The BBC is embroiled in another scandal. Peter Hain is angry! Thrilling. Nothing the Corporation does these days seems to meet with approval and, now that the forces of media Conservatism are beginning to encircle it like proverbial vultures, the survival of the BBC "as we know it" is seriously threatened.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. First we have to pick apart some of the arguments made in the latest row about the BNP Leader, Nick Griffin, being invited to appear on tonight's Question Time (22:35, BBC1). Parts of the left-wing activist machine - most of whom have solid and worthy links to anti-racist movements (Peter Hain, Diane Abbott, etc.) - seem to be putting the onus of responsibility onto the BBC. The BNP, as a racist and illegally-constituted party, should not be given this 'platform of legitimacy'.
I can sympathise with this viewpoint. My own gut instinct for dealing with the BNP - and other such problems - is not to give them the oxygen of publicity. "Don't talk about it!" was the cry, long ago, and one I silently repeated with the economic downturn (how does talking about a crisis of confidence help an economy recover from a crisis of confidence?). But we're beyond that. We've had years of BNP stories making the top spot on "the Six and Ten", and now the only way to tackle the problem - in my view - is to engage in a grown-up debate. They won't win it.
The BBC's DG, Mark Thompson, today maintained that including Griffin in tonight's Question Time was the editorially correct thing to do. This sort of strict interpretation of the Corporation's core principles should be applauded. As a nation we are blessed to have such entrenched impartiality. The BNP - Thomson says - has attained a certain proportion of votes and is thus entitled under the BBC's editorial guidelines to appear on Question Time.
The other point made by Thompson is that only Governments have the power and right to censor parties for the public good. This argument might not appear to have the necessary moral unambiguity to satisfy the complainants, but it should serve to emphasise the point on the BBC's editorial impartiality. Them's the rules, guv'.
What most perplexes me is that we now have a situation where the BBC - so often maligned by the right as being 'biased' - is now seen by the left as assisting the BNP in its quest for mainstream legitimacy. This is very dangerous territory for the Corporation, since its own constitution seems to be in direct conflict with those who would ordinarily support it. The principle, they say, should be suspended for the sake of defeating fascism. And therein lies the problem. Suspending the principle would actually lend legitimacy to the BNP's complaints of censorship, and would thus play straight into the hands of fascism. A ban would also be - disturbingly - by definition fascistic.
But the real loser in all of this is not the liberal conscience. The winner is not even the BNP. The true loser in this row will be the BBC, who are finding it increasingly difficult to apply their mission statement in a fragmented, crowd-driven environment. The blogosphere only adds to this distortion, since most blogs aren't governed by the same sort of strict editorial guidelines papers should - in theory - be governed by. The winners, alas, will be those organisations that best utilise that distinctly American personality cult of news bias. Step in a de-regulated Sky News. Step in the bloggers. The blog world can deliver truth, but it mostly offers a platform for the inane ramblings of idiots like me. Without the BBC, where will we be able to escape bias?
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
The Urge to Write
I had thought, until this week, that my excuses about "not being able to write because the environment wasn't right" were just words. Words I might more usefully put towards writing my novel, the great love of my life. But here in Spain, against all expectations, I have sat down and re-written the difficult passages I hated, and crafted new passages I love. The usual daily word-count has been roughly 3000 words a day, which is no mean feat. Today, however, whether it's because my time here is running out, or because I've been captivated by the very world I've created, the total exceeds 6000 words.
There must be something, then, in this idea of the correct environment for writing. The internet, as ever, provides too much distraction, but here there is a little wire I have to physically link to - something I can only be bothered to do when the book demands I research a detail or two.
I've also been writing outside in the Mediterranean sunshine, which is undeniably pleasant, but the wasps, flies and constant heat do represent a distraction. They're annoying. But looking over the valleys towards the sea obviously provides a more conducive environment for writing than a dark, North-facing room in Bristol, or the same dark North-facing room in Somerton. Something in this peace, and in the time available to me here, is obviously familiar. I've had too many lazy years of this. But now there's something added. A feeling that to not write in this place would be a crime against myself.
And so I have been prolific, and inspired. Unlike my previous writing, I have reveled in dialogue, and let it lead the plot in a way I never before thought possible. The characters are fully at the centre of the book, and driving it forward. And every detail leads to a suggestion of new scenes, even - in once instance - an entirely new and worthwhile chapter.
I'm now at nearly 20,000 words, and have completed 6 chapters out of a planned 15. This represents, to my immense relief, the potential for a real "novel"-sized piece of work. And I owe it all to this reluctant holiday, and to Mum's indulgence of my whim.
The task now, as I return back into the stress of Hatherleigh and family, is to replicate this creative environment, and finish the work I have only really started here.
So I repeat: to my relief, I am not lazy. I just needed the right environment!
There must be something, then, in this idea of the correct environment for writing. The internet, as ever, provides too much distraction, but here there is a little wire I have to physically link to - something I can only be bothered to do when the book demands I research a detail or two.
I've also been writing outside in the Mediterranean sunshine, which is undeniably pleasant, but the wasps, flies and constant heat do represent a distraction. They're annoying. But looking over the valleys towards the sea obviously provides a more conducive environment for writing than a dark, North-facing room in Bristol, or the same dark North-facing room in Somerton. Something in this peace, and in the time available to me here, is obviously familiar. I've had too many lazy years of this. But now there's something added. A feeling that to not write in this place would be a crime against myself.
And so I have been prolific, and inspired. Unlike my previous writing, I have reveled in dialogue, and let it lead the plot in a way I never before thought possible. The characters are fully at the centre of the book, and driving it forward. And every detail leads to a suggestion of new scenes, even - in once instance - an entirely new and worthwhile chapter.
I'm now at nearly 20,000 words, and have completed 6 chapters out of a planned 15. This represents, to my immense relief, the potential for a real "novel"-sized piece of work. And I owe it all to this reluctant holiday, and to Mum's indulgence of my whim.
The task now, as I return back into the stress of Hatherleigh and family, is to replicate this creative environment, and finish the work I have only really started here.
So I repeat: to my relief, I am not lazy. I just needed the right environment!
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
"Fall"
I sit beneath this falling jasmine, thinking of you,
I fiddle & writhe in the scent, for I mustn't do,
The book in my hands tells of scholarly trouble,
Of love and its pangs, of war - and I'm humble,
Thinking "what matters is who you adore",
As I watch those white petals fall to the floor.
