You were less than a handful when you arrived, but over the years the little monochrome furball snowballed into a robust seven kilograms of beauty and short temper.
Net consumer of chicken and small pieces of cheese; nemesis of carpets and furniture; skidding helter-skelter across grass and linoleum even in your 13th year. I contemplate you in amusement, your seniority not yet taking the edge from the astonishment you feel at being alive.
You took ill earlier this week; a minor jolt in our shared lives. Recovery has been swift and decisive. Now the pendulum-like predictability has been resumed - the small squeak of my bedroom door that causes me to half-wake in sleepy confusion; the long pause which convinces me I'm mistaken; the slow descent back into unconsciousness punctured by the landing of your airborne body on the edge or middle of the mattress.
The light of just-gone six in the morning reflecting from your sometimes-yellow, sometimes-green eyes; the rolling-up of my limbs to help you find an uncluttered path from one end of the bed to the other; the gleeful turning of your tiny engine even before I reach out to touch you.
I never seriously worried that the vets would take you from me this week. That day is long in the future judging by your present weight, disposition and activity levels. But it must come one day. Your mortality is as inevitable as anything else's, your destiny the impromptu ossuary under my grandmother's apple tree alongside two other cats, two dogs and one rabbit.
Like a child, I cry: I hate that everything I hold dear has to leave me. To live at all is to be transitory; accumulating beings of significance and beauty which are always left behind as existence arrows relentlessly forward in linear time. Or you leave them.
My seven kilograms, my headlong black-and-white flash, my stripe from the infinite rainbow of nature. You sleep peacefully on the stair next to my door, and you have no inkling of your own significance.
Friday, 27 February 2009
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
Father (I)
The most difficult thing I can think of to write about is my father: in almost a hundred blog posts on here, I have only ever briefly touched upon how his existence intersects with, and sometimes obliterates, mine.
Even though I don't see him as much as I did, his influence on me is apparent. His viewpoints have shaped (to an extent) my life, and even as I leave behind one shed skin, there are still others out of which I must climb.
When I was very young, my father's opinions were beyond questioning. It is the case, I would argue, that I was unaware that alternative points of view even existed. It wasn't so much that mutiny was met with distaste, only that I was too supine to contemplate formulating any rejoinder.
There exists, then, a list of imperatives which I have had to throw away:
Even though I don't see him as much as I did, his influence on me is apparent. His viewpoints have shaped (to an extent) my life, and even as I leave behind one shed skin, there are still others out of which I must climb.
When I was very young, my father's opinions were beyond questioning. It is the case, I would argue, that I was unaware that alternative points of view even existed. It wasn't so much that mutiny was met with distaste, only that I was too supine to contemplate formulating any rejoinder.
There exists, then, a list of imperatives which I have had to throw away:
- it is unmasculine to cry and should be avoided at all costs
- men shouldn't wear any form of jewellery
- raising one's voice is the best way to get information across when other methods have failed
- whatever tasks my father finds simple are simple for everyone
- buying music written by gay artists indirectly funds the dissemination of pro-homosexual propaganda
- all politicians and police officers are corrupt
- nepotism is rife
- criminals are inherently beyond rehabilitation and should be disposed of
There are, though, a couple which I do my best to stick to, even if the first one is not always fully seen through. When it is not, I feel ashamed:
- never waste food, even to the extent of over-filling yourself
- be aware that the life of an animal is as important as your own
These are some of the tenets of my father. The vast majority, like an apostate, I have rejected. The schismist who re-interprets at leisure, the displeased god with his creased brow and stubble watches on, incensed.
Friday, 20 February 2009
Interview.
'STRANGE AND OBSESSIVE'
Aussie dream girl tells of 'unconventional' internet loner
BY DAVY MUNROE
THE INTERNET beauty wooed by Paul Nogomet today tells of her 'weird' online relationship with the terror suspect.
Pretty Australian Louise Bluefish, 27, met Nogomet - who is still being questioned by Special Branch officers - online in mid-December.
And in a damning interview with The Sun, brunette Louise reveals how the loner:
She said: "Paul was lovely to me - but it soon became apparent that he could be obsessive, dominating and controlling.
"We would talk for hours about all manner of things. He was always well-mannered, articulate, and thoughful. Yet there were things he's say or do, and I'd think: "That's strange. Is that normal?'"
Pretty Australian Louise Bluefish, 27, met Nogomet - who is still being questioned by Special Branch officers - online in mid-December.
And in a damning interview with The Sun, brunette Louise reveals how the loner:
- SPOOKED her by pretending to be a computer
- FEARS he has a mental illness
- Became OBSESSED with the idea of a real-life meeting
- Loves his CAT more than people
She said: "Paul was lovely to me - but it soon became apparent that he could be obsessive, dominating and controlling.
"We would talk for hours about all manner of things. He was always well-mannered, articulate, and thoughful. Yet there were things he's say or do, and I'd think: "That's strange. Is that normal?'"
Illness
With tears in her eyes, particle physicist Louise recalled: "He said right from the first time we ever spoke that he was scared he'd got a weird mental illness which nobody had ever diagnosed.
