Just yesterday Gmail informed me that I had a comment on my blog PROBLEM CHILD, on the post, "so i got fired from my brilliant PR job for not having a degree and all i have to show for it is this lousy blog".
I read the email on my Blackberry, in the middle of my Friday workload. My interest immediately peaked, of course, plucking me from a thought storm of media-related jargon. What was this? Some old, neglected bloggins in which I committed terrible acts of OverShare? Oh dear.
I have something of a blog addiction, you see; I am a perpetrator of blog abuse, having started and abandoned hundreds of the little buggers over the last ten years. (Well, to be truthful I'm not sure how popular 'blogging' as we now know it was back in 1998, but we had Tripod and Geocities, Livejournal, Open Diary...) Most of them were jilted mid-flow and left for the electric, wireless birds. Generally, I blog only during dramatic periods of my life, hastily dropping the habit when I get busy and happy again. As such, I can never recall the right log-ins and passwords in order to delete the remains of myself; remains that trek a snaky path through the world wide web, shrouded in mystery and illusion.
Curious, I decided to revisit this particular old haunt. Aside from the charming pulling-hair-out-lady at the top, I was delighted to discover that PROBLEM CHILD was, despite its threadbare appearances, an unappreciated gem full of witty wisdom! Me at my worst and therefore, my creative best. I instantly felt compelled to resurrect it, to fill it with words, and since the log-in fiasco was handily solved by Gmail, I didn't have a good excuse not to.
Except that: life is pretty sweet nowadays, happy and constant(ish), so I'm not sure how well I will do in recapturing the literary flag, but here goes:
After being unceremoniously ousted during a corporate clean out (largely because my former company realised that I did not have a degree), I was last seen bumping around London town seeking employment and trying not to starve. I mentioned that I'd been offered a PR job with a film company in a previous post and true to my usual lucky-arse form, this is where I have worked very hard for the past nine months or so. I have business cards again, you'll be delighted to hear (they're even fancier than the last ones!), and have even had a promotion. I certainly can't complain about my job, which has cool perks such as free movies and tickets, props and paraphernalia, a fully-stocked Friday bar, sports teams and access to talent but I'm also looking into job opportunities in New York.
Admittedly, getting a work visa to the US is like sailing across the black lake to the Underworld, in the fashion of Orpheus or Odysseus, but it's worth another shot, I reckon. It's either this or wait for President Obama to approve the Uniting American Families Act.
B and I are still together and better than ever, I think; although in a slightly different capacity. We have had some tumultuous times recently and briefly considered splitting, but after a shared vacation to her all-American stomping ground things have taken on a fresh, new light. I can't really explain it - it's as if, having now witnessed her in her own world (which had not happened previously, despite us being married for over a year now), I finally have the puzzle-piece I was missing. I understand her, know her, appreciate her fully, perhaps for the first time. Watch this space.
We had a fantastic time in NYC and I fell in love with all of it: the place itself, her friends, the food, the whole shebang... I particularly like the air conditioners in the windows of high-rise buildings and the giant slices of pizza, the red plastic cups, the silver subway and chowing down on diner breakfasts. I could see us, our imaginary future life, somewhere in Brooklyn or Queens. Maybe we'd even have a dog; I'm liking them more and more despite being raised with cats for sisters. I know this goes against the grain of my Cat vs. Dog people debate but it just goes to show that I'm not always right. People are not permanent but ever-changing. We are still evolving.
Saturday, 12 July 2008
Wednesday, 26 September 2007
inner me
This afternoon's taxi driver informed me that he was a guru and a psychic. He picked me from a ubiquitous rail station car park in North London after I'd interviewed for a celebrity PR job. Crappy offices and no job security but my potential future boss was the hottest Brazilian woman in Britain - plus it looked as if employees there read magazines and watched television all day.
"It's number [bleep] on [bleep] road, if that makes a difference?" I said to the driver.
"No," he replied. "But I can pretend it does if that makes you feel better?"
I said I thought it might change the direction he came from.
"Oh, you don't have to explain yourself to me."
"Maybe that's my problem. I always want to explain myself."
We embarked on what I thought was general chit-chat when we hit red lights. He asked me what I was doing and how I was feeling; I said I was interviewing.
"Oh great, how did it go?"
"We'll see", I replied, offhand-ishly.
I told him it was a job in PR. He pointed to an alleyway and said, "Is it in that building down there?"
It was. "Oh, do you know them, then?" I asked.
"No. I'm psychic."
"Really?"
He said he sensed "tension and expectation" in my breathing pattern (well, "durr" given my unemployment admission), then asked me to name five things that make me happy. I came up with love, people, experience, spirituality and good food. He mulled this over for a while and said, "You're too focused on the bigger picture, and you're too dependent on outside influences to make you feel complete. If you'd asked me that same question I would've said: traffic isn't bad today; the sun is shining; I am a good person; I like the outfit I have chosen to wear; those white flowers in the middle of the embankment are so beautiful and it's great that someone put them there... It's the small things, day to day, that have to make you happy. Nothing more than that or you'll always find yourself searching for more."
"I see."
"I sense that you're not in a good place right now." (I shrugged.)
Silence, then:
"You think you're open, but you're not open," he said. "I can tell by the way you cross your arms and legs, by the way you think carefully about your answers before giving them whilst looking at nothing out of windows. You only want to tell me what you want to hear yourself say."
...
"Maybe."
"All you need to do is breathe. Breathe and let others breathe. Take a moment for yourself."
"I will. I want to."
"Some things are about you and you alone. Love is not everything. If you give everything to love, what do you bring? You should bring yourself to the table, not a servant to desire."
"I suppose not. I always thought it was, everything, for some reason."
We sat in silence again as we rounded the North Circular. When we passed through the shadow of a bridge, he broke it: "You will always find greater peace eventually in the changes that really challenge you. They are the hardest changes, because it is difficult to break a habit of a lifetime, but the effects of these changes are long-lasting, sometimes permanent. These changes are capable of enriching your life in ways you don't yet understand, because you have never experienced this kind of inner freedom. And it isn't wise to hang onto beliefs and bad habits by claiming that they are 'who you are', because then you're saying that you're incapable of becoming better. If you keep on making the same mistakes, why do you expect different results?"
