The Timpanist Got Engaged Today

I was at carols. There was an orchestra. Before they started playing, the conductor introduced the evening and said, 'The timpanist got engaged today.'
That was it. My mind froze.
All I could think about for the next two hours was how many times that sentence could have been uttered over the past centuries -nay, millenia if you consider other languages and the history of the timpani- and I reckon it's a safe bet to say not many. In fact, I would argue that it is statistically possible that it is the first time that that sentence has ever been uttered.
And I was there.
A historic end to a personally historic year.
My resolution for 2011 is to shoehorn the sentence in to as many conversations as possible.

I Buy Into The Fact That It's Too Commercialised

I think it was Christopher Hitchens who highlighted that there wasn’t a word for not believing in Father Christmas. Unlike calling oneself an atheist which is an unbeliever in a god and presupposes that there may be a god but that one just doesn’t believe in him/her -i.e. it makes no sense to say that one doesn’t believe in something that doesn’t exist- there isn't an equivalent word re Santa.
I think this is an important observation because obviously Father Christmas exists and anybody who says he doesn’t is going to burn in hell for all eternity, especially anyone who says so before next Saturday.

Storm And Stress

‘Did you know that there is a light out near the HP Sauce?’ he asked.
I looked at him. What sort of diabolical question was this?
Was it existential? Meta-physical? Rational? Post-modern? Empirical?
Surely the light was a fixed object and the HP Sauce was transferable, mutable, so the question should be posed the other way round? Unless by 'light', he meant hope, desire, perhaps life itself…
My mind churned. My guts knotted. I was mentally outgunned. I would have to admit defeat.
The sentence ‘I bow to your superior reasoning and renounce any further questioning evermore’ formed in my mouth.
‘You know,’ he added, ‘where the HP Sauce packaging is displayed. A spotlight has gone out.’
One of the other Museum volunteers stepped in. ‘OK, thanks. We’ll fix it.’
A simple answer, sometimes they are the best, but I still think that Wittgenstein would have wrestled with the proposition differently and shown the brash upstart the fallacy in his logic.

The Psychology Of Leisure

Why not work?
I read recently that those who do not work often become depressed, lose their sense of identity and purpose in life, and become mentally or physically ill.
Not me, I’m down the bookies putting my income support on Lenin’s Tomb in the 3:20 before heading to my local Wetherspoon to forget and throw-up later in the toilet.
But I think just as important as the psychology of work is the psychology of leisure and no one prepares us for this. There is career guidance but no leisure guidance, and another evening is pissed away watching Casino Royale on DVD as a result.
So what do we do when we are not working, sleeping, washing/dressing/commuting…? Well, I guess there’s the family stuff, the meeting friends stuff, the physical exercise stuff, the mental exercise stuff, the constructive pursuit stuff, and the doing sod all stuff… It’s a mix and match, but I imagine one would need more meaningful leisure if one is doing meaningless work.
Perhaps I should become a leisure counsellor. I think everyone could get a boost from more arts and crafts.

The Psychology Of Work

Why work?
Being unemployed and looking for work it's a question I ask myself. Some people seem to think more about their careers than about their lives, they seem to mix the two up, but the two are complementary not substitute.
But what am I looking for? Is it so that I can feed and shelter myself? Is it to get me out of the house and give me some meaning? Is it so that I can earn superfluous money and buy superfluous things to distract myself? Is it for the intrinsic nature of the work: the stimulation, the value, the achievement? Is it so that I can buy shiny toys and show other people what losers they are? Is it for the dental plan? Is it all the above?
It's a tough one. You could spend a whole life working it out, but I hear the pay isn't good.
So I ask you, you out there, why work?

Potential Dating Material

'I know someone you might like,' he said.
'Who's that?' I asked.
'A girl in my office.'
'What's she like?'
'Petite, dark, quite attractive...'
'Really? Any bad points?'
'Well, apparently she's also crazy, possessive and filthy.'
'Really? Any bad points?'

What If Someone Set Up A Blog And Nobody Visited?

‘What’s up?’ I asked me.
‘I’m not sleeping,’ I said to me. ‘I just can’t sleep…’
‘Why not? Worried that you can’t get the basics right like a job or a relationship?’
‘Screw you. No, I’m worried that there are no more grand narratives.’
I stared at me. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘You know, that all certainties have now been demolished and we live in rootless culture running out of future.’
‘Drinking cocoa helps you sleep.’
‘That the media bombards us with an endless barrage of parodied emotions eroding our ability to formulate original empathy.’
‘Also Lemsip with honey.’
‘That we will have to create our own narratives on a local scale but we no longer know how.’
‘Or you could try watching a David Lynch film.’
‘I mean, how am I supposed to develop my own sub-plot in the absence of a coherent meta-narrative?’
‘Mulholland Drive has nudity.’
There was a Pinter pause while I stared at me.
‘Or maybe you can't sleep because you're too excited about Prince William getting engaged…?’
‘Actually, I read an interesting article on how many bedrooms there are in her parents’ house.’
‘Zzzzzzzzzzzzz…’

Attacking Consumer Culture Whilst Working In The Gift Shop

The irony isn’t lost on me.
Here I am, trying to see through the fog of modern life, to strip away the distractions used to avoid self-reflection, to not fall for the lie of buying a way to happiness, and to ask myself key existential questions. Yet, meanwhile, to get me out of the house and avoid madness, I’m volunteering in a local museum and not just any museum but, get this, one that chronicles consumer culture and celebrates packaging.
I’m volunteering in the Museum of Brands, Packaging & Advertising.
And it’s actually a really interesting place.
So here I am, searching for content and volunteering in packaging.
The irony isn’t lost on me.

Tuesday Night

My bloody words were coming out of his mouth.
Here was an actor with over 20 years experience and he was reading out the words to a story that I had written.
He stood on the little stage and spoke my words.
I was standing at the back of the room, palms sweaty, squirming at every noun, verb and preposition.
He read on. The audience listened, laughed, nodded.
Then the story was over and they applauded politely.
Wow.
Then I thought about how I would write about it.

Moment Of Gratuitous Self-Publicity

A short story of mine has been chosen for the next Liars’ League event.
Details about the League and the event (Smoke and Mirrors, 9th Nov) can be found here:
www.liarsleague.com
The story will be up on their site after that.
I’ll be available in the hall to sign autographs and kiss babies.

I Don’t Exist

So I’ve been reading about Heidegger and his work Being and Time.
I only exist in a moment between memory and anticipation, between what has been and what will be. But the past no longer exists, and the future doesn’t exist either -yet- so as neither exist in the present moment then I don’t exist. It’s a scary concept which goes beyond explaining why I don’t get served in pubs. The past is what makes us who we are, the future is but our projection there, our hopes of what we may become. So concerns are simply about what will be but they don’t actually exist now.
This begs the question that if I don’t exist and the clocks just changed does that mean I won’t exist for an extra hour?

Pointless Exercise

‘Sometimes, I just don’t see the point,’ he said.
I looked at him.
‘I mean, it feels like I’m just going through the motions, seeing it out till the end.’
We were walking through the streets. It was dark and wet and cold.
‘I don’t think I’m going to meet anyone now, you know, so it’s just me.’
We were drunk. In vino veritas.
‘I just go to work and go home. Go to work and go home. Sometimes I find it hard to see the point...’
I wanted to say something about friendship, about leading a good life, about happiness, about how sometimes it is hard, about how sometimes searching for a point is the wrong thing to do, but it all sounded trite so I didn’t say anything.
We walked on in silence.

Fissures In The Cerebrum

This week I have been mainly travelling inside my brain, exploring thoughts and discovering ideas.
I started at the medulla, ambling my way up towards the pons. From here, there’s a very good view of the cerebellum although it’s best to get there early or finding a table outside is difficult.
I don’t suggest venturing into the cerebellum as the going is tough. Appropriate clothing is required such as outdoor performance wear and cargo pants. Although, if, like me, you can’t carry off cargo pants then don’t worry as the cerebellum regulates fear so you can ease your own apprehension.
’Tis then but a short hop to the temporal lobe. I found it a bit noisy as auditory perception occurs here but well worth it to visit the hippocampus, the use of which escapes me at the moment.
I then cantered my way through the occipital, parietal and frontal lobes. It was hard to see anything in the occipital as vision perception occurs here and I was in the way. I got lost in the parietal for obvious reasons, and was finally kicked out of the frontal for not having enough ambition.
Next week: voyage round my father.

