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.'

To continue your education...

I've just had an amazingly enthusiastic Hard Drive Clean Up - files deleted all over the place, hurled towards the Trash Can merrily. Always very satisfying to know there isn't a load of rubbish clogging up the computer; my justification is that I want to get everything sorted in all aspects of my life before 2007 starts, so I can begin afresh. In reality, I was a touch bored and needed something to do... Anyway, I unearthed another poem that I wrote down when I was in Argentina at some point. They're the lyrics that go with a piece of tango music, and I obviously liked them enough to bother sitting and writing them out. Thought I'd throw them on here in a bid to educate at least one reader out there. I've given the weblink at the end so that those of you who read Spanish can see the far superior original.

Nostalgias – 1936, Cobian and Cadicamo

I want to drown my heart with wine
to extinguish a crazy love
that more than love, is pain…
And that's what I'm here for,
to erase those old kisses
with other lips' kisses.
If her love was short lived,
why is this cruel preoccupation
always living in me?
I want to drink for both of us
to forget this obsession,
but I remember her even more.
The nostalgia
for her laughter,
for feeling her fire-like breath
next to my lips…
The anguish
of being abandoned
and of thinking that soon another will
whisper tender words to her…
Brother,
I don't want the humiliation
of begging, crying,
of telling her I can't live without her.
From my sad solitude
I will see the falling of the lifeless roses
of my youth.

Moan, bandoneon, your sad tango
maybe you also are in pain
for a broken love…
Cry my silly, lonely and
sad soul tonight,
dark, starless night.
If drinks bring relief,
here I am with my sorrow
to drown it at once.
I want to drown my heart with wine
to then make a toast
to my defeated love.

'Nostalgias' in Spanish

Because things are not always as they seem

Jose Marti poem that sums up something for me today. I've put the English translation as well as the Spanish original. Not feeling particularly talkative, so this will have to do for now.


Because your eyes were two flames
And your brooch wasn't pinned right,
I thought you had spent the night
In playing forbidden games.

Because you were vile and devious
Such deadly hatred I bore you:
To see you was to abhor you
So lovely and yet so villainous.

Because a note came to light,
I know now where you had been,
And what you had done unseen —
Cried for me all the long night.


POR TUS OJOS ENCENDIDOS... (Verso XIX)

Por tus ojos encendidos
Y lo mal puesto de un broche,
Pensé que estuviste anoche
Jugando a juegos prohibidos.

Te odié por vil y alevosa:
Te odié con odio de muerte:
Náusea me daba de verte
Tan villana y tan hermosa.

Y por la esquela que vi
Sin saber cómo ni cuándo,
Sé que estuviste llorando
Toda la noche por mí.

'O wad some Power the giftie gie us...

to see oursels as ithers see us!'
(To translate for those incapable of understanding Robbie Burns: 'Oh would some Power give us the gift to see ourselves as others see us.')
Thought that was a rather apt way of starting out today's rant - and being a Burns snippet, it comes across as more intellectual than quoting the title of a Ricki Lake show that was the genuine inspiration behind this. Unfortunately, I can't remember exactly what that episode was called, but since it was Ricki it'll have been something about ten lines long, dotted frequently with exclamation marks.
It was yet another 'makeover show' - when you've run out of people willing to embarrass themselves in front of the nation, just set about transforming them instead - and this time it was concerning married women who dressed in what can best be described as men's clothing. Somewhere inside, the show struck a chord with me. You would not believe the number of times miniature old ladies have been on the point of questioning my going into the women's bathrooms, and I had one particularly ghastly experience in an airport where the check-in staff kept referring to me as 'Mr', despite the fact they were holding onto my passport that clearly suggests I am otherwise. After a few of my withering looks, they did manage to giggle out an apology - damn, I should have taken the chance to sue the airline for, well I don't know what but I'm sure there's something. 'Gender assassination'. Someone successfully sued an airline carrier for veterinary bills and 'distress caused' because low-flying aircraft startled their pet parrot, who fell off his perch and promptly broke both his legs. I think I have a pretty strong case in comparison to that.