I fiddle & writhe in the scent, for I mustn't do,
The book in my hands tells of scholarly trouble,
Of love and its pangs, of war - and I'm humble,
Thinking "what matters is who you adore",
As I watch those white petals fall to the floor.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
A Tale of Electrical Woe
Now, children, here's a little story about a little plug, let's call him Pug the Plug, and a socket, Sukie Socket. Now, Sukie Socket comes from a country called America, which is Far Away. So Far Away, indeed, that they have different sorts of plugs and sockets entirely!
You'd think that Sukie and Pug wouldn't get on at all, being oh so very different, but when they met for the first time they found that they had ever so much in common! They both lived, it seems, to brighten up other peoples' lives in different ways. They spent so many exciting afternoons together that you could almost say the atmosphere was electric!
But though their friendship thrived, Pug the Plug wanted much more, having grown very fond of little Sukie Socket. But oh, dear reader, Sukie knew their love could not be. She had needs, children, very special adult needs, and wanted to settle down with a nice, familiar little plug who wasn't either slightly deranged, or deformed in his connectors. "Oh", she said, "I do love Pug, but he needs so much grounding!"
So Sukie disappeared back to America to live her normal, but soul-less little life, and Pug the Plug eventually committed suicide due to a broken heart.
The End.
You'd think that Sukie and Pug wouldn't get on at all, being oh so very different, but when they met for the first time they found that they had ever so much in common! They both lived, it seems, to brighten up other peoples' lives in different ways. They spent so many exciting afternoons together that you could almost say the atmosphere was electric!
But though their friendship thrived, Pug the Plug wanted much more, having grown very fond of little Sukie Socket. But oh, dear reader, Sukie knew their love could not be. She had needs, children, very special adult needs, and wanted to settle down with a nice, familiar little plug who wasn't either slightly deranged, or deformed in his connectors. "Oh", she said, "I do love Pug, but he needs so much grounding!"
So Sukie disappeared back to America to live her normal, but soul-less little life, and Pug the Plug eventually committed suicide due to a broken heart.
The End.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
A hug in the dark...
A little 2-minute poem about a brief moment. I could probably do better, but I'm tired...
Light through the window to painted walls,
Faces of joy or sorrow through silken shawls,
This unfinished work tells more than its whole;
The loss and the hardship, the troubled soul,
And standing a'sudden by me in the rain,
Is a mournful-eyed girl smiling through pain...
"What beauty can come from a story untold,"
I say, and her arms they begin to unfold,
"I'd say that was true, but he was my Dad,"
Says the bright sombre girl to this naive little lad,
But the hippie inside me knows just what to do,
I give her a hug, and she hugs me too.
Light through the window to painted walls,
Faces of joy or sorrow through silken shawls,
This unfinished work tells more than its whole;
The loss and the hardship, the troubled soul,
And standing a'sudden by me in the rain,
Is a mournful-eyed girl smiling through pain...
"What beauty can come from a story untold,"
I say, and her arms they begin to unfold,
"I'd say that was true, but he was my Dad,"
Says the bright sombre girl to this naive little lad,
But the hippie inside me knows just what to do,
I give her a hug, and she hugs me too.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Why "Cool Camping" is Evil
As any good lover of the picturesque will tell you, place is important. The fast pace and terrifying briefness of our lives leave us grasping, knuckle-reddened, to the locations of our favourite memories. From the dizzying fumbles of first love in Spring glades, to the hot tears of heartbreak amplified by the staring throng of a street, the map becomes coloured with emotion. And so it is with my attachment to a camp-site on Dartmoor.
For seven years I have been going there to escape my worldly concerns; to flounce about in billowing cotton shirts, accompanied by the strains of a badly-tuned guitar and the erratic crackle of a camp-fire. On one occasion I received a gift of a Paua shell pendant, and have since worn it near-constantly, as a handy reminder of my happy place. I often toy with it, or kiss it, when I'm low, stressed, or just feeling vulnerable. Friends and lovers have come and gone, but Widecombe has always remained, unchanging; true.
Eastern systems of thought teach us to see the world as a constantly shifting thing, and the sands of an estuary provide a trite analogy. Generally I seem to have been able to adopt this philosophy, as a way of helping me to cope with grief elsewhere. But something about that place is different. Beneath the high oak and ash, on the banks of that gently gurgling stream, lay my secret garden. My new rationale never thought to impose itself there, and the Old Religion held sway.
But this week I arrived there with a friend, ready to show her the delights of my Shangri-La, only to find that several unwelcome changes had also arrived. The price increase, though a little irksome, I could live with. The place has always had the feel of a side concern for retired farmers, and the low price and inadequate facilities were part of that backwater charm. But the site also seemed quite busy, which I found more alarming. Worse, however, were the simple laminated signs bearing the bulk of my disappointment: "Sorry, no fires."
Fire has always been a source of fascination for me. The simple combination of a fire, mead, friends and song conjures up an image of archaic, tribal man. I almost believe that we're biologically hard-wired to feel safe and fulfilled around a fire. The mellow yellow light, the mellow burnt marsh-mallows, the flattering fall of light and shade on faces otherwise imperfect... it's enough to make me wax lyrically. I gain so little true pleasure from life that moments such as these are treasured, but the modern world contains worryingly few of them. Was this new no-fire rule part of the much vaunted theory of 'elf'n'safety creep? Or was there a correlation with the number of campers?
Beth informed me that the site had been listed in "Cool Camping", a book for young London trendies off on their jollies, of which I had heard. The rage built up inside, and I began to throw mental spume in the writers' direction. "What sort of irresponsible person values backwater simplicity, writes a book about it, and implores a large readership to go there?" A poor one, is the knowing answer, but it still doesn't suffice. It appears almost callous to treat these hidden gems as though they would stay hidden forever no matter how many people were told of their existence. And so the advertising people come down with their faux tipis, the marketing people and the publishers bring their Establishment-Issue Volkswagens, and the place is ruined forever.
Now before I get too carried away I have to temper this with a caveat: the next site we visited was recommended to Beth in the very same book. It was excellent. Nestled in a beautiful valley on Exmoor, surrounded by the upland heath itself, the whole scene turned blue in the evening from the welcome plumes of, yes... woodsmoke. It was more expensive, but had better facilities. They even sold logs and marsh-mallows. The whole site seemed geared towards the fire, rather than the happy flames being something they only grudgingly put up with. And, crucially for a site for future visits, it is large enough to cope with a much greater influx and not be ruined. The narrow strip of camping fields, following the river, combines a feeling of humane smallness with a hidden, practical reality of space.