Attempt At A Self-Criticism

Yes, I’ve made some mistakes.
Yes, I’ve erred, but I am only human. Some ex-girlfriends may dispute this but I said everything I had to say in the goodbye fax.
So, yes, a few errors, a few missteps. I’ve given inappropriate gifts. I’ve made some bad career choices. I once slept with a married woman. I’ve worn penny loafers. I’ve been drunk and run around with my trousers down. One time, trying to impress a girl and get her into bed, I mixed up Nietzsche with Schopenhauer. But, overall, they are minor misdemeanours. Overall, I’ve tried to do the right thing. It’s not like I robbed banks, did time and was sodomised in the shower.
But mistakes aren’t just about things done but things not done. I’ve let opportunities slip by. I’ve let people go I shouldn’t have. I once missed a ferry and had to wait over an hour for the next. I’ve second guessed myself when I shouldn’t have.
My biggest regret is not being a better listener. Not because I’m not interested but simply because there is a tremendous soundtrack going on in my head and I find it hard to blot it out. My mind is constantly asking Why? like an annoying child. Sometimes I wish it would just ask Why not? like when I’m about to do something pointless yet fun, or when I’m talking to twins.
So, anyway, there it is, a mea culpa. I feel better for it.
Why?

The Meaning Of Life

So instead of looking for a job I’ve been reading about life and what it may possibly be all about.
The weird thing is that this feels like a silly thing to do when I really should be looking for work, which is a bit like thinking why eat steak when you can eat steak flavoured crisps.
But then I ask myself how can I possibly look for a job without having a clearer idea of purpose?
As I ponder this I get hungry. To feed myself I need food. To get food I need money. To get money I need a job.
So I need a job to be able to reflect on life to able to look for the right job.
That’s pretty screwed up.
What’s more screwed up is that any job which allows me to do this is actually the right job because it does allow me to do it thus giving me purpose.
So any job will do. And that’s my meaning of life sorted too.
Time for a cup of tea and the paper.

1440

That’s the number of minutes in a day.
1440.
It only takes 1 to receive information that things have changed, that things aren’t going to work out.
That a verdant view you saw is being taken away from you.
God damn that minute.
Sometimes it really would be better if there were only 1439 minutes in a day.

Only Idiots Are Happy

Only idiots are happy.
I was thinking this over tea and toast this morning.
Idiots don’t think about death, like animals they have no concept of it so live as if they were immortal. And if you are immortal, you don’t need to anxiously seek a purpose for your short time on the planet, to try and make sense of it, you will forever be so you just eat, sleep, pass time, reproduce, and repeat ad infinitum.
But then as I brushed my teeth I thought the following: can you actually be happy if you don’t know it, if you haven’t asked yourself the question? Because if you are unhappy and realise it, at least you can try and do something to remedy the fact. Idiots could be unhappy and not do anything about it because they simply don’t know any different.
Sitting on the toilet I then contemplated this conundrum while I took a dump. The question of whether self-reflection is an aid or a block to happiness is a serpentine one. Some could argue that analysis leads to paralysis and even further anxiety. After straining long and hard, I finally came up with the following thesis: some idiots are happy, some aren’t; some non-idiots are happy, some aren’t.
It was a big dump. I had not quite refuted the initial premise but at least come up with the contention that questioning oneself is a valid exercise. And they were solid stools so I’m getting enough fibre.
I was ready for the day.

Short Story

So I had this great idea for a short story the other night.
I wrote it and it was raw but something in it glittered.
So then I revised it and polished it and it started to shine.
I discarded, I condensed, I amplified. I smoothed out rough edges. I ministered to flaws.
The story started to fly, the prose looped the loop, the characters yelled like the living.
I stood back. The tale sparkled with anger, with tenderness, with honesty, with hard-won joy.
With truth.
Dawn broke and I was hungry, I was tired, but I was at peace. All that searching had led to gold.
To hell with everything, with love, with work, with the world outside. Here it was. Here was enough.
Then I deleted it, because the last line was, you know, predictable.

Writing Wrongs

‘Hey, Seb?’
‘Yes, Seb.’
‘So what have you been doing with your time since you’ve been back? Settling back into the flat? Looking for a job? Exploring London?’
‘Writing.’
‘Writing?’
‘Yeah, writing.’
‘Writing what?’
‘A novel.’
‘A novel?’ I frown. ‘Really? What’s it about?’
‘It’s about a lot of things…’
‘Let me guess… Is it, like, a novel about the way-we-live-today? A novel with a hero who asks himself lots of questions, you know, he’s doing OK in life but he’s asking himself the bigger picture questions and that’s when things start to go wrong. Is it about that? And through that, you skewer the hypocrisies and absurdities within modern society, giving thought provoking insights on growing feelings of isolation and loss of control. Am I close? Perhaps you’re using some of the experiences and thoughts you had on your travels although it’s not at all about you. And at the end, the hero finds salvation in doing simple things, being a good person, finding a purpose. Is that what it’s about?’
‘Screw you.’
‘Does it have vampires?’

You’ll Soon Forget Me When I’m Gone

So I was reading an article on friendships, on the typical number of friends people have and on how this number changes when romance enters the fray.
So the article said that the typical number of core friendships was five. This was people that a person saw at least once a week and went to at times of crisis. The next layer out was people a person saw about once a month and would be upset about should something bad happen to.
Apparently, the key to the strength and emotional engagement in a friendship is the frequency of interactions with that person. When a romantic relationship with a new person occurs then there is less time for these interactions so they suffer and possibly end.
So, I reckon, if you don’t want your core friendships to suffer then you need to date someone within that group (gender issues allowing). But what if they all already are in relationships? Furthermore, if they are, then how come the core friendship didn’t suffer in the first place? Unless… unless they secretly pushed you into the outer layer and only actually think about you when you break a toe. That would explain the non returning of calls. Those bastards.

Welcome To Reality

‘So how does it feel to be back in reality?’ I’m often asked since my return.
To be honest, I wasn’t aware that I was out of it. It all felt pretty real to me while I was away, from working in a Costa Rican slum to sitting around a fire in the Canadian wilderness via driving across the Golden Gate Bridge. Is the experience not ‘reality’ because it’s not being stuck in a meeting, or doing the washing up, or dealing with the burdens and humdrum of daily life? But then that’s not everybody’s reality, for some it is, however some people wake up wondering how to spend their billions and others wake up wondering if they will live till nightfall. My reality is everything that I do. So surely the ‘reality’ in the question is not mine, it’s the questioner’s.
‘So how does it feel to be back in reality?’ I’m often asked.
‘I wouldn‘t know,’ I say.
'Christ,' they say, 'pull your head out your sophistic arse, I'm just making conversation.'

Hilarity & Despair

‘So, how does it feel to back?’ I asked me.
‘Well,‘ I answered me, ‘I have a pain in my solar plexus that just won’t quit. It crawls around, slithers in my insides, clambers up into my throat but I can’t scream it out. Jesus, I feel so sick. I’m sweating a lot. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. Sometimes it’s just too hard. I wish I could just lie down and dream it all away, just look into the inside of my lids, into the nothing, into the black. I sit down in front of the laptop and nothing comes out. My hands are permanent fists. I just can’t seem to pull myself out of it, you know, the fire is going out. Damn it all. I wish… I wish… I wish…’
‘Hmm, bit melodramatic don’t you think?’
‘Yeah, you’re right. I feel OK, actually.’
‘So what’s next?’
‘Well, I need to get it back, you know, I need to find it. The wolves are pacing at the door. The sky is turning black, streams of acid rain burn into my skin. Nothing seems to work. I need to snap out of it, to surface from this deep dive, up into the blazing sun, to be warm, to be stronger…’
'So you going to look for another desk job?'