Oh, how I wish some people had the gift to see themselves as others (or in particular, me) see them! Why do some of the guys in Oxford wear their collars turned up? How did it become the fashion to tuck jeans INSIDE knee high boots? And what is with kids these days having rucsacs so low-slung they bounce against the backs of their knees? And I wish people would learn that a fake laugh is as noticeable as the enormous zit on their face they're trying desperately to pretend doesn't exist.

In need of filling in some time the other day, I went through one of those endless lists of questions that ask you ridiculous things like, 'Have you ever been caught speeding?' 'What is your favorite [sic] color [sic] for eyes?' (And briefly digressing here, how is it in 'romance novels' - not that I'd ever read such trash, of course, this is all based on hearsay - the heroine invariably has 'violet eyes'. Has anybody ever had violet eyes?? I think it would be more disturbing than appealing). 'What is one thing you'd like others to know about you?' In response to the latter, I put: 'I'm not as miserable as I look.' Thus notifying the world at large that I am aware of how I'm perceived, and frankly I wish more of you would take the trouble to find out something about me before branding me as 'a right misery guts.' If after talking to me for a couple of hours you still reach that conclusion, fair enough. You're probably an exceptionally boring creation who I couldn't be bothered to come out of hibernation for.

I think most people are rushing around desperate to convey one impression of themselves to the world, and not stopping to consider who they really are as a person, as an individual. Even when I was being teased at school for being 'the geeky kid with glasses', I never wanted to change who I am or how others perceive me just to give myself an easier ride. And I wish people would back off, stop trying to transform me into a partygoer with the tightest of tops and the most non-existent of skirts - someone who goes around getting drunk and then accusing any man she unintentionally sleeps with of raping her. (Notably this is usually the case when the male in question is particularly unattractive, in which case he 'undoubtedly' spiked her drink).

Words of wisdom for the day, and paraphrasing someone or other but I really can't think who just now: remember, you are not a sheep.

On Being a Drunk

I think I've found my destiny today - I must work at Being A Drunk. Really, I do the whole thing remarkably well, and courtesy of the ludicrously cheap alcohol prices here in Spain, can afford to. I have access to endless mournful music options thanks to having satellite TV, and furthermore a never-ending supply of tear-jerking movies. In addition to these key components, I am equipped with enough tragedies throughout my life to mull over, and a heart that has been broken frequently enough to justify plunging into the lower reaches of the wine glass.
Moreover, I have the ability to feel everything in my very core. Where someone else would feel sad, I feel tortured; when someone else would be happy, I am ecstatic. Being able to have anything experienced on an emotion-scale that ranges far higher and lower than the average, I am the ideal candidate for the role of Drunk.
I wonder if there are sponsorship programmes available. There are for every other damn thing.

