I haven't planned a post as such, but as I've put down 'writing a blog' on one of my sixth form application forms, I'd better keep this business up. This post will, ideally meander. It will, realistically, be rubbish. Apparently my blog is quite literally unfollowable. I will try and remedy this as soon as possible.
It's become very apparent that many of the most normal processes I experience are more interesting than I initially think. Take farming and planting. As an ancient species, how did the concept of burying the remains of food to make more of it come about? Especially considering food was pretty short, and foragers had to be frugal with their gatherings. Obviously the sensible explanation is that tribes of people just threw their waste onto the ground, and the seeds in that waste planted themselves and sprouted in due course, which the tribe then understood and replicated, but I am a reader and prefer a little less mundane theory. I like to assume that all successful civilisations that developed farming had an early religion which featured a belief in natural rebirth, the life cycle - returning life to the ground from whence it came. This would have involved plants, and so seeds were buried, starting life - the cultivation of said seeds was a later development. This could also have been the beginning of the culture of burying the dead - present in pretty much every civilisation on earth. It's really odd to think that perhaps early religion/belief basically boiled down to PUT THAT BACK WHERE IT CAME FROM, RIGHT NOW, OR YOU ARE GROUNDED (pun unintended).
Another example of a deceptively normal process is one I carried out earlier this morning. I took a small ceramic pot, and into it I put crushed seeds from a tropical plant. I let these crushed seeds mix with scalding water, until a dark infusion was prepared. To this most mysterious of potions, I added the breast milk of a grazing sow. The devilish concoction complete, I let it slip down my throat, and soon the ungodly effects begin to occur - I felt liquid energy course through my veins, radiating me from head to toe - the warmth of the liquid seemingly transferring itself to my organs in a heartbeat. My senses were sharper - I was more awake, more alert, more alive. I had, in my alchemist's den, created the most coveted prize in all black magic - the elixir of pure, unadulterated life.
In other words, I made a cup of instant coffee.
(I just know someone will be itching to chide me for my referral to coffee granules as seeds when they are in fact crushed beans, but do remember that though I have a penchant for semantics, I have an unrivalled apathy for biology. I went to see Ben Miller discuss his new book on Saturday, and my favourite quote was that he felt that secondary school biology was "just naming things".)
On one last note, I would urge you all to start watching the US comedy series Community, even if like me you can only do this online. It's the most creative, funny, surreal series I have ever watched, and it's brilliant. What other sitcom can pull off a clip show, but with fake clips of episodes that never happened?
Tuesday, 30 October 2012
Wednesday, 24 October 2012
Boxes, Bitchiness, and Being Yourself
There is a reason you should let theoretical physicists buy you birthday presents, because whatever box they give you, the contents will not be disappointing.
Think about it. In biology, what could be in a box? A plant. Possibly a skull. In the philosophical end of physics and maths, what could be in a box? Dead/Alive cats! Anti-entropy caused by a small demon with a lever! Infinity! A new dimension! Your future self! A menagerie of impossibility. I wasn't kidding, by the way, about the little Lucifer with a taste for categorisation - look up "Maxwell's Demon".
On another topic entirely, whoever came up with the frankly bizarre idea that being oneself was in any way a good philosophy? Being yourself is boring. Being yourself allows no form of healthy escapism. I'm acting now, in writing in a confident and self-assured manner, and frankly it's one of the best feelings there is. Artifice and make-believe are in no way weaknesses. To live in a world where actors are idolised but being 'fake' is frowned upon is contradictory and incredibly confusing. Surprisingly changing a part of yourself and putting on a mask is not a way of giving in to others. It's about self-empowerment, doing something for your own self-esteem - and while we're at it, you can write that down as my argument for make-up and 'sluttish' clothing. Oh, and I should mention that in my experience the people who most commonly use the "I'm just being myself/keeping it real" are the most obnoxious. If you have a flaw, or an issue with yourself, DON'T accept it. Try to change it, and if you can't, THEN accept it. End of lecture.
On the subject of 'keeping it real', I think this is a trait that perfectly pairs itself with sniping and gossip. I long for the sweet taste of repression, for a society where people have negative opinions and don't voice them. Insulting someone seems to have become a slightly sinful indulgence to share with friends - a cold desert in the truest sense of the phrase. A bitchy blancmange. Une glace glaciale. The inherent stoicism of the British is probably incredibly unhealthy, but by God it's OURS. Keep it that way.
