Reader! How nice of you to join me again. I thought I'd start by sharing a poem with you:
The carnival is underway - the city, fully loaded;
The streets that need a hoover are perpetually eroded
By sin and sweat and nuisance on these roads that are deroaded
And the idiots that play their hand when they know they should have folded.
In Notting Hill, there's thick black smoke; I daren't open up to cough;
It really makes one want to leave this dingy little trough.
And to all those noisy bastards with their brain cells all a-doff,
"I'm just a girl standing in front of a boy", asking him to bugger off.
Maybe I'm just growing old; the world's still young and sweet
And I cannot help but wonder if my mind is obsolete,
But as we Scousers know, for its not easy to secrete,
This anarchic pointless piss-fest's not a patch on Mathew Street!
Okay, so it needs work. It was rushed and I don't like to rush things that I write; it's why I always finished last in exams... Anyway, you get the idea. Notting Hill carnival has been held each bank holiday since 1966, so obviously somebody loves it. I, as I'm sure you can probably tell, was not one of those people. Walking through is like having a front-row seat to the place where degenerates go to just de-generate a little bit further.
Indeed, the premise of the carnival as an anti-racial statement is enlightening and even somewhat beautiful in a way, but that has clearly been put by the wayside in favour of drunken carnage and incipient boorishness. It is a shame that an event with such a rich and powerful history should be reduced to such ultra-Capitalist absurdity.
Or, as I say, maybe I'm just getting old...
Monday, 25 August 2014
Saturday, 23 August 2014
The Real Language of Men
All art is quite useless.
There is a misappropriated notion that art is elitist. This is incorrect. However, like anything worth doing, studying all forms of art requires work and dedication. There is no reason why the average person should not be able to pore over the language of Eliot, Joyce or Blake and take just as much away from it - dare I say it - as Stephen Fry would. It is a question of dedication - nothing more. I find that often when people don't understand something, they have fulfilled their own pessimistic prophecy. Hand them a poem by Eliot or a painting by Matisse and they won't understand it. Why? Because they decided ten minutes ago that they weren't going to try to.
There is a misappropriated notion that art is elitist. This is incorrect. However, like anything worth doing, studying all forms of art requires work and dedication. There is no reason why the average person should not be able to pore over the language of Eliot, Joyce or Blake and take just as much away from it - dare I say it - as Stephen Fry would. It is a question of dedication - nothing more. I find that often when people don't understand something, they have fulfilled their own pessimistic prophecy. Hand them a poem by Eliot or a painting by Matisse and they won't understand it. Why? Because they decided ten minutes ago that they weren't going to try to.
Mr
Wilde, who famously attests that "all art is quite useless" is, in
many ways, correct. He is not merely being his self-righteous, decadent self in
this line; he is expressing a feeling that even those of us who are equipped
with the utmost respect and trust in our art know to be true. When it comes
down to it, art will not save Granddad's life, kiss your child goodnight or,
unless you're very lucky, pay the mortgage. It exists in and of itself and it
is perhaps this that some people cannot get their head around.
The elite classes, in fact, scarcely produce elite artists. Everyone from William Wordsworth, who strove to write in "the real language of men" to Oscar Wilde himself, renounced their claim on the elite to speak for the masses. This meant, of course, that over time the masses produced artists of their own. The biggest giants of modern music are arguably The Beatles and what were they? Young, working class, passionate. For it is passion that creates true art; it has little to do with class.
The elite classes, in fact, scarcely produce elite artists. Everyone from William Wordsworth, who strove to write in "the real language of men" to Oscar Wilde himself, renounced their claim on the elite to speak for the masses. This meant, of course, that over time the masses produced artists of their own. The biggest giants of modern music are arguably The Beatles and what were they? Young, working class, passionate. For it is passion that creates true art; it has little to do with class.
Friday, 22 August 2014
With Mirth and Laughter
There are still 6 people alive today that were born in the 19th Century. What?
In fact, the two oldest living people were born in 1898 and it got me thinking: I've never been close to anyone over the age of about 80; where are these 116 year-olds hiding? The oldest living Brit is Ethel Lang, who was born on the 27th May 1900. She is the eighth oldest living person in the world and, according to Wikipedia, she is the only living British person to have been born under the reign of Queen Victoria. The oldest person ever lived to be nearly 122 and a half and there are over 100 people that have climbed above the astonishing age of 114.
That's a lot of statistics, reader, and I do apologise. The question I think it poses, though, is how would one measure a life? If one gentleman lived for 70 years, and did as much in those 70 as another did in 110, has the older gent achieved more, or has he just prolonged the inevitable?