On the Joke that is Journalism

Perhaps sometimes I go out of my way to make my headings have an element of alliteration about them, but I like to do it. Besides, today's is accurate. Journalism these days is a joke - I imagine there are a few newspapers somewhere out there that say things as they really are, but generally speaking everything is influenced by something/someone or other. I have a particular bone to pick with the BBC today, who ran an article in their magazine section entitled, 'Intimate Strangers.' Essentially, some woman or other is wandering around London taking photographs of the people she always sees on the way to work, but never speaks to. The article is written as if she's had some incredible revelation about life in the 21st century, and the comments the BBC has chosen to put up as reactions to the article generally show readers exclaiming, wow! I've always thought this as well! How utterly cool?!
Shoot them all now. What the BBC should have done is run alongside this article another regarding the total lack of education in our country today. Has nobody else noticed that what this woman is basically doing is working on something Walt Whitman came up with over 150yrs ago? ('Crossing Brooklyn Ferry', for all my equally uneducated readers out there). This lack of communication she has noticed is hardly original... and overall, his poem is far more effective than her stream of photographs with 'fascinating' stories attached to each picture. Perhaps she is secretly scheming to turn the UK into America, in the sense that all people will be disturbingly friendly and enthusiastic about their fellow citizens. Americans are an awesome lot to watch; I particularly like the breed that appear as the audience on the likes of the Oprah Winfrey show. But really, keep them in America - the British 'stiff upper lip' should be celebrated, not denegrated.
Oh, I emailed this point into the BBC - the part related to Whitman and originality anyhow - but obviously it hasn't appeared as a 'comment'. Who is moderating these things? I remember attacking some ridiculous article about popular books, with everyone being 'surprised' that their favourite novels were invariably in the Waterstone's '3 for 2' offers. At this point, I cast my eyes heavenwards and shake my head...
While I'm on the subject, I'm absolutely fed up with seeing peoples' 'favourite book lists' that are merely designed to impress others. It is incredible how Dostoyevsky can suddenly become somebody's favourite author because at some point they managed to struggle through, 'Crime and Punishment.' Likewise, these lists invariably include a Dickens, an Austen, a Woolf if the person has any pretensions of feminism, and a J K Rowling if they aim to appear 'childlike'. People who have read, 'The Alchemist' are suddenly leading experts on Paulo Coehlo - had they bothered to read more than about three of his books, they'd have realised that all his ideas are summed up in those and further novels are mere repeats. Yes, they're interesting ideas, but I like a new concept in each book, not repetition of a successful formula.
I suppose the most depressing 'favourite book' lists are those which only incorporate, 'To Kill a Mockingbird', 'The Great Gatsby', and, 'Pride and Prejudice'. These books are the standard GCSE syllabus in the UK, and the fact is the reader hasn't actually gone beyond what the curriculum told them to read by the age of 16.
No wonder the journalists of today apparently don't know about one of the classic American poems. With the likes of 'York Notes' to help students out, who actually needs to KNOW anything these days?

(Additional thought: whoever came up with the headline, 'EU hardens tone on enlargement' should be promoted. Plus, check out this link for proof of wonderful journalism: http://www.thelocal.se/5818/20061215/ )

A passing thought

Continuing on from my previous post, I found a rather good way of, well, putting it. Courtesy of Oscar Wilde. There are a multitude of things around for me to rant about right now, but I'll just finish off the issues broached in my previous post first. In an attempt to show that I have some sense of organisation.

Each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible.

