Kim-Leng

We Live To Learn How To Love

2010-10-27T22:22:00.001+01:00

We live to learn how to love

through squinted eyes,

letters form blurred lines

that pain to look you in the face.

Daring to say it's not been put to waste --

this momentous history, we're writing

ongoing interchanges of post-haste

words, to slip, and to keep falling

into this perpetual motion that's only just dawning

on what love really is;

The rising sun of the East

shows the Orient's finest blossoming heart beats

drop, fall and flow.

But only after mastering the art of letting go.

Cuts - This makes me sick to the stomach

2010-10-24T19:45:00.004+01:00

Having been brought up in two different countries, there is definitely a massive contrast in care in society, obviously with it being a cultural thing. I've always been so grateful for how Britain has continuously maintained a support system for the disabled, elderly, and the mentally and physically ill, having services there which thousands benefit from. In Malaysia, it's all about your family and dealing with things together; when someone in your family is disabled then you do all you can to look after them in your own home. My mother's sister is disabled and even with her own upbringing on growing up on an old bamboo estate, all the children in the family had to leave home and stay with cousins and aunties so that she could be looked after and get the attention she needed. That is how it's always been for my family in Malaysia, my grandmother dedicated her life to looking after her until my grandmother died, and the responsibility was passed down to my mother's youngest sister to look after her, whilst my mother's eldest sister comes by every day to help. For over 40 years it's been this way, not just with my Aunty but with all other members of my family out there; your family are your carers and if you can afford a maid, then the maid will help look after them. You don't get state benefits. They also don't believe in having mental health support out there either, so no counsellors, therapists, psychiatrists are there to help through things, and don't even get me started on any form of a free public health service.

Over in England, the big bad financial cuts have been made and they've most definitely made sure that absolutely every one has been impacted by this. As a Freelancer, Student and Co-Director of a Creative Arts Therapy organisation, I'm pretty much screwed to oblivion thanks to this lovely government. I spent today researching the impact on philanthropists funding the Arts and how much reliance will be placed on their donations and acts of good-will. Whilst I was looking, I began to get somewhat sidetracked and found this article written in the Guardian newspaper about how the disabled have been greatly affected. Reading this article practically made my stomach turn; I have moderate to severe asthma, which is classified on paper as a 'long-term illness and unseen disability'. I've experienced losing my job due to my asthma, and I've also experienced life in a wheelchair and/or bed ridden due to it. Asthmatics have to fork out for our own life-saving medication which the government refuse to make free on prescription, but they're also cutting all funding for anyone on Employment Support Allowance and any benefits that are there to help disabled people living in care homes. Their reasoning for this was for the government to save £135 million, by cutting the mobility funding that helps disabled people in residential care get out of their homes to see their family, friends or to get to the shops.

I've no idea if this country is regressing or what, if anything it's definitely making me understand how much we rely on what the state gives us for free. But then again, it's a cultural ideology which leads to how we deal with things; as we have aids open to the public, we of course apply heavy reliance upon this in order to 'function' in our daily lives. Eradicating the funding and subsequent aids will inevitably cause detrimental effects on the thousands (380,000 in the case of disabled people living in care homes). If anything, it leaves me feeling exasperated and fearful about the future. I try to do as much humanitarian work as I can, working with the elderly and with children -- these cuts are going to push agencies to ask for as much volunteering and philanthropic help as possible. The government's cuts on two things I feel incredibly passionate for; Arts and Disability, have only provided me with even more drive to do what I do, and bring as much help as I can to those who need it.

Guys, What's Doing Your Head In?

2010-04-12T23:22:00.003+01:00

CALM is a charity aimed to help raise awareness of suicide amongst men. Research suggests that those that fall into the 15–35 year old age bracket are at risk of falling prey to suicide. Suicide is the biggest killer of men aged 15-34 in the UK averaging out at about 3 deaths a day. We want fewer deaths. We want to get the message out that Being silent isn't being strong! It's stronger to get help in hard times.
If you need to talk to someone you can call the CALM Helpline on 0800 58 58 58 (Open: Sat to Tues: 5pm til Midnight).
Even if you are a woman, you can still call the number. They are open to anyone.

MEN: It's incredibly difficult to confront things that you're scared of; things that have been milling around in your head for days, weeks, months, perhaps even years. Stuff that you've analysed down to the nth so much that you've written off almost every single chance of ever talking to someone about it, thinking that your friends or family will just laugh at you. Say you're an idiot or that you're nuts. How all you want is that person to just say, "Actually, it's okay. You're not an idiot, you're not mental, you're actually going to be okay."

We've all been there for our friends or family at some point, helped them get through things that have been an intense struggle for them. Sometimes, people have done things for others without even realising how much of an impact they're having on the other person's life. For example, I never ask anyone to go to the hospital with me because I'm so used to dealing with it alone, but when someone does come, or I've bumped into someone on the street afterwards, it's the biggest relief to just see someone smile at me or give me the warmest hug. We don't even have to talk about what's happened or how I feel, it's just their presence and their relaxing essence. It could even just be a stranger, and it immediately calms me and stops my mind from buzzing with fear of the past X amount of hours of being in a scary place.

When we're scared, we automatically seek comfort in things or we get on the defensive out of fear of getting hurt even more. It's being the defensive side of self-preservation which can in fact turn out to being the most destructive. Our minds take us on these crazy mental journeys of paranoia and over analysing everything, especially when you find yourself on wikipedia, typing in every symptom of something you fear you may have. But the internet can be quite useful when it comes to situations like these:

The Campaign Against Living Miserably fight hard to save the male. The campaign was launched as a pilot by the Dept of Health in Manchester on Dec 15th 1997, and then rolled to Merseyside, Cumbria and later Luton & Bedfordshire. In 2004 the Dept of Health announced the end of the pilot. However, those involved on the ground felt it was important the line was continued, and c.a.l.m. the charity was launched March 31st 2006 with ads on MTV and posters and billboards provided by JCDecaux, Clear Channel and Viacom across England in April and May 2006.

Working with people from the music, sport and club scenes, c.a.l.m. encourages young men to 'open up' and sort out their problems. c.a.l.m. has a strong and very real presence through club flyers, posters, beermats, gigs and in the media.

There are many reasons why young men need a campaign like c.a.l.m.. Everyone has their own life, with different interests, circumstances, pressures and problems. But men aren't supposed to talk about stuff, so it can be hard to know where or who to go for help when life gets on top of them.

There is pressure on men to deal with problems on their own. To be strong and silent. It can be hard to talk about personal things - especially with family or friends - and things that start off as little niggles can easily grow into big issues that get in the way of life.

The important thing to remember is that if you are feeling down, isolated or generally pissed off, you are not alone. It happens to everyone at some time in their lives. But you have to deal with it, otherwise will become overwhelming.

CALM's helpline is free if you call on a landline - it doesn't show up on landline phone bills. It's also confidential and anonymous. Your call will be answered by trained advisors, who can help you work through your problems and start to sort things out. They can give you information about places to go locally to get more help. Alternatively, if you live outside the CALMzones, they can give you details of nationally available services instead.

Even if you know of someone who maybe having difficulties and believe they need extra support or to just be pointed in the right direction, the website for CALM is a great help and also gives support for those who are friends of those in need.

The main point is that Being silent ISN'T being strong, that talking about things can and will help; it's very easy to get sucked into your own thoughts and when moments get increasingly desperate, suicide often comes to being the permanent solution to a temporary problem.

The Frozen Homeless

2010-02-09T00:51:00.001Z

Walking down the path near where my parents live in Kent, you see nothing but pristine gardens, sparkling as the sunlight reflects off the snow and sends the avenue into a glistening world of wonderment. The town is pretty quiet apart from rush hour when everyone commutes to pick up their children from school, or are heading back from work. Spending my schooling years in that town was quite frustrating due to a lack of anything to do to keep us entertained, and a lot of my friends lived in other villages which made it hard to hang-out and do things together, but regardless, I never really saw many homeless people around our area. Even in surrounding towns, seeing anyone sleeping on the streets was quite a rare sight; even when growing up and being in Malaysia, there are so many people there that doze in the street along the sidewalk or in doorways that you can't tell if they're homeless or not. So the aspect of living out on the streets never really hit me that hard... Well, not until recently. Last Summer I watched a BBC documentary about homelessness in London where celebreties lived on the streets whilst each being paired with a homeless person. I came to realise I had met and spoken to a lot of the homeless people who had featured in the documentary, and felt incredibly grateful to have taken the time to get to know them.

We've all experienced being so cold that we can't feel our faces, or realise that snot's been running down our chin for the past half an hour because we're too numb to feel it. And even when we've realised how silly we must've looked to other people, we secretly embrace the embarrassment because it heats our bodies up for a few seconds or so. Plus I'm sure we've all experienced the horrific discovery of having no gas during the Winter months, so you spend hours praying for heating and hot water; using the heaters on the bus to warm yourself up with and buying piping hot drinks and putting your face over them just so you can feel some heat. Or perhaps dancing around the automatic hand dryers to continuously keep your hands/face/body warm before someone gets too suspicious and asks you to move away. I remember feeling so cold once, I would go to work and deliberately stand under the boiling hot light display just so I could warm myself up and experienced instances where the customers thought I was a mannequin. Then comes the day, lo-and-behold, the boiler decides to work. The complete and utter relief and happiness that rushes through you when you stand in that shower and hot water finally comes out. You spend a good ten minutes shouting "THANK YOU GOD!" even though you may not believe in one.

Today on the Guardian News, I read this:

Extreme weather warning as Britain braces for snowstorms
Blizzards and up to 15cm of snow expected as arctic temperatures make winter coldest for 13 years
Britain is standing by for more icy weather tonight as snowstorms move in from the North Sea where they have been gathering since early this morning.Arctic temperatures will accompany a front that looks certain to make this winter the coldest for 13 years.
The Met Office said it was classifying tomorrow's expected snowfall as an "extreme weather event". The warning covers the south-east of England, including London.
"This is likely to be the heaviest and most widespread snowfall across England since January 2003," Tom Defty, the head of forecasting operations at MetService, said.
"Parts of south-east England, including London and eastern England, will see anywhere from 10cm [4in] to 15cm [of snow], and perhaps above 20cm over the higher ground."
.... Forecasters are predicting average wind speeds of between 25 and 30mph, with much fiercer gusts. Gale force strengths could be reached as the storms move over warmer land and gather pace.People across the country were warned to wrap up warm and avoid unnecessary journeys.
Stephen Davenport, of the MeteoGroup forecasting group, said: "In places, it will feel several degrees below because of wind chill."
The AA's spokesman Andy Taylor said: "Don't treat your car as an overcoat. If you break down you are suddenly vulnerable to the weather.
"That especially applies if you are on a motorway, where safety advice is to get out of the car and wait behind the barrier. Unless you have extra clothes, you really could be flirting with hypothermia."

So a few days ago I was walking to Waterloo station with my boyfriend. It was about 9:30 in the evening and we were talking about a man called Joseph we had met in December last year who has a rug with poems written on different coloured paper laying on it. Around the rug he has candles, and a sign saying "Poetry Recitals", and he waits for someone to ask him to recite a poem. The idea is so beautiful; he is an incredibly intelligent and lively man with whispy grey hair tied back and a warm posh voice that with every word he says, he turns it into a fairy tale and traps you in with him. So whilst we were walking, I spotted the distant flicker of his candles and was so happy to see Joseph there, sat with his head leaning on his hands not realising we'd come to visit him. He's always in the same spot when it's not raining: outside Embankment tube along Villiers Street, so if you ever come across him I seriously recommend you talk to him. I immediately asked if he wanted something hot to drink, to which he insisted he was fine and instead went on to tell us stories dating back centuries, and also recited some of his poetry to us.