Going Nowhere Fast

I read the following in the paper this morning which made me pause:
'You are not stuck in traffic. You are traffic.'
Hmm.
Then it made me think that you could replace the word 'traffic' with a lot of things, e.g. 'a queue', 'a relationship', 'a life'...
Hmm.
But maybe not with 'a hole', because then you could possibly blame the council instead of yourself.
Hmm.

A Life Out Of Joint

“I've seen things you (…) wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I've watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time; like tears in rain.”
Well, I didn’t see as much as Batty in Blade Runner, but I’ve not come back the same person. I left angry and came back with a shift in perspective. Self-examination and critical thinking is tough and scary but the most rewarding things often are. It’s ongoing, though, or it will be lost in time.
But I’ve just discovered that there are several forks missing from my flat.
I should never have gone away.

Wake Up And Smell The Coffee

I woke up and I didn’t know where I was.
Waking up most days in a new place it’s not surprising. And sometimes I wake up in an in-between place, like on a bus, a train, or a plane.
But, ironically, this time I was in my bed, at home. I was back.
Although I’m not so sure it feels like home anymore. And there's no toilet paper.
Now what?

I Hate Tourists

‘Hey, Seb,’ I said, ‘how come you didn’t go travelling in South America after your time in Costa Rica?’
‘What do you mean, Seb?’ I asked. ‘You have a problem with North America?’
‘Well, I just thought that the usual route for people dismayed with the rampant materialism of Western society, that spiritual wasteland where people seek meaning in consumer goods and are increasingly isolated from each other, was to head South -or to Asia- in their search for something more authentic.’
‘Are you asking me why I didn’t go on the hippy trail?’
‘Er, yes.’
‘Because I don’t see how going to a hot country to see poor people and wear baggy trousers is authentic. There are plenty of poor people in North America, and they live right next to incredibly wealthy people, that’s authentic and screwed up.’
‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me next that people in poor countries don’t want to be authentic anyway, that they aspire to materialism and buying Mickey Mouse shaped candle holders too.’
‘Why yes. You know, it’s spooky, it’s like you can read my mind. So I just wanted to see new sights, visit friends, and have time to think. Is that OK?’
‘I thought you picked America because the shallow, keep-it-simple culture suited you.’
‘Like, screw you, dude.’

Lifestyles Of The Hard Working And Anonymous

I’m staying with some friends in Toronto.
My friends around North America have been very generous with me as I have been travelling around.
They have opened up their homes and I have been able to enjoy the lifestyles that they are working so hard to maintain but do not have time to actually enjoy themselves.
At least all that hard work is not going to waste.

Ask Questions Later

I’m sitting opposite an attractive French girl in the lounge area of a hostel.
We’re chatting about where we have been and where we are going.
I think to myself that I like her.
Then I think to myself if I like her because she is attractive, or if she is attractive because I like her.
Meanwhile, she gets up and leaves.

Quebec

Mon Dieu, quel accent!
If this is French, then I'm a Dutchman.

Just What She Carries

I’m in a hostel in the middle of Jasper National Park. It’s after dinner and a few of us are gathered around a fire, talking and drinking. It’s bear country but we reckon it can’t kill all of us, the fittest will get away. Natural selection.
A woman is talking. I watch her face in the glow of the flames. It’s an interesting face.
‘I’ve been on the road for sixteen years,’ she says.
Sixteen years! Christ, these days, I’m struggling after two hours.
‘I was in Chile for a few years,’ she continues, ‘but I would like to return to Guatemala.’
She makes and sells jewellery. When she has no money she barters for her board, doing odd jobs. She has just what she carries.
I wonder what stories she could tell. To have seen much and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands. Every day a new horizon. Every day a new challenge. Life as an adventure.
She pulls her shawl around her and tells us that she was offered a job in Jasper but she’s not sure she could settle down, fit back into ‘the system.’
I wonder if I could opt out of the system too, the straightjacket that makes us cogs in a machine, that tames the natural animal in us, but first I need to secure a pension that will pay for medication and care when I’m old and sick.
Someone hands me a joint. Fireworks go off in my head and I don‘t think of anything any much anymore.

Another Journey Into The Interior

‘Hey,’ I asked, ‘where are you off to now?’
‘Off into the interior,’ I answered. ‘That’s what they call it here: the Interior.’
‘Sounds ominous.’
‘Not really. Although a couple of years back, on a cross Canada Greyhound bus, some guy sawed another guy’s head off…’
‘Jesus. I know it’s a long way but there must be other ways of not going mad. Have you packed a sudoku?’
‘Actually, I’m going to ponder if questioning the conformity of modern consumer society is valid given that most people are trying to distinguish themselves by what they purchase.’
‘Jesus. By the way, you do know that you are talking to yourself, right?’
‘Who said that?’

Release The Hounds

I’m staying with friends in Victoria, British Columbia, and I’m walking their dog. I take him out in the mornings and we head into the park then to the coast where we watch ships sail towards snow capped mountains in America. The dog attracts a lot of attention. People smile, they stop and say hello, mainly to him although I take it upon myself to answer. Frisco doesn’t mind, or if he does he hasn’t said anything to me.
It reminds me of when I would take my little niece out in London. She would draw all sorts of attention, especially from women, they would smile, stop and say hello too. If a conversation started, I would strike an avuncular poise and throw in ‘I’m actually her uncle’ just in case, you know, said woman was single. Although said woman never usually said much after that.
So I’m walking Frisco -or he’s walking me, it’s not clear between us- and it’s another clear, crisp morning. I expound on the theory of Plato’s Cave, he expounds a steaming turd which I gingerly gather up in a bag. Frisco’s more the empiricist to my rationalist. We look at ducks, he bends his front paw at squirrels, people say hello. Then we pass an attractive woman.
She looks at me and says, ‘Beautiful dog.’
I blink and blurt out, ‘I’m actually his uncle.’
On the way home I expound to Frisco on the theory of how difficult it is to meet women.

The Value Of Doing Nothing

‘And what do you do?’
I think about this. I am asked this question a lot on my trip. Either because they are bad conversationalists asking the standard boring question or because they are really curious as to how I can be travelling for months on end.
‘I don’t do anything anymore,’ I usually say. Then I qualify this by saying what I used to do. By qualify I mean justify and explain, which I hate myself for doing, as if my present state is wrong.
‘So what are you going to do?’
I look at them.
‘What does it matter? A business card doesn’t define a person. It’s not what you do but how you do it that is the question.’
That's what I feel like saying. Or
‘What does it matter? Whatever I do, children will be starving in Africa.’
Or
‘What does it matter? I’ll doubtless have to smother any sense of purpose and do whatever it takes to pay the bills.’
But I usually just say ‘I don’t know’ and change the topic to a standard boring conversation about the weather.

The Society Of The Spectacle

‘Hey, so how you liking Vancouver?‘ I asked me.
‘It’s a fun city,’ I answered me. ‘I can’t believe they have beaches just off downtown.’
‘You been swimming or are you still swimming in your head?’
‘Actually, I have been wondering if not being true to yourself means that you are just faking a life. And then follows how you even can be true in this media saturated society of manufactured desires in which we are alienated from our essential nature.’
‘Water too cold was it?’
‘But then I met this guy who told me how he found out that his wife was having an affair, how she said that she didn’t love him anymore, how he was worried that he would lose his kids… He was in fucking tears.’
I stared at me.
‘The concrete took over the abstract, you know. What was I supposed to say to him: Sorry, mate, but your life in the suburbs was just a marketing man’s concept of a life anyway, now you can be true to yourself?’
‘Hm. So what did you say?’
‘Nothing. We drank beer.’
‘Glad to see your thinking is proving useful.’
‘Screw you.’