Dumbfounded, I climbed out at my street and handed him my money. "Thank you," I said, "You're -"
"A good person. I know. And remember, so are you"
* * *
Rock, paper and scissors are in a bar, discussing what incompatible bed mates they make.
Paper smothers rock, which rock does not enjoy. Scissors cuts paper up, sharply targeting its weakness. Rock and scissors can only bounce bluntly off one another, going nowhere and doing nothing. This is because they are all so different. Rock is solid and smooth but says little. Paper is too fragile, a blank canvas to draw on. Scissors, with silver blades and bright, welcoming handles, is the coolest but most dangerous (also, scissors are never needed for long before they are put safely back in drawers).
"This game is stupid," says paper, nursing its wounds. "We're just getting hurt."
"It's kind of fun for me," says scissors. "Only, rock is making me blunt."
Says rock: "Neither of you have any effect on me."
"Hey!" says paper, prodding rock aggressively. "I wrap you up, remember? ... Although, I never really understood what was so bad about that."
Rock: "What good is a rock covered in paper? It's not as powerful."
"Why not? What difference does it make?"
"A rock should just be a rock, don't you think? They're just cooler that way."
* * *
P.S. - I got the job at the aforementioned film PR company (see last post)! They told me via e-mail. Argh. It begins.
"It's number [bleep] on [bleep] road, if that makes a difference?" I said to the driver.
"No," he replied. "But I can pretend it does if that makes you feel better?"
I said I thought it might change the direction he came from.
"Oh, you don't have to explain yourself to me."
"Maybe that's my problem. I always want to explain myself."
We embarked on what I thought was general chit-chat when we hit red lights. He asked me what I was doing and how I was feeling; I said I was interviewing.
"Oh great, how did it go?"
"We'll see", I replied, offhand-ishly.
I told him it was a job in PR. He pointed to an alleyway and said, "Is it in that building down there?"
It was. "Oh, do you know them, then?" I asked.
"No. I'm psychic."
"Really?"
He said he sensed "tension and expectation" in my breathing pattern (well, "durr" given my unemployment admission), then asked me to name five things that make me happy. I came up with love, people, experience, spirituality and good food. He mulled this over for a while and said, "You're too focused on the bigger picture, and you're too dependent on outside influences to make you feel complete. If you'd asked me that same question I would've said: traffic isn't bad today; the sun is shining; I am a good person; I like the outfit I have chosen to wear; those white flowers in the middle of the embankment are so beautiful and it's great that someone put them there... It's the small things, day to day, that have to make you happy. Nothing more than that or you'll always find yourself searching for more."
"I see."
"I sense that you're not in a good place right now." (I shrugged.)
Silence, then:
"You think you're open, but you're not open," he said. "I can tell by the way you cross your arms and legs, by the way you think carefully about your answers before giving them whilst looking at nothing out of windows. You only want to tell me what you want to hear yourself say."
...
"Maybe."
"All you need to do is breathe. Breathe and let others breathe. Take a moment for yourself."
"I will. I want to."
"Some things are about you and you alone. Love is not everything. If you give everything to love, what do you bring? You should bring yourself to the table, not a servant to desire."
"I suppose not. I always thought it was, everything, for some reason."
We sat in silence again as we rounded the North Circular. When we passed through the shadow of a bridge, he broke it: "You will always find greater peace eventually in the changes that really challenge you. They are the hardest changes, because it is difficult to break a habit of a lifetime, but the effects of these changes are long-lasting, sometimes permanent. These changes are capable of enriching your life in ways you don't yet understand, because you have never experienced this kind of inner freedom. And it isn't wise to hang onto beliefs and bad habits by claiming that they are 'who you are', because then you're saying that you're incapable of becoming better. If you keep on making the same mistakes, why do you expect different results?"
Dumbfounded, I climbed out at my street and handed him my money. "Thank you," I said, "You're -"
"A good person. I know. And remember, so are you"
* * *
Rock, paper and scissors are in a bar, discussing what incompatible bed mates they make.
Paper smothers rock, which rock does not enjoy. Scissors cuts paper up, sharply targeting its weakness. Rock and scissors can only bounce bluntly off one another, going nowhere and doing nothing. This is because they are all so different. Rock is solid and smooth but says little. Paper is too fragile, a blank canvas to draw on. Scissors, with silver blades and bright, welcoming handles, is the coolest but most dangerous (also, scissors are never needed for long before they are put safely back in drawers).
"This game is stupid," says paper, nursing its wounds. "We're just getting hurt."
"It's kind of fun for me," says scissors. "Only, rock is making me blunt."
Says rock: "Neither of you have any effect on me."
"Hey!" says paper, prodding rock aggressively. "I wrap you up, remember? ... Although, I never really understood what was so bad about that."
Rock: "What good is a rock covered in paper? It's not as powerful."
"Why not? What difference does it make?"
"A rock should just be a rock, don't you think? They're just cooler that way."
* * *
P.S. - I got the job at the aforementioned film PR company (see last post)! They told me via e-mail. Argh. It begins.
Thursday, 20 September 2007
good, bad, ugly
GOOD
Several days ago I told B and flatmate Ali that I'd found a "dream job" of sorts - doing PR assistant-y things for a small online agency whose clients include several film companies. Today, they ('they' being the company themselves, not some dipshit agency) sent me an e-mail to invite me to an interview on Monday. The salary is negotiable and the position starts 'ASAP': wish me luck, folks!
We've also been having plenty of fun in the new digs. Recently, Ali held a circus skills workshop in the kitchen (she's bringing her unicycle down to London soon) and this weekend I'm supposed to be giving a tutorial on lucid dreaming. Last night, after some rather intense conversations about religious schooling and the police force, we decided to stay up until 2am playing drinking games that included 'don't drop the ball', 'fuck, marry, kill' and a Harry Potter/Friends trivia quiz. We are twenty-four years old, yet we can still entertain ourselves for hours by compiling top 5 L Word lists (mine: Carmen, Bette, Jenny, Alice, Helena).