But it was whilst listening to him that I began wondering where he goes at night and whether or not he was homeless. He seemed well-kept, but I also knew he was out there everyday until the stupidly late hours of the night, but then again, I could be completely wrong. The thought just grew and grew, given that it's so cold and the snow was coming I just became increasingly bothered by not only the thought of him possibly living out in the streets in the freezing cold, but all the other hundreds who have to do the same.

Continuing our walk to Waterloo and over the bridge practically confirmed this; a man was huddled in only a blanket on Waterloo bridge. He was shivering so much and his clothes looked thin, people were giving him change to get hot drinks, and my boyfriend began unzipping his jacket. The homeless man and I watched him in disbelief as he took it off and folded it over the guy's lap and said "I just got a new jacket so you have this. Do whatever you want with it, wear it, sell it, but just do something that'll keep you warm." The both of us were in awe, the homeless man (I wish I knew his name as this whole 'homeless man' labelling really just feels wrong) was so grateful and I was so happy that I'd witnessed a spontaneous act of kindness and that both of them benefitted from it. That perhaps this guy would be saved from hypothermia for a night and more to come, hopefully.

A few days passed and BT decided to send me yet another bill to remind me about how truly diabolical they are at being a business, managing, numeracy, logic and general customer service/satisfaction that I had a bit of a negative hour or so. I'm always a very happy-go-lucky type person who takes smiling and laughter as a way of dealing with life's dark sense of humour, but BT like to kill this upbeat side of me sometimes. Anyway, when that phase disappeared and the reminder of my ongoing illness made its comeupance, I almost chose to curl up in bed again to be warm and try to go to the Land of Nod but decided against it. Instead, I got on the bus and headed into Central.

I saw a homeless man sitting along The Strand outside McDonalds curled up in his sleeping bag. He wasn't even begging, it was a blizzard at the time, and the cold was even hurting me so much that I couldn't hold anything in my hands as it was so painful. He was hunched over a little book, completely motionless. A few nights before, I had come out of Waterloo station and saw two men squeezed between the wall and the back of two ticket dispensors -- I don't know how they even managed to fit down there, but they were huddled there trying to shelter themselves. On The Strand, looking around me, it killed me seeing all these people going about their business; thing is, they were all beautifully dressed, umbrellas, warm coats, hot drinks, it felt wrong that another human being was just curled up on the floor in a snow storm just not moving and being ignored by other human beings who could obviously see him but did nothing to help. I was on my way to get ingrediants for a meal I was going to cook my flat mate, I was heading to M&S, now the fact that's such an expensive posh nosh supermarket to buy food from I figured I'd be just as bad to walk past him. I seriously wouldn't be able to live with myself regardless I was heading there or not, but it merely amplified it.

I kneeled down in front of him and started talking to him, his head was still lowered and he gradually looked up at me with the most beautiful bright blue eyes. I asked if I could get him anything warm to eat or drink. He asked for a coffee, kept saying he was so thankful. I ran back with one from Cafe Nero, knelt down in front of him again, did my trademark bow (for those of you who know me, you'd understand!) and handed it over to him, holding onto his hand. Amidst shock that someone was actually giving him physical contact as well as buying him a drink, he kept saying thank you over and over again.

The weather report I mentioned earlier states about the warnings to people with cars, houses, thick clothes, to not go outside and if they do; they should wrap up warm. But what about those that are already out there? Destined for hypothermia are they? It bothers me becuase I don't have all the money in the world for me to rectify the situation, if I could, I'd rescue them all and help them, but I evidently can't do that.

Sometimes I feel like my head's in a Walt Disney film where I live by unrealistic expectations of happiness and utopic scenarios. If only.

DR's, Playgrounds and Collaborative Experiments

2009-12-08T22:21:00.001Z

So here it is: the inside of a Doctor's waiting room at 10AM, in a small town in Kent. Given my disease, I've done my fair share of Dr's surgery global tours by now, but coming to this particular one is incredibly surreal. Walking up the little hill to the front door of the surgery already gave me a colourful montage of memories that reeled through my mind like a flip-book. The door was as heavy as it was when I first pushed it at the age of 3, the smell was incredibly similar to that of my past Grandparent's garden shed, and the awkward silent atmosphere of the waiting room lingered heavily like a thick fog of anxious cold sweat. The only new addition to the vacinity was the touch-screen TFT display to book yourself into the surgery; un-emotional robotic staff who looked like they were working for Death himself made me think of my mother always calling them the Gestappo when I was younger. I guess they hadn't changed either.

All of which, I refused to phase me. I walked in, smiling, making light of the situation, entered the echoing 70's waiting room and laughed at the new addition of a PacMan dot-matrix animation marqueeing across a light panel that calls your name when you're due for your appointment. When I was little, there used to be a corner dedicated to children's toys, and towers of old magazines and/or Reader's Digest that fermented and became dog-eared. All of which had been cleared to leave an empty space to emphasise the level of social awkwardness Doctor's surgeries so often ooze; The space between one side of the room to the other may only be three paces, yet it feels like half a mile. A couple sat by a window in silence, nervously staring at their own shoes, which caused me to begin joking with my mother about menial things that I knew would make her laugh with me. Our stereotypical Chinese loud laughter and subcequent amplified talking, caused the couple to begin talking to each other and it no longer felt like God's waiting room.

Eventually I was called in to see the Doctor, who sat with me and we discussed the measures to be taken to go ahead with further tests. As I said before, I've seen so many doctors the past two years that I've lost count, but this particular one actually took out a body chart and pointed to all the parts of the anatomy and gave me a visual explanation. It was amazing. I wish the doctor's I'd seen before for all my other creepy tests had done the same as him. The conclusion was to send me back up to London for another review and a meeting over what should be done with my dysfunctional anatomy; he listed off a load of tests he wanted to run if I had been his patient (I'm currently in residence so am not actually allowed to be treated by anyone in Kent) which sparked off a load of unnerved alarm bells, but I nodded, smiled and we went ahead with booking me in and sending me back to London.

I left the Surgery feeling a bit odd and not really looking forward to experiencing the tests, so I decided to lose myself in a world of Photography and Music production. I took some shots of a local park I had always chosen to avoid when I was a kid due to the amount of kids who would get drunk in there, have fun with drugs and knives, and generally be the kinds of people who chase you on their bikes. The park had a dark stigma on it, so I decided to walk in and take some photographs of the "new" playground the council had built for the children in the neighbourhood.

One word: Fail.

The playground was definitely a hell of a lot better than what was once there when I was little, but the new version was graffitied over with people's mobile numbers to "call for sex", followed by a load of differing phalic scrawls and people's names. Just the kind of place you'd let your children play in. I decided to take a mental note of this and turn it into a possible side-project to photograph empty children's playgrounds and document the disturbing vandalism. But then again, doing something like that would make me feel like I work for the council, or at least an angry activist protesting against the ASBO generation.

With that depressing thought in mind, I headed back to the music studio and mastered the EP I had initially decided to send to my Director for January, but ended up making a few copies and sent them to some unsuspecting friends of mine as an experiment to see what they would do when they heard it. After hearing three different responses from those who had received it, I realised I could turn this into something even bigger, so today, acclaimed Photographer, Bettina Von Zwehl gave me a call and we discussed her work as well as my own, and my ideas for my current personal project. We decided that I send her the EP and she creates her own response to the music; be it written or photographic in media. The idea being that the individual is listening to something that is entirely improvised and packed with emotion and feeling, which they then reflect within their own artistic response.

(And now, the part YOU can be part of....)

I'm now inviting anyone who would like to participate in this experiment; you don't even have to be an Artist, as long as you take 30 minutes of your time to listen to a CD and then respond in any way you want. I've been very lucky to have had a number of people from all different vocational backgrounds who are interested in taking part, so CD's will be sent to them soon -- one particular participant is not only himself, but his entire family. This is something I'd love to have everyone engaging in, so even if you think your friend, mum, dad, even your little sister would be up for listening to perhaps just one track and respond to it, please, get involved!

For all those who are up for it, email me at: anita.kim.leng@gmail.com

Email me if you have any questions or if you just want to have something to do, and I look forward to hearing from you.

Orchids, Hope and Work

2009-10-29T14:49:00.002Z

Banksy had it right. You know when you have those days/weeks, perhaps even months, where it feels like everything is falling apart around you and bad luck is stalking you like the tax collector? Then suddenly there's a moment of clarity; where life decides to throw in a spontaneous act of kindness and show you there is hope. I know this is making me sound like a religious preacher, or having some kind of hippy-esque revelation, but since being diagnosed with my illness it's completely transformed my way of thinking. It seems to have made me a lot more sensitive to the subtle things in life that can be easily transformed into a metaphore if a poet thought about it. For example, a beautiful orchid plant was bought for me when I first met someone who has dramatically changed my life for the better. Their reasoning for buying the orchid plant was that it lives without hardly any food, yet remains one of the most beautiful flowers. It blossomed and seemed to synchronise itself with everything that was happening in my life at the time, until I went back home to Malaysia and when I returned, I discovered it was gradually clawing its way out the livingroom window, wilting. All the petals had dropped and the only essence of life that remained was a closed bud at the top of the stem which had refused to open since it was given to me. Panic stricken, I gave it some love, watered it, read it bed-time stories and did everything maternally possible [the bed-time story part may or may not be true] as all I could think about was how the life of something had so much reflection upon my life. Since that desperate date, the bud has blossomed into a statement of an orchid flower, proudly trying to escape my house as opposed to desperately [see photo]. Now every time I look at it, it actually gives me hope. Something so simple...

So I'm basing my work on this; the hope, the life we live in, the notion that it's easy to forget how beautiful life is because we coat it with so much shit. Especially when you live in the city and are surrounded by a suffocating grey concrete environment, everyone's feeling the hellish burn of the credit crunch and the continuous reminder of how we're all killing the Earth. Chuck Palahniuk wrote:

"It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace."

It's interesting to see what things make people feel peace, and like I mentioned before -- the spontaneous acts of kindness and/or the subtle beauty in life -- are what brings peace to me. Also the sounds in our lives, the atmosphere, the things we hear have a great impact upon our general being and mindset. As I've been working heavily with sound production the past few weeks, and will continue to do so over the next few months, I have noticed how much of an affect it can make on the emotions of an individual and the physical implications are amazing. For instance, when you hear a peace of music that sends a charge down your spine, causing goosebumps and the hairs on your skin to stand in up in ovation -- to think, to feel and to know that this physical reaction is caused by a sensative response to the sounds you're engaging in is (to me) fascinating. How music/sound can have this impact upon us more than words ever could (albeit, there are some people out there who can actually make this reaction with words too and, in my eyes, they are great masters). As Henry Wadsworth Longfellow said, "Music is the universal language of mankind" and this is something I've been experimenting with in conjunction with lens based media.

I'm experimenting with this notion of emotive response to the synchronisation of improvised music and the natural element of photographic/filmed footage. The natural element being the subject featured.

The idea began when I was 16 years old, and I made my first stop-motion film to the guitar playing of the wonderfully happy man that is Elliott Smith. The film was based on the word "Isolation" and a series of photographic responses that conveyed differing subjects being isolated, creating a narrative that brought all these people together. Funnily enough, it was created at a time where the school had no photographic facilities and no software to work with, and I was also photographing people within the school who had fallen out with each other and often went through isolating periods of only indulging in work and rarely ever socialising (plus the school was heavily academic so Art was frowned upon, as was a social life). The work got me a place at Central Saint Martins, but as I was too young, I couldn't attend the university nor could I afford to move to London.