"During one conversation he asked me how I knew he wasn't a computer. He pretended to be a machine, and said later he thought it would be fun to try to fool me.
"Another time he admitted to me that he loved his cat more than he loved other humans. He said he talks to the cat as though it's a person - he'd share his food with it and struggle to sleep at night if he'd left it outside."
"During one conversation he asked me how I knew he wasn't a computer. He pretended to be a machine, and said later he thought it would be fun to try to fool me.
"Another time he admitted to me that he loved his cat more than he loved other humans. He said he talks to the cat as though it's a person - he'd share his food with it and struggle to sleep at night if he'd left it outside."
Meeting
The pair got closer as time went on, until eventually Nogomet of Barnsley, South Yorks, suggested that Bluefish fly to England to meet him.
Boffin Louise was considering the idea - until The Sun contacted her yesterday to tell her about her online lover's arrest.
Dabbing at her green eyes with a handkerchief, she added: "I loved him and I'd made plans to fly over there to be with him. I can't believe that the police are linking him with far-right political groups.
"Yes, Paul is unconventional - but that doesn't make him a budding terrorist. If they clear his name, I'd certainly hope that he'd get back in contact with me.
"He kept mentioning the idea of me coming to England, over and over again. Even though it was a bit obsessive, I couldn't help but be flattered by all the attention."
Yesterday, we exclusively reported Nogomet's hero-worship of mass killer Peter Sutcliffe.
Boffin Louise was considering the idea - until The Sun contacted her yesterday to tell her about her online lover's arrest.
Dabbing at her green eyes with a handkerchief, she added: "I loved him and I'd made plans to fly over there to be with him. I can't believe that the police are linking him with far-right political groups.
"Yes, Paul is unconventional - but that doesn't make him a budding terrorist. If they clear his name, I'd certainly hope that he'd get back in contact with me.
"He kept mentioning the idea of me coming to England, over and over again. Even though it was a bit obsessive, I couldn't help but be flattered by all the attention."
Yesterday, we exclusively reported Nogomet's hero-worship of mass killer Peter Sutcliffe.
Wednesday, 18 February 2009
Incriminating.
The amorphous 'they' are talking about releasing the Yorkshire Ripper from prison - an anonymous source stated as much on the front page of one of Wednesday's papers.
I hadn't even heard this piece of 'news' for myself as I went to pick up some reading material of my own in the early afternoon, but I was soon to be appraised of it. The female serving me in the shop had become agitated about the Yorkshire Ripper situation, asking every customer if they'd seen it, what they thought of it. Our conversation went more or less as follows:
Her: You seen this?
Me: Only what I've picked up from the things you've been saying. No, other than that.
Her: You think they should lerrim out?
Me: If he's done his time, he's done his time I suppose.
Her: But he'll kill more women!
Me: I'm not sure about that....
Her: They should ofungim!
Me: I don't know if I agree with state-sponsored murder.
Her: They shoulda killedim! Bring back hanging!
Me: If that's your opinion, that's your opinion.
Her: You think they should lerrim out? (her hand refusing to release my change)
Me: If he's served his sentence then I don't see why not.
My change was subsequently released, and I left the shop realising what I'd just done. If, at any point in the future, I am accused of a crime, it is inevitable that the above conversation will come back to haunt me:
I hadn't even heard this piece of 'news' for myself as I went to pick up some reading material of my own in the early afternoon, but I was soon to be appraised of it. The female serving me in the shop had become agitated about the Yorkshire Ripper situation, asking every customer if they'd seen it, what they thought of it. Our conversation went more or less as follows:
Her: You seen this?
Me: Only what I've picked up from the things you've been saying. No, other than that.
Her: You think they should lerrim out?
Me: If he's done his time, he's done his time I suppose.
Her: But he'll kill more women!
Me: I'm not sure about that....
Her: They should ofungim!
Me: I don't know if I agree with state-sponsored murder.
Her: They shoulda killedim! Bring back hanging!
Me: If that's your opinion, that's your opinion.
Her: You think they should lerrim out? (her hand refusing to release my change)
Me: If he's served his sentence then I don't see why not.
My change was subsequently released, and I left the shop realising what I'd just done. If, at any point in the future, I am accused of a crime, it is inevitable that the above conversation will come back to haunt me:
BOMB MAN 'WORSHIPS RIPPER'
THE MAN found with an arsenal of bomb-making equipment in his home worships mass killer Peter Sutcliffe, it was revealed last night.
Police raided the home of Paul Nogomet, 30, and discovered bicarbonate of soda, petrol, wiring, Plasticene and mobile phones - used as detonators by terrorists.
And as cops in Barnsley, South Yorks, hauled him in for questioning, a neighbour told the Sun how Nogomet boasted of his admiration for twisted Sutcliffe, who butchered 13 women in a five-year killing spree.
Shopworker Ursula Smith said: "He would go on about how Sutcliffe had served his time, and he was glad they'd never hung him.
"I said to him that the man is a monster who should have been put to death, but you could tell in Paul's eyes that there was respect and empathy with Sutcliffe.