The Girl On The Greyhound

‘I’m visiting my boyfriend,’ she said. ‘We’ve never met, just spoken on the internet.’
I was on a Greyhound bus. I was heading north.
‘I had my second miscarriage on a bus,’ she said.
The girl was sitting two rows behind me. She had started talking to the guy next to her soon after we set off. She had a loud voice.
‘I write to prisoners,’ she said.
I had seen her in the terminal. She was young and dressed in black. She was reading a book called God is Awesome.
‘I love sex,’ she said. ‘I think about it 24-7.’
The bus turned a corner and hit a parked car. The driver stopped to examine the damage.
She called up her boyfriend. ‘The car just flew into us,’ she said.
I smiled to myself. God was awesome for not making her sit next to me.

The World Is Too Much With Us

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. -Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
I studied this sonnet by Wordsworth when I was at school. I didn’t understand it back then, but I’m beginning to understand it now.
I woke up the other day and there was a deer outside my window. It was in a field of long grass, walking cautiously. A breeze shook the trees and made the grass sway like waves. For a moment, it looked like the deer was swimming. I gazed and gazed as it swam in the waves, and it reminded me of Wordsworth. But then I got bored and watched a Lady Gaga video on YouTube.

The Edge Of The World

‘Hey, you’re back,’ I said.
‘I am,’ I answered.
‘Er, and where exactly is it you are?’
‘I’m in the Pacific Northwest, on the San Juan Islands, on the edge of the Canadian border.’
‘What the hell are you doing there?’
‘I was invited. I’m glad I came. It’s so isolated and beautiful, it feels like the edge of the world…’
I stared at me. ‘You know, I wasn’t sure from your last post if you were travelling onwards or inwards. I pictured you missing the scenery as you examined your navel. So what happened to your digital detox?’
‘Well, being on the road I’ve been thinking about what it means to belong somewhere...’
‘I think you belong in an asylum.’
‘…and I think it’s the feeling that you matter and that people care.’
‘Yawn. So?’
‘So it isn’t just given, it’s a two way street, it needs attention from both sides. I looked at the last reader comments on here: some people read this and, whether I know them or not, they care. My invitation up here even came from this.’
‘So you’re saying enough with the selfish I want to be alone dramatics?’
‘So I’m just saying that finding belonging is hard in the modern world and shouldn’t be taken for granted.’
‘Who are you suddenly, the Dalai Lama?’
‘Screw you.’ I flicked myself the finger as my other me gave me the V sign.

Wish You Were Here

‘So, how are you getting on in San Jose?’ I asked.
‘Actually,’ I answered, ‘I’m getting itchy feet. It’s a bit sterile here, affluent but soulless. It’s just shiny shops and shiny bars…’
‘Poor you, it sounds awful…’
I sniffed the air. ‘Do you smell sarcasm?’
‘Some people would kill for shiny shops. People who live in slums for example...’
I ignored me. ‘A shopping mall is my idea of hell, but I don‘t think it’s what Nietzche meant by suffering...’
‘Christ on a bike. It’s not life and death, it’s a 40% off sale at GAP.’
‘Anyway, I think it’s time to move on. It’s time to hit the road and see what happens because…’
‘Please don’t say because “the road is life”.’
‘… because “the road is life”.’
‘Oh, puleeze. You’re such a pseud.’
‘Screw you,’ I said taking a step forward.
‘No, screw you,’ I said taking a step back.
‘You have delusions of poetry. Have you not finished this little escape from reality?’
‘I’m not escaping it.’ I frowned again. ‘I’m going towards it.’
I stared at me. ‘Oh, really? And what exactly are you going towards?’
‘I was dissatisfied with what I was doing before. Now, I’m away from everyday clutter, I’m experiencing different things, I have the time to ask myself some questions and refocus...’
‘And how’s that working out for ya?’
‘It‘s not easy, but “the unexamined life is not worth living” as said Socrates.’
‘Pseud. I think you just need to get laid.’
‘Screw you.’
‘Yes, my point exactly. Listen, you can get into a lot of trouble thinking too much...’
‘You can get into a lot of trouble thinking too little.’
I thought about this.
‘And I’m going to stop writing this.’
‘What?’
‘Well, it started as a writing exercise and also to explore the things that interested me. But when I’m doing interesting things I don’t want to write, I just want to do them. It’s becoming a duty, I’m becoming a tool of the tool.’
‘You are a tool. Besides, I thought it was just a vain attempt at recognition and validation.’
‘Screw you.’
‘How long are you stopping for?’
‘I don’t know. I’m taking a digital detox. Maybe one day it will all make a good story.’
‘I can’t wait...’
‘This is Sebastian, last survivor of the Nostromo, signing off.’
‘Ah, finally, a pop-culture quote. You’re still a pseud.’
‘Screw you.’
***The two Sebastians roll across the floor fighting. Lights fade to black.***

Use Less

'We are determined to be starved before we are hungry.'
I read this while I was having an afternoon muffin which just goes to show how wrong Thoreau could be.

Art. Culture. Technology.

It all comes together in San Jose, the capital of Silicon Valley and California’s oldest city. San Jose can’t seem to shake its pioneering ways, pushing into the 21st century as a centre of stunning technological innovation and a vanguard for contemporary visual and performing arts. Walking around the city center pulls San Jose’s intersecting qualities into bright relief. Palm-lined boulevards cut a broad swath through slick mirrored walls, while farm-fresh produce fills open-air markets year ’round. Sidewalks teem with a vibrant café culture. At night, everything glitters. Count the ways San Jose shines.
And Angelina Jolie visits every house to do the ironing.

The Road Is Life

"... the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars..."
I'm in Jack Kerouac Alley in San Francisco.
My plan after here is to walk to Telegraph Hill and then to the Wharf and maybe grab a coffee -regular with milk- before doubling back and catching the number 30 bus to the train station as I'd rather not get caught in the rush hour.

Saturday, Lunchtime, Bar

"USA... USA... USA..." Chanting.
"Come on England!" A few lone voices.
Gerrard. Chanting goes quiet.
Feeling positive. "Come on... Oh, bugger!"
"USA... USA... USA..."

Nicaraguan Blend

It's San Jose, CA, and I'm sitting in the sun drinking a coffee.
There's a Gucci shop in front of me. Brooks Brothers to the right. Tumi to the left.
A shiny Corvette crawls by, an immaculate blonde at the wheel.
The man at the table next to me is talking into his BlackBerry. "The data is clean, Tom," he says.
I'm thinking about Father Felipe's wife back in the slum. I'm wondering how she is, if she is getting any treatment.
"Hunter," shouts a woman nearby to her son, "don't play in the fountain."
I take a sip of coffee and watch the little boy laughing and giggling.

You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense

So I've been thinking further about happiness and friendships, about people back home and people met on the road. Sorry, but it's a big country to cross, there's time to think, what else am I going to do? Re-arrange the playlist on my MP3 player?
Aristotle said that although the good man is self-sufficing -i.e. the man of virtue, he of balance and moderation-, his highest activities cannot be exercised in isolation but as part of a group or society, and that a life lacks completeness if without friends.
Hmm, not sure what my 'highest activities' are, does getting rat-faced and talking shit count? And what type of friends is he talking about? Thoreau warned that we idealise friendships and that it is only 'When (friends) say farewell, then indeed we begin to keep them company.' That gives me a headache...
Should I put Sneaker Pimps in Easy Listening or Alternative Rock?

Eudaimonia

Crossing the vast American landscape, I was reading Aristotle on the nature of happiness.
I'm interested in the question if happiness can be real if it isn't shared. In other words, is it only by some other(s) having that same emotion that makes it true? I'm also interested in the seeming dichotomy between the pursuit of short term happiness -often just passing distractions- and that of the long term achieved by fulfilling one's potential. Aristotle thought that a life of balance and moderation would more likely lead to the latter, he saw happiness more as an activity than as a state. But this, upon reflection, makes me wonder about my purchase of the cargo pants. I mean, so far, they have made me happy on a utilitarian front -with the big pockets for coins and pens and fruit- and thus in the short term; but they have been found wanting on the increasing my ruggedness and attracting ladies front, i.e. in the long term. Using Aristotelean logic, my cargo pants are a state and not an activity and I now believe that I was misled by that shop assistant on Oxford Street who said that I should 'buy the green ones.' Furthermore, I now question how they could possibly lead to real happpiness if they are unshared? Fortunately, I kept the receipt so I can check what the refund rules say about this.
Travel really does broaden the mind.