On the Curse of Mushy Movies

'Love Actually' was on television the other day - one of the ultimate disasters of the movie industry, an almost unwatchable 'triumph' of the Romantic Comedy genre. Every now and then, I'm not averse to indulging in an afternoon of 'Pretty Woman', sniffling along to the, 'it must have been love...' lyrics.
The problem - the curse - of such movies (aside from a regular dose of seriously bad acting and appalling lines gracing our television sets) is that they create impossible expectations. Everything works out: the guy gets the girl, the violins play at appropriate moments, and major character defects can be set aside without a second thought. A film should be made with the reality taking centre stage: the girl will always be too shy to speak to the guy and will not suddenly have an epiphany one hour in and gain boundless confidence; the guy will be incapable of kissing without emulating a vacuum cleaner and the 'moment' will be shattered; the guy who 'knew' and 'bonded' with the very soul of the woman actually did so via a few comments that by chance were the right ones to make, not because of any particular understanding on his part.
And so we wander around the planet, looking for an ideal that cannot be found. Ignoring the parts of people we don't like in a bid to find 'the one' - ignoring a gut feeling that tells us something is wrong, because we don't want it to be wrong. Someone can come so close to what we believe we want and yet not be 'quite right' - and here is the dilemma. Do we believe in the suggestion proposed by countless movies, that it will 'all work out in the end', and thus labour on with a relationship that is ultimately flawed? Or do we cut short the good times, the wonderful moments, because we choose not to ignore the writing on the wall and rather we act on it.
Is it not more true to say that throughout your life, as your ideas and expectations change, so will the person who you want to share it with? All other traditions of social orders have been eradicated in the last decades - women are on a more or less equal footing with men in the work place (please, nobody bother with the statements against that; I read 'women's studies' after all and know all the arguments back to front), borders and boundaries are continually being smashed. Why is the 'nuclear family' still that to which most people aspire? Just because it has been tradition that one male and one female have a group of whippersnappers and all stay together in some merry masquerade or other, does this mean it is the correct - the most appropriate - option?
I don't ascribe to this view of 'children need a stable environment', not in the sense that most people mean when they say it. Children need someone who is prepared to be an adult and teach them how to cope with the world; they don't need the 'best friend' so many parents try to be these days, or to be given the latest gaming machine every Christmas. Children need the security of knowing they can 'try life on', as it were, and if they make a mistake there will be someone to help put them back together again. This stability and security they need can only be found within, not by spending their childhood in the same house and being dressed in the fashionable clothes, liking the right music and knowing the right people.
Because I have learned this lesson - that my security lies only within me - I find it difficult to surrender any part of myself to a relationship. To share a world with somebody else is to take a risk, to have to believe that it is as important to them as it is to you. You are trusting that the other wont shatter your construction - and that means relinquishing a hold on individual security.
But Mushy Movies don't consider all of this.
Mushy Movies especially ignore the problem of a person who is afraid to be himself. How am I supposed to trust someone who doesn't trust himself to BE himself? Who, after years of careful training, has forced himself to be neutral, impartial, and ultimately safe. Am I supposed to wait and hope that he finally cracks and becomes permanently the person I've seen on fleeting occasions when he forgets to employ neutrality? Or do I acknowledge the writing on the wall and walk away?
Why is it I'm so sure about everything else, but can't quite get this issue sorted out. Later tonight, I imagine I'll watch Leona perform in outstanding fashion on the 'X Factor', I'll see her streaking towards a now inevitable stardom. 'Reality TV' - so unreal, such an illusion. Baudrillard is The Guy when it comes to illusion/reality - a review of 'The Vital Illusion' states that:
'Baudrillard considers how human cloning—as well as the "cloning" of ideas and social identities—heralds an end to sex and death and the divagations of living by instituting a realm of the Same, beyond the struggles of individuation. In this day and age when everything can be cloned, simulated, programmed, and genetically and neurologically managed, humanity shows itself unable to brave its own diversity, preferring instead to regress to the pathological eternity of self-replicating cells. By reverting to our viral origins as sexless immortal beings, we are, ironically, fulfilling a death wish, putting an end to our own species as we know it. '
Mushy Movies have caused a potential reality to be an illusion; the attempt to encapsulate a human emotion destroys the possibility of it's existence. The layers of illusion piled on illusion mean that nothing is as it seems - and furthermore that nothing is real. Perhaps the 'studied neutrality' I referred to earlier is at least an acknowledgement that anything else would be unreal, a replica.
I think I've answered my own question. Much as I agree with Baudrillard - I don't want to. I need someone who is fighting the illusion, turning aside the mirror, who believes in the resurrection of a reality. I wrote once that man was inevitably doomed once he created paintings on the walls of caves in an attempt to replicate his world. But it is possible to escape the illusion we have made of this world - I have to believe that. Something nobody has been able to capture, but centuries of poets and artists have attempted to, is the essence of humanity - for argument's sake let us call it 'the soul.' Poetry has touched my soul, has reached out to me, made me feel alive. But nobody has been able to replicate that which we do not fully understand. And therefore I need a guy who is willing to bare his soul to the world, isn't afraid to move beyond the illusion, to feel everything as an extreme, to be wholly alive. Anyone who neutralises their emotions doesn't want this, and is content to be surrounded by the reality of illusions.
Maybe nobody reading will quite follow my points there, but I've sorted something out in my mind at least. Hopefully it will make a reader consider their position - if only in regards to the curse of the mountain of mushy movies.

