taking fire

My old high school sweetheart pinged me on pussbook with one of those ‘write twenty-five random things about yourself’ notes. It’s a fun exercise, a wee snapshot.

01. I love the exhilaration of snowboarding and skateboarding. Balance, acceleration, learned skills, nerves singing, muscles obeying, adrenalin, risk.

02. Science fiction is my crack cocaine. The feeling of having your imagination stretched in new directions and shaken out.

03. I’m a born problem solver. Unexpected adversity only gives me a blip of stress, quickly superseded by a calm, ‘how do we fix this’ response.

04. Loyalty is very important to me. Once I’m friends with someone, my resources are theirs indefinitely, irrespective of time and distance.

05. A colleague once said, “People are either collaborative, or confrontational.” I love cooperating on cool things – the feeling of combining talents to make something greater. I hate confrontation, and have difficulty with those people that pursue it for its own sake.

06. Making music with others is an amazing feeling, but for some reason I rarely find myself in situations where I can. I’d love to fix that.

07. I’m basically lazy and lack a strong work ethic, but the other genes I inherited make up for it.

08. I love creating things, but have a hard time completing them (see 07). I’ve found my best finish-rate is with the written word. So that’s what I concentrate on.

09. I hate not being taken seriously. I make an effort to be honest and say what I mean; it’s frustrating when people don’t recognise that.

10. Lucid dreaming is one of my favourite things. When the opportunity arises, I’m a flyer.

11. I love the feeling of understanding complicated things. When they click into place and suddenly appear simple, integrated into a wider network of thought. So I get my kicks designing complex software, and at home reading about science of all flavours.

12. Minimising stress is important to me at all times. I’m pretty good at it now; my boss tells me my calm approach is infectious.

13. Having money has never been important to me. It’s useful to alleviate domestic stresses, but in itself has little appeal. Easy come, easy go.

14. I often think of how I would be with my kids, teaching and playing. For now the scenario still feels far-off.

15. I’m a solitary person by nature. Years ago I would have said, ‘a need for constant human contact demonstrates insecurity’, but…

16. …I’ve learned that wildly different personalities are valid, and effective in their own way. Your own perspective is not ‘correct’, it’s just yours.

17. I much prefer order to disorder, but I’m not OCD about it.

18. Moving to another country taught me the value of minimalism, travelling light. The only things I gladly hoard are books, with the hopeful notion that my kids will appreciate them one day.

19. Long-term monogamy is by far my preferred state. However I’ve become very demanding over the last few years, possibly to a self-defeating degree.

20. In my 30s, I fully appreciate the restorative powers of the ‘disco nap’.

21. One day – when my future wife helps pay the bills – I’ll go part-time on my day job and start writing on a larger scale.

22. I think human relationships are the most important things we have. Getting to know people always works out for the best: you either experience something admirable in another person that you can emulate, or learn a negative trait that you can avoid having yourself. The more you meet, the more you learn.

23. I dream about my Gran and Gramps all the time, and I’m happy about that. I dream about my Mum much less often, but it’s always very upsetting in a bittersweet way.

24. I’ve never broken any limbs, apart from fracturing my skull as a toddler, way before the dawn of memory. When I was 18 I did suffer partial hearing loss in my right ear. I’ve long since adjusted, but as a consequence I feel a creeping introversion in noisy places.

25. I try to keep in mind that some things will never, never stop happening: learning, finding ways to be a better person, being wrong.

Many, many times I have asked myself what the hell twitter is actually for.

No one you know is interested in it. Your life is admirably succulent without it. Out of curiosity you inspect the main site – perhaps register an empty account – but there are no meaningful clues of any worth. You pull up a few random feeds, and stare blankly at the torrent of worthless bilge.

Executive summary:

• At worst, for the passive user, it’s a cheap way to stalk feel close to a miniscule set of tech-savvy C-list celebrities.
• At worst, for the active but pioneering microblogger, it’s a dispiriting void in which to fruitlessly drain your creative juice.
• The real value only emerges – in a similar way to ‘real’ blogging – when a number of your own friends choose to take part, and you have a mutually interested audience.

