Where is your head at?
It's 3am and you are up and thinking. Not exactly straight, but thinking. You pass through your favorite sites and generally have a gentle surf around the web. Before long you find yourself on a community web site (of your choice). You update your profile whilst taking a voyeur glance at friends and loved ones. Maybe you download a new tune, chat with friends, review a book you just finished or just change your mood: your tired, drunk, or just amused. Whatever you do, its there... not be looked back upon by you, like a diary written as a child, but as a constantly changing picture which holds the passage of your moods and thoughts.
A musical discovery, a wedding or just a momentary flirt. Your life becomes facilitated by an ether of pull down options and locally spawned applications to create a feeling of uniqueness. But you pause... This is almost not enough.
The blogs that you write and the sites frequent; they help to build an on growing picture of the nature of thought. The more this becomes reflexive, the further it becomes adaptable, manipulatable at a local scale, the more its becomes representative of the consciousness directing it.
Where is your head at? A new online community web site that lets you keep in touch with yourself.
Pattern your life and thoughts. Monitor your emotions and watch the statistics of your journey.
Hmmm... but where you would store the data?
Sunday, 22 July 2007
Friday, 20 July 2007
Trust
Trust. It must be one of the greatest socially cohesive concepts of out time. Don't you think?
Some might say love. That, being rather a modern western concept, seems rather to small to be considered a top runner. And lets face it, without trust, can there be love?
We learn to trust, and even to trust so much, to expect, our mothers to feed us when we are young. We might trust out families to be there when things go wrong, and to help us celebrate when they go right. Trust binds us to our friends, and a lack of it shows us our enemies.
We use trust to secure places of power by misleading people into believing that they can trust you. And you take words on trust when you have no alternative.
"You can trust me.." is a statement of communicative intent. It is open and friendly, yet the barriers that it attempts to break down could leave one more vulnerable than we would like.
In the end, I trust people who trust me... I hope that people understand that I do what I say I will do, and generally I tell the truth. Sometimes I bend the truth, even to my friends and loved ones. But I do so with the hop that they trust me, and know that if I am doing so, I have good reason.
But how then can I expect them to trust me? How can you trust someone who lies to you?
Some might say love. That, being rather a modern western concept, seems rather to small to be considered a top runner. And lets face it, without trust, can there be love?
We learn to trust, and even to trust so much, to expect, our mothers to feed us when we are young. We might trust out families to be there when things go wrong, and to help us celebrate when they go right. Trust binds us to our friends, and a lack of it shows us our enemies.
We use trust to secure places of power by misleading people into believing that they can trust you. And you take words on trust when you have no alternative.
"You can trust me.." is a statement of communicative intent. It is open and friendly, yet the barriers that it attempts to break down could leave one more vulnerable than we would like.
In the end, I trust people who trust me... I hope that people understand that I do what I say I will do, and generally I tell the truth. Sometimes I bend the truth, even to my friends and loved ones. But I do so with the hop that they trust me, and know that if I am doing so, I have good reason.
But how then can I expect them to trust me? How can you trust someone who lies to you?
Thursday, 28 June 2007
Nephew's Birthday...
Its my nephew Mathew's birthday on Saturday. He will be 6 (Bless his Cotton socks!) and I am actually looking forward to seeing him run around with his friends and family that day, having water fights, getting over excited and high on the E numbers for lunch and generally being the centre of attention for the day as the adults sit around getting gently toasted in the (hopefully) sun.
What I am not looking forward to is the presents. Most of you reading this know about my hatred of gift giving. Long before I started to learn about the anthropological need in society to exchange inalienable items as they help to form bonds and structure relationships, I hated the apparent falsity of the xmas day morning. It can be nice to receive gifts, and I have always held that a gift given with heart is great in itself, even if it may be something completely out of taste. This said, Mathew will no doubt be getting a mountain of gifts for his birthday with PS2s and DVDs a plenty. I am left with the nasty task of finding something that I feel would be appropriate, whilst being fun and not something that will mean he will spend more time in front of the TV.
Anyway, that said I have had a small team of people helping me find the perfect gift that still sits within my modest (student) budget. There were some interesting suggestions, and I did come across some articles that I liked such as a badge maker and bubble machine... both of which I hope will make him giggle in the adorable way that he does when he is just showing pure delight in life, the way only children and the enlightened few can. Whilst searching through the pages of London's biggest toy store (maybe not biggest but probably most famous) Hamleys, I came across this small item which comes in at a modest £24 THOUSAND POUNDS!
Sorry Mathew... I don't think it will fit in the garden...
What I am not looking forward to is the presents. Most of you reading this know about my hatred of gift giving. Long before I started to learn about the anthropological need in society to exchange inalienable items as they help to form bonds and structure relationships, I hated the apparent falsity of the xmas day morning. It can be nice to receive gifts, and I have always held that a gift given with heart is great in itself, even if it may be something completely out of taste. This said, Mathew will no doubt be getting a mountain of gifts for his birthday with PS2s and DVDs a plenty. I am left with the nasty task of finding something that I feel would be appropriate, whilst being fun and not something that will mean he will spend more time in front of the TV.