BAD
Tonight, B, Ali and I are going VIP bar and club hopping with my sort-of-ex-girlfriend - the magazine editor I briefly worked for and met on the internet when we were both 16 year-old fans of Bad Girls. It's bound to get a bit messy, especially since B has to work on Friday and we're all slightly hungover from yesterday. I haven't been Out out in London for quite a while; I usually get bored and want to go home before 11pm but I'm going to do my best to let my hair down and get into the swing of things this time.
We are all going to see Ani Difranco together in October, too, and being a natural-born matchmaker I had rather hoped that Ali and Editor might hit it off because they have similar qualities and would probably enjoy each other's company. I even offered to give Ali my Press Pass for her birthday so she could go backstage with Editor. A sweet little date. Unfortunately, I think Editor is casually seeing someone else, Graphic Design Chick, who I've also met and like a lot but Ali is definitely a better catch. Still, I should know better than to meddle in the love lives of others, right? Right?
UGLY
I attended three recruitment agency meetings yesterday in my nicest office clothes. I felt a bit like a model, clutching my tube map and Paperchase diary, doing a day-round of "go-sees". You can always tell which girls are models on the Underground. They always stand up in corners, usually going only a few stops, and stare vacantly at their reflections in the dark windows whilst swigging Fiji water.
By 5pm I was exhausted and very sick of being told what a nice, clever girl I am "but so hard to sell to clients". I thought about bailing on the last appointment but, standing in Baker Street station, torn between Northbound and Southbound lines, I breathed deep and told myself: "Buck up, girl, just do it!" Moments later and there I was, sweaty and weatherworn.
The offices were very plush; as I sat down, I was handed a drinks menu. Impressed, I ordered a Coke. "Ooh," said the receptionist, as if I were some kind of fat, eco-unfriendly freak, "we don't get many people asking for those."
As usual I tried not to feel too out of place, rooting through my bag that smells like coffee and curry and is filled with crumbs and dirty pennies. I gave them my passport to photocopy, dusting it a bit on my trousers first.
A different receptionist then asked me to take some ridiculous aptitude test in which I had to circle phrases most like me and least like me. Many of the questions included phrases about "being well-liked" and doing things "for the validation of others". I found this to be a bit irrelevant, because this is supposed to be about me and my skills. I don't think it's a good employee quality to focus too much on the social aspect of work: makes you easily distracted. I mean, of course I like a good old chinwag and a team lunch with drinks, but at this present time it's mostly about working hard and keeping my head down.
Anyway, yet another receptionist sent me an e-mail with my results later that evening. I almost cried when I downloaded the full PDF file.
Apparently, Friendliness and Self-Confidence are "inactive traits" in my personality; it also pegs me as "totally uncommunicative". The test had two results sections - permanent traits and traits I'm affecting to appear more employable - and apparently people skills are non-existent in both. I'm also, apparently, 100% submissive and 0% assertive, with no ability to make decisions for myself or take control.
The report describes me, in 17-page detail, as a technically-minded analyst who works best with facts and numbers. It told me I was 88% suitable for a Quality Controller or Software Engineer position yet only 30% suitable for a Personal Assistant or Marketing position. Worst of all, it describes my pressure response as 'evading': "candidate will avoid conflict until it is absolutely vital to act, often ignoring problems or pretending that they don't exist"; oh, and I make no efforts to maintain personal or business relationships, either.
What the...? Should I really have become some kind of IT nerd or data entry clerk, or is this so-called aptitude test just a load of bollocks? Do I have a multiple personality disorder, or am I just so clever at lying that I could fool a lie detector test on Trisha? What's the deal here?!
Either way, the posh recruiters are hardly going to give me a PR job now, are they? I'm an anti-social freak!
Several days ago I told B and flatmate Ali that I'd found a "dream job" of sorts - doing PR assistant-y things for a small online agency whose clients include several film companies. Today, they ('they' being the company themselves, not some dipshit agency) sent me an e-mail to invite me to an interview on Monday. The salary is negotiable and the position starts 'ASAP': wish me luck, folks!
We've also been having plenty of fun in the new digs. Recently, Ali held a circus skills workshop in the kitchen (she's bringing her unicycle down to London soon) and this weekend I'm supposed to be giving a tutorial on lucid dreaming. Last night, after some rather intense conversations about religious schooling and the police force, we decided to stay up until 2am playing drinking games that included 'don't drop the ball', 'fuck, marry, kill' and a Harry Potter/Friends trivia quiz. We are twenty-four years old, yet we can still entertain ourselves for hours by compiling top 5 L Word lists (mine: Carmen, Bette, Jenny, Alice, Helena).
BAD
Tonight, B, Ali and I are going VIP bar and club hopping with my sort-of-ex-girlfriend - the magazine editor I briefly worked for and met on the internet when we were both 16 year-old fans of Bad Girls. It's bound to get a bit messy, especially since B has to work on Friday and we're all slightly hungover from yesterday. I haven't been Out out in London for quite a while; I usually get bored and want to go home before 11pm but I'm going to do my best to let my hair down and get into the swing of things this time.
We are all going to see Ani Difranco together in October, too, and being a natural-born matchmaker I had rather hoped that Ali and Editor might hit it off because they have similar qualities and would probably enjoy each other's company. I even offered to give Ali my Press Pass for her birthday so she could go backstage with Editor. A sweet little date. Unfortunately, I think Editor is casually seeing someone else, Graphic Design Chick, who I've also met and like a lot but Ali is definitely a better catch. Still, I should know better than to meddle in the love lives of others, right? Right?
