But it stopped. Somewhat forced, somewhat my normal just cascading around without a plan. And I have never had a plan. And worse, that worried me. But better, I no longer feel the need to even have a plan.

Let me start all that again, I am way ahead in my head, and that didn’t make sense. It won’t make sense after I have finished here, but roll with it. If you have read anything I have written before, and are still reading at this point, you know what you are going to get. This will be written in one session, no stopping, no thinking. Maybe some spelling fixes, but I usually retrofit those when I see these words on the old weblog, in published form. Or imagine we are in a pub and you have, once again, successfully trolled me into giving an animated lecture. That sort of deal-io. Deal-io? Gotta stay ahead of those cats, man. Smoooooth.

Western society, since forever, and if I wanted to use the example of those damned Franks, it would still work, has been a growth and progress driven place. The mentality of more! bigger! better! is in the blood, always has been, always will be. It never sat totally well with me, even though I am still a degenerate anarcho-capitalist libertarian at heart. Or a piece of my heart is that, anyhow. Everyone needs to get their education, to get their better job, to get their better wife, to get their better house, to trade that house up to a bigger house, to make more money, to work more, to work harder, to…to what end?

I wasn’t completely caught up in it, mostly as I never had a plan. Sure, I got my education, and fell in to work. And ended up here. My CV is a progress, but not in a single industry. Each job tended to be somewhat…orthogonal to the last. (If you are unaware, I do a good interview.) I have blagged and charmed my way, but that was somewhat of a separate part of me. Given I have never been totally unhappy in employment, I could tick along, and when I started to feel uncreative, I moved on. And move on I did.

But moving up the pay scale does something different. I still didn’t get entangled in the rat race, but it started to wear on me. I wasn’t unhappy…just blocked. Feeling uncreative, obstructed, and unable to listen to the universe. A chance came up, and I jumped free. Reasonably bold step, as I still have the wife, the children, the two cars, the house. But I still have all them.

What I have gained in return for the jump is myself. I, of course, was employed within a few days, but it is different. I make less money. And this doesn’t bother me. I can still live, do all the things I used to do, and more. There are plenty of cliches for this, and I am only now finding out what everyone else knows. And I knew. I just got distracted for a while.

My main reason in life is the same, to provide first and foremost for my family. But the family unit needs to be a unit, and I feel I have missed some of it. Work isn’t everything, it isn’t even anything. A means to get money to keep a roof over our heads. Alas it needs to be of a certain renumeration to keep me here, but even so. Even so. I have never had money, never will. It doesn’t matter. You can’t take it with you, nor can you take your certificates, nor your progress. So why do we constantly strive upwards? We don’t need to. We need to be happy.

And I am, once again, almost happy.

That didn’t come out the way I wanted it to. I was tempted by a diatribe against materialism, but that isn’t what I wanted. If you want to gather, you gather. I was also tempted by an almost anti-progress (in the Enlightenment sense of the term) theory, but that isn’t what I wanted either, for I am interested in the pursuit of science. But I don’t think either of those matter. Attaining wealth or attaining knowledge, personally or culturally. What matters is your soul, being happy with yourself.

Now it is all going a bit too New Age and hippy like, which is definitely not what I wanted. Wend you path, but remember yourself. I had forgotten myself. And it took the removal from the invidious rat race (that I didn’t even know I was in) to make me remember.

I still don’t have a plan, I don’t care where my career goes. I just need to be happy, and with my family. I should probably remind them of that, too. Κασσάνδρα and I have been together for a long time, and while I know I drive her mad, and sometimes it does coast along in habit, when it is out of habit I am happiest. We remember, but look forward. And that is my only plan, the one where my family is happy, I have room to think and I can listen to the whispers in my ear. When was the last time I even considered ספר רזיאל המלאך?

The laughter of friends over a few dollars more? For sure. The conversation and wit of my children over reading work email in the evening? Always. Trying to soar above the domestic, the unavoidable intricacies of everyday life with my wife? Maybe, for we still need to make sure the daily grind is ground. But there is always more around it, and I want to make sure there is. I have a few committments I need to finish off, that keep me somewhat occupied some evenings, but I can see an end to those. My youngest wants me to show her the stars, so I save for a new telescope. Save, not credit. I still have outstanding debts, and if I could get rid of some of those, I could survive on less money, and be more creative. Or not, who knows? Not me, I am running an experiment here. I might update this with the progress, or better yet, come talk to me. I haven’t seen you in ages.

You know I could sum all that up with one word, balance. But even that isn’t what I mean. I want to tip the scales, and I have started to. To tip them towards me. What? You all already knew this? Why didn’t you tell me earlier? What? I am a thran bugger would never listens? Ack, sure I get there in the end. Just make sure you do, too.

I can hear again

How did I explain it? One was slow-moving breathe-and-muscle patterns, the other was kicking and punching and fighting. Of all my three offspring, only one showed an interest, and that interest wasn’t in the slow-moving breathe-and-muscle patterns one. In case you haven’t got it from my description, the ignored one was Tai Chi.

The other, as it happened, was Tae Kwondo. So second male child and I went along to our first lesson, which was the second of the just-opened TKD school. We missed very first one, if I recall correctly. But hit most of them since then. But I am getting ahead of myself.

You see, the thing is, I am not by any definition a natural at this sort of thing. Sure, I could play squash, I used to, decades ago, run, but this was different. Not only hand-eye coordination, but hand-foot coordination, and hand-hand-foot-foot coordination. But I, and second male child, enjoyed it, we really did. One class a week, all good fun. As ever the bumbling hacker stumbling along.

A few belt gradings on, still there, despite Κασσάνδρα thinking I wouldn’t last. I mean, me, of all people, having to bow, take instruction, all the usual things that, well, I am not very good at. But you watch the seniors, your instructor, and you give them respect, because, well, they deserve it. They earned it.

And after these few belt gradings, we started to do the workout and sparring class. Now that wasn’t easy. It still isn’t, but that is I always push myself further. Sparring. Actual contact fighting. Light contact mind, but even so. And the hardest part of that? I am not sure how to explain it, perhaps getting over the embarassment of it. Of moving. Whatever social constructs I had in my head, abandoning them. Moving. Got. To. Move.

And still we enjoyed it. The work and sparring adds another dimension to the traditional, classwork of patterns, linework and the like. And I got stronger. And I got fitter. And my stamina increased more and more. (Still haven’t got rid of the belly, godammit, but am lighter than I have been in years. And when Κασσάνδρα decided to take up running again, and I joined in after she had done a month, I could even do that. Easily. This….surprised me.)

A few more belt gradings on, and of the twenty-four odd who started with me, there were maybe half a dozen left. New people replaced them, time goes on, a few more originals leave. At this point, there are three of us there from the start. Myself, my second son, and another boy from his school. And we are progressing. I can see progress in myself.

But I am still, and won’t ever, be a natural at it. These days, I do four classes a week, and have to work hard at everything. Absolutely everything. Sure, I am faster, but not fast enough. Sure, I can stretch, but my box stretch is not 180°, and likely won’t ever be. But I push it, I keep trying. But I watch the others, who are naturals, and marvel at what they can do, and am happy for them and their awesomeness. I bumble onwards.

And eventually, as happens, I ran out of colour belts, and was up for my black belt. Now, I have to re-read that myself. Me. Up for a black belt. Me. ME. Each belt is a sign of progress, and to me, that is the sign of ultimate progress. Standards are high, very high, in the schools I train in. My instructor, the chief instructor, the new(er) instructors are all fantastic. I also wouldn’t want to let them done. Nor myself, but even so, all said and done, it is still just me.

As I type this, I have heard, earlier on, that I passed my black belt grading. I passed it. That makes me unbelievably pleased. I did, also, get a Distinction in my grading. 86%. I shall have to spell that out in case you missed it. EIGHTY SIX PERCENT. Me. I am…so very, very happy. But even so, in the coming times, I will still have to work at it. And never stop, running faster to even keep up with the walking pace of the others.

But I made it. It was a long time, and that long time taught me that if you want something, time is what it takes. I am, as I said, lighter. And I see all these diets promising weight loss quickly. And I scoff, as take it easy, a slow, steady downward pace. Build it up, work for it. Take you time.

Perseverance. One of the tenets of Tae Kwondo. Tae Kwondo. Of which martial art, unbelievably to me, I am a black belt.

And I give my thanks to all my instructors, in particular Mr Smith, whose class I started in, and who has trained me all the way to my black belt. To Mr Lapthorn, whose exacting standards we all have to live up to, and always fall short. Or I do. To all the students, gone, new and old, my thanks for the fun we have had, and the more we will have, and the friendships forged.

But me. I am a black belt now. And I am proud of myself for getting here. I still can’t quite believe it. How did that happen then?