Anyway, that said I have had a small team of people helping me find the perfect gift that still sits within my modest (student) budget. There were some interesting suggestions, and I did come across some articles that I liked such as a badge maker and bubble machine... both of which I hope will make him giggle in the adorable way that he does when he is just showing pure delight in life, the way only children and the enlightened few can. Whilst searching through the pages of London's biggest toy store (maybe not biggest but probably most famous) Hamleys, I came across this small item which comes in at a modest £24 THOUSAND POUNDS!
Sorry Mathew... I don't think it will fit in the garden...
Sunday, 3 June 2007
My Father
My Father is dying...
He has been doing so for 16 years, but this week he was given a date, as it were, to work by.
Last night, as I sat around the table with my sister Kate and my Mum we remembered, over a celebratory cocktail for my Mum's birthday, the day that Kate took up smoking. She was 18. She stood outside a hospital for seven hours as my father's first cancer was removed from his neck. My mother was understandably chain smoking, and my sister asked if it helped; "No.. not really" she replied, "But go on, give it a go". That was some 16 years ago and my sister as recently given up (Well done!). Now, after three other bouts of cancer, being knocked over and dying on the road side to be recovered in the ambulance; then falling over recently and breaking his femur in several places, he is going back into hospital today for another biopsy. They are looking again at the area around his neck... they think the cancer is back, they think its malignant. And If they are right, he will be given two choices:
One. Have a massive operation which will probably entail loosing half of his jaw. If his frail 9 stone body survives that, he will be put on a course of radiotherapy which last time destroyed part of his ear and made eating a constant agony. That is option 1.
Option two... 3 - 6 months.
3-6 months. What do you do with information like that? Where do you file it? How do you make sense of what it means?
I stood in the kitchen with him last night. As we talked he held the side of his head, holding a source of the pain the radiotherapy caused: a diseased bone in his ear. He needed some pain killers so he pointed me to the cabinet. I opened it up to find 10 boxes of liquid morphine. He was to take 7.5ml four times a day. As I measured it out and handed it to him he told me how last night he took double the dose by mistake and ended up staring at the TV for 3 hours: It wasn't on. We sat back down, an action that takes some time, and chatted. Over the next few minutes I saw how the drug took the pain from his ear and the light from his eye. It was like watching a friend get high; although here there was no choice, no delight in the experience, there was only the pain subsiding and the mind melting into the back ground. Inside, my father was completely aware of this and he was ashamed. "At least" he mumbled "It stops me wanting to go for a pee every 2 mins" A slight smile flashes across his face, and I fight back the tears that he doesn't want to see.
My father was always a strong man. he had a large appetite and loved to drink and smoke (he still smokes!), now he is such a small man and his only worry about leaving this world is that he will be leaving my mother alone. 42 years together... she's terrified.
He has been doing so for 16 years, but this week he was given a date, as it were, to work by.
Last night, as I sat around the table with my sister Kate and my Mum we remembered, over a celebratory cocktail for my Mum's birthday, the day that Kate took up smoking. She was 18. She stood outside a hospital for seven hours as my father's first cancer was removed from his neck. My mother was understandably chain smoking, and my sister asked if it helped; "No.. not really" she replied, "But go on, give it a go". That was some 16 years ago and my sister as recently given up (Well done!). Now, after three other bouts of cancer, being knocked over and dying on the road side to be recovered in the ambulance; then falling over recently and breaking his femur in several places, he is going back into hospital today for another biopsy. They are looking again at the area around his neck... they think the cancer is back, they think its malignant. And If they are right, he will be given two choices:
One. Have a massive operation which will probably entail loosing half of his jaw. If his frail 9 stone body survives that, he will be put on a course of radiotherapy which last time destroyed part of his ear and made eating a constant agony. That is option 1.
Option two... 3 - 6 months.
3-6 months. What do you do with information like that? Where do you file it? How do you make sense of what it means?
I stood in the kitchen with him last night. As we talked he held the side of his head, holding a source of the pain the radiotherapy caused: a diseased bone in his ear. He needed some pain killers so he pointed me to the cabinet. I opened it up to find 10 boxes of liquid morphine. He was to take 7.5ml four times a day. As I measured it out and handed it to him he told me how last night he took double the dose by mistake and ended up staring at the TV for 3 hours: It wasn't on. We sat back down, an action that takes some time, and chatted. Over the next few minutes I saw how the drug took the pain from his ear and the light from his eye. It was like watching a friend get high; although here there was no choice, no delight in the experience, there was only the pain subsiding and the mind melting into the back ground. Inside, my father was completely aware of this and he was ashamed. "At least" he mumbled "It stops me wanting to go for a pee every 2 mins" A slight smile flashes across his face, and I fight back the tears that he doesn't want to see.
