Try to imagine the scene - a long, slow and fairly uneventful day at work has finally reached its end.
I am sitting on a crowded train on the way home.
Ten minutes into the journey I decide to take out the new Dan Brown novel 'Lost Symbols', and begin reading.
I look up at the standing strangers, inadvertently hugging one another due to the lack of space. I am reminded of how pleasant it is on these occasions to have a warm seat in the corner of the carriage. I am also glad that I do not have to read this weighty hard back book whilst standing up, allowing people to 'covertly' steal a glance at its pages over my shoulder (I can see you!). To my left, I am flanked by a young blonde girl, and on my right, the blurred view of the green and grey English countryside racing past.
Well, as I am deep in concentration the train comes to its anticipated first stop and the blonde girl departs. She is replaced by a middle aged woman, dressed in black and with jet black hair. I take a cursory glance up to see who my new travel companion is before returning to the exploits of Robert Langdon.
Within five minutes, I see that the woman has also removed a large hard back book from her bag with a familiarly faded gold cover. It is of course the same book that I am reading. Nothing too surprising there – it's a bestseller and has only recently been released. I momentarily consider at what point she is in the book, fearing that at any second she will announce to the whole train the ending, particularly as I still have over three quarters left to read.
I decide to subtly observe how big a threat she is and take an informed decision on what level of Dan Brown enlightenment she has reached. My glance turns into a slightly longer stare as I begin to notice certain words and phrases on her open book. They looked fresh and familiar. That's because they were. This woman who I had never met and had got on at one of five stops on the way home, moved through a crowded train and sat next to me, was now reading exactly the same book on as me and was also on exactly the same page!! I am no mathematician, and I am not sure how it would be possible to calculate it, but I like to know what the percentage chances was of this happening.
I was so shocked that I turned to this woman, who by now I half suspected as a witch, and broke the cardinal rule of English politeness. I spoke to a stranger on a train. I didn't speak to her to complain about the train service (although I did have a reason to as it was clearly sub-standard as they had not provided sufficient carriages for all the passengers on this crowded Friday evening). I didn't even speak to her to ask her the time, to chat her up or to request that she let me out of this two seated corner. I spoke to her because I needed to share with someone, this strange coincidence that had just taken place. She was gracious in her reply, slightly surprised and unnerved not only at this occurrence but also by my observation of it.
A further degree of weirdness was soon added by her confession that she was really tired and had not intended to read the book today as she didn't think she would be able to concentrate hard enough on it. We both laughed, slightly nervously and returned to the safety of the written word, unwilling to acknowledge the significance of this event any further.
Well, if truth be told, my focus on reading dwindled soon after, despite feeling obliged to read on at the same pace as my compatriot. We reverted back to our polite English stereotypes, and she eventually left the train, one stop before mine, without speaking another word. Perhaps, if I had been reading any other book, the significance of this event would have been lost on me. But somehow, it has resonated through my mind ever since. How many factors were involved in this event? Is it possible to explain this away? Has society now reached such a level of homogeneity, that our individualism is slowly being replaced with an increasing frequency of these strange communalities? Or rather, should we just accept that some things are unexplainable? And from time to time, strangers are brought together for no reason?
I think the simplest and also scariest answer to this question is as follows: sometimes magic just happens. And the power of this magic can be too much to comprehend, let alone accept.
It needs to be shared.
Saturday, 17 October 2009
Monday, 20 July 2009
Everyone likes a rant
The daily commute to work. Early mornings with the waking dead. People dressed up, hair brushed, makeup refined all looking as if they are on their way to a party. And yet they sit in silence, some reading, others drifting off into a restless sleep. All knowing that they will soon be cast into the depths of working life.
Why do we do it? Certainly not for the enjoyment of this soulless journey. We do it because we have to. And we do it because we haven't planned ahead....ticket collectors passing by apologetically asking whether we want tickets. No 'one-way' tickets here, all are 'returns' and all as soon as possible.