Something I Like

Maybe that title is being slightly too optimistic, but I thought I'd raise a few eyebrows at least. The post regards something I like - but that needs a heck of a lot of changes to make it into something I love. This morning, after the doctor had finished prodding and probing and regaling me with stories about her depressingly successful son (I was at school with him), I ambled into Plymouth to investigate the snazzy new shopping centre that has been causing road traffic chaos for most of the last two years. I believe architecture students from around the globe are being brought to come and mock the 'modern' design that is indescribably hideous - a peculiar mix of stone, brick, wood, glass, metal, and there's probably every other 'resistant material' in there somewhere.
The shops are no different to those that previously graced Plymouth's streets, but are just relocated within the sparkly new centre. I have to confess, however, that I like it. Dammit, I do. I feel like an alcoholic announcing that I have a drink problem: 'Hi, I'm Jane, and I like shopping malls.' Seriously, what a concept. Shopping all under one roof, so I don't have to get cold and wet and mess about with nasty umbrellas, and a range of eating facilities scattered throughout to keep energy levels up. I could even park my car and go from car to mall without a drop of rain touching on me. Genius. In hotter climes, they of course have the advantage that you can go shopping without the very real possibility of dehydrating and fainting, equipped as they are with air conditioning.
(Plus they always have bathrooms, clean ones, although those in Plymouth's new facility are rather odd: the wash basins are all joined together, thus creating one long trough to wash in. Peculiar).
Changes that need to be made? Well, obviously, I would appreciate if at least two of the shops within the mall were ones I actually wanted to go to. I want a selection of extensive and varied bookshops, clothes that I might feasibly wear (and moreover are priced at a rate that I might feasibly consider), perhaps a discount flight centre would be nice, and if they could have installed a WIFI system that would certainly upgrade it. A shop that sells shoes that are large enough, trousers that are long enough, and - ooh - affordable glasses.
And I'm going to cheat now by putting a link to a BBC article that is one of the best I've read in a long time: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/magazine/6199716.stm
Strongly recommend a quick squiz in that direction. I was intending to offer my viewpoints in relation to the article, but I seem to have gone on about malls for a while so will instead amble off and do something useful. Like test-run the chocolates I bought this morning. My stomach is probably suffering from lack of chocolate substances, and this is the sole reason it remains unwell.

On Cramps and Comments

I could send one of those tiresome 'travel experience' updates out to the world at large here, but will restrain myself. There is nothing more tedious than reading that someone got from A to B via train or bus, why they made that decision, and whether or not they regretted it.

Furthermore, as a frequent recipient of such emails from globetrotting friends, I would like to state here that in future I have no desire to read someone's opinion on the comfort of a bed in Vietnam that I am never likely to stay in; an individual's bargaining skills, nor indeed an apparently endless analysis of the merits of one tour operator over another.

Thus my comments regarding Morocco will be limited: if you have a weak stomach (and mine is indisputably one of the more pathetic roaming this planet) be prepared to starve yourself for the duration of your stay in the country. The hygiene standards are impossible to compete with when your digestive system turns it's nose up at mere lemonade at the best of times. I am now in my eleventh day of extreme stomach-illness, that necessitated an early return from Morocco, a quick diversion to a hospital in Gibraltar, and indeed a week's respite care in Plymouth. (If my optionally returning for a seven day stint from the glories of sunny Spain to the misery of a distinctly moist and windy England isn't proof enough of my state of health, I don't know what is). Tomorrow, I go in pursuit of antibiotics. I can't stand to eat another forkful of rice while looking despondently along the table towards my mother settling down to her Marks n Sparks treats.

Well, that was the 'cramps' part - incase you missed that. Now onto the 'comments' part. I was informed today by a fellow blogger that he'd left a comment for me, so I eagerly scampered to my website to check it out. A few hours later, still no comment. Hmm. After much investigation, I have just found comments left to me over approximately the last eight months. Ah. It seems I had some peculiar setting going on which meant they didn't show up. Therefore, this is addressed to all those who have responded with questions to some of my rants, demanding further justification for my apparently outrageous viewpoints, and indeed on occasion daring to argue with me. I apologise profusely for not following up complaints/observations and even allegations. I believe settings are now changed, and people can comment away in peace. If, that is, I have any readers left to comment.