Think about it. In biology, what could be in a box? A plant. Possibly a skull. In the philosophical end of physics and maths, what could be in a box? Dead/Alive cats! Anti-entropy caused by a small demon with a lever! Infinity! A new dimension! Your future self! A menagerie of impossibility. I wasn't kidding, by the way, about the little Lucifer with a taste for categorisation - look up "Maxwell's Demon".
On another topic entirely, whoever came up with the frankly bizarre idea that being oneself was in any way a good philosophy? Being yourself is boring. Being yourself allows no form of healthy escapism. I'm acting now, in writing in a confident and self-assured manner, and frankly it's one of the best feelings there is. Artifice and make-believe are in no way weaknesses. To live in a world where actors are idolised but being 'fake' is frowned upon is contradictory and incredibly confusing. Surprisingly changing a part of yourself and putting on a mask is not a way of giving in to others. It's about self-empowerment, doing something for your own self-esteem - and while we're at it, you can write that down as my argument for make-up and 'sluttish' clothing. Oh, and I should mention that in my experience the people who most commonly use the "I'm just being myself/keeping it real" are the most obnoxious. If you have a flaw, or an issue with yourself, DON'T accept it. Try to change it, and if you can't, THEN accept it. End of lecture.
On the subject of 'keeping it real', I think this is a trait that perfectly pairs itself with sniping and gossip. I long for the sweet taste of repression, for a society where people have negative opinions and don't voice them. Insulting someone seems to have become a slightly sinful indulgence to share with friends - a cold desert in the truest sense of the phrase. A bitchy blancmange. Une glace glaciale. The inherent stoicism of the British is probably incredibly unhealthy, but by God it's OURS. Keep it that way.
Sunday, 21 October 2012
Trees
Today we went for a walk. I rooted around the garage for my hiking boots, and found that after my Confido adventures, they are now so filthy they have become fossils. The laces had such a thick crust of mud that tying them was like trying to fold uncooked tagliatelle. Nevertheless, I did manage to secure them.
On our travels, we came across a huge walled garden, hidden in among a forest, with no manor house to accompany it. It was quite eerie, if I'm honest - it seemed very much at odds with the landscape, a strictly square area sparsely filled with a few symmetrically planted trees and some trimmed bushes, in amongst an untamed, thriving, colourful Eden. I've never been a fan of the gardens that so often surround huge houses - they're too formal, too empty, to large. Too open, especially. A garden is quite a personal thing, and in my mind the best gardens are small, covered in trees, with endless secret alcoves and hidden seats, flowing streams and nymph-like statues concealed by the yew trees.
Yew trees are wonderful. Prized by the Celtic druids for healing properties, and yet seen as the wood of death. They seem to encapsulate their environment - the branches and leaves positively drip down, silky and flowing and supernatural. Moving on.
Walking through woodland in autumn is always quite beautiful. I've never been a fan of nature in spring (lambs and daffodils are so saccharine) or in summer (the air is hot and sluggish, yet there is so much liveliness among the insects), but in autumn and winter it's quite a magical set of surroundings. The overwhelming green is swept away to be replaced by a silent forest fire of oranges and reds. Thick, suffocating foliage drops to reveal the more stoic but infinitely more interesting sight of gnarled trunk and twisted roots. There is an earthy smell that feels more natural than that of any blossom.
One of the most brilliant things I've ever seen in nature was when I was walking in another wood nearby a few months ago; it was on the side of a steep hill, and was quite dense. Due to this, sunlight only came from one direction, where it shined on the side of the hill. This caused quite an astounding effect of all the trees' branches facing away from the hill - reaching out for sunlight desperately. An quite gothic anthropomorphic twist. Made a little darker by the winter months, as there were no leaves. The branches curled like hands.
Our route back took us through the graveyard of our local church. We stopped to have a look at the graves. Each one was individually fascinating - the date, the name, the font. There were a few that dated back to the mid 1700s, which all started with the words "Here lieth". My Dad found one that detailed the difference between those times and now most effectively - it described the resting place of a man from Yorkshire, who as such was known as a 'traveller'.