UGLY
I attended three recruitment agency meetings yesterday in my nicest office clothes. I felt a bit like a model, clutching my tube map and Paperchase diary, doing a day-round of "go-sees". You can always tell which girls are models on the Underground. They always stand up in corners, usually going only a few stops, and stare vacantly at their reflections in the dark windows whilst swigging Fiji water.
By 5pm I was exhausted and very sick of being told what a nice, clever girl I am "but so hard to sell to clients". I thought about bailing on the last appointment but, standing in Baker Street station, torn between Northbound and Southbound lines, I breathed deep and told myself: "Buck up, girl, just do it!" Moments later and there I was, sweaty and weatherworn.
The offices were very plush; as I sat down, I was handed a drinks menu. Impressed, I ordered a Coke. "Ooh," said the receptionist, as if I were some kind of fat, eco-unfriendly freak, "we don't get many people asking for those."
As usual I tried not to feel too out of place, rooting through my bag that smells like coffee and curry and is filled with crumbs and dirty pennies. I gave them my passport to photocopy, dusting it a bit on my trousers first.
A different receptionist then asked me to take some ridiculous aptitude test in which I had to circle phrases most like me and least like me. Many of the questions included phrases about "being well-liked" and doing things "for the validation of others". I found this to be a bit irrelevant, because this is supposed to be about me and my skills. I don't think it's a good employee quality to focus too much on the social aspect of work: makes you easily distracted. I mean, of course I like a good old chinwag and a team lunch with drinks, but at this present time it's mostly about working hard and keeping my head down.
Anyway, yet another receptionist sent me an e-mail with my results later that evening. I almost cried when I downloaded the full PDF file.
Apparently, Friendliness and Self-Confidence are "inactive traits" in my personality; it also pegs me as "totally uncommunicative". The test had two results sections - permanent traits and traits I'm affecting to appear more employable - and apparently people skills are non-existent in both. I'm also, apparently, 100% submissive and 0% assertive, with no ability to make decisions for myself or take control.
The report describes me, in 17-page detail, as a technically-minded analyst who works best with facts and numbers. It told me I was 88% suitable for a Quality Controller or Software Engineer position yet only 30% suitable for a Personal Assistant or Marketing position. Worst of all, it describes my pressure response as 'evading': "candidate will avoid conflict until it is absolutely vital to act, often ignoring problems or pretending that they don't exist"; oh, and I make no efforts to maintain personal or business relationships, either.
What the...? Should I really have become some kind of IT nerd or data entry clerk, or is this so-called aptitude test just a load of bollocks? Do I have a multiple personality disorder, or am I just so clever at lying that I could fool a lie detector test on Trisha? What's the deal here?!
Either way, the posh recruiters are hardly going to give me a PR job now, are they? I'm an anti-social freak!
Sunday, 16 September 2007
pulp
Motorcycle Diaries
B went out on Ali's bike for the first time tonight, now that she has a helmet. I practically begged her not to go. It's not that I don't trust Ali, "I just don't trust the nutters on the roads."
Says Anna: "That's exactly what my Mum says."
Says Tanya: "You're such a wuss."
B called me en route. She said she'd made Ali stop the bike specifically so she could call and let me know she's okay, she's alive, not to worry.
Epic Movies
I watched Independence Day for the first time yesterday. I love apocalyptic, end-of-the-world films with sweeping soundtracks, lots of special effects and hackneyed, life-and-death moments.
This is a full list of times I cried:
- When Will Smith's friend got blasted, even though he was annoying: "BUDDY! (gulp) WINGMAN!?"
- When Jeff Goldblum and his wife were talking about their brokedown marriage and his lack of ambition: "I was part of something special (us)"; "Love was never the problem"; etc.
- When Vivica Fox got to the army base where her boyfriend Will Smith worked and saw that it had been totally obliterated.
- When the President's wife died.
- The President's 4th July speech to his people. Wow.
- When the deadbeat dad sacrificed his life so he could kick some alien butt.
- When Will Smith and Goldbum came back from space, and Vivica Fox and the other one were running to meet them through the desert.
B went out on Ali's bike for the first time tonight, now that she has a helmet. I practically begged her not to go. It's not that I don't trust Ali, "I just don't trust the nutters on the roads."
Says Anna: "That's exactly what my Mum says."
Says Tanya: "You're such a wuss."
B called me en route. She said she'd made Ali stop the bike specifically so she could call and let me know she's okay, she's alive, not to worry.
Epic Movies
I watched Independence Day for the first time yesterday. I love apocalyptic, end-of-the-world films with sweeping soundtracks, lots of special effects and hackneyed, life-and-death moments.
This is a full list of times I cried:
- When Will Smith's friend got blasted, even though he was annoying: "BUDDY! (gulp) WINGMAN!?"
- When Jeff Goldblum and his wife were talking about their brokedown marriage and his lack of ambition: "I was part of something special (us)"; "Love was never the problem"; etc.
- When Vivica Fox got to the army base where her boyfriend Will Smith worked and saw that it had been totally obliterated.
- When the President's wife died.
- The President's 4th July speech to his people. Wow.
- When the deadbeat dad sacrificed his life so he could kick some alien butt.
- When Will Smith and Goldbum came back from space, and Vivica Fox and the other one were running to meet them through the desert.
Saturday, 15 September 2007
on the rocks
B and I are on the rocks. We are lost in the middle of the ocean on our last-chance vacation.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
The waves rise higher and loom larger as a wild and wicked storm rages. Our boat, a romantic but defective gondola, is water-logged and sinking fast. I watch as it goes under, giving one last bubbly 'blurp' of apology.
"How did we get here?"
B: "We've taken a wrong turn. I don't know how it happened."
"It's my fault, probably."
B: "No, it's mine."
"Fifty-fifty?"
B: "Okay. That's fair."
The sky, dark with foreboding, looks like a giant bruise - black and blue and purple, sucking in the light. We stand on what was once a moon crator rock but is now just two devil's horns, a pair of stalagmites sticking out of the ocean. We are huddled together precariously on one, skidding around and trying not to plunge into the water.
B: "I'm going to stand on the other rock."