I know I won’t ever get it from there

There have been many landmark records over the years, but for this post, I am only going to consider that oft-imitated, oft-derided, oft-celebrated decade, the 80s. Overblown hair-metal, dandy fops, depressed teenagers wearing black, throw-away pop and the genesis of many a genre.

But did any of the output in that vacuous ten years mean anything? Were there albums covering the big themes, the reason of living, the why-are-we-here perennial questions asked by the thinkers of old? There were, quite a few, but one of them stands out in its intensity, in its total philosophical outlook, in its wise and deep insights into the human soul and condition.

‘Heaven on Earth’, by Belinda Carlisle.

Before you splutter over the original vinyl pressing of some awful Morrisey dirge or other, let me explain. Ms Carlisle’s output might seem to be overtly chessy feel-good throwaway pop, but there is a message in there, underneath it, a vibrant, feminist, libertarian message, with nods to Socratic methodology and inquiry.

It doesn’t make sense in one way to take each song in turn, in order, as there is something cleverer underneath that (I will leave that as an exercise for the reader, for I think I still have one left somewhere), but for sake of non-shuffle, I will do them in the original placing.

1. Heaven Is A Place On Earth

A theological opening, the grand statement of intent. Affirming a life-stance, an outlook, that two people against everything else can make everything seem…better. Seem right. I reach for you/and you bring me home. Drawing inwards, realising we aren’t alone, and we can be made whole in another. In this world we are just beginning/to understand the miracle of living. No arrogance, a wonder at who we are and where we have come from, but underpinning it all, the acceptance that it is love is love comes first then the result will be heaven is a place one earth. And now all these three remain, faith, hope and love. And the greatest of these is love.

2. Circle In The Sand

After the, some might say, simplistic viewpoint of the opening track, which hides the fac that within it all the teachings of every major religion, we come to her reminding us that not only is life not easy, but we need each other in a deeper way than the joy of love. Something not quite so superficial. The bright sunshine of ‘Heaven on Earth’ becomes walking through the summer’s end. But although our love is all we need, and the ying/yang of I begin baby where you end, she knows she isn’t alone, but always on the edge of being reminded of her apparent position in society, with the final cry of can you hear me calling?

3. I Feel Free

So while on reading of ‘Circle in the Sand’ shows her possibility in the inferior position of the relationship (although it could be read from strength, but the ordering implies her journey through philosophy and theology, with the simplistic opening to a higher power, to the doubts over that, and indeed the balance inside the relationship) we have another affirmation. Yes, this is a cover version, but it fits the narrative at this point perfectly. A confident, all encompassing love, where I can walk down the street and there’s no one there/but the pavement is one huge crowd. Solid in her belief. But we have more to think of here, and looking back on the final refrain of the previous song, it now seems to be a search, looking for meaning in the world, and finding it somewhat in a religious experience. Mimicing the evolution of man, with the pure thrill in the primitive experience, the searching and seeking in the dark of childhood, and now the freedom only a true convert can feel. At this point, it is the description of her spiritual journey and awakening, a mystery feeling and how she is dealing with it.

4. Should I Let You In

Euphoria of the religious can, and mostly likely should, lead to some self-examination. Can you tell me/is it worth the risk anymore? A blatant cry for some validation, verification and vindication. The time, effort and portion of her very soul she has laid out, maybe now there are real doubts. There is still belief, in herself, but now, in growing up, it is a two-way relationship, and now she can see her tradiitonal role as inferior, but she knows she has a choice, and in the end, it has to be hers and hers alone.

5. World Without You

Most theological system of thought have been majorly influenced by their more aesthetic thinks, those who have removed themselves from worldly influences to ponder the nature of Man and God. But this denies that, and is a hymn to the world, but again, underpinned by the interaction with others. You know it would all be worthless/If you weren’t here with me. Almost anti-Platonic in tenor, and accepting of realities and hardships that could come, but still uplifting, darling if I had to/I would trade pleasure for pain, and in the end, completely anti-materialistic, I could have the world in my hands/but it wouldn’t mean a thing. The Eastern influence that has been creeping in from almost the beginning, despite her couching it in her own personal Western context, is gaining traction.

6. I Get Weak

Maturity, and her Bhuddistic stepping through the steps of meditiation, she has passed beyond adept. Letting her being move higher, ecstasy and enlightenment become mingled, I can’t speak when I look in your eyes. Not some submissive relationship, but as an equal, as that is the only way she could be eye to eye with her lover. A dangerous point in her spiritual life, as she has moved away from the pure love of light, into the loss of self in the here and now.

7. We Can Change

Given the dalliance of ‘I Get Weak’, the shift here is interesting, as there is the insight that things are now different, but no, nothing remains the same. This isn’t a Wittgenstein reversal, but a maturation. We can change the world/and make it better/but first we got to change together. Personal responsibility, no reliance on some central power. The roots of her almost Randian brand of libertarianism can be seen here, living all those years with our fears/and you wonder why. Questioning after the glow of physicality fades, there was a time when we had everything/we got to stop living in that dream. The time has come to put away childish things.

8. Fool For Love

With the first political awakenings comes the snap back to her original theological nature. I think overall, she is more a theological creature than a philosophically political one, despite the more overt nature of the next song. If not a frivolous reaction against her own questions, this is a reminder to herself of joy, perhaps even somewhat ironic. But still underneath the If I’m a fool for love/I don’t care is the inferrence that even so, she has still her own mind, a feministic streak despite her needing and wanting to be whole in the presence of a mutual lover.

9. Nobody Owns Me

This is the most blatant of her musings. A negation of all of Eastern esoteric philosophy, nobody own me is a bold statement of self, no journey to the negation of nirvana. Nobody owns me/nobody but you Now we have the switch. Laying out her individualistic tendancies, she reiterates she is also part of something more than herself. There is never an implication that she is alone, these lines are all in reference to others, and about her strength of mind, along with realising she is a social being. Here we can imagine she is reinforcing the value of the πόλις, all that entails, the self-reliance, the knowing that no person is an island, and we have to interact with others, but have to be afforded our own mind. In fact, this could almost be a speech as given by Περικλῆς on the eve of the Peloponnesian War. There is so much history and thought in this one song, we wonder what we have been hit with. There’s another side of me/that only you can see. A summation of all that has gone before, the initial flush of a new love, the doubts, the need, the want, the passion, but within that, the statement of self.

10. Love Never Dies

And we close with a companion piece to the opener, a mature musing on all she has considered up to now. A footnote to ‘Nobody Owns Me’, a day comes to end/and time moves on, but initial core of her belief, her belief in love conquering all, love lifting her to a higher plain, love as light and hope, has come along with her.

So maybe not quite the political take I initially thought, more a representation of mankind’s theology, from pre-historic times to the Desert Fathers with the nugget of all religions sewn in. Optimisitic yet realistic, grounded but non-materialistic, an hymnal example for everyone.

It isn’t something you do, but others will

I have wanted to write this for a while, a retrospective on Modesty Blaise. I wanted to write it when the only man to ever tell her stories passed away. It wasn’t easy, as Modesty Blaise means so much to me. And that is hard to articulate, to get across what I want to say.

When you were young
and on your own
How did it feel
to be alone?
I was always thinking
of games that I was playing.
Trying to make
the best of my time.

On the outside, people of a given age might remember the comic strip, that ran for years in the London Evening Standard, they might remember an awful film adaptation decades ago, they might even know the more recent, low-budget not-quite-awful film. They might even be aware there were novels, too. All of that is true, but none of it comes close to what Modesty Blaise was. Still is. And will always be to me.

I’ll start with the three-panel , black and white, comic strip, that started way before I was born. (I won’t fill in dates here, I am writing this in one sitting, without references to anything other than my heart and soul, my memory, impressions and feelings.) Those have been collected in TPB form, and they are still releasing them. I still buy them. There are decades to collate. PoD (as the author is affectionately known in the MB circles, of which I am in several) wrote them all, although he went through several artists, and everyone has their favourites. I am not going to go in to that, rather stick to the stories.

But only love
can break your heart
Try to be sure
right from the start
Yes only love
can break your heart
What if your world
should fall apart?

The stories are a whole. The comic strip came first, but in the end augment the novels, and you get the same characters acting in the same way, no disconnect, this is part of the story of their lives. I say their, as Modesty is more than herself, she has her partner. And not in any sexual way, it transcends that. But I am jumping in faster than I wanted, I’ll step back. The comic strip came first, and there are a series of (I think…without checking) eleven novels.

I recommend the novels first. Or the eponymous novel first, to get a flavour of what they are. But what are they, and why do they mean something to me? Sure, I first read the novels when I took them from my mother’s bookshelves as a child. Sure, I read the comic. But I did that for lots of books, what makes the MB books/comics so special?