Why are we so tired from sitting and doing nothing in a comfy chair moving along in a fluid motion? Perhaps the collective dread of going to work? Or maybe it's the group synergy effect of being together, where the majority overrules. But amongst these tired old bones, there must be individuals who are motivated and excited about the upcoming days. If there are then I can't see any of them right now. And why do they stay so silent? Just the gentle sound of an old tired man coughing breaks the deathly focus.
This time of quiet and reflection, Church pews hurtling down the track at 80 miles per hour, allows us time to focus on something we do not care to in the rest of their busy lives at work. Our own mortality. And the fact that our lives are slipping away from them one train journey at a time.
[ps. If you think some of this doesn't make sense then you can tell I was writing it on the train at the time].
Why do we do it? Certainly not for the enjoyment of this soulless journey. We do it because we have to. And we do it because we haven't planned ahead....ticket collectors passing by apologetically asking whether we want tickets. No 'one-way' tickets here, all are 'returns' and all as soon as possible.
Why are we so tired from sitting and doing nothing in a comfy chair moving along in a fluid motion? Perhaps the collective dread of going to work? Or maybe it's the group synergy effect of being together, where the majority overrules. But amongst these tired old bones, there must be individuals who are motivated and excited about the upcoming days. If there are then I can't see any of them right now. And why do they stay so silent? Just the gentle sound of an old tired man coughing breaks the deathly focus.
This time of quiet and reflection, Church pews hurtling down the track at 80 miles per hour, allows us time to focus on something we do not care to in the rest of their busy lives at work. Our own mortality. And the fact that our lives are slipping away from them one train journey at a time.
[ps. If you think some of this doesn't make sense then you can tell I was writing it on the train at the time].
Friday, 10 July 2009
Social networking Loneliness
This is something I have been meaning to write about for some time. I recently took what can described as a 'sabbatical' from the social networking site Facebook.
I have to say this three month break was an extremely liberating experience. My time was spent reflecting on the confusing dualism of Facebook. It is a tool that both influences and manipulates how we are perceived by others as well as how we choose to represent ourselves.
My decision to leave was prompted by a 'culling' of Facebook friends who I never contacted and never contacted me. As well as this, the only time I used the site was to check the status of my fiancee, who lives with me! How ridiculous? She is normally sitting about 3 feet from me. Maybe next time I see her I'll ask her what her 'status' is... .. A world of possibilities and opportunities and yet the site actually made me feel, well, alone.
On telling my living friends of this decision to detach myself from this superficial online community of non-reality, I was criticised for “withdrawing from society”! I mean honestly, how melodramatic is that?! As if Facebook represents society!! How could it? Well, I suppose there are the petty jealousies regarding who has the most friends (I am suspicious of anyone with people with over 150 friends), the embarrassing pictures that you really didn't want to see or the stupid crazes. Apparently the most recent Facebook craze is to submit pictures of people lying down. Truly the peak of civilisation! On a par with walking on the moon!!
Ironically, the process of excluding myself from the group, observing and questioning this social phenomenon has provided a more concrete representation of the sort of person I am in the 'real' world. And yet bizarrely, to some 'users' (and I use this in the drug addicted sense), my removal of comments, pictures and threads meant I had ceased to exist in both the offline and online worlds.
Are our perceptions of reality slowly being corroded? Are we losing the ability to distinguish between the time spent on the computer and time spent with our friends? Is this precious real and unreal time merging and are we in danger of becoming online drones satisfied with text that appears before us?
By going cold-turkey, this experiment has shown me that, I would rather choose life
Epilogue
All those people who thought I had given up on life will be happy to learn I have recently decided to 're-engage' with society and re-join Facebook.
It is comforting to know that my profile remains exactly the same and I have more or less the same number of friends as before. There also remains another constant. I still write to my fiancee despite the fact we live with each other. Why not?
I am happy to have experienced life sans Facebook. It has taught me to accept it for what it is – a tool to connect to others, which can be picked up and used as often or (hopefully) as little as I like. Remember- try not to get too confused:
1. Facebook does NOT represent your effectiveness and popularity within the social sphere.
2. But it CAN help or hinder your perceptions of it.
[Ps. I had to change the title of this blog entry. I was not allowed to use the title 'Facebook Loneliness'].
