The Grand Finale - ?

Have been thinking about this one for a while now, and have finally reached a decision. I think it is time to end RantingJane, and indeed all interaction I have with the Blogging World generally. I started this at a point when everything was very undecided as regards my future and felt like attaching myself to a new version of 'reality' for a while - the blog has had the added bonus that I've been able to keep in touch with people without the need for those ghastly group emails. I considered the suggestion of a 'blogliday' ['Hovis', you created an awesome word today] but no, I need to make a clean break.

So there we go. HOWEVER... I will allow my readers to decide the fate of RantingJane. If I receive enough comments or emails that suggest you actually read the damn thing and it brightens up the occasional seriously dull day, I'll consider popping back from time to time for the odd rant.

To end, I thought I'd mention a few things that I've been thinking about recently, or have observed generally.
- did you know lemon trees had thorns? Well, dammit, they do. Cursedly painful ones they are as well. Ow.
- the other day, I saw somebody wearing what is essentially a tanktop with a hood. Who the hell designed this? Why? Was it a joke that was taken seriously?
- compulsory reading for everyone should include: 'Fear of Freedom' by Fromm, 'Super-Cannes' by J G Ballard, 'Lady Chatterley's Lover' by D H Lawrence, 'Journey by Moonlight' by Antal Szerb, and, of course, 'Hamlet' by - and if you don't know you should really just go and kill yourself now, you are worthless - Shakespeare. And when I say 'read', I mean read. Not this passive skimming of words that so many have replaced reading with. Read, understand, appreciate, learn, change.
- why do I eat so much chocolate when it always makes me ill?
- in the immortal words of Yosser Hughes, 'gi'us a job'.

Well - thank you all for reading. Hopefully this has offered a flicker of amusement on occasion. If any of you ever feel in need of a good rant, I'm available for personal visits and will complain about any subject you name - in exchange for a few shots of vodka and a Snickers. What a bargain.

Cold Feet

I spent some time - too much time - this afternoon ambling around the internet, following links from this to that, and somehow stumbled across the following information. In the UK, the average age of a female marrying (for the first time) is 28years. And a frankly staggering 30% of those are under the age of 25. An article in the New York Times identified - I think aimed at women - how to become a family of three (i.e. husband and whippersnapper) in a mere two years. Which does at least suggest it is possible for someone as unutterably single as myself to target and obtain appropriate bloke before I hit that 'average' age (and how tedious to be part of the 'average', I feel...). Mind you, I couldn't be bothered to read the article in detail enough to establish whether the pointers were directed specifically toward New Yorkers.

I also read somewhere or other about how some chick is fed up with her male friends being married off. Dammit, I agree wholeheartedly on that front. In the last two years, I have 'lost' three good friends in this way (and according to statistics on men and average marrying age, I don't think that should be happening just yet). And frankly, I may as well write-off to some degree the guys who I used to hang out with who are now in 'committed' (a word that makes half the world cringe as they read it) relationships. (Good God, this post is getting an awful lot of brackets in it. Ah well).

One of my female friends has recently gotten so tired of bashing her head against a brick wall that she has opted for one of these dating websites. Have yet to make a firm decision one way or the other about these, but generally, I think I'd go bright red for the rest of eternity if I had to answer the question, 'so, how did you guys meet then?' by saying, 'um, yeah, online.' It is depressing. [Disclaimer at this point: these are views pertaining to ME personally, before one reader in particular goes and gets offended, i.e. friend who recently signed up to the dating site]. To me, it is an admission that I'm so socially inept and so utterly hidden away from the rest of the world that the only place I can meet people is on a virtual plane. Furthermore, it is an admission that I am so cursedly unattractive that I couldn't even get a guy by luring him in that way. There are no two ways about it: the unattractive people of the world have twice as much work to do as the attractive ones. And frankly, getting to the point where I have to meet people online is the equivalent of saying I'm so ghastly that nobody can bear speak to me except via a series of pixels.