I have a friend
I’ve never seen
He hides his head
inside a dream
Someone should call him
and see if he can come out.
Try to lose
the down that he’s found.

Trite to say, but it is the characters. You fall in love with them. You realise they are deep, complex and fantastically rendered. Really, it is the story of Modesty, ex-crime overlord, who ran a criminal empire, then retired, and Willie, her trusted sidekick, more than sidekick, ex-con, fighter, planner, and handyman. Even those definitions aren’t enough, and I have stopped myself spinning outwards to give examples of their traits. Like the first time Modesty sent Willie on a job, through to his holidays and creation of her necklace, the laughter between them. But they were deeper than lovers, and were never lovers, each completing the other in a more connected way.

More on the stories, then. Contemporary to Fleming’s James Bond, with spies and plots, scrapes and fights, but not the dark edge Commander Bond, nor the incompetence. People see these books, and comics, as fluff, pop culture spy novels, pre-cursor to Lara Croft. But oh how many points that misses. These are easy read, they are pacy, they are fun. They are moral, they are consistent, they are everything.

But only love
can break your heart
Try to be sure
right from the start
Yes only love
can break your heart
What if your world
should fall apart?

It crosses my mind to mention the short story collection, Cobra Trap, and that there are those who won’t read the story named after the book. I have, and it is heartbreaking, but more, it is transcendent too. And if you have been on the journey with Willie and Modesty, Sir Tarrant, Gabriel, Willie’s girlfriends, the locations, the inventions, the traps, the close calls, the dismay, the results, it does break your heart. It really does. But not in the way you might think.

Again, similar to the James Bond books (never seen the films, but I understand they are nothing like the books) there is a progression in character development, but it is different. Does every single action heroine owe her a debt? Hell yes. But even back then, she was never clichéd, never some addendum to some male. Feminist? Not sure, but she was written well, never a caricature of a busty girl in tight catsuits kicking her way through villains. She was a lady, a friend, clever, broken, tough. She was human, but beyond all that as well.

I have a friend
I’ve never seen
He hides his head
inside a dream
Yes, only love
can break your heart
Yes, only love
can break your heart

I haven’t even touched the surface. The unspoken bonds between Willie and Modesty, played out to a backdrop of kidnaps, heists, international travel, with the British Government feeding them jobs, but in no way is she the puppet. There is violence, but the books are never gratuitous. Never. Everyone I have ever tried to describe them too has looked at me like I have lost my mind, as this is very far out from my normal run of reading. Everyone I have ever lent a book to has also ended up loving them.

And everyone loves them for different reasons. Role models, maybe, adventures, for sure, entertainment, oh yes. Why people sneer at them I will never know. The are equal to the Bond novels, but they aren’t comparable. They are better than most other action genre books I have read, although to be fair I haven’t read many in the past two decades. They are very personal books, which I find strange, given their apparent throwaway nature. I spent my time pouring over obscure and what can sometimes, to others, seem bizarre and difficult tomes. This is not an antidote to those. Nothing of the kind, although I can see why it could be put like that. These mean something to me, and again, even after struggling to say it, I still can’t say it the way I want.

I have always loved Modesty Blaise. And I always will.

Everyone needs another lover

Sometime ago, way back when Cambridge-Town’s Platonists hadn’t annoyed me so, I was in my usual exploratory mode. You know, new city, wander around, see what there is in the dark and interesting corners. In this instance, I was intrigued by the austere flatness of it all. Of course, the flatness means any high points are fair game for fauxtographers.

Don’t get so distressed
If the good life won’t arrive
You’ve been reading S.O.S.
When it’s just your clock reading 5:05

Back in those days, my dalliance with Caitlin hadn’t started. It would soon, the reasons for which I will mention in a paragraph to come. Or maybe this one, I am not sure, I am, as per usual, doing the brane-to-finger-to-textbox flow of thoughts. Actually, this wasn’t in my first flush of Cambridgshire dealings, as I had moved from a necklace village north of the city to one in the south. Which explains why I was aware of the hill. It protruded into my journey to work.

And why are you so possessed
By the thought that she got free
And why are you figuring who’s the best
When just your luck ran out
and she chose me

Back to the story. As I didn’t have an awesome 70s sportscar with no roof, I was still on the motorbike. Full gear, all sleek and black, all power. Sometimes I wonder why I changed from the raw roar of a leather-and-chains chick to a stately lady. Sometimes I would like to go back. Or have both. A bit of rough and a bit of posh. Moving on…so I was on the bike. As it happens, it was taking me as long to get geared up as I was on the bike, which was the reason I fell in to the (topless) bosom of Caitlin. Ha! Explanation in the very next paragraph. At least there was an explanation, not that it was overtly interesting.

We do not lie side by side
and mock the thought of you
And I don’t take her hand and ask
Is this what he used to do?

Imagine then, if you will, a biker, in full gear, on a black-and-silver roaring rebel machine. With a heart filled with wide angle city images. While not particularly a classic Cambridge view, given it overlooks a school towards the hospital, from the layby at the top of Lilm Kiln Hill (or Limekiln Road as it is officially known, I think) affords an opportunity for some wideangled night long exposure shots. Therefore I loaded Amahlia, tripod, lenses and as much pretension as I could muster into my backpack and set off for work.

Cos I just want to free her from
Your jails of jealous dreams
‘Cos at least a house when it’s empty
Stays clean

Given this was late autumn, I knew it would be dark on the way home. Exactly the right conditions for the shots I wanted to get. Crisp atmosphere, dearth of streetlights around site, a nice panoramic view. Oh yes, I could hit quite a few cliches in one go. I mentioned my plans to a few people on my way out of the office, and a few eyebrows were raised. I just thought they were thinking I was being a beret-wearing pseud. But that has never stopped me before. I suffer for my art.

I won’t pretend
That I was simply swayed
It was a two way thing not a
Three day fling
No secrets kept, no truth betrayed

Off I go, leaving the office, one left turn and up the hill. Yes, it is a real actual hill. In Cambridge. I have cycled over it, too. Yes, it is more than a gentle incline. Honest. Up to the layby, park up the bike. that graphite sports can made quite the noise, oh yes. There are a few cars, two on the opposite side layby, one tucked in the corner of where I stopped. This is not unusual, I pass by that way every night and always see a car or two out there. I hop off the bike, and start to fiddle about setting up the camera. Changing lenses, extending tripod, the usual sort of thing.

And here’s the house that held
The nightmare that went on
And you’re sitting there wishing you’d never been born
With that self-inflicted crown of thorns

Then things got a bit…strange. The car on my side of the road flashed his lights, and the engines of the two on the other side started up, followed by the fzzzzzzzzz of electric windows winding down. There was some coughing, and doors opened. Again, the lights flashed at me, and I start to get concerned. More coughing, so I decide now is not the right time for this, pack up the camera gear and ride off, pondering on having come across a drugs deal or something. Last thing I wanted was to be caught up in some bust or other. (Oh look, he made an unintentional funny. Which makes sense second time round for you, perhaps.)

We do not lie side by side
and mock the thought of you
And I don’t take her hand and ask
Is this what he used to do?

I get to work the next day, and am relating my incredulity and this aborted escapade to my fellows in the office. No one is suprised. The more sniggers there are, the more I start to click. So it wasn’t a drugs bust, eh, and everyone around knows what that spot is used for. And it isn’t photography. Well, it is, but not the sort I wanted. At that point. Hohoho, all very hilarious. As an aside, while the top of Limekiln Road is the spot for walking the dog, the spot to take the mistress to (at three in the afternoon, apparently), is indeed the carpark at the place where I walk the dog.

Cos I just want to free her from
Your jails of jealous dreams
‘Cos at least a house when it’s empty
Stays clean

To bring this up to date, I wend the same path to a school sports hall on a Wednesday eve, to put the old bones through kicking contortions. This is a recent addition to the kicking contortion classes I do, so it hasn’t really been dark until now. Which can lead to only one thing, really, those sorts of bizarre exhibitionist come out again. Now, if that is what they want to do, fine, far be it for me to say they shouldn’t. Maybe not in a totally public place, but hey. Whatever turns you on.

I won’t pretend
That I’m the saviour of the innocent and bad
But put two withered old blooms in a couple of rooms
And they’ll behave like lunatics
and crave what makes them sad

But there are some things, some things, that shouldn’t really be done in public. Smoking while eating (on the bonnet of a car, to quote some prophetess from some film you won’t have seen), two young ladies servicing while the bloke is sipping from a can, several more wandering around in skimpies, all very base. Now, that sounds very common, but this is Cambridge, so the cars weren’t souped up Novas, but an A6, Volvo estate and some Land Rover behemoth, and the cans were probably filled with a fine 1982 port. And cigars, natch.The fact the layby is on a bend, so you sweep round with full beam on, doesn’t help. The whole scene in full relief. Another unintentional funny there, if you are a fan of 80s puppet standup.