Being in Scouts such a long time, it occurred to me that I've spent quite a good deal of my childhood playing here, hiding amongst the dead men, careless fingers grabbing onto solemn stone. Even now, standing there evokes a sense of either muted sadness or peace, I can't work out which. They're often interlinked, I suppose. In the wise words of a woman who isn't real, "Sad is happy for deep people." Today's been a nice, peaceful day. I hope you have many of these for yourself over the years.
On our travels, we came across a huge walled garden, hidden in among a forest, with no manor house to accompany it. It was quite eerie, if I'm honest - it seemed very much at odds with the landscape, a strictly square area sparsely filled with a few symmetrically planted trees and some trimmed bushes, in amongst an untamed, thriving, colourful Eden. I've never been a fan of the gardens that so often surround huge houses - they're too formal, too empty, to large. Too open, especially. A garden is quite a personal thing, and in my mind the best gardens are small, covered in trees, with endless secret alcoves and hidden seats, flowing streams and nymph-like statues concealed by the yew trees.
Yew trees are wonderful. Prized by the Celtic druids for healing properties, and yet seen as the wood of death. They seem to encapsulate their environment - the branches and leaves positively drip down, silky and flowing and supernatural. Moving on.
Walking through woodland in autumn is always quite beautiful. I've never been a fan of nature in spring (lambs and daffodils are so saccharine) or in summer (the air is hot and sluggish, yet there is so much liveliness among the insects), but in autumn and winter it's quite a magical set of surroundings. The overwhelming green is swept away to be replaced by a silent forest fire of oranges and reds. Thick, suffocating foliage drops to reveal the more stoic but infinitely more interesting sight of gnarled trunk and twisted roots. There is an earthy smell that feels more natural than that of any blossom.
One of the most brilliant things I've ever seen in nature was when I was walking in another wood nearby a few months ago; it was on the side of a steep hill, and was quite dense. Due to this, sunlight only came from one direction, where it shined on the side of the hill. This caused quite an astounding effect of all the trees' branches facing away from the hill - reaching out for sunlight desperately. An quite gothic anthropomorphic twist. Made a little darker by the winter months, as there were no leaves. The branches curled like hands.
Our route back took us through the graveyard of our local church. We stopped to have a look at the graves. Each one was individually fascinating - the date, the name, the font. There were a few that dated back to the mid 1700s, which all started with the words "Here lieth". My Dad found one that detailed the difference between those times and now most effectively - it described the resting place of a man from Yorkshire, who as such was known as a 'traveller'.
Being in Scouts such a long time, it occurred to me that I've spent quite a good deal of my childhood playing here, hiding amongst the dead men, careless fingers grabbing onto solemn stone. Even now, standing there evokes a sense of either muted sadness or peace, I can't work out which. They're often interlinked, I suppose. In the wise words of a woman who isn't real, "Sad is happy for deep people." Today's been a nice, peaceful day. I hope you have many of these for yourself over the years.
Saturday, 20 October 2012
Non-Linear
- You, if you follow the timeline of reading, i.e from top to bottom, will see my timeline of writing, i.e. dotted about, very confusing.
- By that I mean that I am writing this in a correct narrative order, in which the whole post is understandable.
- Truthfully, though, this post was just designed because I'm pretentious.
- In actual fact, I am starting new bullet points above, below, close, and far from the one I am finishing.
- So while the point of the paragraph is instantly recognisable to me, for you it takes some time.
- Contrastingly, from my point of view from my writing timeline, your reading timeline, i.e. the top to bottom flow, is the thing that is confused and dotted about.
- Frankly, the whole thing is so messed up I could hide a huge secret in the middle and nobody would notice.
- Nevertheless, I suppose you could argue that this shows the relativity of time, if we say that that reading/writing is like time-travelling.
- Pretentiousness feeds on people being confused and annoyed by you. My aim has been achieved, then. Goodnight.
- Questioning your sanity? The order is OBHISFANYCMTP.
- Another point to make is that this blog post has no real significance, or overlying point, it's just that your frustration amuses me. Ahahaha.
- However, while I am writing this in order, I am not finishing a point and starting the next bullet point below it.
- One thing that Jacob's post 'Tuesday' has pointed out to me is the interesting idea of linear writing.
- Mess is relative. Mess could be seen as order, if order is seen as mess.
A non-linear text post.
