) clearly states that emotional baggage must be left either at home, or in a designated locker in the reception area.
S: I have to confess that I never really read my contract before I signed it....
MC: I'm not sure that the company will regard that as an adequate defence. There are, unfortunately, options open to us in the light of what you sent.
S: Options?
MC: The company, I have to tell you, have taken a dim view of your actions. There are, as I said, options available to us. These range from pelting you with Jelly Babies from a moving juggernaut to giving you a paper cut. So you can see how seriously we're taking this.....
In the past week, two events of significance took place in the life of the person updating this blog:
a) I opined that my ex-partner should never contact me again;
b) I opined that I should look for alternative employment during a consultation with my manager.
The first was a sober e-mail exchange; the second a quiet-voiced conversation. No causality exists between the two. The creative process, however, allows speculative twists and trails without end.
Dateline: Monday June 2, sometime in the afternoon.
The two men walked up the stairs of their workplace in more-or-less silence, save for the periodic beating of their feet on the carpet.
The taller man was the senior of the shorter one, and the company's dress code made this self-evident. It was a Monday afternoon during what passed for summer in England - weak sunshine deflecting off teeming droplets of rain - and the pair were headed for a dark corner room for a 'quick chat.' Those two words are a 21st-century euphemism. We'll call the two men 'management class' and 'subordinate,' as the capitalist society prefers that real names, which hold no meaning, are abolished in favour of validation statements.
After the heavy door lumbered shut behind them, the pair of them sat down and began to talk. By dint of a microphone carefully hidden in an ornamental bowl of fruit, I can present to you a transcript of their conversation.
MC: So. Can you think of any reason why I might have taken you out of work to bring you up here today?
S: I would assume it's something to do with the direction the company's going in. I'm aware that some announcement has been made. That, then, would be my supposition.
MC: Not exactly. It is true that an announcement was made. I'll brief the team on that later. But no, we're up here because - unfortunately - someone's complained about you. Can you think why?
S: I'm not sure, and I mean that. As far as I can understand, the quality of my work is good, and nobody's given me any reason to think otherwise. Is that not the case?
MC: Do you remember.... sending an e-mail the other day when you were on your break? Does that ring any bells with you at all?
S: An e-mail, you say? Well, yes, I remember. It wasn't work-related, though.
MC: I quote: "It's better if you just fuck off. Whatever constituted my life disappeared when you left it. I can't believe that you have the audacity to contact me. You might as well ask me to put my heart in a box and send it over the water to you. Just fuck off. I'm sick of it."
S: I accept that I shouldn't have used such coarse language - certainly not on a work computer. I apologise to you and to the company for that.
MC: I'm sorry to have to tell you that you've broken clause 13(c) of your contract of employment regarding the bringing of emotional baggage into the workplace. 13(c) clearly states that emotional baggage must be left either at home, or in a designated locker in the reception area.
S: I have to confess that I never really read my contract before I signed it....
MC: I'm not sure that the company will regard that as an adequate defence. There are, unfortunately, options open to us in the light of what you sent.
S: Options?
MC: The company, I have to tell you, have taken a dim view of your actions. There are, as I said, options available to us. These range from pelting you with Jelly Babies from a moving juggernaut to giving you a paper cut. So you can see how seriously we're taking this.....
Imperative.
To love something is to be perpetually subjected to a list of imperatives derived from the object of that love.
If you love me, then never allow your mind or body to deviate! If you love me, then give me children! If you love me, then live in South Africa! In other words, there are ways in which a statement of love, floating insignificantly in two human brains, can be nailed down and thereby made flesh. The more nails driven into the statement, the more likely it is that the statement has some sort of extrinsic validity.
We are uber-Popperian when we love something: the scientific method is applied rigorously. Experiments are carried out, and conform to our theory [he loves me], and so the theory is allowed to stand a little longer. Falsification of the theory means the unyoking of one person from the other, and the hypothesis is overthrown. You deviated? You won't give me children? You won't live in South Africa? The dawn of a new paradigm is upon us.
What happens when the tower of imperatives grows taller than your five-feet-something and overshadows it? Some of us feel that 'to love' and 'to patiently wait to be cut down' are equivalent statements. At this point, we are indeed cut down and permitted to walk away, safe in the knowledge that we've failed. The dawn of a new paradigm is upon us.