The world of the singleton is gradually becoming a less appealing place to be in. The longer you are at this stage, the less likely you are to find someone who is classifiable as a 'catch' (either by your definition or anybody else's), because people are constantly going over to The Other Side. It used to be great: I had guaranteed 'thump monkeys'; people around to proffer hugs when necessary; guys to go places with when you needed a guy. Now, they're all depressingly unavailable - off leading other lives with other people. Occasionally, it crosses my mind to head back to Argentina - but even my 'friends' out there are busy pairing off. My God, before I know it, I'm going to be one of those women who hangs around in bars wearing way too much lipstick and leering at every man in sight. Or even worse, getting battered out of my brains and informing complete strangers that, wow, I love them! yes! really! Hmm.

See, for example, my feet have been numb all day. We're talking ten hours of not being able to feel my feet. I have on three pairs of socks, and they are sandwiched in between two hot water bottles I'm regularly re-filling. Think I've fairly firmly established that I'm not getting my feet warm by myself. Where the hell is a guy when you need one.

On Global Travel

It is always exciting when you have a new trip abroad planned and you are busy working out the logistics. If you are fortunate enough to be travelling to a country that requires you obtain a visa in advance of entry, then the trip just starts a whole lot earlier as far as I am concerned. The Cuban embassy in London is a tiny, dirty office room (or at least, it was about three years ago when I went there), filled with smiling people who do their best to assist you with the absolutely useless machinery with which they have been provided. I seem to remember a guy 'popping next door' to use a photocopier at one point. And more recently, my chaotic trip to the Indian Embassy in London gave me another 'visa acquirement experience'. Despite arriving only an hour after the doors opened for Trading, the queues snaked throughout the building and out onto the streets. There wasn't any attempt at organisation, and it took four hours of sitting in a large, airless room crammed with people in brightly coloured clothes to get the relevant bits of paper in my passport. The people working there came across as intelligent and organised in their own right, merely battling against the poor equipment and technology they'd been provided with to run the service.
My point is: the embassy office is a part of the country to which you are headed. It offers you a 'sneak preview' as it were to a country. To eradicate all border controls or complex visa issues would be stripping a country of part of it's identity. The surly guards in all American airports - surely they are trained not to smile? - have asked me some of the most ridiculous questions related to my travels. ('You don't have enough luggage for three months, as a woman you would have more than that one bag for three months' being a particularly perceptive comment at Houston airport once). I've obviously never had to go through the application process myself for a visa to the UK, but I have an understanding of what it is like for Peruvians to get a visa. Close to impossible, is the best summary, and with a constant battle against paperwork and complete idiots in the offices. If that doesn't encapsulate a system that operates throughout the UK, I don't know what does.
Essentially, the embassy of a country is regarded as both a sneak preview and a trial. If you can't cope with the office, chances are you're pretty much doomed when you get to the country. I view it as a wonderful addition to my travel plans when I get to head towards a new embassy, and if you are travelling for the only right purpose - to discover and better understand a new culture - you will see it that way too. Furthermore, it is the height of insensitivity for a wealthy (in relative terms) traveller to another country to complain about the 'difficulties' encountered while trying to enter that place. Anyone blessed purely because of their location of birth with a European passport should be damn thankful and not complain about any hoops they are required to jump through in order to travel - at least the hoops are at acceptable, manageable heights. A Peruvian may as well try and get to the moon as America.
(In addition, to the person who this is obviously directed at: don't try and justify arguments when you have no data to back them up. A genuine 'Traveller' relishes the embassy prospect, rather than fights against it. I know. I've met enough).

