Three things I learnt this week.

1) More often than not, talking/tweeting/Facebooking only exacerbate the otherwise unimportant and mundane. Try it. Try not regurgitating every quasi-thought and see what sticks, see what holds importance.

2) Moral high-horses often replace logic, empathy and truth. Whether it be scandals concerning media monarchs, or some other worldly trending topic, our aspersions are thrown onto the backs of said horses like a comfy, morally-balanced leather saddle and away we go. A stranger once told me that such reactions stem from a deep-rooted addiction to soap operas, a love of judging others & being able to publicly exercise our virtues. Hmmm.

3) When making Spaghetti Bolognaise, do not use spaghetti, opt for tagliatelle.

Location:Wapping Wall,Poplar,United Kingdom

- I write in order to avoid talking, for you see as a human, I suck at talking. 

Observations.

Several years ago, there was public debate on whether gambling should be legalised in Britain. For some it was a chance to regulate and tax a sinister yet lucrative industry, while to others, it was the last threads of society’s moral fabric beginning to loosen. As a result, there was a bid to turn the historical Alexandra Palace building into a casino, a fort filled with slot machines and forged opportunities. Local people opposed the proposals, believing that such a place would become a hub for organised crime, drug trafficking and men in well-tailored suits with overbearing cufflinks. Residents signed petitions, approached local media and with the backing of a few MPs, had meetings with planning commissions and won and Alexandra Palace remains casino free to this day. But as the locals cheered and celebrated their success with rounds of cider and letters to editors, strange phenomena began brewing in Haringey, an ever increasing amount of bookmakers started to emerge. Whether it be the classic brand of William Hill, or the culturally themed Paddy Power, these establishments began to surface in their droves, so much so that one day, I took a walk from Wood Green to Manor House, a journey of a few miles and within that space, I ran out of fingers on which to count them. 

To live in an area that is one-third fried chicken establishments and two-thirds bookmakers falls into the theorems of conspiracy theorists the world over, that corporations and councils do not have the interest of the public in the forefront of their minds, that providing a landscape of poor nutrition and presenting the idea of financial stability as a pipedream, is social engineering in its most rudimentary form and is only another way of keeping the least among us poorly fed with their retirement hats hung on the results of the 2:20 at Cheltenham. To others, this is just the make-up of any urban city, that there will be areas of deprivation but these areas are populated with individuals who are able to think, infer and make the necessary and relevant choices that will add value to their existence. That there happens to be an influx of bookmakers is clearly coincidental and to believe that a person is a product of their immediate surroundings is as insulting as it is assumptive.

However, in my slightly addled mind, I find the entire situation a deplorable state of affairs that feeds into my plump sense of apathy and disdain, for it appears that what people considered a victory, is nothing short of a well-groomed PR stunt, a moment of feigned victory for the locals and falsified defeat for those above, that has allowed a much more socially acceptable form of the proposed idea to manifest in record numbers.

Today I saw a William Hill, next to a Paddy Power, opposite a Ladbrokes and next to a fried chicken eatery, all underneath a housing estate that is meant to provide shelter to the least among us. The least among us. This is what is considered to be a suitable environment for the least among us.

Three things I learnt this week.

1) People rarely change. If they do, it is not because they possess a more robust allocation of willpower than their fellow man, it is usually because the randomness of their existence has made it impossible for them to remain as they are and so, their inner Darwinian qualities are activated in an attempt to stave off stagnation or extinction.

2) Humans, by and large, are foolish. They love to wallow in pursuits of uselessness that have somehow managed to scroll to the top of their totem pole of importance. This isn't so much a critique of individuals but more of that gloomy specter we call society, for it demands us to be frivolous hedonists, cyber consumers in the race for ever more depraved ways of entertainment and sensory pleasure.

3) Fear can be lethal. right dosage prevents us from simply wasting away in last months underwear in a sea of disused Polystyrene containers & unwashed tea cups. The right dosage can push you through unchartered waters & into new experiences. The wrong dosage can leave you in paralysis, a state that some are unable to shake. Lethal.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone (it's either I do this or bludgeon commuters to death with frowns and coffee cups).

Location:The Den.

Three things I learnt this week.

1) You know you are entering the later stages of you life when you start to talk about your best years in the past tense. There is nothing wrong with a little romanticism of the past but to constantly speak in the past tense, to constantly associate your life with events and people of the past can be a worrying trend. Life, unlike fashion is not cyclical, in fact, it may just be the most linear and tangible idea we humans grasp from an early age. To ignore, postpone or simply develop ostrich behavioural tendencies towards the now and future nows is an understandable set of actions but I cannot help but wonder how much value it adds to one's existence.