Thursday, 18 October 2012
Armoured Farmers
Prepare to readdress all your preconceptions, because I've got a conundrum for you: why has there never been a single instance of archery in The Archers?
This is a query that has been doggedly burdening me for the last 4 minutes, possibly because I'm a Sagittarius and I assume that means we're all obsessed with archery. No doubt because Saturn is going into a menopausal state and bisecting the motet of Orion's orbit, or whatever the astrological terminology is.
Obviously my dream scenario would be if the titular Archers were not a family but an elite vigilante justice team, a bit like the Avengers but where everybody is Hawkeye, and all the villains are horses or fête saboteurs. But having secured an interview with the BBC, I was reminded that the radio serial has been in existence for 60 years and that changing the fundamental premise now might cause continuity errors.
Even so, you'd think one of the writers would have come up with it as a gimmick, but no such luck. Perhaps it would be too ironic. We need a spin-off series, maybe The Archers: Ultimatum, where members of the family in question roam Ambridge with murderous intent, killing invariably tired men and invariably posh women with extreme prejudice. Tea-rooms are set alight, token Scottish characters say token Scottish phrases, and middle-aged uncles stop worrying about the financial problems they're facing and realise it's probably because they own a farm in the credit crunch - and then proceed to run for their lives. Meanwhile, down at one of 19 local pubs (you either own a pub or a farm in Ambridge), a previously mistrusted immigrant worker is redeemed in the eyes of the local gossips as he rescues Clare Balding from the falling rafters. Clare Balding, of course, is there because she's a mildly posh older woman and it's a career requirement; the storyline instead explains she's there to judge a cake competition, or because she heard the local horses beckoning to her in her sleep. The episode ends with the screams of the dying, but just to keep up the tradition, they are just background noise to a mother coming to the realisation that it was her son that drove the satanic dagger into the vegetable fair's prize parsnip. The theme tune plays. Well. A dubstep remix, in any case.
The only explanation I can offer for my slow descent into gleeful megalomania is that I haven't actually spent an entire morning in my house for over three weeks. Let it be of some comfort to you that I shall end these dark days on Saturday. Amen.
This is a query that has been doggedly burdening me for the last 4 minutes, possibly because I'm a Sagittarius and I assume that means we're all obsessed with archery. No doubt because Saturn is going into a menopausal state and bisecting the motet of Orion's orbit, or whatever the astrological terminology is.
Obviously my dream scenario would be if the titular Archers were not a family but an elite vigilante justice team, a bit like the Avengers but where everybody is Hawkeye, and all the villains are horses or fête saboteurs. But having secured an interview with the BBC, I was reminded that the radio serial has been in existence for 60 years and that changing the fundamental premise now might cause continuity errors.
Even so, you'd think one of the writers would have come up with it as a gimmick, but no such luck. Perhaps it would be too ironic. We need a spin-off series, maybe The Archers: Ultimatum, where members of the family in question roam Ambridge with murderous intent, killing invariably tired men and invariably posh women with extreme prejudice. Tea-rooms are set alight, token Scottish characters say token Scottish phrases, and middle-aged uncles stop worrying about the financial problems they're facing and realise it's probably because they own a farm in the credit crunch - and then proceed to run for their lives. Meanwhile, down at one of 19 local pubs (you either own a pub or a farm in Ambridge), a previously mistrusted immigrant worker is redeemed in the eyes of the local gossips as he rescues Clare Balding from the falling rafters. Clare Balding, of course, is there because she's a mildly posh older woman and it's a career requirement; the storyline instead explains she's there to judge a cake competition, or because she heard the local horses beckoning to her in her sleep. The episode ends with the screams of the dying, but just to keep up the tradition, they are just background noise to a mother coming to the realisation that it was her son that drove the satanic dagger into the vegetable fair's prize parsnip. The theme tune plays. Well. A dubstep remix, in any case.
The only explanation I can offer for my slow descent into gleeful megalomania is that I haven't actually spent an entire morning in my house for over three weeks. Let it be of some comfort to you that I shall end these dark days on Saturday. Amen.
Wednesday, 17 October 2012
Using a complex system of mirrors to stare at myself lying on a long couch.
It's going to be another confession, I'm afraid.
One of the things that annoys me, and I mean REALLY annoys me, I mean BILE HAS GAINED SENTIENCE annoys me, is when people, when you're having a conversation, decide to claim it for their own subject by sticking a big metaphorical flag in it.