This mightn't come as much of a shock to some people as they assume that the whole world has an ageing population; people used to live to 80, but now they live to see 90 candles on their cake, but that isn't the case the world over. The global average life expectancy is still just 67.07 so these supercentenarians (people who have lived over the age of 110) are actually living the length of nearly two lives. I really don't know if I could handle that kind of pressure. I mean, imagine having to do all that shit that you have to do in life for twice as long!
If I'm still alive in the year 2100 (though doubtful due to my unquenchable love of cake), should I start planning my old age now? As Teddy Roosevelt said: "Old age is like everything else; to make a success of it you have to start young." But, no. What a waste of a life it would be just to plan the ending. A film with a great ending often lacks a coherent and engaging beginning. I say good for Ethel Lang but bollocks to old age! (At least for now)...
May everybody have a happy Friday,
Mike.xx
In fact, the two oldest living people were born in 1898 and it got me thinking: I've never been close to anyone over the age of about 80; where are these 116 year-olds hiding? The oldest living Brit is Ethel Lang, who was born on the 27th May 1900. She is the eighth oldest living person in the world and, according to Wikipedia, she is the only living British person to have been born under the reign of Queen Victoria. The oldest person ever lived to be nearly 122 and a half and there are over 100 people that have climbed above the astonishing age of 114.
That's a lot of statistics, reader, and I do apologise. The question I think it poses, though, is how would one measure a life? If one gentleman lived for 70 years, and did as much in those 70 as another did in 110, has the older gent achieved more, or has he just prolonged the inevitable?
This mightn't come as much of a shock to some people as they assume that the whole world has an ageing population; people used to live to 80, but now they live to see 90 candles on their cake, but that isn't the case the world over. The global average life expectancy is still just 67.07 so these supercentenarians (people who have lived over the age of 110) are actually living the length of nearly two lives. I really don't know if I could handle that kind of pressure. I mean, imagine having to do all that shit that you have to do in life for twice as long!
If I'm still alive in the year 2100 (though doubtful due to my unquenchable love of cake), should I start planning my old age now? As Teddy Roosevelt said: "Old age is like everything else; to make a success of it you have to start young." But, no. What a waste of a life it would be just to plan the ending. A film with a great ending often lacks a coherent and engaging beginning. I say good for Ethel Lang but bollocks to old age! (At least for now)...
May everybody have a happy Friday,
Mike.xx
Thursday, 21 August 2014
The Write Way to Read
I took a speed-reading course and read War and Peace in twenty minutes. It involves Russia...
Says Mr Woody Allen...
But what I find increasingly alarming is the number of people that believe that they would sit down to read "if they had the time". There is no such thing as having time, nor is there any such thing as making time; time exists without us. I think what people mean when they say they don't "have" time or they need to "make" time is that they need to take control of themselves. Stop blaming time! It is doing just fine without you, thank you very much. We do not make time, use time, have time or lose time; time just is, as are we.
This might seem like a pointless rant and one filled with monstrous levels of hypocrisy coming from somebody that has spent his last few years as a "writer" not writing, but I don't blame anyone but myself for that and I am trying to rectify it now so there! :)
So, if you've had a copy of Eliot's Middlemarch of Joyce's Ulysses sitting on your shelf for five years to make yourself feel like an intellectual and you constantly mean to get around to reading it but you always make the excuse that you just don't "have" the time, then, honey, you ain't reading that book. They might be classics and, yes, they're classics for a reason but it is doing nothing more than perpetuating a ludicrous myth to pretend that one day, you will "make the time" to read Ulysses because you just won't. Of course, I am not saying that you should give up on your endeavours. Paint a picture, fly a kite, skip gaily in a naked, jovial prance through hoards of woodland nymphs and elven goddesses with mud-splattered script on your chest that reads "I'm a speedy reader", but, honey, you ain't reading that book.
And this rule, of course, goes for everything. How often do we tell ourselves that we will learn another language or start a business just as soon as we can "make" time. Let go. Enjoy the fruits of time another way and you might just find that time has been more friendly to you than you think. Either that, or you should have made time to read that bloody book! Your call, I guess.
Thank you, reader, and I will see you tomorrow.
Mike.xx
Says Mr Woody Allen...