My second attempt was when I moved to London and created a stop-motion film dedicated to the house I lived in and the things we all got up to behind closed doors. Sadly the music used is under copyright so it couldn't be published, but I'm working on it! The third attempt was a film entiteld "Memo" which was my first stop-motion that infused my own improvised piano piece as well as spoken word. It was also the first film I had made as a direct expression to coping with my disease, with the wonderful mentoring of artist, Thomas Haywood. The feedback I received for this film came from all over the world in all different variations of communication. I had phonecalls, text messages, emails, facebook messages, meetings with other artists who told me their thoughts and feelings about the piece and how it had impacted them somehow. I then returned to my parents' place to re-record the piano piece but could no longer recreate anything like it. I had no idea what keys I was pushing, no idea what mentality I was in, it was just completely disjointed to how I played the day I was recording -- plus, I'd no idea how I'd even thought it up in the first place. Considering I can't write or read musc, there was no way I could play it, let alone remember it, key for key. Instead, I decided to create other pieces; one of which was my own take on Einaudi's "Due Tramonti" and another was a weird Chinese sounding melody that was mostly based on hitting a load of black keys that felt right.

These piano pieces sat untouched, collecting dust for a while with only one piece being sent to a few musically inclined friends of mine to get their take on it, but I'm now incorporating them within my stop-motion and film pieces. Creating a short film and then chosing the right piece completely transforms the context of the film and the narrative/message you want to convey. So I'm now on some kind of weird experimental mission to see how people feel when they watch these short films, and how the music also effects them. It's got to the point where I'm practically living, breathing and now even having nightmares about all this kind of work -- I managed to sleep for the first time since Saturday night and woke myself up from dreaming about taking photographs of a cinematic dance production, and my meter reader broke. I either woke up from boring myself to death, or from the sheer panic of how expensive it'd be to replace a light meter sensor for a DSLR. This concerns me.

Thankfully my break away from Photography will be a great few hours dedicated to musical loving at PoeJazzi in Camden's Proud Galleries on Monday evening. I'll be heading straight from a photoshoot tour of the coast of Kent with a make-up production team I often collaborate with, so it'll be so nice to just relax and enjoy time with music and friends. Plus, I'm designated door lady. Woop woop!

So if you've read this far, you deserve an award. So come here:

Benin City stop-motion film

2009-10-27T12:42:00.000Z

I've been up working away as usual on a couple of projects. This here is an experiment of stop-motion photography for the Afro-funk band, Benin City. It's a work in progress.

Sunrise number 310 and counting...

2009-10-26T07:14:00.002Z

I see a lot of these things...

Right now it's 6:30am and I'm sitting in my room listening to some kind of trippy remix version of a song by a French group called 'Air'. I've been listening to them since about 6pm yesterday; a good solid 12 hours, whilst I've been attempting to get my work sorted and trying to make sense of a collection of essays written by Vilem Flusser.

I don't come on here often, mainly due to the fact that I've got a backlog of writings that I keep in log books and rarely ever write up and post on the t'interwebby for the main purpose of it being a bit too much of an insight of this life of mine. Albeit, given that I am a Freelancer, I'm often moving around the country/world and meet some interesting characters and have a couple of weird revelations of my own, so in that sense, it'd be a good thing to write up but I think I'd only bore myself. My attention span is incredibly shit. Although on reading through my numerous logs of things I've written down, it actually makes for quite interesting reading. Mainly because everything is written on tiny little notebooks and are often summarised in short sentences whilst I'm on the go so I can keep track of what I'm doing or what I've seen/thought. Sometimes I lose all inhabitions and write a massive chunk that'll go on for about 5 pages, but I'm pretty sure I can filter that junk out when it comes to writing it up for here.

So here goes nothing. The actual weird inner monologues that I write down and the numerous places I've been. So, I'll start backwards: To today. Given that it's not even 7am yet there's not much to say apart from my utter bemusement over whether or not I should hate Vilem Flusser for being such an unreliable Philosopher and showing absolutely no evidence for anything he accounted for, apart from the odd bracket or two of some kind of time period or late Philosopher who he believed to be of significance. But anyway, that's another story altogether. Throughout that time, I've been violently ill throughout the night, you'll come to see this is a frequent occurance within my life and has been for a couple of years now. I don't sleep a lot because of it... Other times, I just don't sleep. Not an issue, means I get work done.

The sky is pink right now. It's 6:44am. Last Friday morning I awoke to one of the most beautiful sunrises I've ever seen. I was out in Somerset and had an impromptu stay with a close friend of mine, who happened to live in the arse-end of nowhere, in a beautiful house surrounded by green pastures, lakes, swans and cows. To be awoken by the sound of a cow mooing is enough to make me smile! We'd spent the previous night in Bristol, watching the famous composer and pianist, Ludovico Einaudi perform -- one of the biggest influences within my life. One of the final peices he played was called Due Tramonti ("Two Sunsets") which is a piano duet with a cello which already had me in floods of tears as soon as he hit the first key. Ol' Ludo played for hours, adament on having a standing ovation that I missed the last train home so took a nice, dark, disturbing yet hilarious drive back to my friends' house who'd already come prepared with his own stash of food in the side panel of the car door. By the time we hit the hay at 2:30am, we both woke up whilst dawn was breaking to the brilliant stereotypical Cantonese rapore of "Nei ho ma?!" (how are you?!) to his reply of "Nei hooo!" before he fell asleep again. I sat up in bed to watch the beautiful dark blue starry sky gradient to a dusky pink along the horizon which gradually grew to a firey orange, then pale blue as the sun rose above the fields. Due Tramonti was stuck in my head, as was a thumping headache but I didn't care, because for one of the first times in the history of sleeping in beds:
a) I had actually slept.
b) My once ice cold feet were completely warm and toasty.
This is coming from an insomniac who has the shittest circulation that I wear jumpers back home in Malaysia and parts me of turn blue or generally stop working whenever I'm in England. For me, my warm anatomy was a miracle. Hell, even on the bus journey from Wells into Bristol, the whole thing was 45 minutes of sheer natural harmony, as horses ran through the fields that lead out into the distance to reveal even more hilly fields and woodlands with the sun dancing on the trees. I'd grown quite attached to the place already, and felt it even more so by the time I arrived back in London Paddington where the fresh, crisp air was replaced by exhaust fumes, and the vast expanse of the Green Belt was now a concrete jungle that limited the extent of my view to about 10 metres. Rubbish. Everyone running to get somewhere that caused me to want to run to get home. Chain reaction of rushing, avoiding eye contact with everyone and the wonderful tinny ambiance of a teenager's mobile phone music held up to his ear whilst his friend raps with him. Not forgetting the wonderful aroma of some Morleys Chicken left in a box that's been shoved down the side of your seat. A nice, "welcome back".

Wow I can't wait to leave this city.

Anyway, backlog write-up of notes begins now....

Memo Log

2009-09-26T16:00:00.000+01:00

4pm
@ Gurney Plaza after eating a handful of sorbet and visiting Ah-Ee. Bed ridden she said I have beautiful eyes. I held her hand and got my Mum to translate to her. I told her she was very beautiful for her age, skin was soft and that she’s as strong as an Ox for going up the stairs @ night to bed. A kid just rode past me with complete joy driving one of those fisherprice car things as his dad pushes him along. I lost my mum in Padini along with my tolerance of terrible clothes and florescent lights. The European models for Padini are all questionable, plastic Arians, I’m surprised Malaysia haven’t questioned this. News in the paper lambasted a Hong Kongnese singer born in Malaysia for being drunk and disorderly and starting a fight in the street -- media ensured he apologised to all his fans on 2nd page news coverage. Yet British media would show this in a magazine as celeb gossip of what they’re doing these days. Respect here is better – not shown what celebs are doing/behaving stupidly and are made to apologise – shows photo of celeb bowing out of respect.

I’m sitting in front of a toy kiosk and a hair accessory one. I’m paranoid I’m going to get mugged/pick-pocketed. No watch/clock to go by since iPhone got stolen so I’ve lost all sense of time. I spent ages thinking it was 2pm when it was actually 6pm. This wooden bench hurts my boney arse. Butt. Bum. Rear. Be-hind. Whatever. I’ve been joined by two teenagers which is making me wonder if my mum knows where I am. And if these tweens are as bored as I am. Lord knows why I even attempted bonding in conversation with **** over how shopping is hellish. Very un-Buddhist of me but what an arse-crack.

Memo Log

2009-09-24T15:00:00.000+01:00

01:30
iPhone stolen. Arg. I’m trying to console myself that it could be worse and not to be angry. Now is the time my Buddhist attributes are put to test. It’s gone midnight, we’re waiting for **** to turn up. I’m waiting to fall asleep. So tired. Just let me sleep! Got a crappy train journey today where I shall be continuing my worry over what accounts the person can hack into and download bullshit to my iPhone. Fuckers.

15:00
@ KLCC train station waiting for my delayed train to Taiping. There’s no notice board announcing train departures etc, have to listen to a Malay screaming on the tannoy. A group of Australians sit opposite me, grandparents are white, kids are weird mix. Odd looking. Beautiful kinda odd. Frieda Kahlo kinda odd – beautiful. Oxymoron. Their Dad (?) is Chinese. Daughter is a rosy pink, sucks her thumb, lanky and curls up in contortionist ways. Must be a Caucasian thing. If I was a model-scout I would be totally insisting this child becomes a model. I feel like I’m going fucking mental… As usual.

BREATHE IN. BIG SIGH. LET GO. ACCEPT IT.

My dog will be put down. Pretty sure almost every member of my immediate family’s about to have a nervous break down. I certainly will when I see the bills I need to pay.

Memo Log

2009-09-22T14:20:00.000+01:00

@ Chili’s in Kuala Lumpur. Next to me is a huge table of Chinese Malaysians eating. The people sitting closest to me are speaking in English to each other – so rare to hear that. Common conversation topics are health… food.. medicine… health… I rinse through mango juice like anything. I’m going to find being in the UK so weird. So damn cold! Must stock up on Chubba Chubs lollies. Mmmyum. “What you don’t try, you don’t know lah!” A woman approaches me putting a card booklet on the table asking for donation I think it’s for Asthma for kids. Sorry lah… God I want long hair back…

Memo Log

2009-09-21T08:45:00.000+01:00

“First Day of Spring” sunrise over Taiping. Indian dude rummages through his plastic bags of food, gets up and leaves. A white couple are asleep @ the back of the carriage; regardless he looks nothing like **** he reminds me of him. On the brain. Money worries – ‘everywhere you go it’s the same crime, money worries.’ I feel like a God damn gap year student. Indian guy’s back, aimlessly wandering around, lifting up the black plastic of the arm rests. Man must be bored out of his mind. Jesus. Praise Allah. New plan: Revert to 2008 of Australia.

Memo Log

2009-09-20T16:30:00.000+01:00

I’m sitting in the livingroom at Amah’s house watching a Korean film with Aunty Lian. She snuck into my room last night to watch The Motorcycle Diaries – considering the entire thing was in Spanish, she did quite well. I just got back from going to central with *** and *** to a sushi bento place and spent the past 3 hours yacking about Buddhism and *** etc. Man Korean films are so beautiful. I’ve been glued to this film for the past 30 mins. It’s strangely very good. Parents have son kidnapped, son is remarkably fat and strangely like the Koh-Kae child advertisement.

Memo Log

2009-09-18T21:23:00.000+01:00

And I’m in Taiping lying on Ahkong’s bed listening to Baka Beyond mixed in with a thunderstorm outside, birds and crickets. My mum showed me her kampong today, where she used to cycle etc. It’s so sad to see how much it’s all changed. If I were her I’d be almost crying. It’s weird to see and experience the dramatic difference with her lifestyle then and now. Aunty Lian sat with me as I showed her photos of my Dad, desperately trying to think of Hokkien words to describe things. EPIC FAIL. Mosquitoes in the jungle are black and white. Fucking huge. Found the biggest wood louse today. Fo shizz. And this giant bee thing that hovered and had a white back. Baby apparently thinks I’m skinny, she’s doing a degree in engineering and wants to move to Korea. She said all the girls there are copy and pasted. I love cold storage. Oooooh yes I do. Soooorbet. Yay.