But before you get either too worried by my apparent hypocrisy, or too excited at the thought of visiting, I refuse to tell you all where it is. That, dear reader, would not be responsible stewardship of a sacred place.
For seven years I have been going there to escape my worldly concerns; to flounce about in billowing cotton shirts, accompanied by the strains of a badly-tuned guitar and the erratic crackle of a camp-fire. On one occasion I received a gift of a Paua shell pendant, and have since worn it near-constantly, as a handy reminder of my happy place. I often toy with it, or kiss it, when I'm low, stressed, or just feeling vulnerable. Friends and lovers have come and gone, but Widecombe has always remained, unchanging; true.
Eastern systems of thought teach us to see the world as a constantly shifting thing, and the sands of an estuary provide a trite analogy. Generally I seem to have been able to adopt this philosophy, as a way of helping me to cope with grief elsewhere. But something about that place is different. Beneath the high oak and ash, on the banks of that gently gurgling stream, lay my secret garden. My new rationale never thought to impose itself there, and the Old Religion held sway.
But this week I arrived there with a friend, ready to show her the delights of my Shangri-La, only to find that several unwelcome changes had also arrived. The price increase, though a little irksome, I could live with. The place has always had the feel of a side concern for retired farmers, and the low price and inadequate facilities were part of that backwater charm. But the site also seemed quite busy, which I found more alarming. Worse, however, were the simple laminated signs bearing the bulk of my disappointment: "Sorry, no fires."
Fire has always been a source of fascination for me. The simple combination of a fire, mead, friends and song conjures up an image of archaic, tribal man. I almost believe that we're biologically hard-wired to feel safe and fulfilled around a fire. The mellow yellow light, the mellow burnt marsh-mallows, the flattering fall of light and shade on faces otherwise imperfect... it's enough to make me wax lyrically. I gain so little true pleasure from life that moments such as these are treasured, but the modern world contains worryingly few of them. Was this new no-fire rule part of the much vaunted theory of 'elf'n'safety creep? Or was there a correlation with the number of campers?
Beth informed me that the site had been listed in "Cool Camping", a book for young London trendies off on their jollies, of which I had heard. The rage built up inside, and I began to throw mental spume in the writers' direction. "What sort of irresponsible person values backwater simplicity, writes a book about it, and implores a large readership to go there?" A poor one, is the knowing answer, but it still doesn't suffice. It appears almost callous to treat these hidden gems as though they would stay hidden forever no matter how many people were told of their existence. And so the advertising people come down with their faux tipis, the marketing people and the publishers bring their Establishment-Issue Volkswagens, and the place is ruined forever.
Now before I get too carried away I have to temper this with a caveat: the next site we visited was recommended to Beth in the very same book. It was excellent. Nestled in a beautiful valley on Exmoor, surrounded by the upland heath itself, the whole scene turned blue in the evening from the welcome plumes of, yes... woodsmoke. It was more expensive, but had better facilities. They even sold logs and marsh-mallows. The whole site seemed geared towards the fire, rather than the happy flames being something they only grudgingly put up with. And, crucially for a site for future visits, it is large enough to cope with a much greater influx and not be ruined. The narrow strip of camping fields, following the river, combines a feeling of humane smallness with a hidden, practical reality of space.
But before you get either too worried by my apparent hypocrisy, or too excited at the thought of visiting, I refuse to tell you all where it is. That, dear reader, would not be responsible stewardship of a sacred place.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
The Train
oh the thrill of the train,
the speed of the train,
the clitter-clat down the hill of the train,
oh the rush!
the breathless hush,
oh the thrill of the train!
the speed of the train,
the clitter-clat down the hill of the train,
oh the rush!
the breathless hush,
oh the thrill of the train!
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Dark New Directions for the Novel
I recently made a set of decisions about the novel that have made me increasingly happy with the overall work. I had been working myself into an awkward corner, essentially writing a core book exploring dark themes, and then a layer of light-hearted frivolity on top. This did not work. I was mortified by the compromises I was forcing myself to make.
But now I have a more consistent story. I am solely chasing a tone of bleak beauty. The 'fantasy' elements will be less prominent, except where they are integral to the plot. One of these elements has recently begun to excite me. Without giving too much away, it's fair to say that the Celtic festival of the dead provides the most easily explained tonal device. I have been able to extend elements of Irish mythology into various sections of the plot, where before there were loosely-Celtic-influenced passages. This will never be too obvious, and I won't start yabbering on about Faeries (that would rather undermine my attempt to move away from pure fantasy), but I can use the Samhainers' mythology to explore some of the darker themes in the book, most notably death and mourning, through the prism of established myths.
This is all part of my new "richness of detail" criterion, whereby a plot device is no longer allowed to exist simply because it's pretty and/or useful. It has to have an amount of depth to it. The world itself was always intended to borrow on elements of the Gaelic language, Irish landscapes and mythology. My new treatment of the Gaoth, the spirits of the dead drifting in the wind, will now be more closely related to the Irish sidhe, or aos si.
One of the joys of my little voyage into the world of Irish folk-tales and mythology is the way the novel seems to already speak with the same sort of voice. To the Irish, Erin herself plays a large role in determining the nature of her people. Thus it is also with Samhain. The land is a character itself. This is something I'm also going to focus on; weaving the story closely into the landscape in which it takes place.
The other major step is to build up better characters. I essentially have three, one of whom has changed significantly this year. But the relatively large cast of supporting characters have so far been too shallow. I can't speak with their voices, and know too little about what motivates them. They are just too one-dimensional. So I will be putting a lot of effort in the coming months into building that credible supporting cast. With decent characters, a rich material environment and a more complete culture on show, finally the plot might start to make sense. And that's my main remaining concern at the moment: is there, plainly speaking, enough plot? Do I need to invent a third strand just to satisfy my own nagging feeling that the book is still too thin? Stretching a dream, however compelling, into an entire novel was never going to be easy!
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Building a Consistent World-View out of a Jumbled Mess of a Brain
Tonight I wrote a song about the horrors of the Protestant work ethic, inspired in part by my last blog post. Such is my lack of faith in the value of any opinion, and my chronic inability to take anything seriously, I have given it the catchy title "Naïvely Idealistic Anarchist Polemic". It's a relatively jolly song, and will probably appear on MySpace soon enough.