"Why?"
B: "I think we have a better chance of surviving if we stand apart."
"You're leaving me now?"
B: "Don't say it like that! There's no room! One of us is going to fall and drown and the other will be left, gripping on... I'm trying to save us both."
I don't know what is rain and what are tears. "I'm scared to lose you."
B: "I won't be far. I promise."
B hops over to the other rock. I hold onto her hand but it slides away.
"There's no hope for us, is there?"
B: "Don't say that... "
...
B: "I don't want it to be over."
B leans towards my rock and extends her arm. I do the same and she knots her fingers tightly around mine. She loses her footing a little in the act. I watch in slow motion as she wobbles dangerously but defies gravity. My mouth is open, poised to scream. I sigh instead.
...
"Do you have a solution to this, by the way?"
...
B: "I don't think so."
"It's an impossible problem, isn't it?"
We stand in silence, watching rain thrash the scenery. Every so often a silver fish or rubbery jelly bobs to the surface, looking equally concerned about the bad weather. I turn and watch B's face, cool even in the face of death. She senses me staring and looks over, smiles sadly... I turn away.
B: "I wish we had one more chance."
"Me too."
...
"What would you differently?"
...
B: "I would have more faith."
"You did."
B: "Not enough."
...
B: "What about you?"
"I wouldn't live in my own world."
B: "You didn't, not all the time."
"Too much."
...
B: "I'm sorry I nearly gave up on us. I was so tired, tired of worrying."
"I know".
B: "I wasn't strong enough for us both. Not all of the time."
"I know."
B: "But I should've told you... I should've shown you... I could've..."
"It's okay. I know. You don't have to."
...
B: "It was always about you. I hope you know that... It was always you."
...
"I should've had more faith too, I guess."
The water is now so high that waves begin crashing down over us. Each one is a punch, like crashing headfirst through floors and floors of plywood. I lay down on the rock, crying without sound, and hold on with two hands and both feet as another wave lashes me. My head is full of nothing. It subsides eventually but my eyes are left blurred and stinging with saltwater.
I cannot make out if B is still holding on or if she's been swept away. I shout her name: "B! B! B! Hold on, baby!"
I hear nothing for a moment - a moment in which the wind drops and the howling resides to a whimper. The air is momentarily clear as B calls back: "I love you! Don't forget it, okay?" (A lightning bolt.) "I'll be thinking of you, worrying about you, always..." (The crack.)
The rock beneath me submerges and I float into the bottomless sea, which is freezing cold and furious. B is a little further away from me now, still holding on to the remaining devil's horn. She is suspended, inches about the water level. She can't swim, I remember, panicking. She can't swim! I kick against the current, trying to get back to B but it pulls me in the opposite direction. I struggle and kick and pound the water with my arms, slapping the surface, but she keeps getting smaller and smaller and smaller...
In these last moments B and I pray to the same mysterious and anonymous God of earth. The God we talked of in loose, universal code and blindly believed in despite all of our modern cynicism. Please save us, I whisper, eyes closed and burning. Or at least save her.
It is only then that I blink and notice the red, low-flying machine circling us, slowly looping where the rock once stood tall.
A helicopter.
"HELP! HEY! HERE!"
My voice echoes for miles. I don't know whether they can hear me or see me but I wave and holler until I'm hoarse. I am possessed with the super-strength of comic-book heroes. I could run miles. Climb mountains. But not swim oceans, which must be harder somehow.
I look across the water for B. I cannot see her but I know that if she went underwater it has not been too long. It is not yet too late.
There is still hope.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
The waves rise higher and loom larger as a wild and wicked storm rages. Our boat, a romantic but defective gondola, is water-logged and sinking fast. I watch as it goes under, giving one last bubbly 'blurp' of apology.
"How did we get here?"
B: "We've taken a wrong turn. I don't know how it happened."
"It's my fault, probably."
B: "No, it's mine."
"Fifty-fifty?"
B: "Okay. That's fair."
The sky, dark with foreboding, looks like a giant bruise - black and blue and purple, sucking in the light. We stand on what was once a moon crator rock but is now just two devil's horns, a pair of stalagmites sticking out of the ocean. We are huddled together precariously on one, skidding around and trying not to plunge into the water.
B: "I'm going to stand on the other rock."
"Why?"
B: "I think we have a better chance of surviving if we stand apart."
"You're leaving me now?"
B: "Don't say it like that! There's no room! One of us is going to fall and drown and the other will be left, gripping on... I'm trying to save us both."
I don't know what is rain and what are tears. "I'm scared to lose you."
B: "I won't be far. I promise."
B hops over to the other rock. I hold onto her hand but it slides away.
"There's no hope for us, is there?"
B: "Don't say that... "
...
B: "I don't want it to be over."
B leans towards my rock and extends her arm. I do the same and she knots her fingers tightly around mine. She loses her footing a little in the act. I watch in slow motion as she wobbles dangerously but defies gravity. My mouth is open, poised to scream. I sigh instead.
...
"Do you have a solution to this, by the way?"
...
B: "I don't think so."
"It's an impossible problem, isn't it?"
We stand in silence, watching rain thrash the scenery. Every so often a silver fish or rubbery jelly bobs to the surface, looking equally concerned about the bad weather. I turn and watch B's face, cool even in the face of death. She senses me staring and looks over, smiles sadly... I turn away.
B: "I wish we had one more chance."
"Me too."
...
"What would you differently?"
...
B: "I would have more faith."
"You did."
B: "Not enough."
...
B: "What about you?"
"I wouldn't live in my own world."
B: "You didn't, not all the time."
"Too much."
...
B: "I'm sorry I nearly gave up on us. I was so tired, tired of worrying."
"I know".
B: "I wasn't strong enough for us both. Not all of the time."
"I know."
B: "But I should've told you... I should've shown you... I could've..."
"It's okay. I know. You don't have to."
...
B: "It was always about you. I hope you know that... It was always you."
...
"I should've had more faith too, I guess."