Another variation is when you are recounting an event to somebody, and before you've even finished they change the subject. I don't mean 'decide to take the scenic route with the subject'. I mean 'drive the subject into a lake, kidnap the passengers and take them to a completely different subject, perhaps in this analogy in the guise of a light aircraft'.
Two people I know do these two things a lot, one a friend and the other a family member, and it drives me up the wall. I know it's only to gain some attention, and as such I should be supportive and let them talk, so they might gain some confidence. And yet, my inner git triumphs.
So why do I feel these spasm of rage when people do this? It's no normal annoyance. I get annoyed by the narrative inconsistencies in Olly Murs' song Accidental, but I (for the most part) stay calm about it. This is different.
Let's apply some motherf***ing Freudian theory to this issue. (If you understood how apt that adjective was, you can stay and have chocolate fondants) If you react with violent, bordering on physical dislike for a certain thing, it is most likely to do with a traumatic experience involving that thing that you are trying to repress.
While they weren't exactly traumatic, we can apply this theory to the fact I continually try to repress all memories of Years 7 to 9. During this, I exhibited the despised feature we're currently looking at, and many more odious personality traits. Anything that reminds me of this, therefore, threatens to bring it back, along with a side-order of embarrassment chips and guilt gravy. I meet these stimuli, thus, with over-exaggerated aggression. Simple.
This, by the way, is what happens when you pair teenage angst with basic knowledge of psychological principles. Self-analysis to the point of compulsion. Ah, to be a self-unaware mathematical thinker.
(I should point out that Freud, whilst certainly the most famous brainy dude, is by no means the most respected in the psychology world. Take everything he says with a penis of salt. PINCH! I mean pinch!)
Finally, this is for Jacob. Till the next time, goodbye.
One of the things that annoys me, and I mean REALLY annoys me, I mean BILE HAS GAINED SENTIENCE annoys me, is when people, when you're having a conversation, decide to claim it for their own subject by sticking a big metaphorical flag in it.
Another variation is when you are recounting an event to somebody, and before you've even finished they change the subject. I don't mean 'decide to take the scenic route with the subject'. I mean 'drive the subject into a lake, kidnap the passengers and take them to a completely different subject, perhaps in this analogy in the guise of a light aircraft'.
Two people I know do these two things a lot, one a friend and the other a family member, and it drives me up the wall. I know it's only to gain some attention, and as such I should be supportive and let them talk, so they might gain some confidence. And yet, my inner git triumphs.
So why do I feel these spasm of rage when people do this? It's no normal annoyance. I get annoyed by the narrative inconsistencies in Olly Murs' song Accidental, but I (for the most part) stay calm about it. This is different.
Let's apply some motherf***ing Freudian theory to this issue. (If you understood how apt that adjective was, you can stay and have chocolate fondants) If you react with violent, bordering on physical dislike for a certain thing, it is most likely to do with a traumatic experience involving that thing that you are trying to repress.
While they weren't exactly traumatic, we can apply this theory to the fact I continually try to repress all memories of Years 7 to 9. During this, I exhibited the despised feature we're currently looking at, and many more odious personality traits. Anything that reminds me of this, therefore, threatens to bring it back, along with a side-order of embarrassment chips and guilt gravy. I meet these stimuli, thus, with over-exaggerated aggression. Simple.
This, by the way, is what happens when you pair teenage angst with basic knowledge of psychological principles. Self-analysis to the point of compulsion. Ah, to be a self-unaware mathematical thinker.
(I should point out that Freud, whilst certainly the most famous brainy dude, is by no means the most respected in the psychology world. Take everything he says with a penis of salt. PINCH! I mean pinch!)
Finally, this is for Jacob. Till the next time, goodbye.
Tuesday, 16 October 2012
The Integrity of Noise
I think there is an interesting mindset, held by those in periods of extreme sadness or depression, that happiness is actually something to be avoided By this I mean that when I talk to people who are sad, they invariably say that the happy side of them in public is fake and brash and awful, whereas the quiet and perhaps more miserable side is their true self and good.
The truth, of course, is that you don't have to be quiet or reflective or sad to be wise and insightful and true. Comedy and jokes often say more than poetry. Loudness and energy and joy for life is perhaps more honest than teary introspection. Singing Mr Brightside until your lungs feel sandpapered is a better option than getting into a philosophical headlock while sobbing into some cold chicken jalfrezi.