If you love me, then never allow your mind or body to deviate! If you love me, then give me children! If you love me, then live in South Africa! In other words, there are ways in which a statement of love, floating insignificantly in two human brains, can be nailed down and thereby made flesh. The more nails driven into the statement, the more likely it is that the statement has some sort of extrinsic validity.
We are uber-Popperian when we love something: the scientific method is applied rigorously. Experiments are carried out, and conform to our theory [he loves me], and so the theory is allowed to stand a little longer. Falsification of the theory means the unyoking of one person from the other, and the hypothesis is overthrown. You deviated? You won't give me children? You won't live in South Africa? The dawn of a new paradigm is upon us.
What happens when the tower of imperatives grows taller than your five-feet-something and overshadows it? Some of us feel that 'to love' and 'to patiently wait to be cut down' are equivalent statements. At this point, we are indeed cut down and permitted to walk away, safe in the knowledge that we've failed. The dawn of a new paradigm is upon us.
Monday, 2 June 2008
Expunged.
Can you, without resorting to a lobotomy or suffering a car accident, ever completely obliterate the memory of someone so that it is as though he or she never existed?
It is a fair question in this age of online communication - I can quite conceivably never see a particular person in the flesh again, but their existence can still be prolonged in a parallel online universe.
Three days ago, I said my goodbyes to someone forever. Thankyou for the last two years, but I'd rather not hear from you again now. I wish you well, but I hereby declare that Friday is a partition in time - you won't leak beyond today, for I have temporally sealed you.
Suffice to say, Monday sprung a leak. Sunday, too. The communication embago lasted perhaps 48 hours before history spilled over, staining the present with its retrospective prejudice.
It was broken not by a knock on the door or a telephone call, but by a message on a social networking site. How many paths that terminate with me must be twisted until they snap, leaving me falling through perfect space with no hope of ever being reached again, the ghost howling its thoughts into a vacuum?
Even if the virtual presence of this person can be erased once and for all, what about memories? Thoughts of Africa, of broiling in 37 degrees of sunshine, of this and that insignificant event which commingle to form a super or meta-memory?
But hold on. What differences are there between the ghost confined to the computer and the ghost confined to my mind?
Take this statement, or implication, uttered by the ghost confined to the computer: "I am in a relationship with someone new." It therefore follows that I am unlikely to broil in 37 degrees of sunshine again. "I broiled in 37 degrees of sunshine!" recalls the ghost confined to my mind.
Both ghosts are retrospective. There is more that unites them than divides them, as they play out their dance of the archives on the screen of my computer, and on the screen of my soul.
It is a fair question in this age of online communication - I can quite conceivably never see a particular person in the flesh again, but their existence can still be prolonged in a parallel online universe.
Three days ago, I said my goodbyes to someone forever. Thankyou for the last two years, but I'd rather not hear from you again now. I wish you well, but I hereby declare that Friday is a partition in time - you won't leak beyond today, for I have temporally sealed you.
Suffice to say, Monday sprung a leak. Sunday, too. The communication embago lasted perhaps 48 hours before history spilled over, staining the present with its retrospective prejudice.
It was broken not by a knock on the door or a telephone call, but by a message on a social networking site. How many paths that terminate with me must be twisted until they snap, leaving me falling through perfect space with no hope of ever being reached again, the ghost howling its thoughts into a vacuum?
Even if the virtual presence of this person can be erased once and for all, what about memories? Thoughts of Africa, of broiling in 37 degrees of sunshine, of this and that insignificant event which commingle to form a super or meta-memory?
But hold on. What differences are there between the ghost confined to the computer and the ghost confined to my mind?
Take this statement, or implication, uttered by the ghost confined to the computer: "I am in a relationship with someone new." It therefore follows that I am unlikely to broil in 37 degrees of sunshine again. "I broiled in 37 degrees of sunshine!" recalls the ghost confined to my mind.
Both ghosts are retrospective. There is more that unites them than divides them, as they play out their dance of the archives on the screen of my computer, and on the screen of my soul.
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