I have to say this three month break was an extremely liberating experience. My time was spent reflecting on the confusing dualism of Facebook. It is a tool that both influences and manipulates how we are perceived by others as well as how we choose to represent ourselves.
My decision to leave was prompted by a 'culling' of Facebook friends who I never contacted and never contacted me. As well as this, the only time I used the site was to check the status of my fiancee, who lives with me! How ridiculous? She is normally sitting about 3 feet from me. Maybe next time I see her I'll ask her what her 'status' is... .. A world of possibilities and opportunities and yet the site actually made me feel, well, alone.
On telling my living friends of this decision to detach myself from this superficial online community of non-reality, I was criticised for “withdrawing from society”! I mean honestly, how melodramatic is that?! As if Facebook represents society!! How could it? Well, I suppose there are the petty jealousies regarding who has the most friends (I am suspicious of anyone with people with over 150 friends), the embarrassing pictures that you really didn't want to see or the stupid crazes. Apparently the most recent Facebook craze is to submit pictures of people lying down. Truly the peak of civilisation! On a par with walking on the moon!!
Ironically, the process of excluding myself from the group, observing and questioning this social phenomenon has provided a more concrete representation of the sort of person I am in the 'real' world. And yet bizarrely, to some 'users' (and I use this in the drug addicted sense), my removal of comments, pictures and threads meant I had ceased to exist in both the offline and online worlds.
Are our perceptions of reality slowly being corroded? Are we losing the ability to distinguish between the time spent on the computer and time spent with our friends? Is this precious real and unreal time merging and are we in danger of becoming online drones satisfied with text that appears before us?
By going cold-turkey, this experiment has shown me that, I would rather choose life
Epilogue
All those people who thought I had given up on life will be happy to learn I have recently decided to 're-engage' with society and re-join Facebook.
It is comforting to know that my profile remains exactly the same and I have more or less the same number of friends as before. There also remains another constant. I still write to my fiancee despite the fact we live with each other. Why not?
I am happy to have experienced life sans Facebook. It has taught me to accept it for what it is – a tool to connect to others, which can be picked up and used as often or (hopefully) as little as I like. Remember- try not to get too confused:
1. Facebook does NOT represent your effectiveness and popularity within the social sphere.
2. But it CAN help or hinder your perceptions of it.
[Ps. I had to change the title of this blog entry. I was not allowed to use the title 'Facebook Loneliness'].
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
Pigeon Detectives
Two months ago, prior to attending a theatrical performance in Liverpool city centre with my fiancee, I witnessed one of the most barbaric and futile acts of violence in my entire life.
It involved 4 male youths congregating in the square outside the theatre. They had not immediately caught our attention, as we stood and looked out on to the concrete square basking in the evening sunlight. However, their zig-zag movement in and out of shoppers, chasing the gathering pigeons was sufficient to attract our wandering gaze. They looked like archetypal poster-boys for the bored and disaffected youth presented to us by the media. But surely no harm could result by simply chasing pigeons? Well, their presumed innocence soon evaporated as we began to realise their objective: they were trying to catch a pigeon to put it in a blue plastic shopping bag....cruel you might say and also quite pointless. Was this their idea of entertainment? Worse was to follow.
In an instant, one of the boys had lifted the plastic bag in the air, with the pigeon still moving within it, before swinging wildly and pummelling the bag and bird into the concrete surface of the square. Unprovoked and incomprehensible, the boy then began to kick the bag around the square as spectators looked on. Nothing was done or said, other than this vile act of torture.
I kept asking myself. Why? Why is he doing this and why is no-one stopping them? Is everyone afraid, ambivalent or just confused? Should I have called the police? What would they have said if I had told them to “come quick, some boys are murdering a pigeon!”. Maybe they would have laughed and said it is just a pigeon.
But that is precisely the point! That is why I am angry. It IS just a pigeon. Defenceless and stupid. Not a threat in any way and yet murdered at the whim of an imbecile. Has it really come to this? Can we excuse him for being a teenager? I don't think so. This boy carried out a premeditated act of violence. The legal age of responsibility for criminal acts is still 10 years old. This act was pure evil and committed by an individual who should have known better. Don't we have a duty to uphold standards of acceptable behaviour and respect for life – human or otherwise? What if the next time he decides to attack a person without cause or justification in an equally violent way?