In an email to a friend tonight I described myself as a model of walking cognitive dissonance. The conflicting opinions I hold, inspired by diverse fragments of learning I have collected throughout life, have started to worry me more and more. My political leanings tag on Facebook, for example, simply says "Conflicted Radio 4 Anarchist". It's rather vague and unhelpful, not that anyone but me truly cares. But unlike many I do like to assign labels to myself, to seek a little box to fit myself in. How else can I tailor my searches for inspiration and insight? Being given the label "bipolar" was probably the most liberating thing ever to have happened to me. I now know the problem, and can look for solutions, and manage the extremes of my condition. Ish.
So I am constantly worried about my inability to reconcile the conflicting views I have on life's big questions. I've made some progress of late with politics, philosophy and religion, all of which have occupied a not inconsiderable chunk of my musing time. I'm making a start on morality (some, including myself, would say this is too little too late!), and this is inevitably going to be one of the harder topics. For about three years my philosophical readings have also heavily influenced my approach to art and critiques of other humanities topics.
This may all seem like a bit of an introspective waste of time; the foolish errand of a boy with too much time on his hands, but it does have an application. If I want to be a novelist, if I ever want to say something to the world, I have to make sure it's not all totally conflicting. It has to add up. I would never be so crass as to insert plain polemic into a work of fiction, but I do feel that this sort of consistency of voice is an important part of narration. Seen in that light, it becomes less of an academic distraction, and more of a relevant honing of my skill set, or whatever ghastly human resources term the modern world demands. I also simply like the idea of actually having a point of view on a given topic, rather than a discordant mess.
I thought that I would give a brief summary of my progress so far, mainly because it helps me to see it in plain type, and partially because it'll be bound to annoy or provoke anybody silly enough to read it.
Politics
This should be the easy one, but it's actually one of the most complicated. I don't agree with or remotely like our socio-economic model. It kills. It maims. It destroys all in its path. It is based on invisible daemons. It is unjust. It's also silly to say that it's the best we've got, since we actually used to have something much gentler. The Whiggish version of history is hokum. And before anyone dangles modern medicine or communications in my direction with a smug grin, there's no possible reason for thinking that these things couldn't exist without the system we're in.
Unlike a communist, or indeed the neo-liberals who run the Western world, I'm not arrogant enough to want to impose my anarchist utopia on everyone. I think we have a relatively robust and healthy political system, with many plus points. It's not something to be discarded lightly. It just needs a little revision. What I would adore is for a Government of Britain to leave its citizens to chose how they wish to live their lives; whether it's in venture capital or permaculture. This, rather painfully, aligns me with the libertarian wing of the Tory party. It's probably even why I like Boris.
And yet, oh and yet! I believe in safety nets. I believe in equality, and fairness, and all the hollow words that ricochet through the corridors of power. Labour, it seems, doesn't actually believe in many of these things any more. The dole, as is the fashion, is a grudging gift to the unfortunate few, with its many strings and social stigmas attached. In my anarchist utopia, as in the medieval village, the fields provide ale, bread and cheese aplenty, and the community will always provide. Because that's what humans do for each-other. With statism, however, every penny of taxation spent is a sin against "hard-working families", whoever they may be.
Alas there is a vast chasm left unfilled here. Not everyone will want my utopia, but people will still need support, so while my pragmatic head yearns for light-touch Toryism at a national level that allows my local idyll to flourish undisturbed, my heart bleeds for those who would suffer the privations in the outside world. If the safety net somehow survived, and they still left my bubble alone, that would be a perfect scenario. But I know you can't have them both, and it breaks my heart.
Religion
I had my fingers burnt on this one, falling for someone who loved Jesus and wouldn't love me unless I embraced him and his message. I hear this is how these evangelists spread, like a canker. Jesus was a pretty cool dude, and I think we would've got on. But then he was Jesus, so that's essentially a tautology. Remember, he loves you, even if you don't want him to. Scary stalker Jesus.
God seems almost entirely a myth one tells to children to keep them from misbehaving. Heaven and hell are just a grand orchestrated incidence of classical conditioning (a la Pavlov's Dog). Bloody useful if you're a tribal society in an arid wasteland, but completely irrelevant in a complicated modern society. Religion has been very useful in many ways, giving us the birth of science, handy codes for treating each-other nicely, but I'm sure even the Druids were pretty useful for various things in their time. Everything passes.
As far as deities go, I simply cannot believe in an Almighty. Gods didn't exist until we came along with minds to dream them up, and in a sense science is the natural successor to theology. The human mind will always observe the world and invent hypotheses for creation and man's own place in it. As our understanding of the natural world increased, it was inevitable that we would start to question religions. It's what our minds seem particularly well-adapted to do. I don't believe that religion is necessarily a bad thing, and think people like Dawkins are as bad as any religious zealot, but such strict divides have broken my heart and those of billions of others. It is this blind, unquestioning faith in anything that is harmful.
Philosophy
Life is absurd. I think this entire "essay" rather conflicts with this simplistic tenet. If life is so very absurd, why should I worry over it so often? The answer is actually a relatively easy one: an absurd world, real of just perceived, is vexing and destructive. I'm not driven towards the depressive forces of nihilism, where perhaps I once was, but more towards Camus. The universe has no intrinsic meaning save for the meaning you imbue it with. I find this an incredibly satisfying solution to the problem of a cruel world. I have my own esoteric values and measurements of worth, and I enjoy living by them. I have things in my life which give me pleasure. This distracts me from the vulgar horrors of modern life. It's a relatively simple perspective, but one that may have kept me alive. So long as I avoid that which I can't cope with, I'm safe.
Morality
Let's just say this section is under construction. I've been pretty bad in this area, and the weight of my guilt has only just caught up with me. I've done a lot of running.
And there we go. It's a difficult process, and there's an awful lot of mind-broadening reading involved, but I find it satisfying. It is one of those little things I imbue with meaning and value.
In an email to a friend tonight I described myself as a model of walking cognitive dissonance. The conflicting opinions I hold, inspired by diverse fragments of learning I have collected throughout life, have started to worry me more and more. My political leanings tag on Facebook, for example, simply says "Conflicted Radio 4 Anarchist". It's rather vague and unhelpful, not that anyone but me truly cares. But unlike many I do like to assign labels to myself, to seek a little box to fit myself in. How else can I tailor my searches for inspiration and insight? Being given the label "bipolar" was probably the most liberating thing ever to have happened to me. I now know the problem, and can look for solutions, and manage the extremes of my condition. Ish.