The water is now so high that waves begin crashing down over us. Each one is a punch, like crashing headfirst through floors and floors of plywood. I lay down on the rock, crying without sound, and hold on with two hands and both feet as another wave lashes me. My head is full of nothing. It subsides eventually but my eyes are left blurred and stinging with saltwater.
I cannot make out if B is still holding on or if she's been swept away. I shout her name: "B! B! B! Hold on, baby!"
I hear nothing for a moment - a moment in which the wind drops and the howling resides to a whimper. The air is momentarily clear as B calls back: "I love you! Don't forget it, okay?" (A lightning bolt.) "I'll be thinking of you, worrying about you, always..." (The crack.)
The rock beneath me submerges and I float into the bottomless sea, which is freezing cold and furious. B is a little further away from me now, still holding on to the remaining devil's horn. She is suspended, inches about the water level. She can't swim, I remember, panicking. She can't swim! I kick against the current, trying to get back to B but it pulls me in the opposite direction. I struggle and kick and pound the water with my arms, slapping the surface, but she keeps getting smaller and smaller and smaller...
In these last moments B and I pray to the same mysterious and anonymous God of earth. The God we talked of in loose, universal code and blindly believed in despite all of our modern cynicism. Please save us, I whisper, eyes closed and burning. Or at least save her.
It is only then that I blink and notice the red, low-flying machine circling us, slowly looping where the rock once stood tall.
A helicopter.
"HELP! HEY! HERE!"
My voice echoes for miles. I don't know whether they can hear me or see me but I wave and holler until I'm hoarse. I am possessed with the super-strength of comic-book heroes. I could run miles. Climb mountains. But not swim oceans, which must be harder somehow.
I look across the water for B. I cannot see her but I know that if she went underwater it has not been too long. It is not yet too late.
There is still hope.
Friday, 14 September 2007
stop the world, i wanna get off!
I woke up at 8.58am when a recruitment agent named Plum called me on my mobile phone.
"Hello!" she trilled, brightly (she probably didn't even start work until 10.30am; she was just putting the extra hours in). "Is that Morgan?"
"Err, yes?"
"I'm calling from Yet Another Recruitment Solutions Management Consultancy? I see that we received your CV at, um, 3.20am this morning and I think we might have a vacancy - a few vacancies in fact - that will be right up your alley."
Not up my street, up my alley - an alley full of bins and cats and passed-out tramps.
"So, can you tell me briefly what you're looking for, Morgan?" Plum asked.
"Um, well..."
Hang on, I thought. How can she have suitable vacancies lined up for me when she doesn't even know what I want? Furthermore, if she'd actually read my CV she would've seen that my objective is clearly defined, in bold, at the top of the first page...
I had stayed up 'til 4am applying for jobs and had been kept awake by the Polish male gigolo in Flat B's washing-machine for a further hour after that, so I wasn't in the mood to lie fervently. I had no intention of going to the sales job interview I had lined up. After nearly bursting into tears during the first interview it was clear that I would quit within weeks if not days, hours, minutes or split-seconds... One moment I'd be standing at the copier-fax, the next I'd be out of the building, lighting up and running for the bus, any bus.
I cleared my throat of mucus and tried not to sound too much like a lazy, jobless crackwhore as I informed her that I was seeking a permanent full-time position with career progression, ideally in marketing or media. She invited me into the office to take a wpm typing test. No problem. I can type 80 wpm with just two fingers.
"How's 11am on Monday for you?"
"Um, do you have anything in the evening - I mean, in the afternoon? I have, um, an 'appointment' in the morning."
"Ooh-kay then. Can you manage 2pm?"
Plum sent me the following e-mail as confirmation of our appointment. Please enjoy pointing out the numerous grammatical errors in it to make me feel like a bigger, better person. A woman with an obvious aversion to full stops can get a proper office job, but I'm unemployable? Pah! Humbug!
"Hello!" she trilled, brightly (she probably didn't even start work until 10.30am; she was just putting the extra hours in). "Is that Morgan?"
"Err, yes?"
"I'm calling from Yet Another Recruitment Solutions Management Consultancy? I see that we received your CV at, um, 3.20am this morning and I think we might have a vacancy - a few vacancies in fact - that will be right up your alley."
Not up my street, up my alley - an alley full of bins and cats and passed-out tramps.
"So, can you tell me briefly what you're looking for, Morgan?" Plum asked.
"Um, well..."
Hang on, I thought. How can she have suitable vacancies lined up for me when she doesn't even know what I want? Furthermore, if she'd actually read my CV she would've seen that my objective is clearly defined, in bold, at the top of the first page...
I had stayed up 'til 4am applying for jobs and had been kept awake by the Polish male gigolo in Flat B's washing-machine for a further hour after that, so I wasn't in the mood to lie fervently. I had no intention of going to the sales job interview I had lined up. After nearly bursting into tears during the first interview it was clear that I would quit within weeks if not days, hours, minutes or split-seconds... One moment I'd be standing at the copier-fax, the next I'd be out of the building, lighting up and running for the bus, any bus.
I cleared my throat of mucus and tried not to sound too much like a lazy, jobless crackwhore as I informed her that I was seeking a permanent full-time position with career progression, ideally in marketing or media. She invited me into the office to take a wpm typing test. No problem. I can type 80 wpm with just two fingers.
"How's 11am on Monday for you?"
"Um, do you have anything in the evening - I mean, in the afternoon? I have, um, an 'appointment' in the morning."
"Ooh-kay then. Can you manage 2pm?"
Plum sent me the following e-mail as confirmation of our appointment. Please enjoy pointing out the numerous grammatical errors in it to make me feel like a bigger, better person. A woman with an obvious aversion to full stops can get a proper office job, but I'm unemployable? Pah! Humbug!
I looking forward to see you on Monday at 2 please bring you passport.Travel directions near tube are Whitechapel station exit poultry left come into the building on the side entrance right ask for reception sign for the fist floor.Fist floor. Sounds great.
the troll daughter
According to folklore, a changeling is the child of trolls, fairies or elves who is left in the place of a stolen human child. Beautiful women and children - particularly those with blonde hair - are most desired by trolls, who themselves are rather ugly and grey and lumpy.