"I'd go as far as to say that Nogomet probably worships the Yorkshire Ripper - but I'm still staggered to hear they've found bomb-making material in his house."
Cops will examine any links with far-right groups and quiz Nogomet about any sympathies with paramilitary organisations.
The source added: "There was enough stuff in the garage, kitchen and living areas to make a bomb large enough to cause complete carnage.
"Mobiles are often used by terrorist cells to detonate bombs. It's quite a sophisticated approach - whoever knows how to trigger devices with a phone is obviously not a novice."
We revealed yesterday how evil Sutcliffe, 62, is lobbying the High Court for his release.
THE MAN found with an arsenal of bomb-making equipment in his home worships mass killer Peter Sutcliffe, it was revealed last night.
Police raided the home of Paul Nogomet, 30, and discovered bicarbonate of soda, petrol, wiring, Plasticene and mobile phones - used as detonators by terrorists.
And as cops in Barnsley, South Yorks, hauled him in for questioning, a neighbour told the Sun how Nogomet boasted of his admiration for twisted Sutcliffe, who butchered 13 women in a five-year killing spree.
Shopworker Ursula Smith said: "He would go on about how Sutcliffe had served his time, and he was glad they'd never hung him.
"I said to him that the man is a monster who should have been put to death, but you could tell in Paul's eyes that there was respect and empathy with Sutcliffe.
"I'd go as far as to say that Nogomet probably worships the Yorkshire Ripper - but I'm still staggered to hear they've found bomb-making material in his house."
Terrorism
Police sources told The Sun that 'litres' of petrol were removed from Nogomet's garage, as well as 'significant' lengths of wiring, several mobile phones and a 'large quantity of Plasticene.' Officers can detain him for questioning for up to 30 days under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.Cops will examine any links with far-right groups and quiz Nogomet about any sympathies with paramilitary organisations.
The source added: "There was enough stuff in the garage, kitchen and living areas to make a bomb large enough to cause complete carnage.
"Mobiles are often used by terrorist cells to detonate bombs. It's quite a sophisticated approach - whoever knows how to trigger devices with a phone is obviously not a novice."
We revealed yesterday how evil Sutcliffe, 62, is lobbying the High Court for his release.
Monday, 16 February 2009
Normality.
To show that you are no longer mad, Papillon was advised as he tried to devise a way to get out of the prison hospital, make sure that eight out of every ten things you say are sensible.
Implicit in this remark, then, is the suggestion that there are degrees of normality, straying beyond the boundaries of which promotes suspicion or unease. It is an obvious point, but one worth pursuing.
I mentioned before that I sometimes log onto chatrooms with a view to tricking humans that I am a computer, in a kind of miniature reverse-Turing test. Perfect spelling is one such way of perpetuating the myth - a single error is enough to convince an alert-enough person that it's one of their own playing mind-games. Similarly, too many spelling mistakes, and the conclusion is that we are dealing with a child or a madman or a joker.
We carefully negotiate the boundaries, then, between computer-like perfection and being one of the 999,999 inaccurate monkeys hammering away at a typewriter. Is it correct, though, to say that we 'negotiate' it, that there is some kind of conscious thought going into most of the things we do on an everyday basis?
When I walk, there is no sense of pausing to work out how to put one foot in front of the other; only sometimes do I struggle to think of the appropriate word which is 'on the tip of my tongue.' It is all done in a natural sequence, divorced from attention or concentration.
Non-verbal statements, though, I find more difficult - and indeed I do need to devote a second or two to selecting the appropriate one from the almost-inexhaustive list. Is this the right time to smile? Is this the right time to make a non-commital grunt? Is this the right time to shrug in resignation?
Such instinctive creases of the face, bovine lowing and kinetic tics should not require prolonged deliberation - but I find that they do, because I am more often than not incapable of feeling, or of even registering any interest. Pausing momentarily, with a face on standby, to choose the correct expression, causes other people to think of Papillon's eight-out-of-ten advice: he's having to think what to look like, and therefore he is mad.
Implicit in this remark, then, is the suggestion that there are degrees of normality, straying beyond the boundaries of which promotes suspicion or unease. It is an obvious point, but one worth pursuing.
I mentioned before that I sometimes log onto chatrooms with a view to tricking humans that I am a computer, in a kind of miniature reverse-Turing test. Perfect spelling is one such way of perpetuating the myth - a single error is enough to convince an alert-enough person that it's one of their own playing mind-games. Similarly, too many spelling mistakes, and the conclusion is that we are dealing with a child or a madman or a joker.
We carefully negotiate the boundaries, then, between computer-like perfection and being one of the 999,999 inaccurate monkeys hammering away at a typewriter. Is it correct, though, to say that we 'negotiate' it, that there is some kind of conscious thought going into most of the things we do on an everyday basis?
When I walk, there is no sense of pausing to work out how to put one foot in front of the other; only sometimes do I struggle to think of the appropriate word which is 'on the tip of my tongue.' It is all done in a natural sequence, divorced from attention or concentration.