Loud, brashy humour is a facet, not a façade, to put it rather bluntly.
The truth, of course, is that you don't have to be quiet or reflective or sad to be wise and insightful and true. Comedy and jokes often say more than poetry. Loudness and energy and joy for life is perhaps more honest than teary introspection. Singing Mr Brightside until your lungs feel sandpapered is a better option than getting into a philosophical headlock while sobbing into some cold chicken jalfrezi.
Loud, brashy humour is a facet, not a façade, to put it rather bluntly.
Monday, 15 October 2012
Confido? Es Divertido*
I think the surrealist moment of the weekend was when I looked around me and saw that a privately educated taekwondo-lover, a mild-mannered maths genius, and me, all as port-out-starboard-home as aristocracy**, were all in what I can only describe as a moshpit. And nobody cared.
I should say, this wasn't your average moshpit***. For one, we were all dressed as zombies. Secondly, the tunes that instigated said moshing weren't just the products of Messrs Rida and Basshunter, but also the YMCA and the Hokey Cokey. Finally, we weren't at a gig - we were at Confido, a Scout and Explorer camp with nearly 1100 attendees.
I won't bore you with the details, but I had a great time. I tried off-road segways, Europe's longest mobile zipwire, archery, stand-on-a-podium-facing-an-opponent-on-his-and-try-to-bash-him-off-with-a-stick, and Scare Valley, a forest walk complete with dry ice, strobe lighting, netting, and about 50 zombies. All in all it was fun.
I also managed to 'pass the initiation test', as it were, with a group of people after I managed to sneak back into the queue to get a second cookie for somebody who was climbing at the time. I mention this only because I enjoy the irony of using my inconspicuousness to gain attention.
I came back to a family crisis of sorts, and a good friend who needed comforting, but I had a lovely time and I think it serves as a reminder to those people for whom the word Scout is instantly paired with the words Bob a Job. Not to mention that although I feel more free to be myself when I'm around my school friends, it was some lovely escapism, and a good way to counteract the mostly awful time I had the weekend before, on another camp.
I shall leave this post with a conclusion like a blunt pencil.
*"Confido? It's fun."
**I should mention I'm not actually upper-class, but I do have quite a posh accent, and I'm at the age where the lines between self-deprecation and violent self-dislike are distinctly blurred.
***Or maybe it was. I'm not really up on the whole moshing scene.****
****My habit of using far too many asterisks comes from my friend Jacob: asiiml.blogspot.co.uk. And also from Philip Ardagh.
I should say, this wasn't your average moshpit***. For one, we were all dressed as zombies. Secondly, the tunes that instigated said moshing weren't just the products of Messrs Rida and Basshunter, but also the YMCA and the Hokey Cokey. Finally, we weren't at a gig - we were at Confido, a Scout and Explorer camp with nearly 1100 attendees.
I won't bore you with the details, but I had a great time. I tried off-road segways, Europe's longest mobile zipwire, archery, stand-on-a-podium-facing-an-opponent-on-his-and-try-to-bash-him-off-with-a-stick, and Scare Valley, a forest walk complete with dry ice, strobe lighting, netting, and about 50 zombies. All in all it was fun.
I also managed to 'pass the initiation test', as it were, with a group of people after I managed to sneak back into the queue to get a second cookie for somebody who was climbing at the time. I mention this only because I enjoy the irony of using my inconspicuousness to gain attention.
I came back to a family crisis of sorts, and a good friend who needed comforting, but I had a lovely time and I think it serves as a reminder to those people for whom the word Scout is instantly paired with the words Bob a Job. Not to mention that although I feel more free to be myself when I'm around my school friends, it was some lovely escapism, and a good way to counteract the mostly awful time I had the weekend before, on another camp.
I shall leave this post with a conclusion like a blunt pencil.
*"Confido? It's fun."
**I should mention I'm not actually upper-class, but I do have quite a posh accent, and I'm at the age where the lines between self-deprecation and violent self-dislike are distinctly blurred.
***Or maybe it was. I'm not really up on the whole moshing scene.****
****My habit of using far too many asterisks comes from my friend Jacob: asiiml.blogspot.co.uk. And also from Philip Ardagh.
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