So here’s a card that says
Happy twenty-second birthday and I wish you were dead
And here’s a house that held
a bevy of devils and an angel as well

Gosh. People are strange, no?

And you want what I’ve got
When all I’ve got is guilt
And a room that won’t stay still
Filled with pockets full of crumpled up money and
a mantelpiece littered with bills
‘Cos at least a house when it’s empty
Stays clean

(As for the obligatory lyrics, I was going to go with the glorious Emmylou, but that seemed a bit…obvious.)

I want to die on a sunny day

Imagine you want to set up a new grails project, have it build with maven (and therefore usable by Hudson) and fiddle with it in intelliJ, and then publish it to your local nexus repository. Well, imagine no more! Here are the simple steps to go through. I couldn’t find this anywhere online, so I went through the pain so you don’t have to. Either that, or all the java people keep this to themselves. Either that, or it is so obvious that I am making myself look dumb. Whatever, here is what needs to be done:

First up, generate the initial bits and bobs from the archetype. This creates a new directory at the level you are sitting. So I recommend you have ~/Projects/ and are in there. YMMV, but YWBW.

mvn
  org.apache.maven.plugins:maven-archetype-plugin:2.0-alpha-5:generate 
-DarchetypeGroupId=org.grails 
-DarchetypeArtifactId=grails-maven-archetype 
-DarchetypeVersion=1.3.4 
-DgroupId=com.whatever.you.use
-DartifactId=YourPluginNameHere

I will leave it as an exercise to the reader to change whatever names need changed. I don’t expect your groupId to be my made up one there. You now have a new directory with a pom file, a src/ directory and not much else. But that is alright. That is all you need for now.

OK, as you are going to be publishing your grails plugin (later, hold those horses) to your own lovely nexus repository, change the packaging type in the pom.xml file to be ‘zip’, not ‘jar’. Grails likes its plugins to be zip archives. Whatever. The main project (for me) goes out as a war, but the plugins are all zips. So there.

This next bit is intelliJ specific, as that is what I use. This is also different if you use it on a *ix machine (like me) or a win32/64 box, like not me. Feel free to skip this bit if you need to skip this bit, as it might need skipped.

1. Make sure you have maven home directory set (can be done via File->Settings->Maven)
2. Create a new project
3. Import Grails project from external model (navigate to your plugin directory)
4. Add the framework support for Groovy (there will be a maven 1.3.4 and a local 1.3.4, use the local one)
5. Expand the projects lifecycle node in the maven tab on the right hand side of the screen and compile

This is the part that could (probably) be improved. However, it only takes a few clicks, and once the build process has brought down all the dependencies from nexus, work can be started. There is a chance you might need to add a new SDK, and make it global. This can be found by right-clicking on the plugin name at the top of the project view.

If you use some other IDE, and whatever needed done is done, welcome back. Now we need to make it into a plugin. This is easy. We just add a file called YourPluginNameHereGrailsPlugin.groovy to the root directory of the project. To make that clear, it is the name of the plugin, concated with GrailsPlugin.groovy. But what goes in there, you ask? Here it is:

Class YourPluginNameHereGrailsPlugin {
    def version = "0.1"
    def grailsVersion = "1.3.4 > *"
    def dependsOn = [:]
    def pluginExcludes = [
            "grails-app/views/error.gsp"
    ]
    def author = "mwk"
    def authorEmail = ""
    def title = "Plugging something in"
    def description = "This does stuff"
    def documentation = "http://grails.org/plugin/not-invented-here"
    def doWithWebDescriptor = { xml ->
    }
    def doWithSpring = {
    }
    def doWithDynamicMethods = { ctx ->
    }
    def doWithApplicationContext = { applicationContext ->
    }
    def onChange = { event ->
    }
    def onConfigChange = { event ->
    }
}

Again, that is just ripped off from the standard grails plugin file. Change the class name and whatever else you need to make it reflect you reality.

INSERT YOUR CODE NOW! I have no idea what your plugin is doing, go write the java now. Or do it in groovy, I won’t judge.

Almost there! To allow other developers to use your plugin, you want to push it out to your nexus box. So package the plugin up

grails package-plugin

to create a zip archive in the root directory. The invocation to push this elsewhere is:

mvn deploy:deploy-file 
-DgroupId=com.whatever.you.use.YourPluginNameHere
-DartifactId=YourPluginNameHere
-Dpackaging=zip 
-Dversion=1.0-SNAPSHOT
-Dfile=grails-your-plugin-name-here-0.1.zip 
-DrepositoryId=nexus
-Durl=http://somewhere:8081/nexus/content/repositories/snapshots
-DuniqueVersion=false 
-DarchetypeGroupId=org.grails
-DgroupId=org.grails.plugins 
-Dcompress=true

You will note I have in my m2.settings a repositoryId setup called nexus. I am not going to go in to how you set all that nonsense up, I am presuming you already have one.

All being well, you will see a BUILD SUCCESSFUL message, including the URL to where the zip was pushed.

So now the great unwashed can use your plugin, by adding

plugins.YourPluginNameHere=1.0-SNAPSHOT

to their application.properties file. Job done.

To end with:

Your normally scheduled (which means months apart) angst will return presently.

The reasons to be elsewhere

It so happened that I found myself in Cyprus. Work, free drink, 45°C temperatures. Most of those in the company just like the sun, sea, beach and booze. Me, going all that way, I had a better idea. A plan. I did pitch the plan to the whole company, and while many indicated they would love to do it, only five of us did.

And it was perfect. Five blokes, road trip. I guess it is best I do this in some sort of chronological order. Roll with it, it might make sense.

We picked the car up at 9 in the morning, with a list of Byzantine churches to go see. And off we went. Head to the mountains, a vague inkling of where we were going. The sun was out, the aircon was on, nothing was going to stop us. And it didn’t. It was one experience after another, one moment of transcendence followed by another. And a few U-turns.

Not long in to the journey, we approach the first stopping point. And, luckily, there were a few big coaches, indictating tourists. A bonus, we could start with some classic Eastern Orthodox tat. Byzantine theme park for history nerds.

But wait! Tourists, you say? Those don’t look like tourists…those are…pilgrims! Considering we are half way up a mountainside, with sweeping corners and VERY CLOSE EDGES THAT WE COULD FALL OFF, this is no tourist country. A monastry, a priest with an awesome Orthodox beard, and a bloke selling blessed apples from the back of his van. What was a boy to do, but take his hat off, cross himself and go in and kiss some Virgins.

I probably let myself down by going in the wrong order, but I was entranced by the gold, the icons, the frescos, and the quiet still devoutness on display. It was mentioned a few times why I wasn’t my usual, um, combative self, but I am pious when I need to be. Bearded or not. And I wasn’t bearded.

The interior of Eastern Orthodox churches. Inspired, totally different to those damned Latins, and just so much more of everything. You can feel the mystery, and feel the loss that we have in the West.

A nod to the priest later, and in to the car, to head up further into the hills. Winding switchback-laden single lane tracks, with signposts the just appear causing more U-turns. One more stop before lunch. A village nestling in a valley, long main street, single track doubling up as a two-way road. And park where you want. Corners, no problem.

So we park. Almost on a corner, beside a huge church, evidently currently still in use. Not the Byzantium we were looking for, just a quick bonus on the way to the church of the Archangel Michael. An impressive structure, what else would a boy do but wander around taking photographs? And what else would a boy do when he sees the old caretaker hobbling by but ask him if we could go inside?

Inside. What can prepare you for a building with a centre done, three stories high, pillars, and painted from floor to ceiling and back again. With the gold, the icons, the chandeliers. The seats, the books, the fresco hidden behind golden gates, which I am not sure we were supposed to pass. The quiet, the history, the something more than austere and dour Protestantism or the secondhand Byzantine pistache that is Catholicism. No incense was harmed in the making of this sacrilege.

Of course I left a donation on the plate. How could I not? I would have happily paid an entrance fee, to see that, to be there. Helpfully, old caretaker dude (with a disappointingly shaven upper lip) pointed us in the right direction, and we moved down the hill and back seven centuries.

Most of the Byzantium buildings didn’t allow photography inside, and the pictures were taken from the door, not inside. This tiny church, this tiny place, again, was something else. You can’t get craftmanship like that any more, and to think how long that has stood, and the colours still there, the damage of time and man barely noticeable in places.

We could have stopped after any single visit, and I would have been more than happy. That it kept getting better, well, it was just making me, and keeping me, happy. The company was great, kudos to NrG for the driving, despite my Cantabrigan aversion to anything more than a gentle incline. The weather was great, as was the aircon. I am sure there are better Byzantine examples, better scenery, better cars, but I was there, right there, right then, and it was everything it should have been. Everything is context, and cultural context at that, and this was a single point in my life. A shining single point. Could it have been better? No, it could have been different. Could it have been more? No, it could have been different. With different people (most noticably I would have loved to have done it with my squawks and heart of my heart) it would have been different. Better isn’t the word, and one day I will take them. It would be more complete for me, perhaps, or maybe better is the word.