Everything Is Illuminated is a beautiful film, soundtrack and all! A cockroach has crawled into my room – I’ve got a friend!

Memo Log

2009-09-14T14:30:00.006+01:00

On the train to Victoria hearing all about the people that other people know. Some woman who’s married to a man who’s 2 weeks younger than her eldest son. Darkness. This coach smells of piss and I’ve not slept since yesteryear. I’m trying not to fall asleep. 2:30pm feels like it should be 5pm. Take off @ 10:55pm where I’ll be so fucking disorientated I’m going to be spazzing out by the time I arrive @ 9pm. How can we sleep after being on a plane for 14 hours? I’ve only just got the RyanAir bug out of my own veins and now I’ve got to inject the SIA recycled air back in. It’d be great if you had 2 seats to yourself like we all desire whenever we step foot on transport. I wish my brother was coming to Malaysia with me – someone who can secretly laughing with me at the highly amusing moments. I want to fall asleep and have just realised my camera battery will probably be dead by now.

Memo Log

2009-09-05T18:27:00.000+01:00

Sitting on the roof terrace in Cadaqués . The sun’s setting. 18:27 and I can hear a distant door slam, a distant scooter, chatter, a child play and shout. Someone walking up the winding paths around the houses. It’s beautiful. I’ve had such an amazing time here. We just came back from renting out scooters and going on an epic drive all the way to a lighthouse then Dali’s house. Then took a road out and up through huge mountains holding up about 10 cars, all shouting stuff at us. This place is so chilled out. Somewhere that I envisage no one to have a “bad day”. Everyone’s polite. Some English people obviously retire here. The sea is so blue and clear. We drove to a lighthouse on top of a mountain. Something out of a postcard. I can’t get over how perfect this place is right now. Perfect sun and temperature. This is what exists in dreams – perhaps Dali made sense? I love the siesta times – makes sense to sleep at about 2pm when you’re cosy and tired from living a beautiful life of swimming in the sea. There’s a man running a shop opposite selling sorbet for €10.50. Shit. The. Bed. Man I’m sleepy.

Memo Log

2009-09-03T18:00:00.001+01:00

September already and I’m seated on the plane of a RyanAir aircraft on a plastic seat that suits the same as a Malaysian bus – the kind where the seat is sweating by itself. There’s an elbow in my face, arm, she talks like the deliberate annoying Essex voice I used to put on when I was a call-centre phone operative. God that was painful. It’s £2.70 for a bottle of water. In my head, water should be free. Seriously. The idea of society putting a price-tag on an element that should be free of charge; something that is practically the entire make-up of this Earth, our bodies and the sky. A man is bartering with the sales. He has €1 and 50p and is demanding to be able to consume something. The attendant next to me is going through a list of items that can be bought and settles on shortbread. Lion Bar wasn’t on the menu. Sitting next to two French guys who initially started singing and are now having a Tetris show down. The air cabin crew’s uniform resembles that of a porter at the hospital. The man reading on a book in front of **** has attempted numerous ways of boredom prevention combined mental stimulation. He’s read, done Sudoku on the iPhone, bored himself rigid with email reading and is now back on the book. This guy would be dire on a 14 hour flight to Malaysia. The flight to Barcelona will take 1hr 40min. We almost missed the plane from not hearing the boarding call and sitting with a queue to Malta. We’re about to land and I’m about to kill for candyfloss. Marilyn/Marium is given a surprise 30th birthday announcement. There’s a lot of air punching going on to my left, as well as synchronised touch screen play. It’s so bizarre. My sense of time is almost non-existent in my head. I keep thinking I’m going for weeks and I should be enroute to Malaysia. I seem to not be taking this in at all and am living a disjointed, tired dreamlike state.

Memo Logs

2009-08-19T15:00:00.001+01:00

So today my flat’s been sprayed by a man who has pet rats and a Chihuahua. I can’t mop or hoover for 10 days, and I apparently made him the best coffee he’s ever had.

I just heard a woman ask if the ice cream man sold sorbet. He’s now complaining to the guy selling the Daily Express that she didn’t want anything he had to offer.

An old lady just smiled and stroked my face and said I look lovely. She was rooting through her bag saying “I don’t have a penny”, to which I said “I don’t have a penny either”.

My clothes are currently being drowned in a laundrette. £5 for a fat ol drum and £1 for a 20min tumble dry. And dear God this is a holding pen for doctors and other hospital-esque workers. It’s either that or it’s all the patients hanging out here getting drunk to drown sorrows before taking a train.

Memo Log

2009-08-18T16:07:00.001+01:00

Sitting in the park near my parents' place and no one’s threatened to kill me yet. Chavs sit around the outskirts on benches – they remind me of ants from this distance as the further they are the larger the group seems to grow. They all sit tight together in a pack. Blud. Safe. Yo. it’s funny how the concept of Grungers and Chavs still dominate this place. How they’re more sarcastic, intelligent, dark sense of humour. I got bugs crawling all over me. Weirdest thing today was walking into my ex-boyfriend’s office. WEIRD. The same guy who got chucked out of school about 5 times and there I was sitting saying – shit, you’ve even got your own hole-puncher.

Memo Log

2009-08-17T20:00:00.006+01:00

19:29
Sitting in my room @ parents place after an epic phone conversation with ****. I love our phone conversations, they always go on for years.

12:30 – **** drove us to ****’s house first time I’ve been there since knowing her for the past 3 years.

1:30 – We all went to Whitstable. Beautiful little town. Went to seek out fish and ice cream and sat on the beach. It was lovely. To have us all together again. I loved every second. We’re trying to organise gathering for Xmas.
I love sorbet. I love sorbet. I love sorbet. I love sorbet. Almost as much as I love candy floss.

4:00 – went home in ****’s car and stared at sorbet. Eat sorbet from the tub. Roll around and shower in sorbet if I can. I really wish I was in London at the moment soaking up the sun and trying to get people to come out, or even just wandering around. I want to wander! I miss the girls so much and love being around them more than anything. We went through so much together, being together again makes me happy

Come Dine With Me makes life good again.

Memo Log

2009-08-12T22:00:00.000+01:00

On the bus to Bond Street for the casting of the Vidal Sassoon catwalk for the 28th. The guy said he’s got a customer at 1pm but will make him wait just for me. Shocking. So after leaving yesterday I went into EAT and noticed this guy smiling at me in the queue – we talked with his friend from Nepal. He’s a freelance opera singer currently doing method acting for Woody Allen’s new film (or something along those lines). They kept saying how refreshing I am to talk to and invited me out for Friday night. When I got home I was sick. Felt so bad. A called me. B called too – sounded sad and tired so we’re organising a party before I leave. A was saying how I’d text him right after he’d finished chanting a dedication prayer which was creepy. Then when checking his Facebook he’d put on his live feed about meeting me. He said he’ll see it all the way through. Loads of his ‘friends’ commented on it wishing him luck and they’re praying too. I think it’s insane. Absolutely insane. People all over the world are doing this and I feel guilty for it. It’s weird. Some kid at the bus stop looks like a mini 13 year old version of C; I like how everyone (men included) are all in love with him. A man sits next to me in the bus, laughing as he says to me: “I like to see where I’m going.” I’m sitting at the front – I like how he felt he had to justify why he wants to sit here.

Out from the hardcore testing at the Sassoon place. I’ve got 2 days of hair styling and they make me look freaky deak. Then gotta try to maintain some sense of dignity as I walk between the catwalk and, aided by male models, walk onto the turn table and spin around as if I’m on a podium. Comical. Comedy at its finest, evidently.

The first message I got today was by D saying he misses me. How long has it been since I’ve received anything like that from a boyfriend? Sweet Jesus.

Mr Nichols

2009-08-08T13:46:00.005+01:00

I have a number of pieces I always listen to when I'm feeling ill, or trying to make my body relax before/after meditation and into the sleep state. This is one of them, by Coldcut feating Saul Williams. A peice called "Mr Nichols":

Please Mr Nichols, come back inside the window.
I can't promise you anything but I trust there is far greater reason to live.
I know you've become disheartened and disillusioned with the current state of affairs.
Your stocks have fallen, your investments have failed you.
The man whom you took orders from has been ordered to jail by his and your subordinates.

You question 'what this world is coming to?'
What is the profit margin when you are forced to pay into the marginalized,
Wheres the glory you dreamt of as a child, dressed as a cowboy, your play gun pointed at real targets,
Your mother holding her tongue as your father consoles you with the words, "It's just boy's stuff."

You joined his fraternity, you grew into his old suits,
You acquired his beliefs, you embodied his dreams and with them his oversights.
How long did you think it would last? It's just a matter of time, the road is far from over.
Look, your mother outlives your father, your sister outlives your brother.

And if you jump from this window today, she'll also outlive you.

Look at her, sitting in her midwestern home, tuned into Opera once again.
Today, she learns to medicate on her second hand couch,
Meanwhile, you stand outside this window, 12 stories above the ground, one story remaining until...

You contemplate the setting sun, unaware of your disorientation,
Dis-orient - turned away from the East,,
The shifting current seems to conspire against you.

Mr Nichols, you fail to see that you've always stood outside this window,
Perched on the threshold of oblivion, countless man-made stories above the truth, for so long you've stood,
Facing the setting sun, mistaking the complimentary unified duality of nature as being right or wrong,
Good or evil, God or devil.

Mr Nichols, instead of stepping of the ledge into the downfall of your up-rise, why not just turn around,?
Lessen the intensity of your western prayer, and face the rising sun,
Note the energy swirling from it's centre,
How it illuminates us all, and only the birds fly first class...

There is your inheritance, the warmth of a kiss, you invest your tongue into the mouth of mystery,
Allow the breath to seep into your lungs, surrender to a touch and guidance, there's no other way.
Your dreams of dominance will only help you forsake yourself, while your family continues its search for understanding,
And your daughters outlive your sons.

Memo Log

2009-07-24T15:00:00.005+01:00

I sit @ Starbucks at Paternoster Square with ****, here to discuss legal matters. This is going to be one very depressing conversation I’m about to have. My sternum is practically crushing my heart. This morning in the bathroom I thought I was going to pass out and held onto the sink. I have put stars on my ceiling and locked a cheap fibre optic portable lamp to keep glowing until it dies. I need never-ending batteries but combined with Tundra back noise, it’s like I’m laying in the jungle watching stars. Really large green stars…

Fridge

2009-07-23T23:34:00.003+01:00

The epitome of my life.
I love it :)

Memo Log

2009-07-21T13:00:00.002+01:00

Sitting @ the coach station in Sheffield at least 2 days early than what I should be. I still haven’t slept, I lay awake staring at the piano, shivering, in so much pain my whole body felt like it was basking in a pool of ice, like I was being killed by hypothermia. I stared at the time: 4am. Checked buses and contemplated just getting up to leave and have a note explaining where I’ve disappeared to. Decided against it and hoped my mum would awaken to get up. 5am… 5:40am… Fuck it, get up and took a shower and at 7:10am gently tapped my mum to wake her up in time for my brother. I tell her I’m leaving. I hated being in the bed and not being able to sleep and right now, I’d do anything to finally get a few hours in. It feels so long since I managed to sleep. My eyes are straining trying to write this, it’s like when the world in my peripherals starts to sway and rotate. I’m looking forward to trying to sleep on the coach. 3 of us took a walk to the bus and got to the coach station, my brother telling me it’s fun when I’m around and I’m welcome any time. My mum telling me not to go but worrying if I’ll be ok alone in my flat. Trying to reassure me it’s fine to say I want to see **** and go to London but I assure her it’s not for that reason. I’d like to see him but don’t want him to see me resembling a corpse right now and nor would I be very communicative or pretty to look at. I’d just want to curl up and stare at his beautiful face until I drift. My coach doesn’t embark for another 45mins (been waiting for almost one hour) and won’t get into London until 4pm sometime. I sit here away from the departure lounge with ice for feet watching the builders fix lights and Northern arguing. It feels like I’m on the set of Corrie or sitting in Barnsley. As much as I do love Sheffield, I’m glad I don’t live here – it’s soaked up student lifestyle would drive me nuts. There’s no diversity. My luggage bag still has the airport baggage tag strapped on it from Stansted, too pissed off at the experience from the Customs Police to take it off. In fact, the thought of removing it never passed my mind. Greasy smell wafts by. It’s like fried bread and eggs with beans. That exact smell for this is going to be one boring 45mins – 15 of which will be spent standing at the terminal in a min, asking myself why the fuck didn’t they put a waiting area in the inside of the building and why is there no shelter? It’s almost as bad as the depot in Amsterdam Zuid, not actually Amsterdam Centraal which you’d always hoped it would be. Sitting here alone, freezing my butt cheeks into the hard seat.