Non-verbal statements, though, I find more difficult - and indeed I do need to devote a second or two to selecting the appropriate one from the almost-inexhaustive list. Is this the right time to smile? Is this the right time to make a non-commital grunt? Is this the right time to shrug in resignation?
Such instinctive creases of the face, bovine lowing and kinetic tics should not require prolonged deliberation - but I find that they do, because I am more often than not incapable of feeling, or of even registering any interest. Pausing momentarily, with a face on standby, to choose the correct expression, causes other people to think of Papillon's eight-out-of-ten advice: he's having to think what to look like, and therefore he is mad.
Saturday, 14 February 2009
Duality.
Romantic gestures are not transmitted for their own sake: no, they are a translation.I do not hand over a flower in order for its recipient to realise that she has been presented with a flower: I do so in order that it communicates non-verbally with her.
The characteristics of the gift associate with the characteristics of the female - you are as delicate (as the petals); I bleed (because of the thorns, and for you); you were chosen (I picked the flower, and I picked you). In an extension of the chain of reasoning, what do I seek from the flower's conversation with its recipient?
I seek to provoke an extreme reaction, for L to realise, in a single rush of emotion, the depth of feeling I hold in her name. I wish, no less, for her to be overwhelmed with the simple density of passion. Overwhelmed? To the extent that I wish to provoke tears - of love - in L? Yes, and what a paradox I set. What unsolved dissonance! I appointed myself as the protector of L, the valve which gives her regulation and consonance. Yet I abandon this post for the fleeting madness of a difficult and rare gesture, reducing her to wreckage.
It is obvious that this pair of imperatives cannot be reconciled. One time, the desire to protect takes precedence; one time the wish to present L with more affection than she can tolerate is the stronger of the two. This dichotomy, of feeling the wish to simultaneously protect and submerge, is a crisis point of a relationship which is repeatedly arrived at, withdrawn from in frustrated irresolution, and later arrived at again.
Why should the acme of love be a woman's tears? It could be any number of other sentiments, of varying strengths, but my mind refuses to accept that possibility. To love is to overload; to exhaust; to crush.
On this, Valentine's Day, I think of the pressure which shears L - I want it and I simultaneously reject it.
Wednesday, 11 February 2009
Australia.
Chelsea sacked Luiz Felipe Scolari on Monday, and them doing so was the most important news in the universe.
Or it was, at any rate, for the BBC, who repeated the revelation at half-hour intervals (at least on Radio Five) and interrupted their normal schedule of programmes to update the eager listener about the latest developments.
Over the course of a couple of hours, the story progressed in much the following way:
It's not unusual, I confess, for stories about footballers or football managers to replace 'proper' news in football-and-celebrity-obsessed England. You might assume, though, that for Scolari to stay at the top of the news agenda for a significant amount of time means that there's nothing else of any consequence happening anywhere.
And you'd be wrong. From my position in the northern hemisphere, the bottom of the earth is eating itself. It burns with a ferocity unknown outside of war. Australia is ill, and she tears away clumps of her own surface in a cry for help. Australia is ill, and her people are falling in great numbers.
The earth has ripped Australian lives out of the ground and left them, scorched, to their fate. Whole towns, in some cases, have been eviscerated by this plague of blazes. For the main broadcasting company in the UK - a constellation which considers itself to be a friend of Australia! - to relegate such a nation-changing drama to the second news item because of football is shameful.
I thought at the time that the elevation of Scolari represented the day that news had well and truly been put out of its misery. The news values I learned when I was studying journalism are all for nothing; they may as well be written in Latin for all their applicability only ten years down the line.
Monday was the day that the third-best football club in England leapt over a nation of 20 million people and swept it off the board; and then the board and all its pieces, all its certainties, disintegrated in front of my disbelieving eyes. It has been coming for a long time. I am sick of the pandering to celebrities, pulled down from a firmament that never truly existed, by a cackling tabloid press. So I don't read the tabloid press any more.
Their corrosive methodology is one which has leached out of its domain and poisoned everything. So some Australians have died? Well, how about this? Some Brazilian man with a moustache has been pushed out of his hyperbolic door, and in prioritising the latter over the former, I need never have to think about anything again.
I was asked yesterday if I'd ever contemplate going back into journalism. My audible answer: mmmm, if needs must, then yes. My silent confession: it'll be with a heart like lead if I must accept that one man's spiral into luxurious unemployment here is more important than the loss of 200 lives there.
Or it was, at any rate, for the BBC, who repeated the revelation at half-hour intervals (at least on Radio Five) and interrupted their normal schedule of programmes to update the eager listener about the latest developments.
Over the course of a couple of hours, the story progressed in much the following way:
- We understand that Chelsea are set to announce the dismissal of manager Luiz Felipe Scolari in the near future.
- We can confirm that Luiz Felipe Scolari has been sacked by Chelsea.
- Reaction from a former player about the news: shock, instability, never saw it coming.
- Where will the club turn next? Canvass the opinion of the BBC's chief football writer.
- Rumours are that Jose Mourinho and Guus Hiddink are the early frontrunners for the job. Ask an expert about the likelihood of Mourinho ever returning to the club.