But even blown minds need to continue, and continue on a full stomach. But who wants to eat in a village? Best to drive more into the mountains, and just stop somewhere, anywhere, just somewhere local. Where they barely speak English, and we barely speak (modern) Greek. Where they bring you food. Where this food was simple, but beyond plain. Absolutely glorious, so we ate, ate well, chatted and laughed, soaked the sun, looked over the valley, listened to the trees chatter in the wind and were sated of mind and body.

You can’t see everything in the single day we had, and there were obscure turnings we ignored, major sites we decided against, and went with the flow. From our base in the south west of the island, we wound our way up through the Trodos mountains, getting as far as the Turkish border, with many high vantage points to stop and look into the distance from.

Another church to see, but this time the bearded priest was resting outside, and the purported icon museum was closed. Even though it shouldn’t have been. But who was complaining? 7th century frescos, with the Gospels depicted with Crusader livery, the tree of Jesse stretching thirty feet up to the ceiling.

Who was complaining? I bought an icon from the priest, and a tenth of the price a different, similar one was at the airport. And this one was of an icon I saw in the church. Occlude, guidebook man extrodinaire, has a list of the names of all the places we did go to. I will make a google maps track from it at some point. Without the U-turns.

More villages, more Coke Light, more U-turns. More signs that lie, more hairpin bends, more Cypriot girls in those white dresses with rather fine tans. More melons, more Coke Light, more Pervoe FM. More Beach Bar!

There was now one major site we wanted to see, a collection of ruins containing an amphitheatre, a basillica, an agora and more. Sprawling on the coast, on our run back to the hotel. This was a paid-for place, and we had to part with a whole one Euro seventy. Remind me why I live in rip-off Britain?

By now the sun was setting. Can I hear you say orange light and magic hour? On Greco-Roman stone? This was a big site, with a bit of wandering around. We got to the limits just as the sun was disappearing behind the hills. Achilles’ house, with parts of the mosaics, we our limit. Quite literally. We could go no further, so wending our way back through the ruins in a different direction, perhaps we could catch different angles and columns.

But no, not a chance. A young lady with a badge and a mobile phone asked us to go, as the gates were closing in ten minutes. Quite insistent we leave. Well, we were in a good mood, so off we stroll, only stopping for a group-hug photograph. Little did we know she had a car, and bombs off away from us. We get to the main through road on the site, and some agitated Ruins Nazi winds down his window and veritably shouts at us, telling us to get to the gate now, and one of us run to the car and drive it down.

Mr NrG saunters to the car, we saunter down the hill to the gate. Big wooden gates. One closed, three people standing tapping their feet. So we stand too, doing the usual ribaldery and jocular cracking. Eventually, NrG arrives. Three minutes after they were due to close. Take that, Ruins Nazis! We win! And we did, being there at that time of day. Magic, magic hour.

Picking a route back (eventually), another drive along the coast, through the hills, the sun now gone and everything lit in a deep red just above the horizon, the Mediterranean darkening as we look at it.

You know what else added to it? I set this up with the express intent that it was all for me. I wasn’t sure that the others would really appreciate, or want, to drive for twelve hours around Cyprus looking at churches, ruins and roads. But they did. It was a fantastic excursion. Even though there was less religosity in them than me, it was appreciated, enjoyed, and that also makes me happy. A more than fine, a more than great, a more than day was had by all.

It was just…just…just right.

There is always a meaning

I was once told that the universe is bigger than my mind could hold. This is not true, the universe can’t hold all that my mind is. There is an edge to the universe, there isn’t an edge to me. And I love to stand on edges. The edge of the Iberian peninsula, looking across a boundless ocean and a limitless sky, the edge of the Fens, gazing north into nothing and everything, the edge of Western Europe, bounded in by a grey horizon. I love standing on the edges.

I was never told that I was anything, but as an angel once told me, I am everything to someone. I can’t quite get rid of my need for material things, as material things cover our heads and keep us warm. A trap of our own making, all the same. Sharper edges.

And the more I consider culture, context and edges, the more I can see. I love the idea of cultures being contemporary, in everything but time. I love the idea that upsets the arrogance of the late 19th century mindset (for that is still what we have), that we are some sort of pinnacle. We aren’t. Our science and our philosophy is just that, ours. Standing on the shoulders of giants? Sure, but don’t tell me it is more than any other culture, nor tell me it is better. You explain to me why there wasn’t the same depth perspective in pre-Enlightment painting. (Or even earlier, I guess.)

Oh laughing man, what have you won?
Don’t tell me what cannot be done.
My little mouth, my winter lungs,
don’t tell me what can’t be done.
Walking in the circle of a flashlight
someone starts to sing, to join in.

I used to write, in this place and others, of what was happening to me, around me, as seen by me. I don’t any more, probably one of the reasons my posting is sporadic. It all has to mean something, but not in the sense you imagine. εκ του κοσμου ουκ εισιν καθως εγω εκ του κοσμου ουκ ειμι if I was going to quote anything. Who are they? They that are with me, in body or spirit, they who are also not of this world. They who will be seven, but I have passed only five.

Yes, the more I think of context and culture, all I see are the edges. But not an edge to fall from, an edge to fall into. And edges are all space, time has nothing to do with. How is there anything other than space? For I loved you in a place, and I love you in this place. It is only space that separates us.

How can your mind not range, freed of life, escaping in the noise of nature, the silence enveloped by the noise, the edge cutting through the silent noise. It is all you can do not to stretch your arms out, arch your back, and salute.

Talk of loneliness in quiet voices.
I am shy but you can reach me.
Rowing on the lakes of Canada,
rowing on the lakes of Canada.

Everything is context, and I am tending to talk more in the abstract, to think more in abstracted connections, and make my speech, thinking and dealings even more rambling and convoluted than ever. This comes crashing down when my connections, my edges, range against others, who don’t like language, and what language means. Language and space. Our two edges.

She’s got perfect skin

I spend a lot of my time reading, and writing. None of the writing gets published here, the number of posts in draft is twice that I have posed over the past two years. Maintaining a weblog for over a decade, I just don’t feel the need. Or reason. This isn’t a swansong post, by any means, the first paragraph has just started that way.

I spend a lot of time reading. Mostly these days I read history, but usually nothing beyond the fall of Byzantium. And the more I read, the more it all falls in to place, history, people, place, time and disaster. There are several inferences in here, aimed even at some who don’t know I write here, some who don’t know me, some who do, some who lived before and some who will live after.

Yours is the first face that I saw
I think I was blind before I met you
Now I don’t know where I am
I don’t know where I’ve been
But I know where I want to go

History on its own is nothing, everything is context. And everything is a hero with a thousand faces. Do we believe it all, when everything is twisted around the same story core? From early times, to now, everything is the same. Can you see it? Campbell could, but was only taking mythology and theology. I think it is more than that, it is also life and history. Why is this woven in? I don’t know, my search continues, and those I journey with as well, if some know it more than others.

I haven’t been wrong about those I take on the trip, except I think recently the criteria relaxed, which folds into the thousand faces in and of itself, if you are awake to recognise it.

And so I thought I’d let you know
That these things take forever
I especially am slow
But I realize that I need you
And I wondered if I could come home

All of history pivots, and usually on stupidity or chance. Yes, no one remembers the names of those who built the pyramids, just those who ordered them to be built, and this is how it should be. But it breaks the heart. The white man does not have the monopoly on cruelty, but I still burn with a shame. And an anger.

The Crusades and the Trail of Tears are, to me, the two most indicative times. Everything before is echoed in it, and everything after will be. Not that these are a template, or indeed the worst, for others have suffered more, or different. There is no hierarchy of victims, just victims.

Pivotal points, where the wrong person gave the wrong answer, the right person didn’t reach the juncture in time to swing it all, the world just turned at the wrong angle, and everything changes.

Remember the time you drove all night
Just to meet me in the morning
And I thought it was strange you said everything changed
You felt as if you’d just woke up
And you said “this is the first day of my life
I’m glad I didn’t die before I met you
But now I don’t care I could go anywhere with you
And I’d probably be happy

Times change, that is all the ever do. Eras end, that is all they ever do. Who you take with you is the important part. Something went wrong, and I read the colours not quite correctly. This was a first, and I am still thinking about it, as if I was right, then another course leads to its own conclusions.

Even this post has been stripped, left like this, speaking only in tongues to some, and the gaps between unbridgeable. History doesn’t repeat itself, the mask of a thousand faces does.