Micro-what? STFU

I know. Microblogging is an ugly word but an old concept. It essentially means, lower your expectations. The nuggets here are, for the most part, throwaway comments. Or ideas without time to be developed. Think back to the early days of TF, when a youtube URL and a few acronyms (hmm, to LOL or not to LOL?) constituted a well-crafted post.

Twitter fills the yawning gap of time between TF posts. Sometimes you really do just have a sentence or two to say, and it’s worth ten seconds of someone else’s time.

Look, pussbook does this already

Kind of. Status updates get lost in a sea of sparkly froth. You’ve got hundreds of friends. You only really care about the daily spewings of a small subset.

So, this voyeurism angle. Who could I possibly care to read about?

Good question. As an example, let’s see whose lives I now peer into with freakish ease:

• Stephen Fry. Creatively foul-mouthed and always entertaining. Loves twitter like he loves a generous coating of man-butter
• Kristin Hersh
• Mike Skinner. Pithy and creative
• Russell Brand. Just getting into it
• Jonathan Ross. Loving the attention and ability to disseminate gossip
• Regina Spektor
• Warren Ellis. Bad-brained and darkly funny writer of comics. Best quote on experiencing a hangover, “I appear to have woken up in Stephen Hawking’s body.”
• Neil Gaiman. Avid user

There’s a *nnrgh* reality TV aspect to this. I don’t truly benefit from knowing the details of Stephen Fry’s travels in New Zealand, or the hourly updates on the health of Neil Gaiman’s dog. It’s compelling nonetheless.

The word ‘twitter’ accurately skewers the banality of the medium. But banal events in the lives of those people you care about are important; they’re the fodder of conversations you aren’t having. With enough fleeting glimpses into someone’s life, you feel closer, wherever they are.

You can follow me, and the reliably deviant ms.bean. If you don’t have a twitter-ready telephone – which you will need to get the real addiction – you can also catch my dribbles just on the left there.

Bit of excitement round here from last night. A medium-sized jet airliner took off from LaGuardia (the tinkiest of NY’s three airports) and promptly at 1,000ft made feathery mincemeat out of a flock of birds. Apparently this is not great for the jet engines, which coughed flame, developed spinning Xs over their eyes and lit up all kinds of neat red lights in the cockpit.

The pilot dude is a war ace or something and mumbling obscenity about Baron von Richthofen, managed to glide the powerless plane politely around Manhattan – past my apartment – before dumping it in the river just next to the skatepark that I frequent in warmer months.

You can read things about it in guardianland and see the grubby-vision twitter pic that killed their servers overnight.

Clearly the pilot is to be commended for not killing everyone. I understand he has been granted an unlimited number of blowjobs within the tri-state area. The media coverage is amusing though in spunking the word ‘miracle’ around; as usual we can associate God’s will with the fact that everyone survived, but not presumably to the act of stuffing beaky engine-killers into the aircraft in the first place.

Now so firmly far from the sun, the cold air outside is a dead, permanent threat to ears and fingers. So you like to look at this old picture here. Taken in July, in the New York summer. Back when you were

just getting used to the heat. With relief you find yourself accustomed – finally – to the stifling invariance.

Before this summer, a hot crush of air meant being at your Gramps’s house, with his fuzzy blanket of a living room glowing constantly in the low 80s. Keeping his old bones moving. You get yourself a drink if you want it, son.

Or that feeling of stepping into warm air. For those like you from a temperate country, the inescapable association of being on holiday. Freedom from time and anxiety, cities and hills and waves and lakes and bodies to explore.

Or when drinking, a romantic vision of a limestone house in swampland. A lightly sweating stoic, a Hemingway, white linen and bronze liquid in sweating thick tumblers, bright light from a doorway or desklamp, pen or fingers poised to deliver something important through tobacco smoke. Sweat, lamps. The blur of fans. Distant night sounds. Stubble. Self-regard.