It's not unusual, I confess, for stories about footballers or football managers to replace 'proper' news in football-and-celebrity-obsessed England. You might assume, though, that for Scolari to stay at the top of the news agenda for a significant amount of time means that there's nothing else of any consequence happening anywhere.
And you'd be wrong. From my position in the northern hemisphere, the bottom of the earth is eating itself. It burns with a ferocity unknown outside of war. Australia is ill, and she tears away clumps of her own surface in a cry for help. Australia is ill, and her people are falling in great numbers.
The earth has ripped Australian lives out of the ground and left them, scorched, to their fate. Whole towns, in some cases, have been eviscerated by this plague of blazes. For the main broadcasting company in the UK - a constellation which considers itself to be a friend of Australia! - to relegate such a nation-changing drama to the second news item because of football is shameful.
I thought at the time that the elevation of Scolari represented the day that news had well and truly been put out of its misery. The news values I learned when I was studying journalism are all for nothing; they may as well be written in Latin for all their applicability only ten years down the line.
Monday was the day that the third-best football club in England leapt over a nation of 20 million people and swept it off the board; and then the board and all its pieces, all its certainties, disintegrated in front of my disbelieving eyes. It has been coming for a long time. I am sick of the pandering to celebrities, pulled down from a firmament that never truly existed, by a cackling tabloid press. So I don't read the tabloid press any more.
Their corrosive methodology is one which has leached out of its domain and poisoned everything. So some Australians have died? Well, how about this? Some Brazilian man with a moustache has been pushed out of his hyperbolic door, and in prioritising the latter over the former, I need never have to think about anything again.
I was asked yesterday if I'd ever contemplate going back into journalism. My audible answer: mmmm, if needs must, then yes. My silent confession: it'll be with a heart like lead if I must accept that one man's spiral into luxurious unemployment here is more important than the loss of 200 lives there.
Sunday, 8 February 2009
Doctor.
One of my earliest memories is the need to have a doctor called out one night because I was running a high temperature.
Between the doctor being called and him arriving to draw the heat out of my body with his magical instruments, my condition improved somewhat. I'd recovered enough to be able to hold a conversation, and I remember the first words I said to him after he'd finished discussing my health issues with my parents.
It hadn't escaped my attention that the GP had an enormous white beard, covering most of the lower half of his face. I imagine that I associated this with either Jesus or Santa Claus, because I declared: "God, you're old!"
This wonderful man's reply has stayed with me throughout the years since, and I still get reminded of it now: "Yes, son, I'm 103." Not only did you come to douse the flames engulfing a child's body, but you permitted the spark which had associated Jesus and your face to catch fire.
If the consumption of the body by disease is unbearable agony, then the submission of the mind to the tongues of fantasy is unbearably beautiful. You allowed me that beauty, even at your own expense. I have never forgotten it.
How sad I am to learn that you died last week. I probably met you three times in my life; you humoured hundreds of mocking young patients, and I'm certain you'd not even recall a routine visit to the boy with the temperature which had escalated off the thermometer.
When I heard the news, I felt it deeply. You came to - without knowing it - define a part of my life; a part that wishes to be brave and creative. I've never really done it. All I ever do is jealously guard whatever crumbs of originality I might have struggled to come up with, but the intention has always been there to be bolder, more colourful, more expressive.
Hearing your name transports me back to a place as distant as East Germany, Yugoslavia, Czechoslovakia. Like them, you live on in the memories of those of us old enough to remember your significance.
Like Yugoslavia, I form a picture of you in my mind from the limited exposure I have had. The unreality of the composite image I form makes you all the more distant, and yet all the more longed for.
Between the doctor being called and him arriving to draw the heat out of my body with his magical instruments, my condition improved somewhat. I'd recovered enough to be able to hold a conversation, and I remember the first words I said to him after he'd finished discussing my health issues with my parents.
It hadn't escaped my attention that the GP had an enormous white beard, covering most of the lower half of his face. I imagine that I associated this with either Jesus or Santa Claus, because I declared: "God, you're old!"
This wonderful man's reply has stayed with me throughout the years since, and I still get reminded of it now: "Yes, son, I'm 103." Not only did you come to douse the flames engulfing a child's body, but you permitted the spark which had associated Jesus and your face to catch fire.
If the consumption of the body by disease is unbearable agony, then the submission of the mind to the tongues of fantasy is unbearably beautiful. You allowed me that beauty, even at your own expense. I have never forgotten it.
How sad I am to learn that you died last week. I probably met you three times in my life; you humoured hundreds of mocking young patients, and I'm certain you'd not even recall a routine visit to the boy with the temperature which had escalated off the thermometer.
When I heard the news, I felt it deeply. You came to - without knowing it - define a part of my life; a part that wishes to be brave and creative. I've never really done it. All I ever do is jealously guard whatever crumbs of originality I might have struggled to come up with, but the intention has always been there to be bolder, more colourful, more expressive.
Hearing your name transports me back to a place as distant as East Germany, Yugoslavia, Czechoslovakia. Like them, you live on in the memories of those of us old enough to remember your significance.