So I am constantly worried about my inability to reconcile the conflicting views I have on life's big questions. I've made some progress of late with politics, philosophy and religion, all of which have occupied a not inconsiderable chunk of my musing time. I'm making a start on morality (some, including myself, would say this is too little too late!), and this is inevitably going to be one of the harder topics. For about three years my philosophical readings have also heavily influenced my approach to art and critiques of other humanities topics.
This may all seem like a bit of an introspective waste of time; the foolish errand of a boy with too much time on his hands, but it does have an application. If I want to be a novelist, if I ever want to say something to the world, I have to make sure it's not all totally conflicting. It has to add up. I would never be so crass as to insert plain polemic into a work of fiction, but I do feel that this sort of consistency of voice is an important part of narration. Seen in that light, it becomes less of an academic distraction, and more of a relevant honing of my skill set, or whatever ghastly human resources term the modern world demands. I also simply like the idea of actually having a point of view on a given topic, rather than a discordant mess.
I thought that I would give a brief summary of my progress so far, mainly because it helps me to see it in plain type, and partially because it'll be bound to annoy or provoke anybody silly enough to read it.
Politics
This should be the easy one, but it's actually one of the most complicated. I don't agree with or remotely like our socio-economic model. It kills. It maims. It destroys all in its path. It is based on invisible daemons. It is unjust. It's also silly to say that it's the best we've got, since we actually used to have something much gentler. The Whiggish version of history is hokum. And before anyone dangles modern medicine or communications in my direction with a smug grin, there's no possible reason for thinking that these things couldn't exist without the system we're in.
Unlike a communist, or indeed the neo-liberals who run the Western world, I'm not arrogant enough to want to impose my anarchist utopia on everyone. I think we have a relatively robust and healthy political system, with many plus points. It's not something to be discarded lightly. It just needs a little revision. What I would adore is for a Government of Britain to leave its citizens to chose how they wish to live their lives; whether it's in venture capital or permaculture. This, rather painfully, aligns me with the libertarian wing of the Tory party. It's probably even why I like Boris.
And yet, oh and yet! I believe in safety nets. I believe in equality, and fairness, and all the hollow words that ricochet through the corridors of power. Labour, it seems, doesn't actually believe in many of these things any more. The dole, as is the fashion, is a grudging gift to the unfortunate few, with its many strings and social stigmas attached. In my anarchist utopia, as in the medieval village, the fields provide ale, bread and cheese aplenty, and the community will always provide. Because that's what humans do for each-other. With statism, however, every penny of taxation spent is a sin against "hard-working families", whoever they may be.
Alas there is a vast chasm left unfilled here. Not everyone will want my utopia, but people will still need support, so while my pragmatic head yearns for light-touch Toryism at a national level that allows my local idyll to flourish undisturbed, my heart bleeds for those who would suffer the privations in the outside world. If the safety net somehow survived, and they still left my bubble alone, that would be a perfect scenario. But I know you can't have them both, and it breaks my heart.
Religion
I had my fingers burnt on this one, falling for someone who loved Jesus and wouldn't love me unless I embraced him and his message. I hear this is how these evangelists spread, like a canker. Jesus was a pretty cool dude, and I think we would've got on. But then he was Jesus, so that's essentially a tautology. Remember, he loves you, even if you don't want him to. Scary stalker Jesus.
God seems almost entirely a myth one tells to children to keep them from misbehaving. Heaven and hell are just a grand orchestrated incidence of classical conditioning (a la Pavlov's Dog). Bloody useful if you're a tribal society in an arid wasteland, but completely irrelevant in a complicated modern society. Religion has been very useful in many ways, giving us the birth of science, handy codes for treating each-other nicely, but I'm sure even the Druids were pretty useful for various things in their time. Everything passes.
As far as deities go, I simply cannot believe in an Almighty. Gods didn't exist until we came along with minds to dream them up, and in a sense science is the natural successor to theology. The human mind will always observe the world and invent hypotheses for creation and man's own place in it. As our understanding of the natural world increased, it was inevitable that we would start to question religions. It's what our minds seem particularly well-adapted to do. I don't believe that religion is necessarily a bad thing, and think people like Dawkins are as bad as any religious zealot, but such strict divides have broken my heart and those of billions of others. It is this blind, unquestioning faith in anything that is harmful.
Philosophy
Life is absurd. I think this entire "essay" rather conflicts with this simplistic tenet. If life is so very absurd, why should I worry over it so often? The answer is actually a relatively easy one: an absurd world, real of just perceived, is vexing and destructive. I'm not driven towards the depressive forces of nihilism, where perhaps I once was, but more towards Camus. The universe has no intrinsic meaning save for the meaning you imbue it with. I find this an incredibly satisfying solution to the problem of a cruel world. I have my own esoteric values and measurements of worth, and I enjoy living by them. I have things in my life which give me pleasure. This distracts me from the vulgar horrors of modern life. It's a relatively simple perspective, but one that may have kept me alive. So long as I avoid that which I can't cope with, I'm safe.
Morality
Let's just say this section is under construction. I've been pretty bad in this area, and the weight of my guilt has only just caught up with me. I've done a lot of running.
And there we go. It's a difficult process, and there's an awful lot of mind-broadening reading involved, but I find it satisfying. It is one of those little things I imbue with meaning and value.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Any Job, at Any Cost
The Young Persons' Guarantee, details of which were announced today, is quite possibly a good idea. Ensuring that young people aren't disadvantaged in the formative years of their careers because of the economic downturn is a noble ambition. However, I am always massively wary of these carrot and stick approaches. The BBC has reported that everyone under 25 out of work for over 1 year will be offered a job, which they will have to take, or else their benefits will be cut. I have to point out, in my objection to this, that it's not a policy that will effect me, as I will be too old by the time it is enacted.
Now, I'm unsure whether or not this will effect people on Income Support or the new Employment & Support Allowance. Since the BBC say it will apply to everyone I have to assume that it will. There are some very ill people supported by these schemes, and forcing them into work at the wrong moment could be disastrous. If indeed the Government intends to do this, it is an act of wanton barbarism. My sympathy also extends to those who actually have qualifications and ambition, who may be struggling to find the right job in the current climate, but who will have far better prospects when the economy recovers. Forcing them into the wrong job now could have dire consequences, both for their ability to escape it and find something else, and for their own morale.