Prancing On Ice

Which TV station was it that started this theme of repeating everything from Saturday night on Sunday afternoon? 'Dancing on Ice' took up something like three hours of ITV's schedule last night ('dancing' in loosest sense of the word, hence I have re-named it more appropriately), and some muppet has deemed it necessary to hurl this at the unsuspecting public again this afternoon. If they're going to resort to re-runs, I'd really rather it was something worth watching from yester-year, as opposed to yester-day.
My TV is invariably clogged up with celebrities trying out all manner of things - singing, dancing, ice-skating, losing weight, God knows what will be next. Alternatively, it is clogged up with people desperate to become the next celebrity, in the form of 'X Factor' like shows. ITV finally made it through the three months or whatever it is of this particular programme, and has now started bringing us 'American Idol', just incase we don't quite have our fix of People Singing Dreadfully. The whole thing is very tedious.
BBC World Service has a reason for having programmes repeated three times a day - three eight-hour blocks of Listening Pleasure are broadcast each day, with updated news seperating the items. Since this is a worldwide service, I understand the reasoning behind the repeats (for those of you not quite awake, it is so that a person listening in, say, Jamaica, doesn't miss out on programmes that someone listening in New Zealand could hear). Plus, the programmes are decent. I'm almost happy to hear some items twice.
Television, however, seems to have plummetted in terms of Viewing Quality. Not only are soaps far too prominent on all schedules, but so are these cursed reality shows. I have my fingers firmly crossed that Big Brother will be axed forever after the latest debacle. As someone observed to me recently, it is rather disturbing that anyone would want to watch an image of somebody else sleeping in the middle of the night...
My suggestion? Everyone refuse to pay their TV license until we get something decent being broadcast on our television sets. I want decent journalism - and that can be defined as journalism that doesn't necessitate showing us images of Saddam Hussein with a noose around his neck, for a start (a kid who saw that in America actually went and hanged himself from his bunkbed); FUNNY comedy (why is that so much to ask?), and watchable dramas. The last acceptable series the BBC produced was, 'Pride and Prejudice' (I mean, honestly, 'Tipping the Velvet' was just unwatchable and designed to shock rather than please), and frankly, I wish they would repeat that endlessly - particularly the Darcy Emerging From Lake scene - than hurl increasingly pathetic shows at us.
I wonder if I can be cautioned for 'inciting illegal activities' by my suggestion to withhold TV license fee? Who cares. If that happens, I'll sell my story to the 'News of the World', and maybe the ensuing drama would push television in the right direction. What a purpose to serve on this planet - improved TV Viewing for the masses. Ah well, everyone has their part to play...

Life, believe, is not a dream

Following on from yesterday's doomstruck post - which I contemplated removing and then decided, no, dammit, I'll leave it there (for reasons best left to your overactive imaginations) - I thought I'd throw a slightly more positive poem out towards the world. One of Charlotte Bronte's efforts - am undecided as to whether it is trite drivel, or actually a rather fine synopsis of a philosophy. Either way, I like it. Judge for yourselves. (By the by, for those tuning in for a good ol' rant, I promise one in the immediate future. Have much Rant Within to be dispersed somehow, and here is as good a place as any).

LIFE, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall?
Rapidly, merrily,
Life's sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily
Enjoy them as they fly!
What though Death at times steps in,
And calls our Best away?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O'er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet Hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair!