Notes From The Interstate III

Crossing the States, it’s clear that many places out here have no actual ‘here’, just shops selling T-shirts with the name of the ‘here’...
South Dakota… Finish crossing the Great American Prairie to the Badlands and suddenly it's a vast, rocky, Moon-like landscape. Into Wall Drug to see the dinosaur blow smoke every 15 minutes. On to Deadwood where Wild Bill Hickock is re-shot every two hours. Mount Rushmore covered in fog, Washington’s nose just visible. Dwarfed in size by world’s largest monument in progress, the Crazy Horse memorial, who do those cheeky Indians think they are?
Wyoming… A close encounter with the Devil’s Tower. Bowling in Cody. Into the Rockies and Yellowstone: smoking hot springs, boiling mud holes, Old Faithful, bears, bison, a snowball fight… Difficult to put a tent up when a tornado passes. Hiking in the Grand Teton (from the French…) mountain range. A rodeo in Jackson, yee-haw!
Idaho… Wake me up when we cross into the next state…
Utah… Floating in the Great Salt Lake. Looking for several teetotal wives to marry. Not breaking any speed records on the salt flats.
Nevada… Keep north, no money for Vegas. Breakdown in Winnemuca.
California… Into the Sierra Nevada to drop jaw at Yosemite. Hurt neck looking at giant sequoias. Wine tasting in Sonoma. San Francisco…
Hm, now what?

Kill The Headlights And Put It In Neutral

I'm sitting in a convertible.
Soy un perdedor
I'm crossing the Golden Gate Bridge.
I'm a loser, baby
The wind is in my messy hair. The sky is clear blue. The city beyond lies half covered in sea fog.
So why don't you kill me?
I have no job, no prospects, and no clue.
Loser by Beck is on the radio. Loud.
God, this feels good.

Journey Into The Interior

I'm in Wyoming.
Jackson Hole since you ask.
I'm too busy to keep filling this in so I'll catch up when I reach San Francisco.
I've covered a lot of miles, been lashed by the winds of a passing tornado, seen a grizzly with her cubs, watched prismatic hot springs bubbling out of the earth, and it's pretty obvious to me now that my life has travelled far too far from Nature. All that empty sound and fury of the artificial concrete world really does clutter up the mind...

Notes From The Interstate II

Illinois... Chicago. The Skydeck on the 103rd floor of the Willis Tower at sunset. A Picasso in the street. Riding the L. The Art Institute: Nighthawks, American Gothic, A Sunday On La Grande Jatte... Catching a game: White Sox 5 - Angels 6. The city where Nelson Algren nailed Simone de Beauvoir. My kinda town...
Wisconsin... Milwaukee. The Harley Davidson Museum. Shhh, but I still prefer my Suzuki. Camping by the banks of the Mississippi, not so mighty up here but still a little bit Tom Sawyer.
Minnesota... The Spam Museum. Need I say more? Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam...
South Dakota... It's flat. Very flat. When I say 'very flat' I mean 'very, very flat.'

Notes From The Interstate

New Jersey... Didn't stop.
New York... Niagara Falls again. The Canadian side is better.
Pennsylvania... The Amish. Didn't see any. Aren't these people supposed to be attention seeking photo whores?
Ohio... It's easy to miss Cleveland as it is so bland. In fact, I recommend it.
Indiana... I saw some farm land. When I say 'some' I mean 'a lot of.'
Illinois... I'm in Chicago. Last night, I had a pizza as thick as my arm. Probably thicker, I could barely pick it up.

Some Corner Of A Foreign Field

I’m in The Big Apple. It’s shinier than since I was last here but the taste is the same.
So my time in Costa Rica is over and have I made a difference? Have I left a mark? Well, there’s some corner of some concrete floor in some poor village in the middle of nowhere that has my name written in it. I paid for it, I mixed it, I laid it. And yes, I struggled with the proselytising Evangelical church aspect. It may be preying on the vulnerable but at least it gives those people some hope in a life which is otherwise devoid of any. If the main alternatives are the bottle or the needle then I view God as the lesser evil.
I didn’t make the world a better place but I did make a floor.
As for me, well, I came here to get away from a life lacking life in a culture in thrall to the superficial and to experience something more raw. The standard cliché reasons of the restless with Kerouac fantasies. But I got it. I got more than I hoped for. I haven’t ‘found myself’ or patched any gaping voids in my life but my experiences have definitely made me think about what keeps people going, about why we do the things we do, about hope…
So now I’m in a country which idolises distraction and the superficial.
I leave tomorrow en route to San Francisco overland. I have time to think this through…

Final Note From Managuacita

I'm back in the capital San Jose for my last few days. I fly to New York on Friday for the start of my American road trip.
Today, I went back to the slum to say goodbye to Father Felipe and to see if the work I did was still standing.
I expected it to be sad but not as sad as I found him.
His wife was very ill. She was in bed in what passed as their bedroom while she waits for an operation.
He had spent what little money they had on medication for her and hadn't been able to pay the electricity bill. This morning they cut the power.
'It's a test from God,' said Father Felipe.
I said goodbye to her as she lay in bed, in a shack, in a slum, with no power, and no money and I fly to New York on Friday.
Tonight I will drink beer and try not to think about any of it.

Notes From The Side Of The Road

'I cut skin cancer off the faces of old people,' she said.
We were sitting in the cockpit of a Fairchild C-123 transport aircraft. We were drinking beer.
The plane had been involved in the Iran-Contra affair but had been converted into a bar overlooking the Pacific ocean.
Some situations you just can't make up.
...
´Look, there´s a Jesus Lizard,´said the guide.
I was kayaking in a mangrove swamp. Everything was still and tranquil.
I looked at the little beast, squatting on an exposed root. ´Why is it called that?' I asked.
The guide splashed his paddle and the lizard ran across the water.
It ran across the water.
'Oh,' I said.
...
Sometimes I think that everything here wants to eat me.
My body has more bites than Butch & Sundance must have had bullet holes.
The other night I was sitting in my hotel room, right next to the fan, drinking a lukewarm beer, looking for the UK election results on the television and pulling ticks out of my legs.
That was a fun night.
...
I was in the Corcovado national park and it really was like something out of Jurassic Park (and bits of the film were shot not far from here). It was dense, lush, and primeval. It seemed to grow straight out of the Pacific. The sounds of birds, monkeys and waves all mixed in the air. The sounds of Kevin from Montana, ex-mortgage salesman, also mixed in the air. I wasn´t that interested in American college basketball but I reckoned that if a snake bit me at least he was there to go for help.

Into The Wild

So I´m on the road. I´m heading south near the Panamanian border.
It´s a succession of bus journeys, new towns, and new places to stay.
Sometimes I meet people, sometimes I'm on my own. It´s the first time I´ve been on my own in a while. For someone who spends a lot of time living in his head this is usually not a good thing (and I must be putting on weight as my neck is beginning to hurt), but it is giving me time to reflect on some of the things I have done and the people I've met.
One discovery I have made is that this internet cafe stinks. I'm outta here...

She´s Beautiful

It´s nearly midnight and I´m walking along the beach.
It´s hot and the mosquitoes are busy. Out over the Caribbean sea, distant lightning warns of a coming storm.
I´ve been walking for over an hour, and I´m hot and tired and frankly fed up.
Then I see her. A break in the clouds and the moon lights her up. God, but she´s beautiful.
She´s lying still on the sand. I stand well back to admire her. I don´t want to get too close.
She´s about my age, about two meters long and about 300 kilograms in weight the guide reckons. Then she starts to move her rear flippers. She´s digging a hole to lay her eggs. We watch her work. She lays about 60, then she covers them up. She circles a few times, flipping up sand to cover the nest and hide her tracks.
Then she crawls awkwardly back towards the sea. A big wave comes and she is gone.
Leatherback turtles have been coming here for millions of years.
I feel like I have just watched a dinosaur.
This is quite simply one of the most amazing things I have ever seen.