2) Never underestimate the human capacity for suffrage. I am not talking about the monumental levels of suffrage that fills history books, I am indeed referring to the bite size packs of suffrage we endure on a daily basis, the annoying pangs of a life unfulfilled, or the gripes of repression and indifference.


3) Watching a woman you are smitten with dance, observing the hypnotic sleekness of her lines and curves, the passion and intensity that fills her eyes and smile, the controlled liberation of her limbs and mind, is by far one of the greatest pleasures of this life.

190427112059 (the end of his novella).

"..and with that, he came to realise that people, be they friends, family, strangers or colleagues, cared not for what he created. Such was the liberation that accompanied this thought, that he smiled, the gentle beam that only a man at peace could either produce or understand. No longer would he bound by societal obligations and human shortcomings. True freedom had presented itself to The Gilt Kid."

2) The rituals of the damned.

"At what point did you decide, actually conclude, that self harm was an inevitability?"

She scoffed, ever so slightly so that the man asking her questions didnt think she was entirely crazy.

"To be frank, I don't think it was a decision that I made, with intent and purpose. It was just..."

Her pause had him clinging with intrigue.

"It's like a tap. I was wound way too tight and the harm, well I suppose it was a huge release, literally being turned towards... freedom and...release."

He was pleased with her response. His canine like nodding and note scribbling confirmed it. She too was slightly pleased with herself. Remembering such a disingenuous response, word for word and being able to deliver the lines with guile and poise was an achievement. Thank god for daytime TV she thought, so many raw emotions captured on film, it was always handy to draw on others for inspiration.


"I think now Dr Gruisin," she continued, "its about finding a balance, being able to let my emotions pour out in a timely and appropriate manner." She took a deep breathe and conjured a smile, an illusive and pensive smile. "Deep breathe..." she whispered to herself. "No more floods Dr Gruisin... more floods."


"That sounds like a great place to end today's session" he responded as he rose from his chair and looked her square in the eyes. "You are making fantastic progress. Truly, you are." Although his words were positive in nature and intonation, his face told a different story. His muted expressions added a touch of blandness to his words. She saw it and somehow, she took great pleasure in this. He shuffled around his leather chair and opened the door for her.

"I'll schedule next week with Sophia before I leave Dr Gruisin." she called, now standing at the doorway to his office.

"You do that" he responded. "Take care."

She stated at him, rather past him, into his cramped office, his walls decorated with certificates and plaques, doing an amicable job to hide some of that horrendous torpe pain.

"Thanks again Dr Gruisin" she said and with that, she closed the door.

As she strolled down the windowless corridor, she wondered how many times Dr Gruisin had contemplated taking his own life, how many times he had wanted to over prescribe himself some drug or another. She didn't believe his psychobabble and she very much doubted that he did either. But it was all a game and a business, telling people what they wanted to hear, receiving medicinal absolution from a person with very little knowledge of indulgence and despair, the driving force of those referred to psychotherapy. Luckily for her, the world was had become one big Dr Gruisin session, with people willing to divulge their inner self in return for a pair of ears and a captive audience, a necessary tool for her at this junction in her life.

"Afternoon Sophia. Can I book for the same time next week?"

"Of course. I'll put it in the book."  As she watched Sophia scribble down the appointment, she realised that having to undergo therapy was not such a hideous ideal. After all, it was either this, or a custodial sentence and despite what Dr Gruisin may have thought, she very much had her wits about her.










- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Mothering Sunday

Mothering Sunday. Like most public days of celebration, I know little of its origin but a day when society chooses to stop and thank the matriarchs, is a gesture that has always resonated well with me.

I remember I asked my mother once about the meaning of Mothering Sunday and why there was no "Children's Sunday" or "Toddler Tuesday". Hastily, she replied that everyday was "Children's day". Me, being the obnoxious individual that I am, then demanded a present every day, nothing big, but a present nonetheless, everyday, to which she responded that "every day is for children because they receive day in day out, food, clothing, shelter, the works."

Of course I saw this as a mountainous pile of incomprehensible adult reasoning but over the years, I have mused on her conclusion and have found some truth in her words. Mothers spend a great deal of their lives raising their young, only for their young, to out grow them, create worlds for themselves and eventually leave - it's a tripe system best but it is part of our nature

Ideally, we would display great affection and respect on a daily basis, to the woman who carried us and who, relatively, is the closet thing we have to any sort of God on this earth, but if we take one day of the year to celebrate the strength, courage and selflessness of Mothers, than with that, I can find some justice.