On the Brink

I feel today - as I so frequently feel - that I am perched on a ridge. I balance precariously on the ridge that seperates sanity from insanity - and I feel that I can look down and see either option available to me. From my standpoint, the world of the insane seems so peaceful, so much less exhausting than the manic, impossibly fast pace of the world that the sane inhabit. I dare not enter one, and I cannot enter the other. It is a perpetual purgatory: unknowing, inescapable, and isolating. Solace comes in finding others who know what it is to be perched on this ridge - I have spent my time in pursuit of such a person 'in the flesh', as it were, rather than hidden behind the words on the pages of my books. In all of his books, Thomas Hardy shows that he knew; in, 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol', Oscar Wilde shows that he knew. Sartre knew; Rimbaud knew; Emily Dickinson, Charlotte Bronte, Coleridge - they all knew.
To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wildflower:
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.
There - William Blake knew as well. But what is the use of all these dead people knowing and understanding? Of having shared my agonies? And no - that isn't too strong a word. Unless you know what it is like to be terrified of living in this world of other peoples' making, you aren't in a position to judge my terminology. Right now, I want so badly to give in to my version of sanity - the world's version of insanity. Why, for the sake of those around me, don't I? Living has become a constant battle, a submission, a suppression of myself.
Why am I writing this? Because I am at the point where I desperately need to find someone who understands. Not somebody who brushes this aside with the view that, 'everyone feels like that sometimes, yeah, you just, like, DEAL'. If just one person could say to me - okay, you view the world differently to me, and I cannot wholly understand your view, but neither will I invalidate it. That they accept this isn't some drawn-out teenage anxst; some cynical idealism; some image being created.
What is the purpose of my blog? I was asked that earlier today - pertinent question indeed. Frequently, to mock the world, to laugh at it, something that you find amusing cannot surely be as terrifying or inhospitable. Occasionally, through a poem I've chosen or an entry I've written, I've attempted to convey - perhaps unsuccessfully - that it is not cynicism that dictates my ideas. And today, I've tried to show you something else, another aspect. I know what any reader's reaction will be, with phrases such as 'attention-seeker', 'dramatist' and 'ego-trip' springing into minds globally as you have read this. Frankly, if you want to think that, you go for it. You're wrong. I've given you the option to understand and if you choose not to take it, then that says more about your relationship with the 'real world' than it does mine. In a few days, I'll produce another Rant about something - food packaging, game-playing, my perpetual computer-related torments - and everything, for you at least, will be Back To Normal. Consider yourselves lucky you can walk away from the brink this post directed you towards - because I don't have that option.

One cannot be deeply responsive to the world without being saddened very often. (Erich Fromm).

50 Ways to Look Good Naked

I am (unreliably) informed there was a TV programme airing recently with this rather instructional title. Fairly sure I saw a version of it a year ago or thereabouts, doubtless while avoiding some essay or other, and have decided in my moderately tipsy state to post my views on the subject. A brief reflection first of what I recall from the episode I saw - which involved finding a fairly hefty wench, convincing her by means of Scary Pants and vast quantities of make up that she really wasn't quite so hideous to behold after all, and taking a photo of her that notably excluded the lardier portions of her anatomy. This photo was then projected onto some London skyscraper or other, and men dragged off the street to inform the delighted lass that, 'yes, she looks good naked'. I think the gun in their back and the fifty quid being waved at them by the director probably had some influence. As a result of this TV programme, the UK is doubtless littered with men being terrified by their female friends lumbering around the bedroom in all too non-existent negligees, shaking their booty, and threatening all sorts of things involving whipped cream and handcuffs. Shudder.
Anyhow - here is my brief and highly effective guide to Lookin' Good Naked.
Men - you just can't. Although obviously being something of an admirer of the toned male physique, most rational females will agree with me when I say that a naked man is a thing of ridicule. Ways around the issue? Leave the boxers on (if you wear y-fronts, sorry, you are beyond help), or alternatively, whisk your other half into the shower where - unless your hair does something really dodgy when wet - you will potentially enter a God-like state. Glistening skin is a Good Thing. And waterfalls are better than showers, if available.
Women - through much trial and error, I have discovered how to take photos that leave out the bad parts and focus on the good parts. Cellulite an issue? Easy: just go to your photo editor programme on the computer, and click the 'chalk and charcoal' option, thus your photo is transformed into waves of shading that will disguise even the dimpliest of dimples. Furthermore, there's a fine line between looking Miserable and looking Sultry - a black and white option generally speaking adapts it appropriately, I find. (B&W also dramatically reduces the appearance of spots, by the by).
Unfortunately, sigh, all men can't go around with watering cans poised above their shirtless bodies, and all women can't present themselves as a black-and-white blurred photo. My only suggestion that bypasses the trials and tribulations of this harsh judgemental world in which we live: leave off seeing the other person in all their 'glory' for long enough for it really not to matter what the hell they look like to the rest of the world. There aren't any tricks or ploys that can be used to make you Look Good Naked - knowing that the person you have fallen for is tearing off your clothes not to ridicule but to learn you by heart should be indication enough that, frankly, you're Pretty Damn Fine.