A Season In Hell

I was in church and they were praying for me.
I felt touched, and not just because they were actually touching me. They were laying hands on me and praying. Loudly. They were asking Jesus to look out for me.
I raised my hands and thought, ‘Christ, what the hell am I doing here?’
The pastor and his wife were Evangelical Christians. This was hard core. This was hands in the air, singing and clapping, falling over in fits type of worship. The congregation weren’t quite talking in tongues -unless you count Spanish- but it wasn’t far off. They believed in Christ resuscitated. There were no crucifixes or idols in the church. It was bare. They thought if He popped in He wouldn't like to be reminded of how He was killed. I would join them in the church most days, out of politeness. They all prayed for me, they blessed me, they thanked me for my help.
I raised my hands and said, ‘Amen.’ I hope I don’t go to hell for it. If I believed I might actually be worried by it.
…
Well, I wanted a life stripped down and bare and, for my sins, I got it. The village was near banana plantations and pineapple fields. The location didn’t lack for beauty but the houses did. It was poor, very poor. Kids were shoeless and homes were shacks of wood and corrugated iron. I was lucky, the pastor had a fridge. Don’t ask about the bathroom, even the cockroaches avoided it.
We were on the Caribbean side of the country and it was hot and humid. The air was so thick you could kick a ball in the air and it wouldn't come down. The nearest town with any civilisation -and internet connection- was about half an hour away. That town was basic. Compared to the village it was bloody Las Vegas.
In the mornings, we’d work from 7 till about 11 to escape the worst of the heat. We’d clear the terrain, mix and lay cement. Each day we'd work till my muscles ached and sweat dripped off my chin. After lunch, I’d sit on the porch, my body exhausted, my head fried by the heat, and think about it all. This was like living in a pot of dirty boiling water. The poverty, the heat, the lack of any escape. It was unbearable.
Some nights, lying on my filthy mattress, my body hurting and drowning in sweat, mosquitoes feasting on me, the ex-alcoholic grandfather having a coughing fit and the three year old whimpering in his nightmares, I just wanted to run away. I just wanted to get up and run as far away as possible. But there was no escape for these people. They had nowhere to run to. This was their life. It always would be.
…
One day, a young guy helped us mix cement. He invited me round to his house. His mother made me rice and beans. It’s a typical Caribbean dish here, it’s actually called rice and beans in Spanish. I don’t know what’s in it. During the meal she told me that she was married to a German. Before disappearing long ago he had once dragged her by the hair along some railway lines. Her second partner had attacked her with a machete, she showed me the scars. Relatively speaking, the German wasn’t so bad. She asked me if I could help her locate him. She didn’t speak English or German or have access to a computer but she had his name and date of birth. I wrote it all down. I figured that tracking down some piece of shit German was the least I could do in return for a delicious plate of rice and beans.
…
'What language do they speak in England?' one person asked me.
'Is it far away?' asked another.
'Why do you speak Spanish?' asked a third.
'Can I see your camera?' a child asked. 'Will you give it to me?'
'Why don't you shave?' asked the pastor's wife.
…
The pastor’s children weren’t great believers. Often while the parents were in church, they would be at home watching horror films on DVD. One evening I joined them. I figured it was a different type of distraction. And, after all, it was about distraction, it was about having some release from the existence here. Some people had DVDs, some people had God, some people had drink.
I had a bus ticket out.

The Heart Of Darkness

It was getting too comfortable so I´ve gone up river, deeper in country.
I´ve extended my volunteering and moved to a new project. It´s remote and very basic, halfway up a mountain, surrounded by forest. I share a room with three kids, a grandparent and two kittens. Sometimes there is no water. I´m alone here, there are no other volunteers. This morning I was up at seven mixing cement. I´m living with pastor and his family, we are building an extension to his church where children can play.
'Do you believe?' his wife asked me.
'Sure,' I said. I don´t want to upset the only friends I have here. I´m not even sure where I am.
Signing off for a while. I´m going native...

Easter

He came for Easter break.
He was a college student from New York and he came to volunteer and to have some fun in Costa Rica. He had an easy smile, was a bit loud -in that American way- and he was active.
The first few days he helped out in the slum. Then he visited a beach on the Pacific coast. Then he did a bungee jump. Then he did some white water rafting. Then he did some cross country All Terrain Vehicle driving. Then the ATV flipped over and crushed his spine. Then the doctors had to tell him that he was paralysed from the waist down. Now he will never walk again.
How was your Easter?

Another Good Thing Lost Forever

We sat on a hilltop. On soft grass.
We talked about things and looked out at the vista. We saw fields and forests and mountains leading far away. This was as green as we had seen it here. Solitary clouds hung still in the sweltering sky. The air smelled fragrant. Insects buzzed past our ears.
We sat and talked.
Sometimes you met someone and you made a connection. Sometimes you met someone who gave you hope about people. She was young but she was smart. She wouldn’t be one of the robots. She would face the tide, find her way and get by.
But it was time to go.
We stood up. The grass bounced back as if we had never been.
Sometimes you met someone who gave you hope and then you parted. Two lives that briefly crossed and connected. Then you’re left with the sadness of another good moment gone forever.
Of course, being objective, it’s quite possible she just thought that I was a tedious knobhead.

Ants In The Sugar

This morning there were ants in the sugar. I looked at them a moment then I picked them out. I figured it was still better than being stuck on the Central Line between stations at rush hour.
…
Costa Rica has no army. They abolished it back in the late 40s. But before you think of trying to overthrow the government here using a pointed stick there are a lot of guns. I was in a bar the other night singing karaoke with other volunteers and there was a shooting outside. We were singing ‘Killing Me Softly’ which I thought was ironic.
…
The currency here is called the Colon. I’ve been here nearly two months and I still find that amusing.
…
Sometimes you’ll be on a bus here and the driver will get off and go into a shop. The first time, I looked around to see if anyone else was surprised. They weren’t. Now I just try and look as bored as they are until he comes back. Having said that, if I see one heading into a cinema I’m getting off.
…
The capital city of San Jose is functional rather than beautiful. A bit like Wayne Rooney. Most houses are behind locked gates for security. Walking around a residential area feels a little like walking around a vast prison. Now and again, I twirl an imaginary baton and shout under my breath, 'OK, lock 'em up boys!'. But I don't do that very often.

More Notes From Managuacita

Maybe I’m doing this wrong.

Maybe I shouldn’t be posting notes about the slum such as it's officially called La Carpio. Or I shouldn’t be writing that it was initially set up by Nicaraguan squatters and is now ‘home’ to 35,000 people. Or that most live below the poverty line. Or that part of the site borders an active landfill site.

Maybe what I should be doing is uploading pictures of cute slum kids playing in the dirt. Or showing photos of myself smiling in front of picturesque rotting shacks. Or posting comments like ‘And this is the putrid stream just outside their house, we avoid it like the plague LOL ;-)’.

So in the meantime, if you want a picture of what it is like, take a dump in your toilet, imagine you live in it and that you‘ll never get out, and then take a photo of yourself next to it. Don’t forget to smile.

…

Father Felipe and his wife invited me for lunch.

I had just finished painting a makeshift table for them. We sat in his hovel cum house cum church and we talked and ate. They had disagreed on the colour of the table. Father Felipe said it was fine. His wife wasn’t so sure. I jokingly asked him who was his real boss, God or his wife?

He smiled. Then he said, ‘Before I found God, I used to beat my previous wife.’

I looked at him. I didn’t know what to say. What can you say? OK, by the way, these beans are delicious? We chewed in silence.

I blame a lot of things on religion but it sure worked for him.

…

Don’t worry, cute slum kid photos to come.