There is a myth in politics, supported by papers representing the "hard-working public", that any job is better than no job. The jobs the Government will guarantee will most likely be low-paid, in atrocious conditions, with horrible people, and with little opportunities for self-betterment. I've had these sorts of jobs. They made me routinely run home in tears at the end of the day. I dread to think what this might to do the vulnerable young people dipping their toes in the real world for the first time.
As usual with employment issues, the mentality at work here is simply one of massaging figures. The Government believes that its function is to maximise national productivity. You can forgive it for labouring under this misapprehension, since its income directly correlates with GDP. But there are far more important things in the world than money. Learning, quality of life, love, happiness... most of these things will never be provided by any compulsory work scheme. Some politicians, in that golden age before the crash, talked about chasing Gross National Happiness instead. There's none of that now.
I had hoped that the recession would provide people with a chance to reconnect with their families, to take up courses, to explore life outside money-grubbing and Plasma TVs. But the Government will always stay true to its vampiric raison d'etre: to make the nation work very hard; to dangle the dazzling fruits of consumer goods and cheap credit before the nation's tired eyes; to tax the nation very hard; to make the nation miserable. This is what made the mess in the first place. And it will make another mess soon enough.
When will they learn? The system isn't just broken, it's officially bad for your health.
Now, I'm unsure whether or not this will effect people on Income Support or the new Employment & Support Allowance. Since the BBC say it will apply to everyone I have to assume that it will. There are some very ill people supported by these schemes, and forcing them into work at the wrong moment could be disastrous. If indeed the Government intends to do this, it is an act of wanton barbarism. My sympathy also extends to those who actually have qualifications and ambition, who may be struggling to find the right job in the current climate, but who will have far better prospects when the economy recovers. Forcing them into the wrong job now could have dire consequences, both for their ability to escape it and find something else, and for their own morale.
There is a myth in politics, supported by papers representing the "hard-working public", that any job is better than no job. The jobs the Government will guarantee will most likely be low-paid, in atrocious conditions, with horrible people, and with little opportunities for self-betterment. I've had these sorts of jobs. They made me routinely run home in tears at the end of the day. I dread to think what this might to do the vulnerable young people dipping their toes in the real world for the first time.
As usual with employment issues, the mentality at work here is simply one of massaging figures. The Government believes that its function is to maximise national productivity. You can forgive it for labouring under this misapprehension, since its income directly correlates with GDP. But there are far more important things in the world than money. Learning, quality of life, love, happiness... most of these things will never be provided by any compulsory work scheme. Some politicians, in that golden age before the crash, talked about chasing Gross National Happiness instead. There's none of that now.
I had hoped that the recession would provide people with a chance to reconnect with their families, to take up courses, to explore life outside money-grubbing and Plasma TVs. But the Government will always stay true to its vampiric raison d'etre: to make the nation work very hard; to dangle the dazzling fruits of consumer goods and cheap credit before the nation's tired eyes; to tax the nation very hard; to make the nation miserable. This is what made the mess in the first place. And it will make another mess soon enough.
When will they learn? The system isn't just broken, it's officially bad for your health.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Struthiocracy: Government by Ostriches
Well, what a fine little pickle this is. Four ministers going in two days, Labour expecting a drubbing at the European elections, Hazel Blears rocking the boat... (oh, how I shan't miss her!) Even the trusty Guardian, in its leader editorial, is calling Brown's pedalo in. The waters of the Westminster Village boating pond are so choppy at the moment that fair-weather Blairite flamingos are migrating before the reshuffle.
Brown promises the nation he's taking action. But I suspect "action" means the same to Gordon Brown as it does to the Vogons. Unluckily for Labour, only one of them is fictional. So the Government's enquiries can enquire, the committees can deliberate, but all the while the nation sees the other parties coming up with all manner of radical proposals. Alan Johnson, to his credit, has made positive noises on proportional representation, but at the moment it's a distraction only, and if Brown supported it then you can be damned sure the public would reject it.
And I think this is the Government's major problem. They couldn't now even sell candy back to the baby. Nobody is listening. They might listen a bit more to Johnson, but Brown and his cadre are too entrenched in their bunker, too busy with their heads in the sand, to actually hear the voice of the people. That voice tells them to go. The big man's passion for power, however, will be the Labour Party's undoing. Rather than disappear gracefully after Friday, as would serve the country and the party best, Brown will have to be dragged out of Downing Street with his beak clamped to the desk.
If Labour MPs don't have the bravery to oust their Dear Leader next week, then they have only themselves to blame for the eventual fate of their party. An entire generation of youths will always despise the party for Iraq, for top-up fees, and for so much more. The party is in debt to its sand-covered eyebrows and donations have dried up. If Brown insists by his arrogance on clinging to power until the bitter end, then Labour may well cease to exist as a viable force in national politics.
The end is nigh. The Guardian is right to warn, and right to suggest its readers shift support to the Greens and Lib Dems. The progressive future looks increasingly to be out of Labour's hands.
Our Mutual Friend
It has been several years since I last read Our Mutual Friend, so when I began watching the BBC's 1997 adaptation I was mightily surprised to find that the images of the places and people Dickens had described to me, so very long ago, have actually survived intact. Perhaps it's these lasting impressions (I still intimately remember, for example, my imagined layout for the house and shed in Blyton's Secret Seven books) that mark out a novel as being great. That's all I have to say on that, really, but I thought it was worth mentioning.
Here's a brief list of some of the other memorable places in my past reading:
Fenchurch's small house in Islington, in Douglas Adams: So Long, and Thanks For All the Fish.
The Castle, in Enid Blyton: Five On Kirrin Island.
Red Roofs, in Enid Blyton: The Family at Red Roofs.
Churchyard, in J. Meade Falkner: Moonfleet.
The Piggies' forest, in Orson Scott Card: Speaker for the Dead.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
The Universes
After toying with some ideas about magnetism, I found myself treading the familiar path of scientific day-dreaming. Here's a little discussion on my train of thought:
It's separately postulated that there have been, and will be, different universes (before the Big Bang, and after the eventual collapse) and that there may be other universes within a higher "multiverse". These ideas seem to me to be the same thing. Since the Big Bang itself created our version of spacetime, there is nothing to suggest that there is a pattern of linear causation in a hypothetical multiverse. From our perspective, those "once and future" realities can't exist, but perhaps outside of our spacetime they do. If spacetime is not the only reality, then there's nothing to suggest these universes cannot exist concurrently.