One I do remember in particular from a few months ago came from someone accusing me of being the 'gap year traveller' I ranted about in a particular posting. Short of issuing forth a frothy mass of expletives, I am unable to respond as I wish. And since I never intended this blog to be x-rated, I'd best shut up and go be lethargic elsewhere.

(Picture from last post: Saadian tombs, Marrakech. By the by).

Morocco

I am not yet ready to relate the tragic tale of my near-death experience in Morocco that has resulted in my somewhat reluctant temporary return to the shores of England, but I thought I'd throw out a few photographs for willing observers to peruse. If anyone has any space available on their prayer cards, please set it aside for referencing myself - and in particular my stomach - when you are conversing with Him Upstairs. Right now, I need all the help I can get.

Knobbly Knees

I thought I was fairly effective at being female but there are whole areas of female-ness that it seems I know nothing about. I'm obviously forever amazed by the volumes of make-up women are prepared to plaster onto themselves in a bid to appear 'attractive', and nail varnish and I are absolute strangers. I remember a post a few months back that talked about a woman ironing her hair - something I've now learned is relatively common practice. Incredible. However, in the last two days a few more things for me to potentially be neurotic about have presented themselves.
The first was an entire photo-spread in something like 'Heat' magazine, with pictures of the typical glamorous stars who are normally paraded in front of their readers as the 'ideal'. There were endless captions, though, regarding the knobbliness of the various celebs' knees. I looked and looked and looked, but could find nothing of the hilarity the reporter clearly found in the images. What the heck constitutes a sexy knee? And moreover, are there actually women out there who wake up miserable because their knees are 'unattractive'? Incredible.
And I saw a snippet of a documentary regarding women with small breasts. Now, I'm not exactly well endowed but hey, you get over it. You think, 'at least they wont be around my knees when I hit forty'. Actually, you don't even think that - you just go, er, right, that's me. I've just watched some insane woman put these enormous plastic suction cups on her breasts at night in order to enlarge them for all of twelve hours. This obviously interrupts wildly with bedroom activities, which frankly is the least of the disturbing thoughts that came to mind. Why are women so obsessed with the way they look?
A final one. This one really took the biscuit - unfortunate expression perhaps, in light of what it is. I discovered that women actually take laxatives in order to lose weight - as in, high dosages of laxatives. Are they insane? Heck, if you want to be slimmer, eat less and go to the gym. Don't pump your body with drugs.
I just cannot envisage doing anything so extreme to my body. Supposedly for 'myself'. My 'self worth'. Dear Lord, how do parents get it so wrong? I've just looked at my knees again and I have no idea if they are knobbly or not, attractive or not. And frankly, I'm much better off not caring.

Just a Rant

No particular focus to this - at least, I'm not starting out with one. Perhaps I'll find a peg on which to hang my ranting feelings.
Like, for example, the message board on Facebook. I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook (as I do, perhaps, with most things and people on this planet), and at the moment am in Hate mode. For those of you not in the know, it is essentially a MySpace for university students - and for those who don't know what MySpace is, well, I'm afraid you'll just have to go and find out. I can't do all the legwork for you. To get in touch with somebody else via the website, you can either send them a message - delivered to what is basically an email inbox only the recipient can access - or leave a post on their 'wall', as it is referred to. I can understand leaving a message on somebody's 'wall' if you have a particularly witty remark to make, for example, that is relevant to the world at large. But there are whole swathes of people who like to leave what can only be referred to as highly personal messages on this wall, for all the world to see. Why can't people conduct relationships in private? Don't people want to create their own world apart from the rest of humanity, that is for them and them only?
And another thing. I am fed up with people who make the dramatic statement, 'Oh, you MUST meet so and so, you'll really like them!' For one, don't bother to presume to know who or what I'll like. For two - oh, I can't even be bothered to explain the 'for two'. Its all too depressing.
Now I shall retreat into my world, and urge everyone else to get back into theirs. In our joyful capitalist society our need for other people has been diminished to merely offering services for payment; why do we need to pretend otherwise.