The Welsh believe that the changeling child initially resembles the human child it substitutes but grows uglier in appearance or behaviour over time: "ill-featured, malformed, ill-tempered and given to screaming and biting", according to Wikipedia. Another variation of the legend about changelings states they take the exact form of the stolen child but appear empty or emotionless behind the eyes. The changeling may be of less than usual intelligence or it may just have trouble adapating to the normal, mortal world. As such, the legend of changelings has been used to explain many deformed and retarded children throughout history as well as those who were simply disagreeable, wicked or otherwise maladjusted. Martin Luther, for example, once met a twelve year-old boy who did nothing but eat and ordered for him to be drowned.
One Swedish fairy tale describes a girl-princess who is swapped for a troll baby during the night. They look alike so nobody notices the swap. Both grow up to become beautiful women but both are unhappy. The troll daughter, who has an appetite for chaos and destruction, is displaced in the ordinary world. She always says the wrong thing and lacks common sense. People often find her behaviour inappropriate. Meanwhile, the human princess feels just as out of place in the forest and is unhappy about a pre-arranged marriage to a grotesque troll prince.
Both girls decide to run away and pass each other in the forest but do not recognise themselves. The princess finds her way to the castle and her real mother, the Queen, instantly bursts into tears, knowing her true daughter has returned at last. Meanwhile, the troll daughter stumbles across a large, grubby-looking woman talking to herself while washing clothes in the river and laughs aloud, proclaiming her the funniest person she's met in her whole life. The troll washerwoman turns around and recognises her daughter, who was stolen from her by interfering fairies a decade ago. Both girls, apparently, marry happily on the same day.
This is what happened to me, I think.
At some point, around the age of thirteen, I was stolen from my bed and swapped for a putrid, pudgy troll.
The Welsh believe that the changeling child initially resembles the human child it substitutes but grows uglier in appearance or behaviour over time: "ill-featured, malformed, ill-tempered and given to screaming and biting", according to Wikipedia. Another variation of the legend about changelings states they take the exact form of the stolen child but appear empty or emotionless behind the eyes. The changeling may be of less than usual intelligence or it may just have trouble adapating to the normal, mortal world. As such, the legend of changelings has been used to explain many deformed and retarded children throughout history as well as those who were simply disagreeable, wicked or otherwise maladjusted. Martin Luther, for example, once met a twelve year-old boy who did nothing but eat and ordered for him to be drowned.
One Swedish fairy tale describes a girl-princess who is swapped for a troll baby during the night. They look alike so nobody notices the swap. Both grow up to become beautiful women but both are unhappy. The troll daughter, who has an appetite for chaos and destruction, is displaced in the ordinary world. She always says the wrong thing and lacks common sense. People often find her behaviour inappropriate. Meanwhile, the human princess feels just as out of place in the forest and is unhappy about a pre-arranged marriage to a grotesque troll prince.Both girls decide to run away and pass each other in the forest but do not recognise themselves. The princess finds her way to the castle and her real mother, the Queen, instantly bursts into tears, knowing her true daughter has returned at last. Meanwhile, the troll daughter stumbles across a large, grubby-looking woman talking to herself while washing clothes in the river and laughs aloud, proclaiming her the funniest person she's met in her whole life. The troll washerwoman turns around and recognises her daughter, who was stolen from her by interfering fairies a decade ago. Both girls, apparently, marry happily on the same day.
This is what happened to me, I think.
At some point, around the age of thirteen, I was stolen from my bed and swapped for a putrid, pudgy troll.
Thursday, 13 September 2007
conversations with my mother
We are sat drinking coffee in Costa. I am chewing nervously on my fingernails and trying to hide an Australia-shaped stain on my dress.
Mum: I've always said that you're a problem child but I'll never know what your problem is, darling.
Me: I don't know either.
[Silence]
Me: Nothing bad ever happened in my life except the bad things I did.
Mum: Stop that, now. You've suffered enough.
Me: I know I need help... I just don't know what for.
Mum: You don't need help. You just need to stick at a job, get some money coming in, have a little stability...
Me: It's a mess, Mum. I don't know where to start.
[Silence]
Me: I hate me. B hates me, too. I'm always messing up. She's stuck doing all of the housework and looking after me, picking up the pieces, putting up with my moods... I can't do anything for myself.
Mum: You can if you try.
Me: No wonder we're having problems - she must feel like my carer.
[Silence]
Mum: You have to learn to be more independent. Of course she's not going to desire you if you act like a child.
Me: I don't know any other way. I never had to do anything for myself.
Mum: [guiltily] We gave you a good upbringing, didn't we? Me and your father? You had a nice life. We loved you and encouraged you and you always got everything you asked for...
Me: I know I did. I always had piles of presents at Christmas.
Mum: You did well at school, too; you had your acting and your stories - people wanted to publish them! You were so talented! You're still so talented, that's what bothers me.
[Silence]
Mum: I've got all of your pictures, you know, I cut them out of the newspapers. I kept them all. And your Dad, he was so proud he invited all of his friends from the Council...
Me: They bought me flowers, I remember.
Mum: It's a shame for you, but it's not over yet. You just have to do the best you can with what you've still got.
Me: I'm twenty-four already. I'm washed up.
Mum: What rubbish! You're still young, still learning...
Me: I thought I'd get everything I wanted in life without having to try too hard. I was spoilt.
Mum: [sighing] I knew you'd blame us eventually. That's why I've never wanted you to go into therapy. That's what they do, those psychotherapists - they turn you against your family and put all these ideas in your head...
Me: It's not like that. Don't be dramatic. Listen, there's this one psychologist who says, "being an only child is a disease in itself". I like that, don't you?
Mum: I suppose so.
Me: It wasn't your fault, Mum. I was always going to be a selfish narcissist with dependency issues.