It's very tempting to believe some of the ideas in the Cyclic Model relating to a self-sustaining pattern of universes creating universes, perhaps just by collision, but these cosmogonies are so far beyond testability that at this stage it's perhaps an indulgent course of study. You could almost say that at our current stage of scientific capability such hypotheses have about as much value as any religious theory on the origins of reality. But science has come so far in the last few centuries that it doesn't seem too ridiculous to at least explore some of the possibilities based on what little we do know. That may give us time to perfect the questions before we have the means to answer them.
This might all sound like Science Fiction, and there are many people who balk at retaining knowledge about the Universe (as Douglas Adams said, "the one thing sentient life cannot afford to have is a sense of proportion"!), but I find these mysteries utterly fascinating. Often the proposed solutions have a grace and elegance redolent of grand poetry or the religious texts themselves. The Cyclic Model, String Theory, Curved Spacetime; they may have-dry sounding names, but the ideas are stunningly simple and beautiful. I just wish that nature actually followed Ockham's Razor in this way. Often, the best provable scientific theories are far from simple, or even elegant.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Musings on Storytelling
I have in my mind a fancy. It is probably one of those passing whims which flicker into sight and dissolve as quickly as they came, and yet the idea has a simplistic elegance I cannot help but be drawn to. I should like to tell a story by guiding an audience through different forms of communication, as though the telling of the tale evolves through time in a way that mirrors the evolution of media.
This little journey might begin by a fireside, hearing an itinerant bard tell us of places and people, inspiring us with a sense of bold adventures in a world so very different from the room in which the tale is told. After this intimate introduction in the low, quick-flickering light, the scene would change, and the solitary story-teller would be joined by actors, performing their parts amidst scenery and props, ever-increasing in complexity and detail with the plot.
And then the format might again change, as the soliloquies of the characters transpose from stage to ink, and for a brief moment the audience is reading from a novel, learning from the words more about the characters than they could guess from the actors. In this period we have a window into the motivations of the players, and the message on the page is interpreted privately, in the sacred, solitary act of reading.
By and by, the actors return, but slowly diminish into the background as the pivotal final sequences are played out on a screen, with a scale and grandeur impossible to achieve in the confines of the theatre. The film concludes, the tale is told, and the lone story-teller returns to share a moment of insight with the audience. And he smiles.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
The Idiocy of People, Part 94
I've said much over the years about the idiocy of the human race. Einstein's oft-quoted remark, "two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the universe", is a very good starting point for any policy towards your fellow man. The majority of my day-to-day experience of humans is with the better sort; with friends and Radio 4 presenters. But occasionally, for the sake of getting things done, we all have to talk to the outside world. Selling things on eBay to raise a few bob is just such an occasion.
It's generally a good idea to be as specific and informative as possible in your auction blurbs, to avoid confusion and excessive questioning. But on virtually every auction someone spoils this scheme. They will ask a question that is already answered in the item description. It is infuriating. Say, for example, that you are selling a screen for a specific model of laptop. One fellow eBayer asked me what model the screen was for (obviously this was mentioned not once, but twice, in the blurb) and whether it would fit another model. It is unspeakably irksome to be asked questions like this when a simple Google search will suffice. You are selling an item that you know will do one thing well, but one thing only. There is no need for you to say anything otherwise, but the plebeian masses seem to take pleasure in asking poorly-spelled, illogical questions.
Another question that routinely pops up is whether I have a "Buy it Now" price. Well, since I have chosen an auction format instead of the Buy it Now format, the answer should be obvious. If I intended to let someone walk away with something for a fixed price, I'd choose that option. In fact, simply by asking the question they have removed any incentive for me to sell early. If they ask the question and want an item now, then there's plainly demand. These items tend to fetch a price above my initial expectations . It is simply idiotic to ask, and a waste of everyone's time.
I apologise for the length of this rather esoteric rant, but I'm increasingly infuriated (after the scandal of the public's reaction to the MPs expenses scandal!) by the stupidity of my fellow citizens. I've never really liked them, but am now veering towards total revulsion.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
The Benefits of a Scandal
Oh, it's all miserable isn't it? Some MPs have been naughty, the rest are unjustly hated, the Speaker's going, the papers have won... oh, and the economy's reliably awful. But, dear reader, fear not! Whatever your opinion on the cause of the problems, whether you agree or disagree with my left-field ideas about actually being "nice to people", we can all take some degree of solace from the proposed solutions.
Alan Johnson wants fair votes! David Cameron wants an end to the Royal Prerogative! Nick Clegg wants every change he can think of! And yes, Gordon Brown wants a revolver.
Even though the public fury leaves a sour taste in my mouth, proposals on this scale represent (pretty much verbatim) my political wish-list. Throw in Cornish devolution and more tax relief for small breweries, and you're almost there. As a constitutional geek, I have long held the belief that reform of the voting system in particular is not just desirable, but necessary in a "democracy". This should be where the grand struggle between my Old Tory heart and my Young Liberal brain begins, but it fizzles out into a consensus.... it's just crackers (and, well, almost underhand) to have a system whereby the number of votes cast doesn't closely correlate with the number of seats won.
Perhaps if we had some power to actually elect our representatives, the current sense of disconnectedness wouldn't be as acute. My Young Liberal brain tells me this should be the case, but my Old Tory heart knows that it won't be. There must also be a Tory portion of my brain too, because apathy seems pretty entrenched in Scotland and Wales, where they have PR. Thankfully for both of my political identities (the sneering Hay Festival Ponce and the goading Edwardian Port-Swiller) this can be reduced to my usual maxim: people are stupid. People in England are stupid to not realise how jolly lucky they are to have this chance to change things, and people in both Scotland and Wales are stupid for not realising how much more power they have and how much contentment this should bring.
Oh well, best not fret over it. If people will be stupid, leave them to it, eh?
A Rage Too Far
Hot on the heals of Nadine Dorries's comments on the mood of the Commons and her fears for a suicide (in the current climate these concerns are apparently "zany"), Joan Smith writes today in CiF that she is sick of her country for despising all MPs. The comments section at the bottom of the page, never a place for rational thinking, shows an ignorant population foaming at the mouth.