So if you want to be with me
With these things there’s no telling
We just have to wait and see
But I’d rather be working for a paycheck
Than waiting to win the lottery
Besides maybe this time is different
I mean I really think you like me

The reasons to be elsewhere

I have, quite a few times, been up The Junction. I have, quite a few times, been to gigs elsewhere. I have seen most of the bands I have ever wanted to over the years, with a few exceptions. I have never seen Lou Reed before (and after reading what follows, you will realise, technically I have, but in spirit not) so I decided to go watch his Metal Machine Trio.

(You may think this is another weblog posting, and it is, but it isn’t going to be a standard review, if that is what you thought was coming.)

Sur, sur quel terrain l’ai-je semée, quels détours m’ont fait, m’ont fait l’oublier, ma colère…

What do you do at gigs? I mean, how do you conduct yourself? It is easy when you are some clean shaven grotty student, but when you are a respectable middleclass professional?

Take the Half Man, Half Biscuit show (this time round). Last time, I was at the front, swinging my hips and hair to wild abandon to the three minute ironic pop tunery. This time, I stood near the middle, clutching an ale (without the intent purpose of flinging it forward, though I would never have done that, you do of course realise) and tapping my foot while humming along.

N’ai je, plus rien vu soudain, plus rien entendu, rien…

I have been to some odd gigs over the years, ancient Sumerian sun worship on stage, bands with their backs turned away the whole time and extreme halogen lamps uplighting them, groups wearing lab coats and sweeping the stage before lifting instruments and redefining a decade, collectives not coming on stage until one am then blistering through a different definition of another decade (with girls in cages and Uzis, why do we pay homage to these monkeys?) and even uber-hip skinny white blokes with guitars, whom you would never have heard of.

Plus personne à blamer, personne à déplaire, personne à défier, où est-elle passée?

But the Metal Machine Trio was different again.

We turned up late, though there was no support anyhow. When I say late, I mean an hour or so after the doors opened. And what is it with no support bands anymore? Has that, like me, gone out of fashion? The house lights were dimmed, but still up. And there was a relentless (I am going to use that word again, later) feedback storm going on. Rather loud. Very loud. But no one on stage. Just a lot of laptops, a comfy chair in the centre of the stage, and amps. Lots of amps. With a few guitars leaning against them.

Every fifteen minutes or so, a roady would come on, move a guitar an inch, and wander off. With it getting louder. Now, as we turned up late, I can’t say when the feedback started. Maybe at seven, when the doors opened? I don’t know, but I would like to think so. How do you sound check for a noise band? Like that?

Où, où est-elle passée, où est ma colère, ma colère

There was me, standing centre of the middle, and Lou Reed danders past me to the side stage entrance. That’s great, thinks me, it is going to start soon. Maybe the feedback will dim, and we get another noise.

No. It just gets LOUDER.

Three blokes come on. One with a sax in his hand, the other by the synths, the patch bays, the laptops and the midi keyboard. Lou Reed, ambles to the comfy chair, sits down, lifts a guitar and puts his head down. With lots of tall, old blokes in front of me, I barely saw him for the first half. It was also an odd audience, with me probably the youngest, and a fair few chicks.

He did lift his head the odd time, to motion to a roadie to change his guitar, or to shuffle (literally) around the stage, turning things UP, but other than that, no, he just sat there.

N’ai-je plus rien vu soudain, plus rien entendu, plus rien à confier, à mes nerfs…

None of this has defined what it sounds like. And I can’t, really. The closest I would say would be early 70s Tangerine Dream (think ‘Phaedra’) piped through Godspeed You! Black Emperor and then filtered through EXTREME VOLUME. And brought up to date. Which, if you know my musical tastes, you can imagine I appreciated. Muchly.

It was noisy. It was relentless. It was brutal. It was great. I haven’t seen a concert quite like that, and if I was to see them again, I can only imagine it would not be the same. (On the other hand, how could I tell?)

L’as tu prise toute entière, l’as tu décimée, décimée

Two hours or so, no breaks in sound. I can’t even tell you how many songs they played. One? There was a single second of Lou and the sax stopping, but the feedback continued, and the synths continued, so maybe that was some link to a different song. I don’t know.

T’es tu accaparée, ce peu que j’avais que j’avais donné, ma colère

So what did I do? Stand there, mostly, thinking. Such extreme noise allowed you to think, bizarrely. To drift, which is probably why I thought of Phaedra. Though the synth noises helped that comparison.

It was great. Unexpectedly great. I don’t expect others to agree, but that doesn’t stop me remembering this as something perpendicular to other shows I have seen. And certainly one of those bands I think work way better live.

Bring the noise.

It all stopped then

Time management, specifically time management of techies, is a curious thing. And by time management, I mean the time-following applied by management to techies. It also, as it happens, to be another one of those trigger situations (yes, indeed, I have trigger situations, not just phrases) that well, cause me to seethe.

I think I kind of lost myself again

So let’s try and lay out my thinking here, from the start, through the slippery slope, down to the OH-NO-THE-WORLD-IS-ABOUT-TO-IMPLODE ending. So, it always starts like this: I don’t have to be in by a certain time. Neither does anyone.

Day, yesterday
Really should be leaving but I stay

For my first aside, let me point out these days we are generally task focused. Therefore there is no need for me/us/whomever to be in by a certain time. We don’t have to talk to clients, and if we do, we come in when they are. We don’t need to be on instant availability (out of hours I do on call, so I am, as it happens) as these days nothing falls over before we get here than can’t be coped with until we get in. We aren’t like sales people, who need to be in 9-5, office hours, to talk to other types who are 9-5ers. No, we aren’t.

Say, say my name

For my second aside, I also have to point out that I am at my desk by 8am every morning. So why get het up about having some arbitrary (let’s say 9.30am) time of being chained to desk enforced? Oh, hey, that is the point of this whole post. I am getting there. You would think, then, that this wouldn’t affect me. And from that point of view, it doesn’t. However. And here comes my cascade of mental output.

I need a little love to ease the pain
I need a little love to ease the pain

Once I am told I have to be in by a certain time, then some of my goodwill evaporates. My first thought is to count how many hours I do a week. Does it come to more than thirty-seven and a half, the amount I am contracted to do? Well, as it happens, yes, yes it does. And my first thought is to stop that. I shall do exactly the hours I am supposed to. And not read work email out of hours. Either on my company-issued BlackBerry, or VPNing in, or webmail, or any how. I can do that in my alloted 37.5 hours a week. (There is a school of thought that says you shouldn’t even look at work mail in your own time, but hey, I am loyal, interested and do.)

So now the amount of work I do in work has decreased. By, let’s say, six/seven hours a week all told.

It’s easy to remember when it came

Next, I start to account for every half hour of my day. Not to cover myself, but so I have an audit trail. And if I get asked why I spent half an hour thinking on something, my next response is not to think on it, but rather demand then that every task be laid out for me, and I will do them. In order that they come. Because if I can’t be allowed the breathing room, then it has to be done for me, no?

‘Cause it feels like I’ve been
I’ve been here before

Then we get to proper timesheets, and hoary 70s Union-esque work-to-rule. And less thinking, less creativity, less goodwill and more obstinacy. Well, they have laid out the terms, I will stick to them. A game of squash a week, coming in at 9.30. None of this precludes doing great work, on time, to high standards of excellence. Silly, petty timekeeping rules, on the other hand, drive it in the other direction. Because it is a tiny piece of resentment, a small itch that spreads.

You are not my savior
But I still don’t go

Programmers as temperamental artists? Hell yeah. Programming, and the handling of programming types, is an art form. A creative art form. There is no formula, you can’t induce creativity, you nurture it. Yes, the crazy mental stuff done at 2am (though those days are gone, aren’t they?) needs reverted from your favourite version control system the next morning, but the ideas might bear fruit. And rules like this, or dress code, or anything else, just kidney-punch my soul.

Feels like something
That I’ve done before

See, the thing is, it is all rolled into my Libertarian outlook. And not taking the piss. The Man gives me some leeway, some privileges, and if I don’t misuse them, then everyone is happy, and I don’t feel the need to Bring Down The State. (Well, I don’t up my Bringing Down The State activities, as I am content.)

I could fake it
But I still want more

Nuking from orbit is never a viable solution. And even at that, I would wager it is all perception, and whomever this new diktat was aimed at, whatever problem it was meant to fix, isn’t really as much of an issue as it seems. Or seems to us. Whatever the viewpoint from above, it obviously differs from mine.

Fade, made to fade

This has happened to me in a few positions of employment, and thinking back on it, it certainly was the thin end of a moving walkway. And it also looks, anecdotally, that I haven’t lasted long in those places once this sort of regime is invoked.

