Minor Celebrity Mediocre Edition…

Though some of these are a bit unfair. Poor Colin. Poor Hattie.

of reversing misfortune.

As it turns out very few of my friends forgot my birthday. Having got home just after midnight I received several texts sent throughout the day (delayed by their very number no less!) from pretty much everyone I hold dear. Bless you all, you reversers of time you.

I am humbled.

p.s. flash film review: X Men 3:

SHITE.

But whoso looketh into the perfect law of liberty, and continueth therein, he being not a forgetful hearer, but a doer of the work, this man shall be blessed in his deed.

(It’s a shame there isn’t a book of Benjamin in the Bible. ‘Benjamin 1 to 25′ would have been more appropriate)

This is a strange feeling. I don’t feel 26. I’ve only just gotten used to being 25. I think in my mind I’m still 23. That was the age which last seemed logical to me, that fitted how long it seemed I’d been clinging to this little clump of rock spinning away contentedly in the darkness. It could also be the age, some could argue, where everything started to go wrong.

And yet here marks another year since I was from my mother’s womb untimely ripped. Another birthday, and as the convention now dictates nearly all of my friends forgot. But I don’t mind, not really. It really is just another day, and if it means little to me I don’t see why it should mean much to others. I seem to forget though that I’m very dismissive of my birthdays now because everyone always forgets. I’m not really interested in presents or cards - I think humans tend to focus more on ritual than spontaneity, and an unexpected present is only worth buying for someone if it screams out its perfection the moment you encounter it. But it does hurt a little bit that the people I consider important to me don’t seem to think I’m worth even a text or an email, nor the tiny Post It note, or quick scribble on a calendar to remind them. God knows I’ve forgotten some birthdays in my time, but I know how it feels when you realise you’re not as important to someone as you think. Particularly when they forget every year.

If I were human I’d be taking this all very personally.

But that aside, I’ve had a very pleasant day. Last night I went with my charming new friend to see Pam Ann at Bar Code. I’d never seen her before. I do not think I will see her again. Our encounter, rather like her jokes that actually made me laugh, was brief and not entirely unforgetable. I spent much of her routine feeling like I’d walked in on a conversation between strangers and didn’t quite fit in with the clique. I’ve never walked out of anything before it’s finished though. I ended 25 breaking that record.

There were the usual delightfully random presents from my co-workers - one of those old fashioned looking notebooks that are springing up everywhere now but I absolutely love from Richard as well as a miniature packet of croutons (it’s best not to ask), and (thus far as I don’t like to open presents in front of people, but prefer to scuttle away and do it in secret like any sociopath worth his salt), a bag full of indulgent junk food from Barbara, including a much needed packet of Monster Munch that helped me survive 12:57 to 13:03.

Later I wandered idly down to To Co Ro to meet Tommy for an X Men 3 fest (no, Chris, really, thank you for telling me what happened, thanks ever so. Hope that punch I gave you on your arm last weekend bruises :P) and then drinks at various haunts across Soho. Nothing big, nothing fancy - no grand gestures. Just a day like any other.

As it’s human nature to always look backwards rather than forwards - and I do seem to be becoming increasingly more so oriented - here is a list of reassuringly few but nonetheless increasing things I now can’t do:

Not content with having to pretend I was suffering from a coughing fit behind my monitor after browsing Engrish at work once again, some part of my clearly addled mind finds the following picture from stuffonmycat increasingly amusing every time I look at it.

It’s all in the expression.

I humbly offer an apology for my earlier words.