And not just the heat, but this new, real noise all along 22nd street. The anvil flood of sunlight crashes down into the trees, blasting green light from their veins and awakening a riot in the branches. Cicadas. The hot afternoon chorus pouring through your window, a wash of jagged noise, ten thousand knives shaken in a cement mixer. An encompassing racket with no evident source; just foliage, glaring and innocent. Jungle drums, smoke signals, beaten shields, out of sight. It could all be in your head, but for the way the sound echoes pinballing down the street.

On cooler nights, the tide of noise recedes to a single call, one timballing insomniac. Unlike the day’s constant call, this sound is intrusive. Chirrup, chirrup. Trying to sleep. Eyes closed, you try to use the noise as a percussion; in your mind’s ear, put a tune to the regular beat. To your dismay the wee fucker is the world’s worst soloist, first round and soundly in rhythm, then early, then hanging, lingering late.

Circadian rhythm, cicadian arhythm. You wish that words were sleep.

Like any good common-or-garden Alan Moore nerd I have read Watchmen multiple times. However, I’ve always had a slight problem with it.

Each time I consumed it, there remained the completist’s vague sense of unease that every nuance, every reference hidden in every panel had not been fully appreciated. The niggling* feeling was exacerbated by the sheer pageturnness driving me to tear through it in double-quick time. Reading Watchmen for me was like watching Chinatown played at 1.5x speed after four beers. Good, but you weren’t joining all the dots.

So with the film coming out the day after my birthday and the release of the Absolute edition, it’s time to get back on it. This time, the pages are big enough that you can read every headline and graffiti clue hidden away in the panels. This time I’m taking notes.

The artifact itself is huge and weighty and gloriously shiny. Reading it this time is odd for a different reason; the book itself (at least my copy) is toxic. There’s a strong chemical smell coming off the zingy amazingness pinsharp pages of glory, a solvent of some kind that fucks with your head like you’ve left the gas on. I was excited to read Watchmen again, but I didn’t expect to be buzzing off my tits.

My notes now contain insightful observations like, Rorschach is anti-heroic in the sense that the reader identifies mostly with the face the blobs pretty flowers never the sunshine pale horse the eyes owlish and flying skintight…

Let’s hope the film doesn’t spoil it.

* use this word with caution in NYC if you don’t want a David Howard-ing

OK, let’s catch up, you and me. Take a seat. Bourbon and ginger sound all right? It’s my new staple, see if you like it. Some ice here somewhere. Always worried I’ll break these nice glasses (cheers Julie).

Long time since I posted, I know. Let’s see.

Back in the grunge days you’d hear wild tales of Perry Farrell’s Lollapalooza. Nine Inch Nails, Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins. An impossibly far-off event. These days it’s hosted in Chicago, a short flight away and hence a no-brainer. Got together with Olivia to form Team Strawberry Blonde and did the Grant Park experience. Definitely and unexpectedly the most civilised festival I’ve ever been to – clean wandering among topiary and fountains and uncrowded open spaces under blazing sun. The only criticism was the amount of stuff crammed together – some British electro band on Stage Obscure drowning out the agreeable pansyschrek noise coming from MGMT.

Chicago itself is much cooler than I expected. It dawned on me that New York is retro, 50s, gargoyled skyscrapers from the end of Ghostbusters. Chicago is neo-futuroid, shiny, full of public art and wall-to-wall contemporary architecture. You can get the idea here.

The end consequence of a sound recommendation from Milnotron several ages ago, I went to a really remarkable Parts & Labor gig in Brooklyn. The ‘venue’ was a trashed up, board-windowed attic space with raw electrics hanging from the walls and evidently no proper licenses. The organiser urged the smokers among us to walk away from the unmarked front door before lighting up outside, in case we drew the cops’ attention to the place. A frantic soak in a bath of noise and whisky.