But what I find increasingly alarming is the number of people that believe that they would sit down to read "if they had the time". There is no such thing as having time, nor is there any such thing as making time; time exists without us. I think what people mean when they say they don't "have" time or they need to "make" time is that they need to take control of themselves. Stop blaming time! It is doing just fine without you, thank you very much. We do not make time, use time, have time or lose time; time just is, as are we.
This might seem like a pointless rant and one filled with monstrous levels of hypocrisy coming from somebody that has spent his last few years as a "writer" not writing, but I don't blame anyone but myself for that and I am trying to rectify it now so there! :)
So, if you've had a copy of Eliot's Middlemarch of Joyce's Ulysses sitting on your shelf for five years to make yourself feel like an intellectual and you constantly mean to get around to reading it but you always make the excuse that you just don't "have" the time, then, honey, you ain't reading that book. They might be classics and, yes, they're classics for a reason but it is doing nothing more than perpetuating a ludicrous myth to pretend that one day, you will "make the time" to read Ulysses because you just won't. Of course, I am not saying that you should give up on your endeavours. Paint a picture, fly a kite, skip gaily in a naked, jovial prance through hoards of woodland nymphs and elven goddesses with mud-splattered script on your chest that reads "I'm a speedy reader", but, honey, you ain't reading that book.
And this rule, of course, goes for everything. How often do we tell ourselves that we will learn another language or start a business just as soon as we can "make" time. Let go. Enjoy the fruits of time another way and you might just find that time has been more friendly to you than you think. Either that, or you should have made time to read that bloody book! Your call, I guess.
Thank you, reader, and I will see you tomorrow.
Mike.xx
Wednesday, 20 August 2014
Review: Lilting (dir. Hong Khaou)
Only very rarely does a film truly make you appreciate the people that make life worth living.
That's right, reader, today I paid the exorbitant prices at the Curzon cinema in Soho to see the new Ben Whishaw film and, you know what? I feel like a better person for doing so. By that logic, it must have been a good film because that is certainly not how I usually feel after spending money.
Is a mother's love stronger than a lover's love?
Ben Whishaw and Pei-pei Cheng play conflicted parties with one thing in common: they are both grieving for the same young man whom they both believe they loved more than the other. Primarily about the power of love, Lilting achieves something higher by showing the darker side of love that so many other films fail to do well; that is, love as conflict. It is the love that both characters feel - Whishaw's character for his lover and Cheng's for her son - that actually drives the characters apart. It is not until they can truly understand each other's feelings that they can finally accept each other for them.
I cannot remember the last time that I sat in a cinema with an audience of maybe 20 others and felt the atmosphere wholly and completely reflect the mood of the film. The engagement evident in the participation of the audience was at an unprecedented level that couldn't even be bought for £13.75 (£13.75!!). It was a completely organic reaction and one that made the experience somewhat more realistic.
As ever, Mr Whishaw stole the show. His moving performance manages to avoid that saccharine, overly-sentimental shallowness that might be expected from a film with a bigger budget and, instead, he delivers a stunning, emotionally-captivating performance that hits the audience on a fundamentally human level.
Because above all, Lilting has a power. That is the power to insist upon its audience that we must all appreciate what we have. Nothing is perfect but love makes it so. For such an uplifting film, there is surprisingly little hope left at the end. Of course, it would be unrealistic to have the dead young man rise again and make everyone's problems go away, but I think that is the message. Life goes on and people are lost every day. Memories fade but the beauty is in knowing that we can appreciate things for what they are and for what they have meant to us. Okay, that was a soppier ending than I was expecting too, but if you have a spare £13.75 (£13.75!!), then this film comes highly recommended. Certainly above Saw 57 or Halloween 12. Experience something that matters for a change. Experience Lilting.
Have pleasant dreams!
Mike.xx
That's right, reader, today I paid the exorbitant prices at the Curzon cinema in Soho to see the new Ben Whishaw film and, you know what? I feel like a better person for doing so. By that logic, it must have been a good film because that is certainly not how I usually feel after spending money.
Is a mother's love stronger than a lover's love?
Ben Whishaw and Pei-pei Cheng play conflicted parties with one thing in common: they are both grieving for the same young man whom they both believe they loved more than the other. Primarily about the power of love, Lilting achieves something higher by showing the darker side of love that so many other films fail to do well; that is, love as conflict. It is the love that both characters feel - Whishaw's character for his lover and Cheng's for her son - that actually drives the characters apart. It is not until they can truly understand each other's feelings that they can finally accept each other for them.