More Notes From Managuacita

Maybe I’m doing this wrong.
Maybe I shouldn’t be posting notes about the slum such as it's officially called La Carpio. Or I shouldn’t be writing that it was initially set up by Nicaraguan squatters and is now ‘home’ to 35,000 people. Or that most live below the poverty line. Or that part of the site borders an active landfill site.
Maybe what I should be doing is uploading pictures of cute slum kids playing in the dirt. Or showing photos of myself smiling in front of picturesque rotting shacks. Or posting adjoining comments like ‘OMG this is the totally putrid stream just outside their house... we avoid it like the plague... LOL ;-)’.
So in the meantime, if you want a picture of what it is like, take a dump in your toilet, imagine you live in it and that you‘ll never get out, and then take a photo of yourself next to it.
Don’t forget to smile.
…
Father Felipe and his wife invited me for lunch.
I had just finished painting a makeshift table for them. We sat in his hovel cum house cum church and we talked and ate. They had disagreed on the colour of the table. Father Felipe said it was fine. His wife wasn’t so sure. I jokingly asked him who was his real boss, God or his wife?
He smiled. Then he said, ‘Before I found God, I used to beat my previous wife.’
I looked at him. I didn’t know what to say. What can you say? OK, by the way, these beans are delicious...? We chewed in silence.
I blame a lot of things on religion but it sure worked for him.
…
Don’t worry, cute slum kid photos to come.

El Clasico

Forget Manchester United v Liverpool.
Forget Celtic v Rangers.
Forget even Real Madrid v Barcelona.
This is El Clasico. This is Saprissa v Alajuelense. This is the two top teams in Costa Rica facing off.
This is beating drums. This is fireworks lighting up the sky. This is smoke bombs. This is streamers littering the pitch. This is chanting. This is holding your baby in one hand while you flick the finger with the other. This is football.
¡Vamos Saprissa!
Shame the game is shit.

Notes From Managuacita

We had just arrived for another day in Managuacita, little Managua, as the inhabitants call it. We walked the short route from the bus stop to Father Felipe's place. He always comes with us. He says it isn't safe for us to walk alone. I thought he exaggerated.
We crossed a man who put his hands together in the shape of a gun and pointed them at us.
'Fuera, gringos, hijos de puta,' he shouted. Get out, foreigners, you sons of bitches.
I looked at the other volunteers. We were here to try to help, to try and make things a little bit better. We walked past him, blinking in the harsh sunlight, lost in our own mixed thoughts, staying close to Father Felipe.
...
I had cut off too much wood.
Father Felipe lacked materials and I had cut off too much wood. I was wasting what little he had. I felt bad. I apologised.
'Only God is perfect,' he said with a smile.
I don't believe but I believe in what he is doing so I let him have the benefit of the doubt.
...
Sometimes I forget that I'm working in a slum. Sometimes I'm on auto pilot and I take my surroundings as normal. Then a gust of hot wind will bring a nauseating smell along and I'll snap out of it. I'll look around at the squalour, at the poverty, at the hopelessness, and feel shame at how I could ever consider this normal.
...
'And every tongue that accuses you in judgment you will condemn.'
I was writing Scripture on the wall. Isaiah 54:17. Father Felipe's is trying to decorate the interior of his 'church' ~a shack of rusty iron and dirty wood~ with inspiration.
Suddenly there was a big noise behind me. I turned to see a van full of people storm into the room. They were Korean. They sat in a circle and started praying. It was loud. They were shouting. Then they stormed out and all was quiet.
I can honestly say that was an unusual day for me.
...
I try and imagine what it must be like to spend the night in Managuacita. After the sun sets and the precarious lighting comes on, I wonder what it must be like to huddle behind flimsy doors, to sleep on dirty mattresses on floors, to hear animals scuttle around inside and see shadows running around outside.
I don't think I can even begin to imagine it.

Los Gringos

I was trying to order a beer but a dancing girl in a bikini was in the way.
When I say she was in the way I don’t mean that she was in front of me, I mean that she was actually on the bar. She was dancing on the bar with five other girls in bikinis. It wasn’t easy to get a drink.
I was in a bar, near the beach, on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica. But there were no Costa Ricans here. It was all gringo, all foreigner. To all intents and purposes, I might as well have been in Florida. The slum was a five hour bus ride and a world away.
It was a bikini contest. The girl with the sexiest bikini won. I don’t know what she won, possibly a free shot or possibly a pivotal victory for feminism.
I looked at the girls but I didn’t find them attractive at all. I went out onto the balcony and stared out at the ocean. Maybe it was because I felt old, or maybe because I felt drunk, or maybe just because I felt saddened and dismayed by the spectacle.
Having said that, the third one from the right did have a nice rack.

Pura Vida

... so you're sitting in the back of this car and this girl is driving way too fast and you've all been drinking so although you're a little bit on edge you also don't really care and you've been dancing salsa at this party in the middle of god knows where and this girl is just throwing the car around corners like she's still dancing and the radio is up high and they start singing along to this song and you don't understand the words but it still sounds great and you make up words and sing along too and you put your head out of the window and the night smells of heat and petrol and the car swings one way then the other and the rotten exhaust growls and the roads are a mess and you all shout Pura Vida at the dark houses which means Pure Life and as you come to a junction you think that your pura vida could be brought to an abrupt halt but the girl laughs and the car sings and dances on into the night pura vida...

The Lady In The Lake

The rains came.
They were heavy. They trickled through the holes in what passed for a roof. We put buckets on the floor to catch them.
‘Sometimes it’s like a lake in here,’ said Father Felipe’s wife.
Now, I like to think that I’m reasonably smart and learned. I mean I’ve studied Shakespeare, I can multiply in my head, I know the capital cities of many countries. But all that means sod all out here. I’ll fix a hole or two then one day I’ll fly back to a nice flat near a Tesco, a Starbucks and a Blockbusters while these people will be putting buckets on the floor to catch the rains. I'm not smart enough to make sense of that.
At least next time I’m on a bad date I can say to myself Sometimes it’s like a lake in here and it might not seem so bad.

The Virgin Mary At The Kitchen Table

This morning, there was a Virgin Mary on the kitchen table. I was pretty sure that she wasn't there yesterday. She was in a big glass case so I think I would have noticed.
I'm living with a Costa Rican family. The house is deceptively big and new family members keep appearing. It reminds me of a clown car at the circus, just when you think it's empty, another person pops out. It's not grand luxe and it's not quiet but it's Costa Rica.
'Hay una Virgen a la mesa,' I said to my hostess. There's a Virgin at the table. I hoped she didn't think I was talking about myself.
She explained that the Virgin did a tour of the local houses during Lent. She watched over the families to make sure everything was OK. Tomorrow She would be gone, moving on to the house next door.
Now, I'm no believer, but as I tucked into a pancake and a big bowl of fresh fruit I was pretty sure that She was watching me. I think I even heard Her stomach gurgle.

Father Felipe

‘Today, we are going to the poor part to give food,’ said Father Felipe.
Father Felipe had served in the Nicaraguan Army then he had been a drug addict then he had found Jesus. I told him I had been an account manager and once chipped a tooth. Here in the slum, he served out food and salvation.
‘I thought this was the poor part…’ I said.
His wife cooked up a huge rice dish and we carried it across the slum. The area we arrived at didn’t look like an area. If calling the other part basic was like calling a dead man sick then this was the rotting corpse.
Dirty children lined up and we served out food onto paper plates. I felt sick to my stomach.
Later, back in town, I got overcharged for a beer which I thought was outrageous.

Who Helps The Helper?

'Me llamo Luis,' he said in Spanish. My name is Luis.
He was ten. He was helping me. I was supposed to be helping him.
'Hola Luis. Soy Sebastian.'
We were painting a piece of corrugated iron for a wall. He slapped the yellow paint on. He sent splashes everywhere. He created stars on my clothing.
I was working in a slum. It was a shanty town on the outskirts of the Costa Rican capital built up by Nicaraguan refugees. To say it was basic would be like saying a dead man was slightly sick.
'Don't go in there, it's dangerous,' said a man helpfully as he came out.
Luis was clean and polite. As clean as a refugee kid could be. I was wearing four day old clothes as my luggage was missing. I felt like every time I took my shoes off an angel died. Looking at the both of us, it wasn't clear who was helping whom.
Luis smiled. I had travelled thousands of miles to come here but he was helping me.