11:17am this is shite. I’ve seen so many commuters I ma as well have just sat at the Arrivals Lounge of Heathrow airport.

11:29 coaches are boarding so it’s only a matter of time for mine to be called. I’m going for a pee.

11:43 – Strangely went quickly and I’m sitting on the coach waiting for it to leave. You know when you’re falling for someone when every little bit of someone else reminds you of them. You feel a little weird by it. That every word you write ends up just being about them too. That when you tell yourself and others you don’t care, you actually do.
“Yeah” your inner monologue will say, “keep telling yourself that.”
On the road again but to London – maybe I should start calling it Home considering my homing beacon seems to be there, always heading towards it.

I’m in Bramdale at the top of a hill.

I’m at Woodseats; a village that by “Woodseats Palace” is in fact the Weatherspoons pub down the town centre.

Why do elderly people wear a lot of beige and off-grey/stone? My chair feels like it’s snapping my spine in half, unless I’m sitting like Igor or something. It’s raining. I’m at Meadowhead Funeral House and it’s raining so fine, you just see grey haze.

12:16 I think I just saw the coach driver run across the road and do a runner. We’re parked outside someone’s house in Derbyshire. Have been for the past 10 minutes. Now we’re moving but I’ve no clue who’s driving the blood bus, however, the Chesterfield Parish Church is amazing; the steeple twists up to the top except it’s so old you can’t tell if it’s meant to be doing that.

Back on the motorway and I want to do this for a living. I seem to get an addiction to always being on the go; always travelling somewhere to experience or work or teach something. I’m on a half empty coach to Victoria. Opposite is a lady with another lady asleep on her lap, a protective arm being held over her. Yesterday my brother didn’t recognise who I was. He thought I was a visitor from the Mediterranean until he recognised the bags. **** advised I go to see a Chinese doctor in Malaysia (even better, Singapore) and try to find some herbal remedies. I seem to appreciate life more experience the horrible aspects and pulling myself through it rather than trying to find a cure for everything. If this is what life has thrown at me then so be it. It’s more of my own experience than anything; as I lose my sight I will gain strength in all other sense. At the same time, I will not let my body give in that easily. I’m interested in death and what the process of these final breaths will be like. Perhaps this is our journey to death? Our life is our journey to our own demise – this is the journey on the boat to cross the river. Like I discussed with **** – one of our last conversations about how heaven will be boring as it’s so perfect therefore it is Hell and that surely the idea of knowing and experiencing good is to experience the bad, so in turn, heaven would be this life. Perhaps “worse”; you experience extremities so the pleasure threshold is maximised and therefore happier. Then you would have no medium – no Earth type world that holds the leeway between both worlds. Perhaps heaven in the perfect undefined equilibrium of all things shit and all things amazing, but things are so spaced out that there is no monotony or predictable, merely spontaneity (still, just like being on Earth).

1pm right, overcoat, July, so why are the overhead lights on above our seats as if it’s a cold November day (a day and feeling I don’t wish to come this year). In the shower at 5am this morning made me think I was in my old place showering before class and hoping the gas wouldn’t run out. How dark and cold it was (dark as in overcast) and not wanting to leave the shower as soon as I’d gotten in. My goal this autumn/winter is to spend it with friends, and laugh a lot, enjoy it. Not be disturbed by darkness!

Memo Log

2009-07-20T11:00:00.000+01:00

On the coach to Sheffield & pumped to my eyeballs with steroids. Spent all of yesterday puking my guts out – what goes in, must come out. Good thing about writing after taking steroids: it feels like my arm/hand is being jet-propelled. I’m pretty sure I’ve got ****’s weird-ass flu which he was determined was in fact Swine Flu and I’m hoping it’s not. I look down and the world if spinning and my head hurts, want to vom… Arg! Bus has hit Finchley Road. Only ever been here once for a reason I can’t remember.. High Barnet now. I want to pass out and vom up. Ha, graphic. Things are so spiritual right now – since my Uncle turned up in the UK. I saw him yesterday. I still can’t believe it happened. He told me we were always together and he wants to spend more time with me next year. It scares me it won’t ever happen. The love I hold for him is immense. Golders Green. I smell weed. More people are getting on the bus to wherever we’re actually heading.. I smell incense….?

Memo Log

2009-07-15T15:50:00.000+01:00

On the train to Victoria @ 15:50 – I’m going to be so late.

“Oh I pity the fool that falls in love with you” – Bobby Bland.

It’s when I start comparing current situations to Gregory & The Hawk songs, that’s when I know I’ll be in trouble.

I’ve written about 6 page sides about one subject. Fuck’s sake. Headmush.

Meme Log

2009-07-15T02:00:00.000+01:00

& I’m back home in my flat happy to burn my incense in a quiet place. I cannot believe yesterday and the series of events that happened. Kagyu Samye Dzong Buddhist Centre is beautiful. Turned up and met a wonderful nun who told me it can be my refuge and seek the Green Tara. Told me to go to Kagyu Samye Ling in Scotland and take refuge there. I turned up today hoping to talk to Lama and amazingly, someone cancelled and Lama Gelongma Zangmo gave me a consultation. Told me to embrace it and go to refuge retreat @ temple in Hemel Hempstead. She blessed an eternal knot, gave me a blessed pill, Tara, and a book of prayer, going through them with me.

I met C. Spoke to a Canadian homeless guy eating ice cream from the tub. Donated him an umbrella – he asked for miso soup. Coaxing me to the water edge, C took me to the peace gardens of the Dalai Lama. Got to St Paul’s & he watched me walk around the entrance, heard organ music playing inside. Sky a violent grey, cracking sunset through patches. I say I wish the clouds would go away. Went to Café Rouge to try & look posh. Walk back over bridge, it’s raining, fireworks go off. Told me about a Lama who gives healing hugs, an energy. My mum's brother is in the country. I keep thinking I’ve set my curtains on fire.

Memo Log

2009-07-05T22:00:00.006+01:00

@ my parents place watching Michael McIntyre’s Comedy Tour Roadshow. The sun’s setting, not a cloud in the sky. So nice! **** collapsed @ 2am and couldn’t move til 4am. Refuses to use SOS.

“America and South Korea are now friends”
“China likes this”

Facebook has generated the 3rd person disease monologuing internally, externally and technologically.

There’s a show called “Britney Saved My Life”, sadly it’s a bunch of British people saying how much they love her. The interviewer is saying “is that not slightly wrong?”

Memo logs

2009-07-03T19:50:00.000+01:00

17:20
Waiting for my gate to open. I think my bank account has been sucked dry. I’ve just eaten by body weight in sorbet. They call “Hundreds and Thousands” “Disco Sticks” over here. A man evidently Buddhist sits to my left. Thin version of **** falls asleep in front of me. Indian men argue over a smoothie to my left. I’m waiting for 17:45 to happen when my gate finally opens. I can’t figure out if I’m allowed to go there yet. I’ll go now to find out.

19:40-something?
I was stopped by Customs for fitting the description of a ‘drug trafficker’. My God. Still, at least I had the decency to praise them on the thoroughness of their job.

On the bus to Victoria. A coach in fact. The Stansted Express in fact. Sitting next to an old guy who’s slipped into a coma (hope he actually hasn’t) he’s taken up the majority of two seats (mine included) and I don’t mind because he’s old and reminds me of my grandpas. He’s nestled his leg up to mine. I met a guy called Ben from Heathrow airport security on the plane spoke the whole way. Man opposite me does a crossword on the back of a newspaper I assume to be Russian. Man in front is trying to read but keeps falling asleep. I watch his head bounce up and down. The National Motorists Team has a truck in front that keeps beeping the horn. Like the irony of Non-British drivers doing intercity transport tours and drop-offs.
I’m in a tunnel, it’s like a disco light show.

Memo Log

2009-07-01T18:41:00.000+01:00

On the Intercity to Centraal. Just to wander aimlessly. I want to visit Den Haag, Ahrnem, Rotterdam. 3 young adults sit near me. 2 guys one girl. Why hae I never seen a ticket inspector on these things? No tickets on the gates either. In fact, there are no gates...

16:01 - @ Amsterdam Bibloteck. The greatest library I’ve ever been to. I’m deliberately burning on the steps. A man sits behind me. Guy and girl talk behind. In front is a theatre restaurant on a canal boat. Sitting here trying to figure out what to photograph. Get inspiration something tells me I’ll have to walk to do something like that.

A speed boat drove past with a group of people sitting in a circle singing the Macarena. The children here look like model citizens. Perfect skin, height, weight, hair, features, always happy.

@ Oosterpark. Stumbled across a Roots Festival about the slave trade. This park is beautiful! Need to keep walking somewhere so I can get on the train.

Memo Logs

2009-06-30T16:38:00.009+01:00

@ 13:00 – A siren went off in my room. I’d set the colours to orange so thought I’d set my room on fire. I think it turned out to be an alarm I’d set and forgotten? Today I’m being brave and hanging my legs over the edge of a bridge. Fuck I’m terrified I’m going to fall in and die or drop something and never get it back. Years of memory fears come flooding back of when I was in Malaysia too scared to go near the edge of ponds and lakes. Being hung upside down over them I’m more scared by the fact the water’s practically opaque. I’d fall in and not see shit all. Or drop something and watch it get engulfed by this murky abyss.

16:38
Sitting next to a big lake @ Schiphol. It’s 25˚C, maybe 27˚C. Epic sickness – as in, projectile. People @ airport are suspicious about my stay and that I only exchanged €45. I’m piss poor that’s why! “Are you not going to Amsterdam?” No. Some big-shot American unit were at CitizenM earlier. Everyone had to bow down to him. His American PA’s were surrounding him being all American; too nice for comfort. I bet he interchanges when he flies back later and stays at the Hilton opposite.

Spent yesterday with D chilling til 6AM when he took his bus. I tried watching 2 films whilst working and couldn’t pay attention. Met some night staff, lovely guys. Went and got them Burger King. Spent past 2 days trying Dutch boiled sweets to see what I’m allergic to and what I’m not. It’s proving a challenge considering my heart hurts so badly and I’m being constantly sick. I want to get some work done. I should really write something.

Memo Log

2009-06-29T15:30:00.004+01:00

Just spent ages staring at my watch trying to figure out the time. I’m on the way to Liverpool St in Superdry store temperatures. It’s 27˚C & I’m in heaven preparing myself for Malaysia. Not a cloud in the sky. It’s beautiful. I don’t know what month it is? June? July? Had an idea to write this up, yesterday realised I’d already done it. Had written the wrong date so many times according to me it was May for about 2 months. I need to really stop writing on buses. I’m hoping I don’t miss my plane. AAAAARHHH!!!