Like Yugoslavia, I form a picture of you in my mind from the limited exposure I have had. The unreality of the composite image I form makes you all the more distant, and yet all the more longed for.
Friday, 6 February 2009
Laughter.
There are any number of different ways to laugh - the range of all possible laughter spans a continuous scale with a ghostly internal flutter of mirth at one end; and a vomit-inducing spasm (akin to an orgasm) of indeterminate length at the other.
A couple of hours ago, I told L that I am of the opinion that the two of us find laughter difficult (and hence I am surprised how much we have managed to make each other laugh in the weeks which have blurred by since late December) and now I assess that question in the light of the first assertion, above, that I made about laughter.
I cannot speak for L - she does so magnificently, and so I shall not attempt to cobble together a poor replica of her words. I speak well enough for myself, though, and I ask if some forms of laughter are more difficult than others. I am prepared to ignore here such things as televised comedy and other professionals who are paid to unattach laughter from the self. Here, I am concerned with spontenaeity and where the boundary is between (more) difficult laughter and its easier offshoot.
Every incident of laughter is born of an internal symbol or symbols, an object or set of objects in the real world, and a mutual store of energy. The energy store serves to bind the symbols to the object set, and it is this synthesis which is what we experience as laughter.
If I choke with laughter because I see a man slip on the ice, his legs grasping in futility at fresh air before he hits the floor, then this is because the internal symbol it binds to reminds me of a cartoon. I said that I am eschewing televised comedy and devoting myself to real-world occurrences; but real-world object-sets can take their symbolism from fiction. I treat with disdain the marriage of fictional object-set to fictional symbol; the marriage of real object-set to fictional symbol is perfectly acceptable, however.
What, then, is hard about matching symbol to object - for we must conclude that this is what is hard about laughter, if we are dealing with the mapping of abstract symbols protruding somehow into the realm of experience? There are two possibilities.
Either there is a difficulty pertaining to the communication between the symbols and the object set - the energy store is of insufficient magnitude, or there is some sort of obfuscation - or there is a poverty of internal symbols. This latter argument is the reason why I find laughter difficult. Few symbols have been derived, invented, or have evolved, in my thirty years. Without the symbolism, the set of amusing objects, gestures, sights is reduced.
To find laughter easier, then, speaking personally, I must extend that repertoire of symbols by permitting myself to experience more, absorb more. Being so closed, anti-social and cynical, such opportunities are repudiated when they arise. To laugh more, I must be other than I am.
A couple of hours ago, I told L that I am of the opinion that the two of us find laughter difficult (and hence I am surprised how much we have managed to make each other laugh in the weeks which have blurred by since late December) and now I assess that question in the light of the first assertion, above, that I made about laughter.
I cannot speak for L - she does so magnificently, and so I shall not attempt to cobble together a poor replica of her words. I speak well enough for myself, though, and I ask if some forms of laughter are more difficult than others. I am prepared to ignore here such things as televised comedy and other professionals who are paid to unattach laughter from the self. Here, I am concerned with spontenaeity and where the boundary is between (more) difficult laughter and its easier offshoot.
Every incident of laughter is born of an internal symbol or symbols, an object or set of objects in the real world, and a mutual store of energy. The energy store serves to bind the symbols to the object set, and it is this synthesis which is what we experience as laughter.
If I choke with laughter because I see a man slip on the ice, his legs grasping in futility at fresh air before he hits the floor, then this is because the internal symbol it binds to reminds me of a cartoon. I said that I am eschewing televised comedy and devoting myself to real-world occurrences; but real-world object-sets can take their symbolism from fiction. I treat with disdain the marriage of fictional object-set to fictional symbol; the marriage of real object-set to fictional symbol is perfectly acceptable, however.
What, then, is hard about matching symbol to object - for we must conclude that this is what is hard about laughter, if we are dealing with the mapping of abstract symbols protruding somehow into the realm of experience? There are two possibilities.
Either there is a difficulty pertaining to the communication between the symbols and the object set - the energy store is of insufficient magnitude, or there is some sort of obfuscation - or there is a poverty of internal symbols. This latter argument is the reason why I find laughter difficult. Few symbols have been derived, invented, or have evolved, in my thirty years. Without the symbolism, the set of amusing objects, gestures, sights is reduced.
To find laughter easier, then, speaking personally, I must extend that repertoire of symbols by permitting myself to experience more, absorb more. Being so closed, anti-social and cynical, such opportunities are repudiated when they arise. To laugh more, I must be other than I am.
Thursday, 5 February 2009
Bones.
The urge is there to dig up the bones of the past and re-arrange them - but why?
I only established before that it happens, without even attempting to formulate a credible explanation. In truth, my head was spinning because I'd regressed so badly and so quickly that to try to tease out any reasoning was futile.
The same small of array of thoughts whirr, unbroken and perfect, through my suddenly-agitated head. Yet something is missing. It's as though I have spent a long time learning how walk properly after an accident of some kind. Indeed, I can put one foot in front of the other with the best of them; indeed - I walk! I don't understand, though, why or how I am walking, and any level of explanation is either too straightforward, too complicated, or articulated in a language that I'm certain I've heard but cannot get to grips with.