I think this was the most shocking revelation of this event. It reminded me of the opening scene in 2001: a Space Odyssey, when the ape first uses a bone to beat the ground. Ironically, in that scene, it was intended to signify the beginning of civilisation. Sadly, in this case, this same action by this particular boy represented the end of it.
It involved 4 male youths congregating in the square outside the theatre. They had not immediately caught our attention, as we stood and looked out on to the concrete square basking in the evening sunlight. However, their zig-zag movement in and out of shoppers, chasing the gathering pigeons was sufficient to attract our wandering gaze. They looked like archetypal poster-boys for the bored and disaffected youth presented to us by the media. But surely no harm could result by simply chasing pigeons? Well, their presumed innocence soon evaporated as we began to realise their objective: they were trying to catch a pigeon to put it in a blue plastic shopping bag....cruel you might say and also quite pointless. Was this their idea of entertainment? Worse was to follow.
In an instant, one of the boys had lifted the plastic bag in the air, with the pigeon still moving within it, before swinging wildly and pummelling the bag and bird into the concrete surface of the square. Unprovoked and incomprehensible, the boy then began to kick the bag around the square as spectators looked on. Nothing was done or said, other than this vile act of torture.
I kept asking myself. Why? Why is he doing this and why is no-one stopping them? Is everyone afraid, ambivalent or just confused? Should I have called the police? What would they have said if I had told them to “come quick, some boys are murdering a pigeon!”. Maybe they would have laughed and said it is just a pigeon.
But that is precisely the point! That is why I am angry. It IS just a pigeon. Defenceless and stupid. Not a threat in any way and yet murdered at the whim of an imbecile. Has it really come to this? Can we excuse him for being a teenager? I don't think so. This boy carried out a premeditated act of violence. The legal age of responsibility for criminal acts is still 10 years old. This act was pure evil and committed by an individual who should have known better. Don't we have a duty to uphold standards of acceptable behaviour and respect for life – human or otherwise? What if the next time he decides to attack a person without cause or justification in an equally violent way?
I think this was the most shocking revelation of this event. It reminded me of the opening scene in 2001: a Space Odyssey, when the ape first uses a bone to beat the ground. Ironically, in that scene, it was intended to signify the beginning of civilisation. Sadly, in this case, this same action by this particular boy represented the end of it.
Friday, 3 April 2009
"Ship Wrecked" (sic)
I rediscovered this short story I wrote on 7 November 1990, aged 9 years old. Complete with spelling and grammatical errors.
Ship Wrecked
A ship was heading from America to France but on the way there was a very bad storm and they ended up ship wrecked on a desirted island and they didn't know where they were. The captain and some of the crew went to try and find food because they had lost most of it in the storm. While they were looking for food one of the passengers wandered of for a swim because it was quite hot and he was attacked by a shark. The captain (captain Haddock) heard the scream of the passenger and hurried back to save him. The shark and the boy weren't too far out so he got a gun out and shot the shark with the gun, the passenger was very grateful. They had luckily had brought a radio with them and tried desperately to get some help but he couldn't reach any help. The next morning they got through to some help and they were rescued by them. But while they were travelling a sea monster attacked them and distroyed the boat they were in and were drifting for days, (a few people were killed by the sea monster). The Captain woke up on the shore of a beach and he had reached France and had made it. He hurried to the port he was supposed to reach and got a hot chocolate and some food and told some people about his encounter with the sea monster and some other adventures he had there and the people who had been killed.