On the Art of Conversation

I love overhearing snippets of conversation that exist almost entirely of cliches and colloquialisms - 'at the end of the day, when all is said and done, it is for the best.' The art of making language utterly meaningless. But wait, let me check the definition of 'conversation' as provided by the mighty dictionary.com: 'informal interchange of thoughts, information, etc., by spoken words; oral communication between persons; talk; colloquy.' I suppose I could argue that a chat littered with the likes of 'at the end of the day' is a chat that is not grounded in thought, and therefore I can make the statement that such conversations are not really conversations at all.
The dictionary seems pretty firm on the idea that a conversation only takes place when it is a form of 'oral communication'. What, then, is the definition for the exchange of words that takes place on any of the various instant messaging internet systems? All the times I have nattered away on the likes of MSN, that wasn't conversation?
If I could be bothered to google it, I could tell you what is the considered percentage for 'non-verbal communication' when having a face-to-face chat, but for now I'll just acknowledge its existence and furthermore its importance. Probably particularly true in reference to me - I'm apparently incapable of hiding my genuine reaction to anything said. But does the indisputable importance of this non-verbal communcation necessarily negate conversations that take place without it? Of course not. I cite blind people as an example there.
Blind people, however, obviously have the advantage of being able to hear the inflections in a voice that can reveal as much regarding the speaker's opinion as the words they are using. And deaf people have the benefit of being able to see expressions and emphasis that can be placed in the smooth or agitated movements of communicating hands.
I have an answer for everything - of course. So a blind and deaf person cannot have 'conversation'? Is that what you are thinking? I will refer to the most famous example - Helen Keller - in order to continue presenting my case. (And besides, it gives me the opportunity to throw in one of my favourite quotes here: 'The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt within the heart.') More relevant, however, is her point regarding literature, and I think it is safe for me to define literature here as 'the written word'. Keller said that, 'Literature is my Utopia. Here I am not disenfranchised. No barrier of the senses shuts me out from the sweet, gracious discourses of my book friends. They talk to me without embarrassment or awkwardness.'
On this basis, it is arguable that to be able to engage in a chat on instant messenger could be the epitome of conversation. I can discuss subjects with friends that I would feel awkward raising in a face-to-face situation; I can take time to form a response and delete and re-phrase as required; the merits are endless, in fact, and I wont list them all because if you haven't agreed with me so far then I can't see you starting now. The obvious disadvantage, of course, is that words can be misinterpreted - without the visual aid of the raised eyebrow and the slight smile, it is difficult to tell, unless you know a person particularly well, whether or not they are serious with their comments. Now that I think about it, instant messenger is probably ideal for an autistic person, as they are saved the potential awkwardness of not picking up on social and visual cues.
Right now, according to the dictionary.com definition, I'm not getting much 'conversation'. I'd have to argue otherwise. In the first case, I have my books - they present ideas to me, they alter my thoughts and emotions, they make me feel part of a world. And in the second case, thanks to MSN and Skype, I have interactive conversations. Sometimes I can talk about the fact I am eating toast dripping with butter; other times I can catch up with the gossip; maybe I'll discuss my views on using animals in medical experiments. Some are trivial exchanges; others are inspiring. I do know that a part of me is involved in all these conversations, that the words I type are in some way related to me and who I am. They will reflect one of my moods, my feelings at the time. Surely the Art of Conversation is the ability to include a part of yourself, and not merely to exchange the pleasantries society requires.
Maybe my obsession with the perfect arrangement of written words is the real reason I'm arguing the merits of instant messenger 'conversations'. At least I'm not alone, however. I'm in good company. Thoreau seems to think a lot of the written word as well, and I'll let him finish this posting for me. I'm sure if he'd seen the technological age, he'd have allowed me the obvious exchange of 'written' for 'typed' in IM conversations.
'A written word is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to life itself.'