Mum: [shaking her head] It's true. You never even cleaned your own bedroom. We bought your dinner up on a tray, whatever you liked, even if it meant making two seperate meals. I was too lenient with you... I see it now, where we went wrong, but at the time... [She smiles] You were my daughter, my one and only child: I would've gone to the moon and back if you'd wanted me to. I would now.
Mum: I remember when those two policemen came to the house. I saw them pulling up in their white car and walking slowly to the door. I saw those yellow lumo jackets through the stained glass before they even knocked. They were talking to themselves and I thought, oh God. Oh no. My daughter is dead. My daughter is dead of a drug overdose on someone else's kitchen floor and they've come to tell me.
Me: I'm sorry, Mum.
Mum: ...and when they said they were looking for you in connection with something, I was so fucking angry! I was so bloody mad I could've killed you myself.
[Silence]
Mum: It had been so long since you'd been arrested and I really thought you were keeping your nose clean...
Me: I was! It was a misunderstanding!
Mum: I regret the day you ever met that girl. I regret the day you ever met those people. What were you thinking? Running around, making cupcakes for gangsters? I knew nothing good would come of it.
Me: I did some tests on the internet today. I've been feeling depressed. They told me I might have Borderline Personality Disorder.
Mum: What have I told you about that? Silly girl. You don't need some website to tell you that you're crazy.
Me: Wait, listen. It says a lot of stuff about instability, fear of abandonment, inability to cope with ordinary life... There could be something in it.
Mum [looking worried]: You don't have that. You're not that. You're fine, I know you are.
Me: I hope so. I think I'm okay. I am okay. I don't have Borderline Personality Disorder. I'm just a hypochondriac.
Mum: [ignoring this] You'll find your feet someday. I know you will.
Me: What if I'm just born to fail miserably?
Mum: No way! You're a Morgan. You're a fighter. In this family, we get knocked down but we get back up. We dust off our knees and we say, "what, you think I'd give up that easily?"
Mum: I've always said that you're a problem child but I'll never know what your problem is, darling.
Me: I don't know either.
[Silence]
Me: Nothing bad ever happened in my life except the bad things I did.
Mum: Stop that, now. You've suffered enough.
Me: I know I need help... I just don't know what for.
Mum: You don't need help. You just need to stick at a job, get some money coming in, have a little stability...
Me: It's a mess, Mum. I don't know where to start.
[Silence]
Me: I hate me. B hates me, too. I'm always messing up. She's stuck doing all of the housework and looking after me, picking up the pieces, putting up with my moods... I can't do anything for myself.
Mum: You can if you try.
Me: No wonder we're having problems - she must feel like my carer.
[Silence]
Mum: You have to learn to be more independent. Of course she's not going to desire you if you act like a child.
Me: I don't know any other way. I never had to do anything for myself.
Mum: [guiltily] We gave you a good upbringing, didn't we? Me and your father? You had a nice life. We loved you and encouraged you and you always got everything you asked for...
Me: I know I did. I always had piles of presents at Christmas.
Mum: You did well at school, too; you had your acting and your stories - people wanted to publish them! You were so talented! You're still so talented, that's what bothers me.
[Silence]
Mum: I've got all of your pictures, you know, I cut them out of the newspapers. I kept them all. And your Dad, he was so proud he invited all of his friends from the Council...
Me: They bought me flowers, I remember.
Mum: It's a shame for you, but it's not over yet. You just have to do the best you can with what you've still got.
Me: I'm twenty-four already. I'm washed up.
Mum: What rubbish! You're still young, still learning...
Me: I thought I'd get everything I wanted in life without having to try too hard. I was spoilt.
Mum: [sighing] I knew you'd blame us eventually. That's why I've never wanted you to go into therapy. That's what they do, those psychotherapists - they turn you against your family and put all these ideas in your head...
Me: It's not like that. Don't be dramatic. Listen, there's this one psychologist who says, "being an only child is a disease in itself". I like that, don't you?
Mum: I suppose so.
Me: It wasn't your fault, Mum. I was always going to be a selfish narcissist with dependency issues.
Mum: [shaking her head] It's true. You never even cleaned your own bedroom. We bought your dinner up on a tray, whatever you liked, even if it meant making two seperate meals. I was too lenient with you... I see it now, where we went wrong, but at the time... [She smiles] You were my daughter, my one and only child: I would've gone to the moon and back if you'd wanted me to. I would now.
Mum: I remember when those two policemen came to the house. I saw them pulling up in their white car and walking slowly to the door. I saw those yellow lumo jackets through the stained glass before they even knocked. They were talking to themselves and I thought, oh God. Oh no. My daughter is dead. My daughter is dead of a drug overdose on someone else's kitchen floor and they've come to tell me.
Me: I'm sorry, Mum.
Mum: ...and when they said they were looking for you in connection with something, I was so fucking angry! I was so bloody mad I could've killed you myself.
[Silence]
Mum: It had been so long since you'd been arrested and I really thought you were keeping your nose clean...
Me: I was! It was a misunderstanding!
Mum: I regret the day you ever met that girl. I regret the day you ever met those people. What were you thinking? Running around, making cupcakes for gangsters? I knew nothing good would come of it.
Me: I did some tests on the internet today. I've been feeling depressed. They told me I might have Borderline Personality Disorder.
Mum: What have I told you about that? Silly girl. You don't need some website to tell you that you're crazy.
Me: Wait, listen. It says a lot of stuff about instability, fear of abandonment, inability to cope with ordinary life... There could be something in it.
Mum [looking worried]: You don't have that. You're not that. You're fine, I know you are.
Me: I hope so. I think I'm okay. I am okay. I don't have Borderline Personality Disorder. I'm just a hypochondriac.
Mum: [ignoring this] You'll find your feet someday. I know you will.
Me: What if I'm just born to fail miserably?
Mum: No way! You're a Morgan. You're a fighter. In this family, we get knocked down but we get back up. We dust off our knees and we say, "what, you think I'd give up that easily?"
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