I cannot remember the last time that I sat in a cinema with an audience of maybe 20 others and felt the atmosphere wholly and completely reflect the mood of the film. The engagement evident in the participation of the audience was at an unprecedented level that couldn't even be bought for £13.75 (£13.75!!). It was a completely organic reaction and one that made the experience somewhat more realistic.
As ever, Mr Whishaw stole the show. His moving performance manages to avoid that saccharine, overly-sentimental shallowness that might be expected from a film with a bigger budget and, instead, he delivers a stunning, emotionally-captivating performance that hits the audience on a fundamentally human level.
Because above all, Lilting has a power. That is the power to insist upon its audience that we must all appreciate what we have. Nothing is perfect but love makes it so. For such an uplifting film, there is surprisingly little hope left at the end. Of course, it would be unrealistic to have the dead young man rise again and make everyone's problems go away, but I think that is the message. Life goes on and people are lost every day. Memories fade but the beauty is in knowing that we can appreciate things for what they are and for what they have meant to us. Okay, that was a soppier ending than I was expecting too, but if you have a spare £13.75 (£13.75!!), then this film comes highly recommended. Certainly above Saw 57 or Halloween 12. Experience something that matters for a change. Experience Lilting.
Have pleasant dreams!
Mike.xx
Paying It Mind
Where do all the great sayings of the past go?
As usual, I spent some time yesterday listening to the genius of Mr Bob Dylan and I found that I have possibly become so obsessed with what he has to say that it now influences my own speech.
In 'Mr Tambourine Man', Bobby attests that he "wouldn't pay it any mind" and it got me thinking: when did paying it 'mind' turn into paying 'attention'? Attention is such a boring, frigid, military expression; one half expects its use to often be followed by an angry man shouting "Quick march!" Mind is so much more expressive and so much more personal. I can give you my attention and you will have my dutiful sighs and reassuring back channelling, or I can give you my mind and we can engage on a much higher, much more deeply personal level. As usual, Mr Dylan's way is, if not the best, at least the most human of the two.
But, surely, that is why these sayings shouldn't die out in favour of newer, usually simpler phrases. I am not making this point because I am a prescriptive old pedant who cannot embrace change; I think both phrases should exist because they signal completely different actions. This is why people should listen to their grandparents. Grandparents are linguistic piñatas that are just waiting to be cracked open. (Disturbing as that image might be). Some of my nana's favourites were "you've got to eat a penneth of dirt before you die" and "once is a mistake, twice is your own fault". It mightn't be expected of us to use these type of outdated phrases in our everyday lives but every word, every phrase, every utterance makes for a richer, fuller language that can turn chaos into precision and into chaos once more. And if someone scoffs at you for using such sayings, I wouldn't pay it any mind. It is their loss, after all.
Have a beautiful day, reader!
Mike.xx
As usual, I spent some time yesterday listening to the genius of Mr Bob Dylan and I found that I have possibly become so obsessed with what he has to say that it now influences my own speech.
In 'Mr Tambourine Man', Bobby attests that he "wouldn't pay it any mind" and it got me thinking: when did paying it 'mind' turn into paying 'attention'? Attention is such a boring, frigid, military expression; one half expects its use to often be followed by an angry man shouting "Quick march!" Mind is so much more expressive and so much more personal. I can give you my attention and you will have my dutiful sighs and reassuring back channelling, or I can give you my mind and we can engage on a much higher, much more deeply personal level. As usual, Mr Dylan's way is, if not the best, at least the most human of the two.
But, surely, that is why these sayings shouldn't die out in favour of newer, usually simpler phrases. I am not making this point because I am a prescriptive old pedant who cannot embrace change; I think both phrases should exist because they signal completely different actions. This is why people should listen to their grandparents. Grandparents are linguistic piñatas that are just waiting to be cracked open. (Disturbing as that image might be). Some of my nana's favourites were "you've got to eat a penneth of dirt before you die" and "once is a mistake, twice is your own fault". It mightn't be expected of us to use these type of outdated phrases in our everyday lives but every word, every phrase, every utterance makes for a richer, fuller language that can turn chaos into precision and into chaos once more. And if someone scoffs at you for using such sayings, I wouldn't pay it any mind. It is their loss, after all.
Have a beautiful day, reader!
Mike.xx
Tuesday, 19 August 2014
Eighteen Straight Whiskeys
I love London! To be constantly imbued with the sense of wonderment!
I have gone through the motions with our nation's capital since moving here three months ago. I find that it is both the most creative city in the English-speaking world and yet the one most likely to oppress any glimmer of such creativity. Its exorbitant expense often makes me think twice, being currently 'between jobs', at whether I should even leave the house some days for fear of bankruptcy.