My father was always a strong man. he had a large appetite and loved to drink and smoke (he still smokes!), now he is such a small man and his only worry about leaving this world is that he will be leaving my mother alone. 42 years together... she's terrified.
Sunday, 6 May 2007
"This Is England"
So, I went to see the new film in Greenwich the other night.
I thought the film was supurbly made. It left me shocked at an image of England that I hoped was gone and forgotten. That in my bubble of Guardian reading friends, no longer existed. My mind tells me that England is not like, or at least not all of it. As if my mind wanted to know that in some way what it means to be English did not contain the racism of the past.
It strange how little thoughts can fool you. I was fooled all the way to the DLR home. Two, shaven hair guys, late teens/early twenties, drank 'wife beater' and shouted nasty thrown compliments at lone female passengers. Maybe they meant no harm, maybe they were nice but drunk.
As I got off the DLR at my stop, my company turned and said the first words we had spoken since climbing aboad; "Like being back in the film" she said.
All I could do was nod.
I thought the film was supurbly made. It left me shocked at an image of England that I hoped was gone and forgotten. That in my bubble of Guardian reading friends, no longer existed. My mind tells me that England is not like, or at least not all of it. As if my mind wanted to know that in some way what it means to be English did not contain the racism of the past.
It strange how little thoughts can fool you. I was fooled all the way to the DLR home. Two, shaven hair guys, late teens/early twenties, drank 'wife beater' and shouted nasty thrown compliments at lone female passengers. Maybe they meant no harm, maybe they were nice but drunk.
As I got off the DLR at my stop, my company turned and said the first words we had spoken since climbing aboad; "Like being back in the film" she said.
All I could do was nod.
Do you know?
A friend of mine emailed me this quote the other day in a discussion regarding maths...
"There are known knowns and known unknowns, there also unknown knowns and even unknown unknowns." (Some deep thinker!)
Any thoughts?
"There are known knowns and known unknowns, there also unknown knowns and even unknown unknowns." (Some deep thinker!)
Any thoughts?
Friday, 4 May 2007
Trash TV
No, that's not bad TV, or Euro Trash TV. It's "Trash Tv". Let me explain.
I have a brother... he is a TV connoisseur you might say. He watches Trash Tv and has a particular taste in Sci-Fi trash. He has huge booklets of 'Buffy' and 'BattleStar Galactica' he has downloaded (all paid for!) from the net. These are examples of Trash Tv. Now, as you might guess, he also loves Star Trek, but even I am loathed to call that Trash in any sense. The same goes for Doctor Who (the last time we watched that together we acted like two school boys who have stolen out of class for the day and eaten too many e-numbers), we both love that program and it brings us many a happy early Saturday nights viewing.
But I am digressing. Trash Tv is like these programs in the sense that it holds some form of fantasy for the viewer. It might be a standard of living, such as 'The OC' in California, or being held in another world or time or place. But in each the viewer finds some fantastic world to dive into. I have recently dived into one... Heroes... It's trash... It TV and I LOVE IT.
I am quietly ashamed though. I hide from my loved ones like a dirty habit that Alan Carr needs to write a self help book about. I sit alone in my world... I hide from the reality and difficulties of my life... and the best thing about it? It is so easy to follow, so simple a story and easy on the script, that you can follow the story just by listening to the soundtrack, just skip over the screen from the internet browser you are flicking through, when the action starts...
And yes, I am listening now. I am 'watching' Trash Tv and writing about Trash Tv. The wonders of cheap, virtually mindless television.
I have a brother... he is a TV connoisseur you might say. He watches Trash Tv and has a particular taste in Sci-Fi trash. He has huge booklets of 'Buffy' and 'BattleStar Galactica' he has downloaded (all paid for!) from the net. These are examples of Trash Tv. Now, as you might guess, he also loves Star Trek, but even I am loathed to call that Trash in any sense. The same goes for Doctor Who (the last time we watched that together we acted like two school boys who have stolen out of class for the day and eaten too many e-numbers), we both love that program and it brings us many a happy early Saturday nights viewing.
But I am digressing. Trash Tv is like these programs in the sense that it holds some form of fantasy for the viewer. It might be a standard of living, such as 'The OC' in California, or being held in another world or time or place. But in each the viewer finds some fantastic world to dive into. I have recently dived into one... Heroes... It's trash... It TV and I LOVE IT.
I am quietly ashamed though. I hide from my loved ones like a dirty habit that Alan Carr needs to write a self help book about. I sit alone in my world... I hide from the reality and difficulties of my life... and the best thing about it? It is so easy to follow, so simple a story and easy on the script, that you can follow the story just by listening to the soundtrack, just skip over the screen from the internet browser you are flicking through, when the action starts...
And yes, I am listening now. I am 'watching' Trash Tv and writing about Trash Tv. The wonders of cheap, virtually mindless television.
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