Passion’s overrated anyway

Now, do I realise that you can’t have anarchy in the workplace? Of course I do. We all have contracts. We can’t sit on IRC all day. We do, but we don’t type there all day. So a few late comers, a few games of squash, little points in goodwill, shouldn’t cause much concern. Unless you want the office empty at 5.30pm everyday, and no one going above and beyond.

Say, say my name

It intrigues me as to why companies do this. Resentment from the non-tech departments? As in they have to be in by X o’clock, can’t wander out when they want, can’t do this or that? That we have it easier than them? That is just another perception issue, and shouldn’t be even taken into consideration. Or else have it explained what we do, and how we do it.

I need a little love to ease the pain
I need a little love to ease the pain

I can’t help thinking that regardless of the corporate culture, ethos and the like, this all just comes down to pettiness. Should it accelerate all those scenarios? Probably not, but it gets my back up, and if anything, I can huff (and sup from the deep grudgeohol well) for Oirland, and as it is for Oirland, it lasts a long, long time. Or until I leave, which is always shorter. And affords me the opportunity to bring it up on my own little dusty corner of the intertubes.

It’s easy to remember when it came

Am I being insane here? Does this all seem way over the top, for something that doesn’t affect (but causes and effect) in me? A massive overreaction? Or first they came from my timesheet, and I said nothing. Then they came for my poetical analogies, so I stopped there.

‘Cause it feels like I’ve been
I’ve been here before
You are not my savior
But I still don’t go, oh
I feel like something
That I’ve done before

It is a culture shift. Change bad. Though change good. And nothing ever changes without any pain.

I could fake it
But I still want more, oh

It all stopped then

For some reason, a month or two back, I took it upon myself to read À la recherche du temps perdu. The whole of it. The new translation, all six volumes. All six volumes making up one novel. Now, I didn’t know much of Proust really, all just culturally received wisdom. Like it was long. (It is.) That he uses long sentences (he does.) That is is hard work. (It isn’t.) That is is worthy. (It is.) But I haven’t looked at any literary criticism about it (hahahahahha), and indeed, the only thing I did know before reading it was to choose the one with the big tits. Always a good call, that.

It’s getting kinda late now.
I wonder if you’ll stay now, stay now, stay now, stay now or,
will you just politely say “goodnight”.

Having now finished it all, I thought I would try and share some of my journey through it all. The misconceptions blown away, the joy, the scale and effort of the sequences.First off, what I wasn’t prepared for was that lots of it was funny. To be honest, I wasn’t actually sure what it was all about, aside from something to do with French society in the late 1890s. And it is about that, but it is so much more than that. That is the backdrop for the human interactions, but really it is a life, a life journeying through the echelons of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. But that isn’t the thing that struck me the most on thinking back over the 3200-odd pages of this single novel.

I move a little closer to you,
not knowing quite what to do and I’m,
feeling all fingers and thumbs.
I spill my tea, oh silly me!

So what struck me the most? Well. He writes exactly the way I think. (Aside from him writing the way I write. Or me attempting to write like him, even subconsciously, without ever having read him before. My style is, in my head, tending towards Proustianism. And if that is even remotely true, it makes me very happy.) Take his concerns when trying to get in with the Duchesse de Guermantes, and in different yet similar ways, Gilberte, and later Albertine. The whole (teenage) male psyche wrapped up perfectly in elegant prose. The fumbling attempts at looking aloof and desirable, the misinterpreted signals, the angst and worry at trying to understand the female mindset, all is so well cast, so well judged it is like remembering what it was like when you were that age. The insight is cutting, but witty and overall funny. Truly there are some memorable comic scenes. (My favourite from the early books is when he is listening to Elstir, the painter, talk of the redemption of art (oh, how it all ties together), how to see, and how to look, and giving an insight to the narrator of how to progress in his education. So he listens. Or sort of listens, as at the end of the painter’s soliloquy, he snaps back to his present situation, having spent the whole time thinking about bewbz. Or the Temple of Shamelessness farce, that also stands out.)

It’s getting kinda late now.
I wonder if you’ll stay now, stay now, stay now, stay now or,
will you just politely say “goodnight”.

There are hundreds of characters, and plenty of names. French names, which I will never say aloud, as I will make a fool of myself trying. All of human life is indeed there, the grotesque (and the redeemed grotesque), the vain (and the fallen vain), the climbers (and the outcasts), beautifully rendered through Marcel’s eyes. There is no attempt to make them rounded characters, they are characters as seen by the narrator. So at different times in his life he sees them differently, whether it was when he regains time, or during his youthful arrogance.M de Charlus, Gilberte, Odette and Mme Verdurin, as they play a major part in the cycle. Albertine gets re-evaluated as well, but in a different way, through the whispers and the lies of others.

And then we touch; much too much
this moment has been waiting for a long, long time.
It makes me shiver, makesmakes me quiver,
This moment I am so unsure, this moment I have waited for
is it someting you’ve been waiting for?
Waiting for too?

And Albertine overshadows the middle section, as again the very emotions we feel are laid out. The jealousy, the not knowning what she (and by extension all females) thinks, the second-guessing, attempts at controlling the situation and her, the nervous intentions and total exasperation at interacting with someone so totally alien in thought. Whole sections, which he admits make him look bad, this is an honest account of his thinking, are taken with his guilt and angst. But he has the introspection to bring us along with him, we feel his irrationality and how he struggles to cope with his feelings.

But not only the personal interactions, there are the social (on the grand sweeping scale), the political and the class ones, too. For this is an era far removed from us here, but we can still relate to it all, as he is inside his mind, and explaining the way also think. Even if we don’t get invited to upmarket society salons with Ducs and Princesses.There is history (and here you do need to keep referring to the copious notes, else you lose which General was lying in the Dreyfus affair, again the whole idea tied up with regaining time), and the curtain falling on the First World War, the epoch-shifting occurances, and lastly the passing on from one generation to the other, and the whole fabric of the old guard lost on the new.

Take of your eyes, bare your soul.
Gather me to you and make me whole.
Tell me your secrets, sing me the song.
Sing it to me in the silent tongue

The descriptions of what people wear, how it affects their personality, the inverts, the little gang, the houses, the salons, Venice, Morel, Bloch, Racine, literature, art. The redemption of art.

Indeed, the redemption of art. The final novel unwinds in a haze of self-awareness, that we don’t notice the passing of our own time (and there are some more fine comic moments in here) whereas we do in others, and quarrels are forgotten as we forget others. Or not so much forget, as leave them as single points in time, when we last saw them, and not the old person in front of us. And his realisation that he isn’t alone, that others see him in this way.The stages of man laid out perfectly, each book in the novel contributing something more to the whole.

It’s getting kinda late now.
I wonder if you’ll stay now, stay now, stay now, stay now or,
will you just politely say “goodnight”

Proust illuminated my life by illuminating his own. The human condition isn’t so different, as he says, between then and the Second Empire, between the highest Prince and the lowest shirt maker. It certainly won’t be to everyone’s liking, the long tortuous overwrought prose, interjections and asides (see why I like it?) but it is great. Funny, sad, intricate, delicate, brutal, thoughtful, insightful and just damned great. The more I think on it, the more I could write here. I could go on with all the highlights, the threads that run through it all, the sheer scale of his achievement. But I won’t. Suffice to say, this has shot up my list of favourite novels. Don’t listen to whomever tells you it is hard work, and pointless. It is art. And Marcel can’t be afforded a higher compliment than that.

The experiences I am missing

Every night, I cycle home from the train station. Every night, I pass by our allotment. Given the schools have started, the summer holidays are over, time is precious, the only chance I get of watering our produce is as wend my way home. This is hardly a chore, I love our allotment. We were close to giving it up, time constraints, other commitments, life goes on, but every time we stood on its ground, the desire crumbled, overtaken by the peace it brings upon us.

South Cambs is quiet, as well as being flat. Then the allotment is set aside from the road, on the edge of the village. Or what was once the edge of the village, according to my old maps. Now there are houses either side, but even so, there is quite a bit of cultivated land there. All in use.

This evening, it was just me down there. Sometimes I see our grow-your-own neighbours, chatting to the old duffers while leaning on my fork, watching the smoke slowly snake into the sky, the smell of burning very different from ordinary bonfires. The languid, lazy smoke, the relaxed, dreaming fire, hiding amongst the vegetables all over the landscape. Small piles of smouldering leaves, evidence of the work just done. But while there was still the smell of the smoke, there no one was around.

This evening, this time of year, the sun was low in the sky, preparing to settle down for the night, a perfect circle of burnt and burning orange, a mere hand’s width from the horizon. The silence helps, the loneliness helps, I am content. Having done my chores, the watering of the newly planted cabbages, in preparation for a few months time, some weeding, and general walking up and down, meditating on all that surrounds me.