However, sometimes on those warm London afternoons when that frigid, frozen, baron bunch of hopeless accountants and clap-trap politicians haven't managed to wade in and destroy our creative temperaments, we can see London for the bohemian metropolis that it is and has been for so many years - if only one knew where to look.
Saturday afternoon was one such time, when my boyfriend and I embarked on The Literary London Pub Crawl (refer to: https://www.facebook.com/LiteraryTour?fref=ts). Pubs are one of the things I often avoid in London because I am far too tight to enjoy them. However, I have found that subject-specific walking tours are a way to see the city that one wants to see. They have walking tours for just about any interest and this means that everyone can find their own London - the city that boasts their own personality.
The tour took us around Fitzrovia and Soho describing the regular haunts of Mr Orwell, of Dylan Thomas and even Sir Paul McCartney (a personal favourite). The two actors leading the tour, one Mr Charles Dickens and the other Mrs Virginia Woolf, take upon different characters as they sift through centuries of English literary giants. However, the highlight of the tour is definitely watching the reactions of the general public, who stand aghast, as the actors spontaneously burst into song or fall, as a drunk Brendan Behan, to the floor and then struggle to get back up. The beauty of it being, of course, that it feels like everyone is involved. Even the passers-by will have comments to make, although sometimes I'm sure the actors would prefer that they didn't.
The tour is a pub crawl because the public house is, historically, where people would gather to talk philosophy, or politics, or just plain shit; depending, of course, on the amount of alcohol consumed. It can, therefore, be an expensive day if you are partial to eighteen straight whiskeys, like Mr Dylan Thomas. However, it is affordable even for the other unemployed writers out there if, like me, you are captivated by the idea of digging up the past to mould the future (and you stick to tap-water).
And that is what life in any city is like: one must make of the city what one makes of life. My London is inherently different from anybody else's, just as my Liverpool or my Leeds are what I see them for. This truly is the most spectacular place with something for everyone; the trick is to find that something and milk it for all it's worth before the rent-man sells your creativity for magic beans that don't turn out to even be magic at all. What a waste!
Mike.xx
I have gone through the motions with our nation's capital since moving here three months ago. I find that it is both the most creative city in the English-speaking world and yet the one most likely to oppress any glimmer of such creativity. Its exorbitant expense often makes me think twice, being currently 'between jobs', at whether I should even leave the house some days for fear of bankruptcy.
However, sometimes on those warm London afternoons when that frigid, frozen, baron bunch of hopeless accountants and clap-trap politicians haven't managed to wade in and destroy our creative temperaments, we can see London for the bohemian metropolis that it is and has been for so many years - if only one knew where to look.
Saturday afternoon was one such time, when my boyfriend and I embarked on The Literary London Pub Crawl (refer to: https://www.facebook.com/LiteraryTour?fref=ts). Pubs are one of the things I often avoid in London because I am far too tight to enjoy them. However, I have found that subject-specific walking tours are a way to see the city that one wants to see. They have walking tours for just about any interest and this means that everyone can find their own London - the city that boasts their own personality.
The tour took us around Fitzrovia and Soho describing the regular haunts of Mr Orwell, of Dylan Thomas and even Sir Paul McCartney (a personal favourite). The two actors leading the tour, one Mr Charles Dickens and the other Mrs Virginia Woolf, take upon different characters as they sift through centuries of English literary giants. However, the highlight of the tour is definitely watching the reactions of the general public, who stand aghast, as the actors spontaneously burst into song or fall, as a drunk Brendan Behan, to the floor and then struggle to get back up. The beauty of it being, of course, that it feels like everyone is involved. Even the passers-by will have comments to make, although sometimes I'm sure the actors would prefer that they didn't.
The tour is a pub crawl because the public house is, historically, where people would gather to talk philosophy, or politics, or just plain shit; depending, of course, on the amount of alcohol consumed. It can, therefore, be an expensive day if you are partial to eighteen straight whiskeys, like Mr Dylan Thomas. However, it is affordable even for the other unemployed writers out there if, like me, you are captivated by the idea of digging up the past to mould the future (and you stick to tap-water).
And that is what life in any city is like: one must make of the city what one makes of life. My London is inherently different from anybody else's, just as my Liverpool or my Leeds are what I see them for. This truly is the most spectacular place with something for everyone; the trick is to find that something and milk it for all it's worth before the rent-man sells your creativity for magic beans that don't turn out to even be magic at all. What a waste!
Mike.xx
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