Nowhere Man

Now boarding for Los Angeles.
I was at an airport for yet another transfer. I didn't know where I was.
Now boarding for Lima.
I was in an in-between place. I was in an in-between time zone.
Now boarding for Santiago.
I hadn't slept in 24 hours. They already lost my luggage. This whole thing seemed like a very bad idea.
Someone should volunteer on a project to help me.

From Penthouse To Pavement

Tomorrow I’m off to the airport.
I’m off on a plane to Central America.
I’m off to Costa Rica to join a volunteer construction project to build hospitals and orphanages and care shelters to help the poor and weak and make the world a better place. OK, that’s an exaggeration. I’ll probably just be changing light bulbs or painting outhouses but it still beats sitting in a meeting room having a heated discussion about why Arial is better than Times New Roman for a response document.
Postings from here on in may well be erratic.
Life from here on in may well be erratic.
Which I guess was the point.
By the way, I bought the cargo pants.

Stuff & Nonsense

So I’ve booked a ticket and I’m off.
And I’m trying to let my place so now I’m packing all my stuff into boxes. All the accessories to a life that I didn’t really live. Overall, there isn’t much. I have little baggage. It seems I avoided all big responsibility.
There’s a line in the novel Fight Club that goes ‘Then you’re trapped in your lovely nest, and the things you used to own, now they own you.’ I felt like that. So now I’m packing my nest into little boxes. I am no longer my stuff. I am no longer my flat. And I’m no longer my job.
Now I’m just my jeans and some earwax.
What’s more worrying is that I am no longer my bookshelves. How am I supposed to impress girls if they can’t see the way I strategically placed Sartre's Being & Nothingness next to 15-Minutes Abs Workout?

Exhell

I can’t believe it.
I’m still using Excel.
I walked out of my job to get away from an office, away from a desk, and away from Excel. And yet here I am, sitting at my desk, planning my trip on a spreadsheet, using Microsoft Office.
Somebody shoot me.
Having said that, I’m thinking of creating a pie chart showing my days in each country and link it to a photo slideshow in PowerPoint with an online collaboration trip itinerary in Word.
Change is good.

My Solipsism Is Better Than Yours

'What about money?' I asked myself.
'It was a good salary,' I answered. 'And benefits too.'
'It was good money to be giving up. Now you are earning nothing and you have no plans.'
'I know. I’m trying not to think about it.' I paused. 'But, money isn’t everything.'
'It is to those who don’t have any. What about savings?'
'I have some. I’m no Bill Gates, but I have some.'
I stared at me. 'Aren’t you worried?'
'I’m trying not to think about it… I’m trying not to think long term.'
'Keynes said, “The long term is but a sequence of short terms”.'
'Exactly,' I agreed with myself. 'I’m just planning the next few short terms...'
'So what do you hope to get out of it? Of this quitting your job and running away abroad?'
'I’m not running away.' I frowned. 'I was in a lifestyle without life. And it’s all such a short ride, you know, then it’s over. I’m just trying to rekindle the fire; I’ll find some way to see through the rest.'
'Or maybe you’re just avoiding things as usual…'
'Screw you.'
'No, screw you.'
Luckily, just then, another me walked in and stopped me from hitting me.

A More More Kind Of Less

‘It’s a more more kind of less.’
‘Exactly,’ I say, nodding. I have no idea what that means.
‘It’s so disturbing.’
It isn’t the only thing that’s disturbing. ‘Yes, but don’t you think it’s derivative?’
‘How do you mean?’
We’re looking at a piece of art. I’m trying to act smart. ‘Hm, I don’t think it’s saying anything new.’ It isn’t saying anything at all. It’s a surprise that galleries are so quiet if each piece is supposedly jabbering away.
‘No, but it’s distilled.’
I’m in need of something distilled. ‘I think it lacks conviction,’ I bluff. My comment lacks conviction. I lack conviction.
A pause. ‘Interesting observation. Yes, you could be right…’
That’s it, I should become an art critic. I'm a natural. I mean, take this next piece, just listen to it, it’s so… so contextual.

Send Help

So I’m thinking of doing some volunteer work.
I’m thinking of going to a poor country and helping needy people.
I’m thinking of digging wells, or building schools, or repairing hospitals. I’m thinking of trying to make some small difference in this screwed up world of ours.
Or I may just go sit on a beach for a few months.
The main thing is to go somewhere hot.

Out Of Office

Today is my last day in the office.
My desk is no longer mine. My opinion is no longer wanted. My services are no longer requested. After three and a half years I’m walking out with... some reflection, some memories, and some stationery.
Now, one of my main raison d’être is no longer. I’m going to have to find a new reason to wake up, a new path to follow, a new way to define myself.
As to what I leave behind, I’ll paraphrase Rupert Brooke:
If I should quit, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of that foreign office
That is forever Seb. There shall be
In that rich corner desk a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom Seb bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, his efforts to love, his ways to roam,
A body of Seb's, breathing Sebby air,
Splashed by his tea, blest by the suns shining out his arse.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by Seb given;
His sights and sounds; dreams happy as his day;
And laughter, learnt of work colleagues; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under a Sebby heaven.

Fear And Trembling

So I’ve been dabbling in Kierkegaard again. Sometimes, during my lunch break, I have a prawn sandwich and consider the nature of despair and guilt. Kierkegaard focused much of his work on the conflict of concrete human reality over abstract thinking. He stressed the importance of the self, and the self's relation to the world as being grounded in self-reflection and introspection. In highlighting the importance of personal choice and responsibility he reminds me of Camus and the philosophy of the Absurd. And this self-creation of meaning in an absurd universe makes me wonder if I really do need some cargo pants. I mean, would Kierkegaard have worn cargo pants had they been around in his time? And if so, as casual-smart or just while lounging around writing The Sickness Unto Death? I don’t agree with facile nihilism but somehow I think draw-string pants are just asking for trouble.

I’m Thinking Of Buying Some Cargo Pants

I’m thinking of going travelling.
I’m thinking of going somewhere warm and bright and inspiring.
I’m not thinking of finding myself or anything like that. I’m too old for that. I’m pretty much here. But I am thinking of just going away and seeing what happens.
So I’m thinking of buying some cargo pants.
Saying cargo pants makes them sound like underwear. They sound like some military issue Y-fronts, possibly camouflage and made out of hessian, useful when going to the toilet in combat zones. I’m glad they’re not because I’m averse to fighting, and especially so in my underwear, but saying cargo trousers doesn’t sound right. Cargo pants sounds cool.
I think you need a pair of cargo pants if you are going away travelling. Some people wear cargo pants to go down the road to Starbucks. Some people wear cargo pants with a bikini top to gyrate and lip sync to music on TV. I’m not thinking of doing either of those. I just want some sturdy trousers to go travelling in. Something with a lot of pockets so I can put a lot of stuff in them. Stuff like coins and, um, maybe a pen and, er, some fruit or something.
I think I would look good in cargo pants. I’d look tough, practical, and reliable. I bet guys in cargo pants attract a lot of women. Especially hungry women looking for fruit.
The more I think about cargo pants, the more they sound like a good idea. I may buy a pair even if I don’t go travelling. I’ll just wear my cargo pants, look practical, and pretend I’m going somewhere warm and bright and inspiring.

Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid

‘Always Do What You Are Afraid To Do.’
So said Emerson.
As far as a resolution goes for 2010 it’s not a bad one. However, I’m afraid of a lot things and I’m not jumping into shark infested waters covered in Bolognese sauce just for the sake of personal growth.
But Emerson wasn’t talking about facing sharks, of course, or spiders, or even the Northern Line after 11pm. He was talking about big ticket items, like change. He was saying make the change that you are afraid to make.
So I was busy planning my change but now it appears it has to be something that scares the bejesus out of me.
Whose bright idea was this?
Oh.