Saw **** in hospital. Had no idea what to expect given he’d just had brain surgery. His family are wicked.

Just saw something saying ‘ART OR PORN, YOU DECIDE’.

Boxing-mit lays in the middle of the dual carriage way.

Doors open and I smell fried chicken. Haven’t smelt that since I used to go there in my early teens. One of my last memories of eating it was in Malaysia, took some breaded cheesey chicken home from Pizza Hut but I gave it to my friend.

NB:- NEED TO VISIT TOWER OF LONDON AT SOME POINT

On train to Stansted. Look up River Lee, Broxbourne. Beautiful!

In Stansted Airport. Beautiful sky I could be sun soaking right now. Is 13:55. Gate isn’t boarding til 15:00. Loooooong. Class A though. Woo!

15:30 in Boarding Gate 3. Plane not turned up yet. Every time they make an announcement, everyone gets up thinking they’re boarding. There’s a window at least 16 feet tall. Looks over the hanger. There’s NO PLANE. Can you not see this?!

Memo Logs

2009-05-29T19:00:00.000+01:00

11:30 – Old man in polo shirt and cargo shorts with socks pulled up & trainers, walks with a Sherlock Holmes type pipe in his mouth. Brilliant.
I’m in St James Park again. I like it here because it’s filled with people who are all so different. Singles, couples, families. My favourites are the health freaks who do extreme training. I’ve spotted 2. One man doing push-ups until he gets a brain haemorrhage, and one’s a woman doing every kind of palate imaginable.

Spent hours in the sun. Getting on the bus, a man let me go first. I was shocked, I may have even said “Wow! Thank you!” Just realised how patronising and sarcastic that may have sounded.
I’m amazed how the 3rd floor of some scaffolding can actually hold up an entire porter cabin.
On the one-seven-six… To… Penge. I swear that announcement is going to embed itself into my brain.

Memo Log

2009-05-22T23:00:00.000+01:00

On the bus to Elephant to take the bus to Kings Cross and meet the Camera man. I’ve been sick today and God knows how many times. **** turns up to save the day.
The billboard in Camberwell says the Conservatives and Liberals and Go Green Party can’t do it, so vote Christian Party. Not that that’s dictatorial or anything. This bus has been stuck here for about a year.
“So why aren’t you and your friend together? I don’t get it?”

19:00?
Kings Cross, people stare @ me. Dunno why. Seems to happen a lot. By 20:50 I am terrified. Don’t remember much of what was said only remember feelings of unsettled. Man wants to make a Documentary but man tells me he fell in love with me. Now is the time I really emphasise I’m 21 and how I date people my age. Maybe I said that? I hope I did. I want to do this Doc but not if he’s going to fall even deeper. Not if this bottomless pit becomes a black hole, I don’t want to invite a man who’s smitten into my home with a camera and film me. I sat there as he was replaying the footage of me over and over again. He played me footage, all of it is me and I felt weird. It’s like a scene of Love Actually. He said it’s so sad for those that fall in love with me because I’ll forget who they are. “You’ve already forgotten who I am.” I kept trying to change the conversation and joke about, pointing out other people in the scenes. I have to meet him again to get the footage so I think I’ll grab someone to come with me. **** calls and I can finally escape. I run. I’m late. **** will kill me.

23:00 – End up in Streatham watch Star Trek. Amaze.

Memo Log

2009-05-14T18:10:00.001+01:00

18:05 – Girl gets on bus who looks like someone an old school friend of mine once hit on the head with a ball.

I want to walk a day in someone elses shoes and understand why they can’t smile anymore. Change person everyday, or every week.

“Der’s dat sexy man ya know! Yeh he looks slightly mangled today tho…”
I love it.

Memo Log

2009-05-10T23:17:00.002+01:00

How does anyone really differentiate between the desires of the head & the heart? My breathing’s rubbish lately – either I’m in love or have severe asthma. This week I plan on mostly being: An Alcoholic Reclusive [I jest]. I really need to check my agenda but the battery’s almost dead. Shitter.

Memo Log 2

2009-05-08T13:15:00.003+01:00

Bus driver slams on breaks before colliding into a bus in front. Embrace the whiplash.

[Written in a Memo Log]

Memo Log

2009-05-08T00:15:00.002+01:00

I watch John crash into my front garden. Wheyyy!

[Written in a Memo Log]

There Is Always Hope...

2009-05-02T23:16:00.003+01:00

There's a goat in my ass,
Living mainly on grass.
They say the creature was stolen,
Yet he feeds on my colon.

- Piece Of My Mind by Charlie Sheen

I had hope when I read that. Until I realised it was written by Charlie Sheen. My respect for Charlie Sheen was lost after Hot Shots was released.
Damn.

Sheffield Train Observation IV

2009-04-09T12:14:00.005+01:00

11:38 - Boy in front of me flips over numerous magazines. His face is littered with freckles and his hair reminds me of vermiglioni pasta. They twist and twine into each other forming a crazy dark brown mess causing his hearing aids’ label to stick out slightly.

11:43 - Chesterfield ticked off, three women and a child approach their seats and fight with their luggage. There’s a lot of fighting with inanimate objects on this train. The boy smoothes down the paper with one hand, not sure what his other hand is doing, can’t even see the arm.

11:44 - Bloody students. She throws all her stuff onto an empty table, over from where she was previously sitting, and makes her nest in the corner with her Macbook. I’m not completely sure if she’s aware that seats are reserved on here as passengers look at her with despair.

11:46 - At least I know where to top up on wine gum pastels now. That Sheffield has the entire Maynards Wine Gums supply and the South East of England are completely deprived of such luxuries. To us, it is merely a fantasy.

11:47 - The colour brown, anoraks and checkered shirts are in this season. Or so this carriage tells me.

11:48 - I’ve got pins and needles in my right hand, I’m waiting for the day that my limbs naturally go bluey black and drop off. They go so cold when they have no circulation that I can’t feel anything with an empty ice mass that seems to be in constant sharp pain, yet it’s as if the pain is coming from a void of space; a transparent segment that is in the shape of my foot/arm/hand/finger.

11:50 - Crisp packets, sandwiches. magazines and newspapers. Crunchy crisps. Chew crunch. I’m pretty sure I just heard the sound of a dinner plate.

11:51 - Go on my Son. Pick that nose of yours.

11:52 - Student, plain hair in a messy tie, plain cardigan, plain top, plain face with a constant look of determination of getting that A grade. I glance out the window at the Watership Down landscape of beauty and isolated bliss. Although it’s always this countryside locale that so often seems to harbour the nut-jobs of society, rich nut-jobs, but nut-jobs nonetheless. Ones that instigate “fluke” homicides and are most probably sadomasochists behind closed doors [and masks].

11:57 - Heavy breathing through your nose is NOT attractive, regardless to what you may be thinking. Something’s very wrong with the structure of this sentence.

11:58 - It’s fucking cold on this train.

11:59 - “Derby is our next calling point”, apparently you can change here to get to Extopia, or at least, that’s what the place sounded like. I’m thinking of a cross between Utopia and Erotica, or perhaps it used to be Utopia, but they found an even more perfect place therefore rendering the idea of perfection completely imperfect and merely a myth. OR they abandoned Utopia once they realised that it was impossible for a Utopia to exist, so they simply renamed it. Shut up Kim.

12:03 - The friendly voice over the tannoy is being nicely whistled over in the background. She makes it sound as if we’re on a plane, cautioning us to take in the important safety announcements. What safety announcements exactly? Not to use your mobile phone in a silent carriage?

12:05 - Guy in front is sucking his little finger as he rests his head in his hand and reads the magazine. He must be at least 18. I still have the overwhelming desire to see his hair in a pasta bake. He watches me from the corner of his eye and I quickly dart my eyes to my screen. He looks down. Cleans his ear with one hand, looks around, fidgets and continues reading the magazine. It looks like Private Eye. He yawns, and I realise I’ve been turning him out to look like some kind of animal in captivity.

12:08 - Woman of some sense of importance balances a ticket machine with two brown paper bags from the buffet car as she walks down the aisle.

12:09 - An entire family get up and head towards the direction of the buffet car as if she were their cue for the first battalion to go over the Front Line and attack.

12:11 - ETA St Pancras 13:32. I’m bored. I may attempt the all important notion of sleep. The electric door swoops open and two young adults walk in. The man at the front, acne ridden and sporting some rather fetching black framed NHS non-prescription glasses, loses his balance and trips over his own feet whilst armed with his swinging brown paper bag of food. Graceful.

12:13 - Guy in front stifles a snort as he reads something worth chuckling over. It’s nice to see him muse over something.

Sheffield Observation III

2009-04-08T22:50:00.003+01:00

22:43 - Shouldn’t have agreed with the waiter to order something from the menu. Why in god’s name did I ask for the one thing that had everything I’m allergic to on a plate? Pine nuts, cheese, fried bread. Carefully extracting the giant mushroom and spinage from it took time and patience, however, it royally messed up my insides and my stomach hates me forever more. My head’s been swimming all day and feel like I’ve had a headache since the dawn of Time.

22:46 - My feet are cold.

22:47 - Good thing about laptops is that they warm up your hands. My brother’s disappeared for the past 2 hours, I found him in the kitchen staring at his fridge apparently “seeing if everything’s there.”

22:48 - I think I’ve got a brain haemorrhage.

Sheffield Observation II

2009-04-07T22:49:00.004+01:00

01:33 - Each time I type a key the camp bed springs squeak like a petrified mouse. For a while it made me laugh so my body vibrated the bed, causing it to sing in a continuous loop of squeaks. Life was funny for all of 3 minutes.

01:35 - The sky is a dark orange with the silhouette of a silver birch tree at the bottom of the garden. I don’t like how spiky and creepy the whole show is.

01:36 - The house smells like the elderly. I’m pretty sure this place is haunted. What’s weird is that my brother and I familiarise this smell with elderly Aunts/Uncles we grew up visiting, so when we’re within the same vicinity as each other and this smell becomes apparent, the more the idea of the Elderly springs to mind.

01:37 - I want to go back to Kent and play endless hours of Xbox 360. I’ve only just realised that there’s nothing stopping me from actually doing that...

01:38 - Christ I need a hair cut. And this bed is getting a little annoying.

01:39 - Now that I’m aware of the squeaks I’m now paranoid I’m going to keep myself awake due to moving around so much. Bullshit crap. A headache has set in, think I’d better call it a Night.

Sheffield Observation

2009-04-06T15:10:00.003+01:00

14:23 - An elderly woman clumsily fumbles with her bag and frantically stands up in the middle of the isle of the carriage asking for the whereabouts of a bin, only to be redirected to the underneath of her seat by a passenger stating, “It’s right here behind you, look.”

14:25 - A Muslim woman who’s been staring me out for the past hour has successfully consumed a multipack of Starburst, a bottle of Fanta, a four-bar KitKat, a packet of Walkers crisps, and is now on the second bottle of Fruit Twist Fanta. She’s managed to slide her luggage bag underneath the table so that my ridiculously long legs have no room to move. You can tell she’s done this often.

14:27 - The elderly woman fidgets, constantly looking at her watch and resting her head back on the headrest, then looking out the window again amidst flashes of sunlight dancing on her face. She mediates between glancing out the window and then at the child next to her who has mastered the art at throwing crayons across the table.

14:29 - Man next to me turns over the page.

14:30 - A middle-aged woman in a formal, grey/mauve jacket watches the passing scenery with a stern, withered look on her face. She looks disappointed every time her view is disrupted by blocks of infinite abyss of the blackened walls of a tunnel. She sports a blond short crop haircut that’s been swept over to the side like the ever-fashionable Lady Diana haircut for women over the age of 40. Pinned to her jacket is a gold broach of a pair of ballet shoes -- or what I assume to be ballet shoes; they could merely be a pair of flats from TopShop or New Look, clustered with diamonds and formed into a broach, who knows what the fashion trends are these days. Certainly not me. Her facial expression continues to be that of a widowed Matron. I can imagine how difficult it can be to make this woman smile.

