Dear Journal

DEAR JOURNAL

It starts with pen to paper.  A record, an account of the past.  Sounds denoted by digits, digits and sounds combined in the mind.  Intertwined like the cords of a tether, a ball of yarn in the labyrinth  of the mind to negotiate memory.  How much we leave to memory, how much we leave to chance.

The facts of the world and youth moulded at whim.  But the world is changing and history is changing with it.  I guide the ink on the fabric of the paper, eager to record the words of the world.  Before I have to think, before I have to remember them.  And taint them, with the snap of a synapse.  I don’t trust me, I am the most unreliable witness.  My hand moves in perfect rhythm, as it breathes words onto a page, I ought to learn shorthand.  If only I had the time. 

Words, words, words and no time for thought only the majesty of the written word.  Everything else is mere distraction, this shall be the first truthful account, every breath recorded, no time, no opportunity to fabricate, to lie, concrete truths only.   

These Boots

These Boots

It is hard to come by good footwear these days.  Once in a while, though you find a pair that is worth every penny.  A tough, rugged pair.  Maybe not pretty but stitched to last.  But eventually the stitching begins to rip and tear and nails become displaced and no amount of polish can mask the scratches and scrapes-the wear of many miles and many heights.  These boots were made for walking and many miles we have trekked. 

There are few places I have been without them.  Stepping on the soil, sand and rock of many countries, the grains of foreign lands engraved in my sole.

A journal of discovery, a microcosm of wonder on the surface of a boot-a testament to my travels.  Austria; Vienna the streets of the Habsburgs, croissants and strudel, schnitzel and beer.  I have walked the streets of Mozart and Schnitzler soaking up the sights and sounds of this historical city, wandering down its Pilgrimgasse and Karlplatz, descending underground to the U-bahn and ascending into the rain. 

The streets of Vienna. 

The dazzling white airport of Seoul.

The red soil of New South Wales and Munich through the snow.  The spongy snow beneath my feet, delighting in the audible crunch and relishing the cleansing cold.  And finally we trek through the stony grey soils of Monaghan in tattered work boots.

The life lived, the snippet of life travelled in a pair of boots, ever reliable.  We traversed many lands before making the journey home. 

I sit down and shake the boots the contents spill onto the floor.  The sand and the soil, the pebbles and dust, accumulate on the floor the matter of nations gathered in a little heap, a mole hill as a testament to my travels.

(2008)

TRAINS

There is an old railway line in my town.
It runs under fields, nettles, thistle and clay and burrows under houses; the phantom train.
I often wonder about it.
The train, a mighty moveable fortress of steel and iron devouring forests, internal combustion.
The power of the brute billowing through the landscape people and commodities.
A to B.
It's not there now.
But I miss it having never known it.

I find great solace on trains.
Commuting; the gentle ebb and flow of the train on a sea of wood and metal.
It calms and soothes.
Here, I think, here I write.

Some liken the carriage to a cradle.
I do not disagree.
A cradle of ideas and inspiration.
I look out the window and I see the blurry green.
And the sky.
An expressionist painting.
Vibrant, alive.  But.
We are speeding past.

The window can only afford a snapshot.

Trains may offer an analogy of life.
A microcosm of society, this complex, varied assortment of people, of different dispositions, held within a capsule, travelling; spirited toward their destination with only a window view of life.  Restricted and blurry and at a distance.

How little we know.

Tommy Wiseau's THE ROOM

I want to get this down now and while it is still fresh in my mind but there is no film as ground breaking as The Room.  The fourth wall vanishes and Tommy Wiseau steps into your life and you're free to do whatever you please.  Free to shout, roar, scream or vent your frustration by lobbing spoons.

This brechtian drama explores the relationships and intrigues surrounding one man, Jonny (played by Wiseau), and how these delicate friendships fall asunder once his bored and devious girlfriend decides to sleep with his best friend Mark.  As Tommy himself realises at the climax of the film; 'Every body betray me!'

You will laugh so hard your rib cage will ache.  And there are few things more satisfying than yelling at the on-screen characters and tossing spoons (only on cue of course, this is a thoughtful piece of cinema).

Tommy Wiseau's THE ROOM defies classification.  It is beyond tripe but there is something special in these ruins-It is a cathartic experience and one I recommend you indulge in.

Doctor Who-thoughts

'If you grew up in the 60s/70s you have a vision of the future that looks like a quarry in Cardiff.'

It is amazing how a television show can have such an influence on how you view the world, how you think of it and maybe even how you live your life.  But we, being social creatures, crave a good story; a story of morals and good deeds, villains and misfortune; as is evident in the history of storytelling from the oral tradition to the more modern green screen special effects bonanzas-and Doctor Who is certainly the latter.

I am a newcomer to the series.  Not a relatively newcomer but a bright eyed bushy tailed wet behind the ears newcomer.  I began watching the series (and only the regenerated ones) a little over 18 months ago.  I had seen some episodes to be fair, 'The Empty Child/The Doctor dances' and 'Utopia/The sound of drums/The last of the Timelords' but I did not commit and I was not sucked in until I began to watch the series from episode one, 'Rose'.
It was the Master if anything that got me into the tv show.
I was a big fan of John Simm in 'Life on Mars' and I was curious to see him and his interpretation of 'The Master'.  When I heard that he was to return in 'The end of time' I was eager to get a fuller more comprehensive view of the Doctor, the Master and their universe.  And that is exactly what I did.
Even in the last 5/6 years it is amazing how the show has developed and evolved and while Tennant seems to be a favourite among fans, Matt Smith certainly is doing a wonderful job.
Stephen Moffat is doing an amazing job as writer (the Weeping Angels being an eerie favourite of mine), and new season opener 'The Impossible Astronaut' lends further credence to his reputation.
Murray Gold is always on top form with the beautiful and often delicate soundtrack.

This really is a grand show, and while often I feel that the quality of television has plummeted in recent years, Doctor Who certainly holds the bar and then  raises it a notch.

But let's not forget the message of Doctor Who as outlined by Christopher Eccelsten, the ninth Doctor, 'to love life' so let's not become couch potatoes brooding over our laptops and our televisions, our sims and our second lives, our facebooks and twitter and go out and live some.
It's just what the Doctor ordered...  ;)

Catfish

I have just watched 'Catfish' on MORE4  and felt compelled to share a few thoughts, sporadically and instantly-no time to think it through!
What a wonderful documentary that has left me somewhat confused and a little worried about that handful of people who have requested to be my friend on facebook; people I don't know.
Food for thought.
However, I reckon this little documentary carries several messages;
1.  Know your facebook and know your friends!
2. Watch out for the weird, the crazy and the demented.
3. The CATFISH-we all have them?  Someone to keep us on our toes.

While the lady, Angela, seems to be a strange cross between a stalker and Annie Wilkes from Misery. 
I don't know whether to feel unsettled, creeped out or oddly intrigued what this strange and lonely woman did.
To construct several personalities, a multiple role-playing game that lasted a little over 9 months.
She didn't want money, she just wanted friendship it seems...should I be touched by her humanity or horrified that she used her daughters (one real and one fictional) to talk to and woo a young photographer.

To sum it up-
I'm confused.  Catfish what is that?  If I were to sum it up in one word-Thought-provoking.