After two days of deliberation, I think I now realise why I felt the needed to contact 'J,' the South African woman, with such urgency. It is because in re-arranging the bones of the past, taking the charred sticks, long since drained of their life, there is an intent: to re-create them in the present, in a similar - not identical - way.
I speak loosely of 'bones,' but a more precise definition can be arrived at. They are the various (personal not synthetic) aggregates of directed sentiment and action which (from my viewpoint) partially defined the (now defunct) relationship with J. If ever I wanted to be perfect, unimpeachable, articulate, thought-provoking, unflustered, attractive, then it was J who provoked those imperatives in me.
The bones I now wish to put back together are these same Platonic ideals, the same arrows flying steadily towards their ambition - a new, unfulfilled wish, whose vastness is summarised with the algebraic simplicity of 'L,' but the same bones nevertheless. Schematic islands in her infinity, I try to reach them in order that I know where I am.
I only established before that it happens, without even attempting to formulate a credible explanation. In truth, my head was spinning because I'd regressed so badly and so quickly that to try to tease out any reasoning was futile.
The same small of array of thoughts whirr, unbroken and perfect, through my suddenly-agitated head. Yet something is missing. It's as though I have spent a long time learning how walk properly after an accident of some kind. Indeed, I can put one foot in front of the other with the best of them; indeed - I walk! I don't understand, though, why or how I am walking, and any level of explanation is either too straightforward, too complicated, or articulated in a language that I'm certain I've heard but cannot get to grips with.
After two days of deliberation, I think I now realise why I felt the needed to contact 'J,' the South African woman, with such urgency. It is because in re-arranging the bones of the past, taking the charred sticks, long since drained of their life, there is an intent: to re-create them in the present, in a similar - not identical - way.
I speak loosely of 'bones,' but a more precise definition can be arrived at. They are the various (personal not synthetic) aggregates of directed sentiment and action which (from my viewpoint) partially defined the (now defunct) relationship with J. If ever I wanted to be perfect, unimpeachable, articulate, thought-provoking, unflustered, attractive, then it was J who provoked those imperatives in me.
The bones I now wish to put back together are these same Platonic ideals, the same arrows flying steadily towards their ambition - a new, unfulfilled wish, whose vastness is summarised with the algebraic simplicity of 'L,' but the same bones nevertheless. Schematic islands in her infinity, I try to reach them in order that I know where I am.
Wednesday, 4 February 2009
Residue.
Unfortunate incidents of drunk e-mailing were reduced last year with the invention of a piece of software ("Mail Goggles") which is activated at the times when drinkers normally return from a night out.
Before it permits the sending of e-mail at those times, the user is presented with a series of mathematics questions which must be answered correctly. Incorrect answers are based on the assumption that the would-be e-mailer is drunk, and thus the message is not sent.
If the user is not drunk, though, or is drunk at the 'wrong' time of the day, then there is nothing at all to prevent disliked work colleagues and ex-partners receiving no end of abuse, or unwanted advances.
It seems, then - experience tells us so - that alcohol liberates the mind, and puts in place the inclination to express these freshly-emancipated ideas. Or perhaps the certainty that (some of) our ex-partners are bastards and bitches (whom we somehow desire), along with our managers (whom we do not) is not one which needs liberating, but only directing at the world. In vino veritas is the Latin declaration for this argument.
What about when no vino is needed to stimulate the veritas? When, even in the absence of no lips having been moistened with alcohol, let alone whole bodies having been flooded with the stuff, the urge is there to dig up the bones of the past and re-arrange them? This is the situation I found myself in last night when, for reasons which I shall explain, I almost caused myself to crash through the roof of my ex-partner's soul.
It only takes one mention of South Africa to do it, at least on the days I am particularly vulnerable, having allowed myself to get drunk on fresh air. Other times, the entire Gauteng provence might build itself from nothing in front of my eyes and I should register indifference.
On the days when I have sucked air like alcohol, I recall the 1990s comedy sketch from England where a bereaved woman constantly sees characteristics of her late husband in every mundane action:
"A cup of tea might make you feel better?"
(crying) "My husband used to drink tea!"
"I know it's hard. Just try to calm down."
(crying harder) "He always used the word 'down!'"
This is analogous to my own behaviour on such intoxicated days. The rush of loss rises to the top of the vessel thrown together from bone and memory, and blows the lid off the genie.
Some small stimulus, irrelevant and short-lived, served to remind me of the existence of South Africa. Before I knew what I was doing, my finger hovered over the South African woman's profile on Genericsocialnetworkingsite.com; and I wished I had some external authority to preclude me from sending several messages to her.
I don't even know what I wanted to say; I had nothing to say. All I wanted to express was duly done, some months ago, in polite words beyond the intersection where love turns into frustration and anger.
In the end, I withdrew from the nuclear button which would have sent a message, anticipated with the longing of a polar bear for a throat lozenge, and decided to sit quietly, away from the computer, and reflect upon how one moment of unwanted stimulus can lead a person to the very boundary of their reasoning.