14:34 - “We will get off, we just have to wait for it to stop first.” A mother tells her toddler who continues to scream demands at her whilst using the table as a climbing frame. Her elder sister giggles.

14:36 - The elderly woman wages a new war with her handbag. This time, it’s the battle of answering her mobile phone which has filled the carriage with its high-pitched melody. She talks through the phone to the person on the other end in an equally loud voice.

14:37 - The sticker above the middle-aged woman afore mentioned, details the standards of the train coach to be: “A QUIET COACH PLEASE CONSIDER OTHERS BY NOT USING MOBILE PHONES OR CREATING UNNECESSARY NOISE. THANK YOU”

14:39 - Three pitches sound and the increasingly quiet voice of the conductor announces we’ve reached Derby. He continues, but the tannoy wavers in and out and soon fuzzes out as soon as the word Derby is heard.

14:40 - He gets up and moves to the opposite table where the family of two have left. The carriage is suddenly very quiet apart from the rustling of plastic bags from behind my head.

14:41 - A man with a fluorescent orange bag with reflective strips glides through the carriage aisle and into the conductors room.

15:07 - I have no idea where I am. Oh okay, ‘Dore and Totley’ apparently. It’s beautiful, there’s a huge lake and really old buildings. I feel like I’m on the set of Far From the Madding Crowd or some kind of village made to inspire Thomas Hardy’s fun fuelled extravaganza type books.

15:08 - The little Oriental boy spits and laughs at his own reflection in the glass.

15:09 - I need to pee and he’s singing to himself whilst the Muslim girl sits on the edge of her seat, carefully shimmying her luggage bag from underneath the table.

15:10 - I think I’m in Sheffield?

16:36 - An elderly man sits opposite me in a dark grey suit, blue and white striped shirt and a black and white polka-dot handkerchief carefully folded out of his breast pocket. He sits with his hands neatly clasped over the table edge with a pot of tea, placed in front of him. With his large glassy blue eyes and wispy grey hair, he looks like a gentle Captain Peacock from ‘Are You Being Served’ -- this illustrates my somewhat backwards upbringing when it comes to television. Standing there, flapping a Daily Express newspaper against her leg, is a chef of John Lewis’ exquisite cafe. The good thing about this place is that the toilets are bound to be kept in good condition due to the majority of customers being over 50. Cleanliness and hygiene is a must. It’s also almost dead, and a low-hum of menopausal mutual bitterness and retirement engulfs the cafe.

16:42 - I can’t get used to hearing everyone sound like they’re from t’up North. Mainly because they are. Even the toddlers cry in a Northern accent. Why is it that those from surrounding rural areas with vast green pastures always end up having some sort of a nurturing accent, whereas those from cities seem to have harsh, stabbing, I-want-to-knife-you type accents? Or is that just a sheer prejudice stereotype I’ve just done which is by no means remotely accurate? Most likely. In fact, it actually is. I’ve had too much sugar and can’t think straight, I blame it on that. My point being, that when I entered John Lewis and its first battalion of perfume, all their experts spoke with Northern accents that I realised there was hardly any way I’d be able to take them seriously. Their accent has been used so commercially as a welcoming and warming voice to hear, that I’m more used to hearing it on adverts/shows for everyday things like shopping, or Always Ultra pads, or looking after kids, or cooking. I think the only way you can slip in a Northern accent in a serious situation is when you’re faced with the emergency services; there is no voice better to hear than that of the soothing tones of a Yorkshireman or a lady from Scotland -- irrespective of everything they’re saying being incoherent. We’d probably have to ask them to repeat what they’re saying over and over again, but I’d rather have that than someone sounding like they’re from Essex, or even worse, Sittingbourne. BT have already got hold of this idea and are using the majority of their automated voices to be someone from Glasgow, O2 got hold of Sean Bean and Vodafone had some Irish/Scottish bloke... Or was it someone from Newcastle? Can’t remember, but it just seems to be appealing to the public. I wish the debt collectors and bank customer services all had Northern accents. It’d make me panic less. Perhaps instead of receive letters, just have a lovely Northerner/Irish/Scottish person turning up at my doorstep or phoning me, breaking the bad news to me gently and then inviting me out for some Hovis bread making, or to bake a pie, or perhaps to just wade in the Moors, then that’d be great.

16:55 - I write too much.

16:56 - A lady with a constant tired and pissed off expression wanders around the cafe area. She works at the cafe and seems to hate her job and/or life. I want to see someone make her smile, and am slightly concerned that every time I happen to look up at her, she clocks me, causing me to suddenly become very self-conscious as to how pretentious I must appear. Sitting here with my glasses on the end of my nose and an elaborately huge MacBook Pro taking up two thirds of a table really isn’t doing me any favours.

16:59 - High pitched bell ringing coincided with the clopping of a high heel brigade. One of the black suited women swings her overly large leather faux reptile skin handbag back and forth. The tag swings along with it as her pointless silky flowing neck scarf flies through the air.

17:02 - Scary young voice breathes over the loudspeaker, announcing what beautiful offers John Lewis has and that everyone must “come take a look”. She sounds about 12. I don’t trust her judgement.

17:04 - Pair of fashionable TopShoppians saunter past with their t-shirt dress and black leggings and compulsory over-sized jewellery.

17:05 - Clang clang clang clang clang, repetitive clanging of wood, glass and tea-spoon being swirled together as a man exhaustively stirs his hot chocolate. I’ve never seen such devotion in drink stirring in my life, especially for it to cause some kind of mini-earthquake.

17:07 - Brother sighted. Brother found.

17:08 - “They have J2O here, you want J2O?”
“It’ll make me piss like a fish.” Do fishes even piss? I mean, logic and biology and probably majority being common sense would point to “yes, yes they do”. But I want proof.

17:09 - I’ve just noticed I’m in the racial minority in this cafe. Best keep my head low so they don’t notice.

Starbucks Observation

2009-02-07T00:09:00.001Z

To execute a financial meeting in a Starbuck’s Coffee shop is beyond me. Fabio is the businessman with a plan up his sleeve; to negotiate liaisons with BT Openworld.
"What makes you think that BT’s actually going to work?"
What he’s doing is locating numerous Hotspots and have screen-grabs of where these five Hotspots are. Here's one for the books; “Funky Hip-hop people” are who Fabio envisions to be using Wifi Hotspots. What’s the deal?
“I mean, I get anxious [queue nervous laughter]”
I’m not completely sure what’s wise here; discussing business solutions and negotiations in public, or outwardly stating you’re an anxious type to a complete stranger-come-business associate. Having met only moments ago; with polished brown shoes and fiddling with your glasses as you await your turn to talk. He rests his glasses on the laptop keyboard and announces the usage of iPhone markets and technological awareness of free Wifi Hotspots. This man talks with a milky, business executive accent, smooth and assertive. Even if he’s unsure, he’s sure he’s unsure. A man who doesn’t stutter; no “Err” or “Umm”, no pause for fuck-up’s in the English language, he talks with a fluidity and warmth which reassures you that he knows his shit and his head is screwed on.

Men like him wouldn’t be attracted to the blondes sitting opposite with their overt ‘SELFRIDGES’ bag, beaming with a yellow superficiality which announces how much of a materialistic whore you are. She giggles; her accent is crossed between drunken Australian, and naive American teenager who’s only become aware of the words “Job” and “Get one”. Her loud annoying laugh carries a twang that makes your toes curl. Starbucks being the only establishment she recognises along the business district of High Holborn which is sparse of retail outlets but littered with cafe’s and business offices. To her, Starbucks on High Holborn is like spotting the glowing ‘M’ of a McDonalds restaurant in the desert. It is currently her Mecca to gossip with her friend who actually has a job and hasn’t spent the last six hours shopping and maxing out her credit cards. One almost wants the blonde to keep saying, “Like... Ohmigod no way!” And witness her friend slap her face out of sheer repressed frustration. The greatest disappointment would be if the business executive sitting next to me with his arms folded, is secretly admiring her from afar. Melting at the Barbie Blonde hair colour and disregarding all inhibitions about dating executive women. Instead, he’s secretly planning on what he’d flatter her with; which credit card would he allow her to use. What prestigious restaurant would he take her to dinner, and how many weeks would it last until one of them became bored of the other’s company -- them already being bored to have instigated a dull, fruitless relationship anyway, leaving the only thing to be bored of is outdoing each other with gifts -- him with the materials and money; her with the brilliant sex and being the piece of artefact hanging off of his arm whilst he orders her directions of:
"You’ll be for show, but for the love of God don’t laugh or talk."
She puts on her jacket and apologises to her self-reliant, job-worthy friend about not being able to make some social event or other, blaming it on feeling ill and something about Facebook.

Fabio exclaims he can open an account in five, do the coding in two. English Gent mentions he sent a package about Bluewater, and what else? Fabio adds Sky users, buying something, starting “Here. There’s your money, there’s you. Ten grand every month causing the curve to be generous" and the Gent agrees. Fabio’s going to call “The Office”. Who are they exactly? Fabio gets a phone-call every half an hour or so, the Gent looks awkward and becomes suddenly aware of his surroundings. “Call me back in exactly 30 minutes.” They begin to end the discussion. Begin to end; the closing of a meeting which always takes an over-elaborate amount of time to end and part ways. Conversation becomes minimal, dwindling as they begin to talk about things that they’re actually interested in -- things that aren’t remotely mutual. They long coats are on, bags are packed. SCENE.

Another business meeting is ongoing to my left. The man that’s talking sounds like he’s got a lump in his throat; deep and assertive. Speaks as if he’s reading off a script for a news report. Everything he talks about drags his voice into undertones of monotone. If anyone who had an animated, colourful imagination within conversation listened to him, they would slowly sink away to sleep and he would probably not even notice. It’s not until he says a brief description as to how he feels that his voice becomes a little more lively. That two second snippet into his head is enough to keep the business colleague captivated. His colleague being the ‘Listener’ at the moment, with an assured tone in his voice and someone who wouldn’t bore you to death with his speech. He’s more emotive, warming, allows his personality to seep through his words. The kind of man who would talk to you seriously, later adding a warm smile at the end to sprinkle the charm. In contrast to the other guy he’s talking to who is obviously married to his job and allowed his soul to be consumed by the mundane dreariness of ‘Section Five’ and analytical bullshit which should be addressed at the next briefing, his counterpart sounds as if he would much rather be somewhere else, probably on his yacht in the Mediterranean, sporting a lot of white and pretending he’s the Captain of a huge ship. His head enveloping this scenario every time he’s silent, until he speaks and it’s about work, “Excellent point! Good!” You can tell he likes a cuddle, as opposed to his rigid colleague who is just desperately in need of one -- or at least, to be introduced to the aspect of affection. Something which the couple opposite me have no problem with.

A business couple, they entered with a slow passionate kiss and sat down to listen to each other’s eye-lashes flutter. She speaks, he stares at her lips probably not taking in anything she’s saying. Her face drawing closer to his and him staying still whilst intensely staring at her with his hand slightly lowered. She collapses her head on his shoulder and he gently rests his head on hers. They make you question; is this new found love, infatuation, or a love they’ve managed to keep alive? It makes me worry that what they’ve got now, will gradually dissolve. That it’ll turn into a relationship like the couple next to me on my left:

An English man with crutches who spent the last five minutes trying to align them against the wall to stop them from falling down. His girlfriend is French, speaking with abrupt orders, demanding he must always remind her to zip her bag up before muttering, “You silly, silly girl” to herself. She’s jotting numbers, shouting profit margins to him. Counting money form her bag and telling him when he’s getting it and how long he can have it for.