The End
Ship Wrecked
A ship was heading from America to France but on the way there was a very bad storm and they ended up ship wrecked on a desirted island and they didn't know where they were. The captain and some of the crew went to try and find food because they had lost most of it in the storm. While they were looking for food one of the passengers wandered of for a swim because it was quite hot and he was attacked by a shark. The captain (captain Haddock) heard the scream of the passenger and hurried back to save him. The shark and the boy weren't too far out so he got a gun out and shot the shark with the gun, the passenger was very grateful. They had luckily had brought a radio with them and tried desperately to get some help but he couldn't reach any help. The next morning they got through to some help and they were rescued by them. But while they were travelling a sea monster attacked them and distroyed the boat they were in and were drifting for days, (a few people were killed by the sea monster). The Captain woke up on the shore of a beach and he had reached France and had made it. He hurried to the port he was supposed to reach and got a hot chocolate and some food and told some people about his encounter with the sea monster and some other adventures he had there and the people who had been killed.
The End
Self censorship?
It's strange looking back at something you've written. Normally I consider the memory of writing it and how passionately expressive I thought it was at the time, only to be surprised and slightly embarrassed at the end result. The benefit of hindsight teaches us much.
But I have decided not to censor my thoughts. To do so would be to erase a momentary part of history and an inner voice that wanted to be heard in that particular moment. Surely it must be better to retain rather than suppress these moments?
However, this got me thinking about all the essays and short stories I have written in my life. The number of drafts, re-writes, the chopping or changing of sentences all together must number in the thousands of hours of laborious and meticulous editing. When I first started writing stories (one particular one called 'Shipwrecked' written when I was 9 springs to mind), I had no concept of editing. The stories themselves simply unwound from one thought to the next.
At school and then University, my writing began to develop structure and form as I was taught to cut assertion and mindless rambling out. Everything needed to be justified and supported by arguments. And I have to admit it is great to see the evolution of something from a basic idea and reach a more rounded and structured whole. Everything with a beginning, a middle and an end.
But what happens to all those things that have been cut out over time? Those pages and pages of notes and drafts that were discarded as worthless rubbish. Where any hidden treasures that I cast off? Do they or did they ever have a place? Or is it right that they are simply consigned to the emptiness of history?
I wonder if this blog is now simply escapism from the learned structural shackles. I don't know, but right now as I write I am in the process of cutting, editing and censoring my thoughts. This is actually the third draft of the same entry I started writing this morning. Bizarrely, I am trying to simplify and structure thoughts to achieve the fluidity of my chaotic stories of the past. So funny to think, that when we are young we are given the freedom to write what we like while as we grow older we are told to express things more clearly and simply so that they are not misunderstood. One might have thought it would be the other way around. It may be a question of style and substance but perhaps what this entry is really about is a lament to the innocence and inconsequential naivety of youth.
But I have decided not to censor my thoughts. To do so would be to erase a momentary part of history and an inner voice that wanted to be heard in that particular moment. Surely it must be better to retain rather than suppress these moments?
However, this got me thinking about all the essays and short stories I have written in my life. The number of drafts, re-writes, the chopping or changing of sentences all together must number in the thousands of hours of laborious and meticulous editing. When I first started writing stories (one particular one called 'Shipwrecked' written when I was 9 springs to mind), I had no concept of editing. The stories themselves simply unwound from one thought to the next.
At school and then University, my writing began to develop structure and form as I was taught to cut assertion and mindless rambling out. Everything needed to be justified and supported by arguments. And I have to admit it is great to see the evolution of something from a basic idea and reach a more rounded and structured whole. Everything with a beginning, a middle and an end.
But what happens to all those things that have been cut out over time? Those pages and pages of notes and drafts that were discarded as worthless rubbish. Where any hidden treasures that I cast off? Do they or did they ever have a place? Or is it right that they are simply consigned to the emptiness of history?
I wonder if this blog is now simply escapism from the learned structural shackles. I don't know, but right now as I write I am in the process of cutting, editing and censoring my thoughts. This is actually the third draft of the same entry I started writing this morning. Bizarrely, I am trying to simplify and structure thoughts to achieve the fluidity of my chaotic stories of the past. So funny to think, that when we are young we are given the freedom to write what we like while as we grow older we are told to express things more clearly and simply so that they are not misunderstood. One might have thought it would be the other way around. It may be a question of style and substance but perhaps what this entry is really about is a lament to the innocence and inconsequential naivety of youth.
Thursday, 26 March 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