Before it permits the sending of e-mail at those times, the user is presented with a series of mathematics questions which must be answered correctly. Incorrect answers are based on the assumption that the would-be e-mailer is drunk, and thus the message is not sent.
If the user is not drunk, though, or is drunk at the 'wrong' time of the day, then there is nothing at all to prevent disliked work colleagues and ex-partners receiving no end of abuse, or unwanted advances.
It seems, then - experience tells us so - that alcohol liberates the mind, and puts in place the inclination to express these freshly-emancipated ideas. Or perhaps the certainty that (some of) our ex-partners are bastards and bitches (whom we somehow desire), along with our managers (whom we do not) is not one which needs liberating, but only directing at the world. In vino veritas is the Latin declaration for this argument.
What about when no vino is needed to stimulate the veritas? When, even in the absence of no lips having been moistened with alcohol, let alone whole bodies having been flooded with the stuff, the urge is there to dig up the bones of the past and re-arrange them? This is the situation I found myself in last night when, for reasons which I shall explain, I almost caused myself to crash through the roof of my ex-partner's soul.
It only takes one mention of South Africa to do it, at least on the days I am particularly vulnerable, having allowed myself to get drunk on fresh air. Other times, the entire Gauteng provence might build itself from nothing in front of my eyes and I should register indifference.
On the days when I have sucked air like alcohol, I recall the 1990s comedy sketch from England where a bereaved woman constantly sees characteristics of her late husband in every mundane action:
"A cup of tea might make you feel better?"
(crying) "My husband used to drink tea!"
"I know it's hard. Just try to calm down."
(crying harder) "He always used the word 'down!'"
This is analogous to my own behaviour on such intoxicated days. The rush of loss rises to the top of the vessel thrown together from bone and memory, and blows the lid off the genie.
Some small stimulus, irrelevant and short-lived, served to remind me of the existence of South Africa. Before I knew what I was doing, my finger hovered over the South African woman's profile on Genericsocialnetworkingsite.com; and I wished I had some external authority to preclude me from sending several messages to her.
I don't even know what I wanted to say; I had nothing to say. All I wanted to express was duly done, some months ago, in polite words beyond the intersection where love turns into frustration and anger.
In the end, I withdrew from the nuclear button which would have sent a message, anticipated with the longing of a polar bear for a throat lozenge, and decided to sit quietly, away from the computer, and reflect upon how one moment of unwanted stimulus can lead a person to the very boundary of their reasoning.
Monday, 2 February 2009
Statue.
I am a statue: this much was mutually agreed earlier.
I am a statue, atop a soft golden dune, whose many vices shine splendidly, searing the eye should the light strike at just the right angle.
My dense foot of marble has the dormant rage of the assassin; my heavy arms, the pressureless liberation of a victor. Poised to release the devastasting shift of movement rising through taut legs; a billion newtons, or a trillion. A blurred rainbow of kinetic energy.
With an ear-shattering crack, my vices break off one by one, but only if I like you enough; the pulsing of sweet red ants rushing to the surface of the wound. Each new blowhole, stripped of its contaminating sin, slick with blood. Death by 1000 vices: angst, jealousy, lust, pride, inertia, tautology.
I am a statue, imperfect, but being smoothed out by the scalpel. Where there once stood an ugly nub of bone representing tautology, now there is a little rough scar, its two ends carefully pulled together and cauterised. The gagging stink of sulphur and the hiss of steam, oh, surgeon.
Weighty as a gravestone am I; a sublime suspension; forces cancelling themselves out, until the command to drop to earth, like a giant lever, is uttered. I shall split the earth when I fall, leaving a crater in my midst, my statue-mouth full of stones and mud and grit. What machine of work could budge this monolith?
For you, I crash back into the world from my high ground. For you, there is only obmutescence. For you, the colossus punctures the atmosphere, without having to be asked a second time.
I am a statue, atop a soft golden dune, whose many vices shine splendidly, searing the eye should the light strike at just the right angle.
My dense foot of marble has the dormant rage of the assassin; my heavy arms, the pressureless liberation of a victor. Poised to release the devastasting shift of movement rising through taut legs; a billion newtons, or a trillion. A blurred rainbow of kinetic energy.
With an ear-shattering crack, my vices break off one by one, but only if I like you enough; the pulsing of sweet red ants rushing to the surface of the wound. Each new blowhole, stripped of its contaminating sin, slick with blood. Death by 1000 vices: angst, jealousy, lust, pride, inertia, tautology.
I am a statue, imperfect, but being smoothed out by the scalpel. Where there once stood an ugly nub of bone representing tautology, now there is a little rough scar, its two ends carefully pulled together and cauterised. The gagging stink of sulphur and the hiss of steam, oh, surgeon.
Weighty as a gravestone am I; a sublime suspension; forces cancelling themselves out, until the command to drop to earth, like a giant lever, is uttered. I shall split the earth when I fall, leaving a crater in my midst, my statue-mouth full of stones and mud and grit. What machine of work could budge this monolith?
For you, I crash back into the world from my high ground. For you, there is only obmutescence. For you, the colossus punctures the atmosphere, without having to be asked a second time.
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