Meanwhile, the couple ahead giggle as they play with each other’s hands under the table. The boyfriend pouts and puts on his upset face, running his finger tips up her thigh as she rests her head on her hand.

“Magdelina” is the French girl’s surname. Her crippled boyfriend is writing it in cursive all over the page and showing her.
The business meeting is making the un-emotive colleague laugh and announce, “Now for The Spanish Inquisition”, he’s lightening up a bit as the rigid couple next to me suddenly notice the snuggling couple ahead who are now rubbing noses with each other. They’d been sitting next to a man and woman who had been talking for at least an hour or so. Sitting opposite each other, the woman had been resting her feet up on the chair next to he man, with her head slightly lowered, she’d been staring at him with wide eyes, absorbing his every word a midst acknowledging nods. As he talked passionately about his thoughts, ideas and opinions on something, at first glance, you’d think she was pissed off, but the intensity of her stare and seductive eyes would say otherwise. She was trying to tell him she likes him without saying anything.

The rigid couple here just high-fived. The French girl is quizzing him on spelling, making him write out questions and his responses. These questions happen to be very similar to a job interview; she’s telling him he works in an office, explaining what a “comma” is. “You work in an office... Comma... Don’t you? Do you understand why they use ‘Don’t you’? Because you work, and the question is a question. So do you work in an office? I work in an office.”

Maybe he’s not English after-all.

Distraction

2008-11-07T23:04:00.001Z

Distract
tr.v. dis·tract·ed, dis·tract·ing, dis·tracts
1. To cause to turn away from the original focus of attention or interest; divert.
2. To pull in conflicting emotional directions; unsettle.
[Middle English distracten,
from Latin distrahere, distract-, to pull away : dis-, apart; see dis- + trahere, to draw.]

Being distracted; I'm working on it.

I lay there on the hospital bed today staring at the water sprinkler suspendend on the ceiling, noticing it looked like a giant metallic upside down daisy. It was a different room from usual; I'm often in a room where I have to stare at a square block of blinding white flurescent tubes for ceiling lights -- the ones that are supposed to have some kind of gauzed soft plastic covering so you can't see the bulbs beneath it, but I'm guessing the plastic fell off. An entire slab of plastic that is. Or sometimes I'd stare at the fire-extinguisher before me by my feet. But this room didn't have either of these things to look at, just the sprinkler as I was too scared to look anywhere else. Just focus on that and make up little innocent objects in my head that it reminded me of. Spending time doing that makes you suddenly realise what you're doing and that regardless you're in your twenties, nothing can stop you from reverting back to the mental age of a 5 year old who's scared stiff. However, as long as you don't show that you're scared, everything is fine.

I have this problem whenever I come out of hospital; not knowing where to go or what to do with myself because my head's lost in a sea of confusion over information they've just given me about what's actually going on. Every time I go in there, there's always something that's changed; things they've discovered or can't figure out. Sometimes I sit in a huge spacious part of the hospital which is right outside three departments, and watch people get rushed from one section to the other, feeling helpless. I don't know why I do that.

Usually, I hightail it somewhere. Get on a bus to a destination I can lose myself in and not have to think things over in my head. Today, I found myself in Charing Cross Station where I met the founder of Cranberry, a chain of dried fruit stalls that began in train stations in London and have now gone international. The Queen has even graced her presence at one. The guy who created it is 26 year old Armani, and the weirdest thing was that we had one of the most profound conversations I won't ever forget. For a start, he had no idea that his food keeps me alive (literally), and we bonded over the fact I was lugging around my rather weighty SLR camera. He happens to also be a keen photographer and chef, having worked under Jamie Oliver's wing and doing his own promo photography. The man was truly, truly phenomenal. He was so well centred, down to earth, and open about things to the point we were both standing there hugging and almost in tears. Over the space of 2 hours, we were engrossed in converastion; I learnt about the hardship he had to go through to get where he is today, he even showed me a particular war-scar to prove it -- one that consists of 12 screws keeping his arm together. Although his particular scar was shown to me for a reason, that being one of his prime beliefs; that if you believe in something, it can happen. The body can heal itself over time as long as you persist on the idea that it can, and will, heal. Obviously, our converastion went a lot deeper than this and we delved into the unknown of each other's lives over such a short space of time, but it was the fact that he was saying to me "I don't ever want to see you sad or unwell, and if I can help you with anything or you just want to talk, I will be honoured to help. I want to hear from you in a few years time telling me that you've got where you want to go and you're happy." And he said it with such sincerity. Everything he said to me was with such passion and care, it was weird, but a good weird. As if it was meant to have happened -- to have drawn me out of that weird mental state I was in when I came out of hospital, to be shown life in a different perspective.

This is one thing I like about London; no one is afraid of talking to each other. In my old village in Kent, everyone seems to keep themselves to themselves and live in a sort of dignified fear of each other. Over here, I have spoken to so many random strangers and have learnt so much by taking that time -- from speaking to homeless people, someone working overtime at Superdrug, a businessman on his way to another meeting, a man doing nightshifts in Sainsbury's, or like today, an incredibly successful director of his own company. They all have their own stories to tell, their own personal hell they've gone through or are going through, and they all have their own perspectives on life which, if you listen, you can learn and broaden your mind a bit more.

So I guess this is my distraction. To talk to strangers. But then again, it can make you feel both completely isolated (because you don't actually know them as friends, yet you know almost everything about them after one conversation) and at the same time, make you feel comforted that you're not alone. When I got home later on, and was faced with my thoughts again, I wasn't as scared as I was before, but I still can't shake it off.

Bring on tomorrow for a whole different form of distraction: Work.

Infinite Regression

2008-10-29T22:36:00.005Z

Now here's a painting of a landscape...
Now the artist who painted that picture says, 'Something is missing, what is it?
It is I myself who was a part of the landscape I painted.'
So he mentally, takes a step back -- or regresses
And paints a picture of the artist painting a picture of the landscape.
But still something is missing.
That something is still his real self painting the second picture.
So he regresses further and paints a third:
A picture of the artist painting a picture of the artist painting a picture of the landscape.
And because something is still missing, he paints a fourth and a fifth
Until he paints a picture of the artist painting a picture of the artist painting a picture of the artist painting a picture of the artist painting the landscape.

So infinite regression then is...

The moment when our artist
Having regressed to the point of infinity
Becomes a part of the picture he has painted and is both the Observer and the observed.

What, in that... peculiar condition, what would he be observing if he were observing Time?

He would perceive, Mr Bonds, that Time is like a freeway with an infinite number of lanes -- all leading from the past into the future.
However not into the same future.
A driver in Lane A may crash, while driver in Lane B survives.
It follows that a driver, by changing lanes, can change the future.
Mr Bonds, I think that Time can only be fully understood by an Observer with a God-like gift of infinite regression.

Do you believe that?

Absolutely, I think it was the only explanation.

Don't ask... My week's been odd, I haven't slept in what feels like years, and the long journey back to London is awaiting me at eight in the morning tomorrow, followed by a nice dose of four hours in two hospitals.

I'm brimming with excitement I can assure you on that one.

This entry is already emanating with cynicism. I can't remember the last time I had a proper night's sleep and the sheer mental exhaustion I'm feeling right now is beyond words. My mentality has now taken a back-seat and it has my thoughts and worries at gun-point to get them to conform to Apathy. It's reached that part of Chronic Insomnia where everything I say or write makes absolutely no sense whatsoever; a form of stream of consciousness but with a hint of effort that I attempted to throw in some punctuation now and then. My eyes sting. I once knew a guy who played a video game continuously until the blood vessels in one of this eyes burst... Mine kind of feel like they're on the verge of doing so. What I would do for some one to put some kind of spell on me and make me fall asleep, I think they call that Hypnotism these days, or perhaps Opium... Maybe even Codeine.

But yes, Apathy. I like Apathy. I need to adopt that way of thinking more often, I may actually be able to sleep for a change. I came back to the countryside in a hope to relax and recover, but alas, I end up being about as uptight as Anne Robinson's face and continuing to not sleep all week. Thank God for Sky Plus and the surplus amount of shit-filled channels they've crammed on it to pass the time:

Jeremy Kyle, 3 AM. I'm there, watching it upside down as I do weird contortionist bendy stuff on a mat.
Spitting Image, 4 AM, I'm sprawled out on the floor staring out the window waiting for it to snow like I hear it is in London.
Xbox 360, 5 AM, I'm curled up on the sofa stabbing people up until the fan at the back of the console starts deafening my ears and all I've got is a high-pitched ringing and a sudden urge to kill.
Bed, 6 AM, and I'm staring at my ceiling, counting the weird spikes a 70's decorator had thought was "FAB" to imprint in every room when they were building the house.
Bedroom window. 7 AM, pulled the curtains back and it's broad daylight.
Some magazine I'd left from my last visit to my parents' place, 8 AM, I'm fucking bored.

Not knowing;

It's an infinite regression...

BT - Bank Thieves

2008-10-21T14:47:00.007+01:00

My first post and I'm already complaining... Brace yourself.

You know when you put off opening bills; how it all goes into the "Ignore" pile and you focus on other things instead, such as compulsively cleaning the bathroom, which leads to cleaning the other bathroom, then the kitchen, then the hallway, then the livingroom, then your bedroom and the next thing you know, you're in Sainsbury's buying cleaning appliances. Or when you opened up the cupboards and fridge and realised the food that you actually own in the entire house is that package of prawns which expires the next day, and an almost empty carton of Innocent Smoothie. So you go to the supermarket with the intention of buying food, but as mentioned before, you end up returning with crap you don't even need - or in my case, cleaning appliances and things to make toilets smell nice - so when you look in your shopping bags for food you suddenly realise you only bothered by a box of grapes. Even then, when you picked it up, you believed you wouldn't eat it until a few days later, but no. This turns out to be your dinner, with a side helping of more cleaning and setting up the nice smelling things for the toilets. It won't be until the next afternoon where you decide to face reality (only slightly) and open up that rather weighty bill sent so lovingly by BT.

Let's just say, the number looked nice. By 'nice' I mean 'painful'. I've never received a bill just for Broadband at such a huge price... To the point that I called up a lovely man in the call centre of BT to cry down the phone to him. Okay, I didn't cry, but my heart had actually sunk right down to my inner loins. I tried dividing the amount up in my head, and figured that if I was being billed monthly, the scary numbers wouldn't be so scary afterall, and that by dividing it by the amount of us that live in the apartment, it's even better. I just need to not think about the large amount of money that has just been debited from my account.

Take a pill.

Anyway, so I'm sitting here with said bills in a pile next to my feet, staring at me in my peripheral vision. I remember the days when bills were alien to me and the only thing I had to worry about was how far I could get on Streets Of Rage II before dying and having to start the game all over again. Sega Mega Drives and their no-save features... I remember playing Batman on there and having absolutely no clue as to what I had to do. Couldn't ever get past the scene let alone the first level. Happy days.

(Take another pill)

Man this is long, but then again, I write A LOT. Yesterday I was meant to start an 'Insomnia Diary' for a research student who's working on documentary. I suffer from chronic insomnia and they've taken quite an interest in my lack of ability to sleep and the fact that I haven't dropped dead yet. It's a 7 day diary with some intense questions and I'd told myself I'd start it last night but alas, 4OD got the better of me and I ended up watching documentaries until gone 5 in the morning... Hmmm.

(... And another)

I've stopped writing this entry about 3 times already. I think I started writing it about 2 hours ago but got side-tracked along the way, stopping and starting each paragraph between intervals. No doubt this will be one of the most unflowing entries anyone could ever read. Or not. Shut up Kim.

(And one more for luck)