And that is what I wanted to write here, write now, right now, without thinking. How is it that a simple piece of ground, whose surface was broken by my own hands, where I toiled, Cassandra toiled, our progeny toiled, where we watched, over the past years, the successes and the failures, the pain of ignoring it and coming back to more hard work, but overall, the special connection, the communion I have with this piece of this earth that is mine.

This time of year helps. The special halflight, the huge East Anglian skies, but mostly the silence. My silence. Over the years, I have come to enjoy solitude, I have always been able to keep my own company, but this is different. I enjoy the sharing of the work too, but even then, there is still the silence. Work to be done, but also enjoyed. I guess it helps the time I am there. People are home from work, eating their dinner, settling down for the evening. Some of us have longer days, longer commutes, longer reading time, but the lack of human activity doesn’t concern me.

Lots of people talk of the benefit of manual work. It is true. Your mind can soar, your thoughts are your own, as they always are. You can wish your life away, regret your past, plot and scheme, or not even think of anything, just be a void, a creature of the very ever present. There isn’t a past, there isn’t a future, there is only ever now.

None of that, I think, really comes close to saying what I am trying to say. It is the air, the air circulating through me, the light, the light flowing around me, the ground, the ground absorbing me. One hundred and twenty square metres of soil. All it takes to calm me down. While I am there, at any rate. I still want a pipe, to draw on slowly while I survey the land, fork embedded in the ground, adding to the languid ending of another day.

And the day ends.

If we were, we would be violently happy

You never know where a weblog post is going to go. It gets started, mangled, moved, removed, restored, stored and rewritten. This one followed that whole path. I am not going to talk about the application of the disparate knowledge in my head to my everyday working life. Or how that doesn’t work. No. I am going to talk about leaflets, and the trustafarians who hand them out. And have handed them to me, both in the past, and recently. Let us start with recent.

Outside New Scotland Yard, there is an enclave of hippies. One url on their leaflet was 9/11 truth. This leaflet was obtained by my fine self before reaching the Pigs’ headquarters, so I had time to read it, glance at it, summarise it before I hit their stall.

Just try to see in the dark
Just try to make it work
To feel the fear before you’re here
I make the shapes come much too close
I pull my eyes out
Hold my breath
And wait until i shake

So, the usual conspiracy stuff that has been doing the rounds for years now. Most of which is disprovable, and they are repeating what they have read on the intertubes. But regardless, how could anyone pass up the opportunity to test their kookiness? I couldn’t. At least for ten minutes before getting bored. I really should have brought Amahlia with me. I should do so tomorrow.

All very nice cleancut middle class boys. Earnest-looking CompSci grads, I would say. When one attempted to hand me another leaflet, I mentioned I had one, and if he minded me asking a few questions. Was he taken aback! Man, I made his day. Alas, there weren’t any raven-haired, alabaster-skinned, doe-eyed chicks for me to quiz. Shame, but I am aware of where they eyes are, I don’t need to be told that. Nice boots, though.

Yeah yeah, says me, all very well, I know all that stuff. But there is no mention of the instructions from המוסד למודיעין ולתפקידים מיוחדים‎ to make sure all Jewish types (‘cause they are all one hive mind, and in constant contact, dontchaknow) were out of the Twin Towers. Nor were they aware of the Pentagon plane stuff. So whomever is telling them their lies was doing an oddball selective job of it. I couldn’t understand why, and probing them was useless, they were mere vessels parroting some weirdo party line. To that end, it was no fun, really. They learned more than I did. Entertaining nutjobs always make my day, but they were dullards. Maybe there will be a better selection next time I pass.

But if i had your faith
Then i could make it safe and clean
If only i was sure
That my head on the door was a dream

But rewind a few years, more than that, but still to do with leaflets. However, in this case, I wasn’t given one, whereas others around me were getting them. this intrigued me. Did I look like I was avoiding taking one? It was a desk, or more precisely a wallpapering tressle table, you know, the flimsy ones you get in B&Q, with books, flyers and more on top. I like to take badges and stickers, but there didn’t seem to be any. Regardless, I wasn’t being given a leaflet, no matter how obtrusively I hung back fishing for one. Quelle bizarre! Usually these types are desperate to thrust their output down your throat. And into the next bin.

It was hard for me to make it more obvious, so there was only one course of action left to me, I would have to explicitly ask for some of their literature. What is the world coming to when the mentalists don’t want to engage?

I’ve waited hours for this
I’ve made myself so sick
I wish i’d stayed asleep today
I never thought that this day would end
I never thought that tonight could ever be
This close to me

Not good. To start with, they wouldn’t look me in the eye. At the point at which I got their attention, things started to go wrong. Very wrong. Firstly, there was the aggressive look in their eyes. Their eyes which where head and shoulders above mine. No. They said. You should move along, there is nothing for you here. Go. Hmm, whyso? What is wrong with me? Easy, they said, or rather, snarled. You are the problem. Really? Do your pamphlets say that? Can I see? Two more of their fellows sidled in from the crowds, in behind them, providing more than moral support. Four against me, that would never end well. These days I might take those odds, but not then. Actually, looking at them, remembering them, I wouldn’t even take those odds these days. I would be able to run faster away, though.

You ain’t our brother, you are the problem. Leave us now, leave. Go. Allah be merciful on you, as we won’t. Now I seem to be getting it. You think I am some cultural imperialist out to diss the brutha. You speak more and we will hurt you. It isn’t just us, it is our Moslem brothers everywhere. But can’t I be one? You presume an awful lot. السلام عليكم says me, and turns away. Hey! Jew-lover! We will own your country, you wait and see. Truth is on our side. Of course, I could sense this was all going ugly, so with my back turned they couldn’t see my eyes rolling.

The Nation of Islam welcomes careful drivers. But no honkeys who know one phrase of Arabic.

But if i had your face
I could make it safe and clean
If only i was sure
That my head on the door
Was a dream

I do know someone who does (Reminds me of an old webcomic)

“Long long long ago when you were a toaster I was a confused 20 something who read your blog and one day was found by you and you made a comment on my blog entries every so often and made me feel loved by someone who didn’t have to love me because they weren’t related to me. I never said Thank you for that, so Thank you for that.”

Which, gentle reader, you have no idea how much that made me glow inside. Enough that I thought I should record it here. As one of the other original reasons for here was to act as an extended memory for me. (The other reason? That I should develop my writing, that I should attempt different forms of writing, that I should improve. I think I settled into writing in the way I speak, and if you have ever spoken to me in one of the contexts of my life, then you may recognise that. If you exist in certain other contexts, then I am rather prone to not speaking much at all.)

But what of those other contexts? This has, when I have neglected to honour them, caused confusion amongst some people, and even jealousy in that I don’t act the same with them as I do others. But context is everything. As is history, philosophy, situation and the people. People and context. With some, I can have conversations that move at the speed of light, with leaps and gaps not needing to be filled in, as the agile minds dance over the topological truths and head to new areas of discussion. But try this with others, and you get blank responses, and worse, disdain and contempt. Or the belief that I can’t speak on certain subjects, as how could I ever know anything of them? I am way smarter than people think I am, but nowhere near as clever as I think I am.

Now, back when I was a toaster, and may yet return there, as evidently I was a better person then, was indeed a while ago. I can also recall somewhat of her confusion, if not precisely what I said (oh, that is a lie, I do so remember, some of it at least). Time defeats me, as I have pointed out before, but I can recall. However, none of that is going to be retold. I think that something over the years (time and life, I would say) has moved me somewhat away from that. Oh, I still am receptive and responsive, but I pick and choose the times, and places, for them more carefully.

Those contacts I have made over the years via the medium of weblogging have been interesting. There are those I still know, follow, comment (now and again) but still read. There are others who came and went, never to darken my doors again. Some I have even met in real life, believe it or no, some even multiple times, and I will no doubt meet them again. There are a few I would also like to, but that is a different issue. My circle never grew overly big, shrunk somewhat, but there is a core of fellows I just adore.

Then Cassandra pointed out that it isn’t just for me that I should maintain a social network presence, it is for others. That doesn’t overly work in my head, as it isn’t about other people. She says I am not that good at keeping in touch with people, so this helps. Them and me. But if it bores me, why should I? Maybe I need to ground myself in the intricacies of life again, with the minutae of the mundane. Maybe I do read the wrong books. But I doubt I will stop.

None of that is what I meant to say in this post. None of that conveys anything other than I should really think before I type. None of that adds value to the chamber, echo or not.

All that, all that about me, aside, going back to the original note I received that prompted this post. Those we touch, regardless of how we do it, has a consequence. And to have some words of mine remembered after a period of time, to have such a wonderous sentiment thrown towards me, can’t do anything other than humble. And for them to have remembered this, and found me after this time, well. And then to remind me of what there is, what there isn’t, and look to the sky once more.

So, no, actually, thank you for that.

Why don’t you know by now?