We saw Rushmore projected in an abandoned outdoor swimming pool. We saw The Shining projected on a big screen under the Brooklyn Bridge with all the lights of the city behind.

I flew home and saw my Gramps for the last time.

There are many ways to get around the streets of Manhattan. Five points for each one you Spy!

• The Gaper. Hapless in shorts, the foreign and the naive amble and pause, pointing pocket cameras at the Chrysler building from three blocks away, flash plinking feebly.
• The Commuter. Roll-sleeved shirts and ties move in straight impatient lines, juggling Blackberrys and maintaining optimum viewing distance from the flimsy sundress walking ahead. Commuters suffer from animosity toward Gapers.
• The Hailer. One arm urgently aloft and the other heavy with expensive shopping bags, the Hailer demonstrates her greater need to be somewhere, chin high and confident. Note: Manhattan only. Cab drivers understand that the Brooklyn bridges are made of wet papier mache and lead to a grim land of flesh-eating zombies, and will sooner sauté their grandmothers’ kidneys than take you anywhere off the island.
• The Shuffler. The downtrodden and homeless shuffle slowly. Loose, worn knitwear and battered sandals. An ancient walkman looping something through earphones shorn of foam. Without destination or focus they make their steady, glassy progress, foot, over foot, over foot, like wind-up toys.
• The Trolley. Bent with weight into their shopping cart, sisyphean. Bags full of the recycleable and dubious. Grim with apparent purpose.
• The Batshit Loonball. The truly mad travel less; the consistency of a neighbourhood some measure of comfort given wild internal weather. On my block, the Japanese lady asks questions angrily of the sidewalk, sharp foreign consonants and a baffled lack of response. She moves off toward 10th Avenue, carefully walking using her right knee instead of the foot; a loping, unnecessary, uncomfortable tribute to John Cleese.
• The Courier. Heralded by the hated blast of car horns, the brakeless courier careens across the junction through another red. No problem, no worries, no fear.
• The Scooter. Mothers on Xootrs wait carefully for the crossing signal and push off, leading their line of helmeted ducklings on wobbly toy-wheeled Razors home.
• The Inliner. Muscle-topped and tanned, the gay ‘liners power their olympic way around the greenway circuit, legs sweeping out, side to side to side.
• The Skater. The hipster hat and sunglasses glide along behind the row of parked cars. The tarmac growls loudly of skateboard wheels. Dogs follow the unnatural noise and bark taut against the leash. On Union Square, the skaters take turns passing up and down in front of the steps like mediaeval jousters, stretching out manuals, kickflipping, cashing in their hours of practice for short-lived glory.

So the original plan was to upload all my photos to flickr and write up something about the trip to Chicago and Lollapalooza, and of course the nightmare journey/adventure getting back to NYC.

Instead I just blew a bunch of hours finishing version 1.0 of my next pixel-based project. It’s called ‘Peggy’. Say hello to her over on pixelpusher.

Now it’s officially midnight so that’s it for now.

My friend Emily bought me a book on Basquiat for my birthday. One in truth I already had because i’m a complete Basquiat nerd but anyway, it prompted me to read it rather than just look at the picters. Turns out he had his first ever solo exhibition at the Fruitmarket in Edinburgh. Goodness me.

Cool wee story here about him leaving a painting behind. I wonder how many people in Edinburgh are sitting on an original, maybe some without knowing how important and rare his pieces are. Made me smile.

http://freespace.virgin.net/iain.irving/Basquiat%20Painting.html

For some reason the subject of paedophilia keeps coming up in conversations. I think it’s because the British pronunciation (pea-dophile) is hilarious to Americans. The reference I inevitably drop into the conversation and which subsequently sinks like a depleted uranium canoe is the classic, “Would you like to see some puppies?”

This of course requires some explanation at length. I thought it might be quicker just to post the original public service broadcast (also embedded after the jump). It’s still chillingly relevant. I think the wee boy narrator’s performance is outstanding. I wonder where he is now?

Hopefully not buried under a garden shed somewhere.
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