http://www.grumpyoldsod.com/not%20such%20a%20wanker.asp

Hallo.
Hallo.
[A pause] Well? What do you want?
I want to be a writer please.
What?
I want to be a writer please.
Yes, I heard what you said.
You did?
Yes.
Oh. [another pause] Then why did…
I was making an outburst of incredulity.
Oh good. Or is that bad?
[smiling as if having suddenly changed personalities] So, you want to be a writer do you?
Yes please.
Have you written anything ever?
Oh yes.
You have?
Yes, lots in fact.
Then congratulations. You are a writer. Good day.
Oh. [Looks away. Looks back again]
Hall… oh, it’s you again.
Yes, sorry about that. There wasn’t enough time to change.
How have things worked out for you?
[Blinks]
Are you enjoying still being a writer?
Well, that’s just it. I’m not.
Not enjoying it?
Not a writer.
But you said you’d written lots! [Voice falls to a sinister hiss] Did you lie?
No, no.
[Petulantly] I don’t understand!
Well, how can I explain this?
Use metaphors.
…Do you mind if I don’t?
Suit yourself.
Okay, try this. I’m wri-ting, but I’m not a wri-ter.
[German accent] Ahhh, now ve are getting someverr.
We are?
Oh yes. Vat is ze difference between writing and being a writer, do you sink?
Well, you earn money from the latter. And recognition.
And not from just ze former?
No.
So vat you are sayink iss zat you vant to earn money und recognition from your writing?
Yes, yes that’s it exactly!
[suddenly english again] Tough.
Huh?
Tough. You can’t. There are already too many writers.
…Wuh! …Buh! But some of them aren’t very good! I could be very good if I had the chance to prove it!
Do you think that makes any difference?
Yes, yes I do!
No, no you don’t!
Well, I do, so…
You are not listening. You don’t do. You just think. You just sit and dream and pretend and wait and wish and waste. It has nothing to do with being good or not. It’s all about doing something about whatever it is you have.
I guess you’re right.
Guessing is very imprecise. Imprecision causes waste.
Okay okay, I know you’re right.
That’s better.
Thanks.
Hey, you’re welcome. It’s my job. So, what are you going to do about it?
Stop wasting time?
Uh huh. Good. And how are you going to do that?
Not ignore a single opportunity that comes my way?
Uh huh, very good, yes. What else?
Stop delaying submitting stuff to agents and journals just because I think it’s not ready yet.
Fair enough, yes, very fair. What else?
Write when I say I’m going to write and not piss about on the internet or playing computer games or chatting to boys.
Woah, let’s not set our goals too high here.
Okay okay, limit the time I spend on the internet, playing games and chatting to boys and stick to time set aside for writing.
Much better. Anything else?
Cut back on the envy.
Oh yes, definitely. And…?
And on the arrogance.
Excellent. Well done. That’s a pretty impressive list. You’ve done great here.
Thanks, I feel much more confident now.
And the best bit is, you got there all by yourself.
No, no, you helped.
I did?
Sure
How exactly did I help?
Well, you…
Go on
Um, you made me think of stuff.
I don’t think I did.
No, really, you…
Dude, have you even noticed who or what it is you’re talking to?
No. Oh God, this isn’t going to be like one of those dreams I always seem to have where my entire value system is undermined in a moment by a demon in the guise of someone or something dear to me is it?
I’m not here to address your latent mistrust of close personal relationships manifest in a quasi-biblical and gradiose representation of temptation, corruption and inevitable fall. I’m just asking if you know what you’re talking to.
Well…
Yes?
You sort of look like…
Yes?
You sort of look like a plate, smeared with the leftovers of strawberry cheesecake.
I do? That’s good.
Is it?
Yes. It’s what I am. You’re daydreaming you know.
I know.
You’re staring at the remains of your lunch letting your mind skip through cornfields rather than exercising it in practical application. That’s wasting time in itself.
I know.
Well, get some work done. Something. Anything.
Do I have to?
Yes, and I’m about to turn back into a plate smeared with strawberry cheesecake leftovers to make sure you do.
Okay, fair enough. Hey…
Yes?
Just one thing before you go?
Go on.
I don’t even like cheesecake.
If had eyes to roll…
Go away then.
Gone.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/5056474.stm

A lot of people who write sometimes think they just “can’t do it right now”. They think they must be mentally exhausted or too stressed or busy. They think (as I often do) that it must be something to do with the phases of the moon - full moon good, new moon bad. They think they’re just uninspired, that there’s no good ideas to be had at the moment, and that they will definitely get down to it as soon as their muse comes calling. Foolish people might even think that there’ll even be time to do it all later.

All of this is, of course, nothing more than human laziness.

i am so tired i can’t even feel my body. i suppose it’s my fault. all that coffee and horseplay,m no meaty thougtuful meaningful matters. everythgin seems so ephemeal, everything i do a waste of time, every thing is lost, it often seems. today for example, i was standing at the bus stop. this in itself is unsual as i have a car, and haven’t taken the bus anywhere since my teens . but anyway, there i was at the bustop, when this man came up to me. do you have the time he asked, no i sad. tell me the time he insisted. i looked at him for a oment, trying to work out what mental disfunction he had or if he simply hadn’t heard me. i don’t have a watch. that makes no difference he continued, i want you to tell me the time. i was a bit confused at this point - i could have been scared, but he was 5′7″ or so, and i’m 6′2″, and can handle myself in a fight. this guy looked like he couldn’t handle frozen food in a supermarket. i don’t know the time. yes he replied, suddenly triumphant - that’s the right answer, you don’t. then he walked off. i am still wondering what he means.

The above is an example spontaneous writing, spelling mistakes and all. I found it just a few minutes ago, in a folder called ‘automatic’ on my hard drive - one of those many things I create and then entirely forget about: I’ve other folders devoted exclusively for titles without a story to yet go with them; lines or sentences without a paragraph to live in; witty quips and scraps of dialogue without a character to utter their words. My “Authored” folder on my computer is a warehouse of spare parts, an organ bank of blood, hearts, faces, kidneys and skin waiting for a willing patient to be transplanted into.

Seasoned authors will be no strangers to this exercise - just sit down and let it all - let anything come pouring out. Don’t think about it, don’t try and give it form or shape or meaning. Just image yourself standing on a bridge looking at the water flowing away from you below. Mediums would call this a form of automatic writing - a means of communion with spirits. Scientists would simply say it is accessing part of the subconscious. Whatever you want to call it, and all are just as valid, it’s a way of accessing raw imagination, ideas, images and concepts when you think your mind is unable to focus - too preoccupied or crowded with other thoughts.

Sometimes you don’t need to sit down and think about how you’re going to get something done. Sometimes you just need to let your imagination take hold of you rather than trying it the other way round. Sometimes the only way a child can get through a crowd is to hold their mother’s hand and surrender their fitful independence to be pulled safely through.

Try it. Your imagination is your friend.

Long live June.