"They're all at it! How dare they! You parliamentary apologist! "
I don't have to tell you how unhelpful this kind of thing is. Here are two sane people, trying to protect the dignity of those honest and hard-working MPs (you know, just like the mythical "honest, hard-working people" they're supposed to represent), and all they get is abuse. Likening the current climate to McCarthyism has its merits. The public are after The Enemy and anyone speaking up for The Enemy is a Commie pig. Or, conversely, compare the current climate to Mao Zedong Thought... the apologists are Class Traitors, Capitalist Roaders.
Despite the public's self-righteous fury, these apologists are actually the only ones left with a moral compass. They are wise enough to see that the court of public opinion is not the highest authority. They are willing to brave vilification to stand up for a basic moral ideal: that the innocent shouldn't suffer. The tabloids can rant on about how the traditional British sense of fair-play has been lost, but the populist rags are most to blame for this. Every media outlet in the country has piled unbearable pressure on so many politicians who simply do not deserve the abuse. These are people who have devoted their lives to serving you and I. They deserve to be treated humanely.
Intermittently, people like Dorries bravely put their heads above the parapet and do exactly what is required: they speak up for decent people, and against the mob. They in turn suffer. I, for one, commend their bravery, and will continue to support their efforts as best as possible. At least one member of the public is actually detached enough to see the issues clearly. As Stephen Fry said, there's simply too much else wrong that's more important. Stand up and be counted. Make a difference. Hate the public. Hate stupidity. Love fairness.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Playing with Wolfram|Alpha
I must admit that Wolfram|Alpha takes a while to get used to. You have to go through a small language barrier to talk to it, and for most of its calculations you have to simplify your language into something less vague than English grammar provides for. Having said that, once you learn its ways, it is an utter, fascinating delight.
After calculating the entire nutritional content of my dinner, I went scouting for some more fascinating gems. The computational engine has an amazing ability to tell you things you never thought you wanted to know. The current position of the moon and planets, for example.
Aside from this more useful-seeming information, it also provides some delightful answers when you ask it simple questions. It will quote Dylan or Shakespeare back at you. It will tell you a little about itself and gives the obligatory answer to the meaning of life. It knows about music, nature, names, everything!
Oh, and if you're interested, find out what your birthday was like, or how old you were on momentous days...
P.S. Just as a measure of how addictive this thing is, here's what the weather's been like for most of my life!
After calculating the entire nutritional content of my dinner, I went scouting for some more fascinating gems. The computational engine has an amazing ability to tell you things you never thought you wanted to know. The current position of the moon and planets, for example.
Aside from this more useful-seeming information, it also provides some delightful answers when you ask it simple questions. It will quote Dylan or Shakespeare back at you. It will tell you a little about itself and gives the obligatory answer to the meaning of life. It knows about music, nature, names, everything!
Oh, and if you're interested, find out what your birthday was like, or how old you were on momentous days...
P.S. Just as a measure of how addictive this thing is, here's what the weather's been like for most of my life!
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
After the Party, Into the Rochester
After any pleasing night out, such as tonight with both James and Pip, there is the moment when one comes home, prepares a simple meal, and retires to the world of pyjamas and t-shirts. These last few weeks I have been immersing myself in the world of 19th Century romantic literature, and it is with great pleasure that I return of an evening to the delights of Jane Eyre or Far From the Madding Crowd. But it is not simply the reading that pleases me, not simply the worlds of Gothic literature, but the comfort of enjoying said works in my pyjamas.
Without the company I so crave, I have retreated into a world of Radio 4 and books aplenty, but beyond this there is a greater pleasure; classic literature has the ability to elevate the mind and put one into direct contact with a society long-gone. Without these books, without the films of said books, I would be just a lonely man living from day to day in a fantasy of current affairs and trivia. But with the classics, I have the power to be enlightened at the very same moment as becoming isolated... my loneliness becomes my salvation. For in Hardy, in Brontë, in Daphne du Maurier, there is a higher calling. The Geek can be called to Linux in such circumstances, into the esoteric world of computer hell, or he can be transported into a world of diverse pleasures. In essence, he can learn. And this, my dear fellows, is what I do with my spare time. I absord great works of fiction. After all, whatever QI might purport, fiction is the finer art. Fiction is the breeding ground for fiction. Fiction is where Art lives.
Without the company I so crave, I have retreated into a world of Radio 4 and books aplenty, but beyond this there is a greater pleasure; classic literature has the ability to elevate the mind and put one into direct contact with a society long-gone. Without these books, without the films of said books, I would be just a lonely man living from day to day in a fantasy of current affairs and trivia. But with the classics, I have the power to be enlightened at the very same moment as becoming isolated... my loneliness becomes my salvation. For in Hardy, in Brontë, in Daphne du Maurier, there is a higher calling. The Geek can be called to Linux in such circumstances, into the esoteric world of computer hell, or he can be transported into a world of diverse pleasures. In essence, he can learn. And this, my dear fellows, is what I do with my spare time. I absord great works of fiction. After all, whatever QI might purport, fiction is the finer art. Fiction is the breeding ground for fiction. Fiction is where Art lives.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
MPs' expenses: What's the fuss is all about?
Tax-payers' money has been wasted on frivolous claims for moat-cleaning and light-bulbs. The Daily Telegraph is drip-feeding a seemingly endless stream of embarrassing news to an enraged public. I feel it's important that I display some sort of cognizance of the problem and why it makes people angry. MPs are our employees, say the press, and should only claim for what they can justify to their electors. But I think this is a naive and overly-simplistic perspective. We are not their masters. They are ours. The entire point of representative democracies is that our law-makers govern us; rule by the mob is an idea that sickens most sane people. The public, after all, are idiots. Voter choice is a charade; your pencil mark has been guided to make that cross in that box by a series of intricate subterfuges involving business, media outlets and our governing elites. Plus a little help from dear mother "events". If politicians genuinely thought that we were their bosses, they would rescind the entire elections experiment and get on with governing the country unhindered. Make no mistake: these days, your vote matters only in that it might help substitute one governing elite for another.
The Telegraph's "Matt" cartoon puts it very succinctly: "I went into Politics to make my living room a better place". Given the quality of most living rooms, I think this is a very noble ambition. It's much better than, heaven forbid, someone in politics actually trying to make a difference. Having ideals in government is about the least desirable trait. For evidence, I cite the 1980s. Sensibly, New Labour has abandoned ideals and continued along a journey begun by John Major: one of light-handed, pragmatic non-intervention. Real change is a divisive and terrible thing. The beauty of our political system is that Ministers can let the country evolve in its own way, and then claim credit for it. Their pomp and procedure is a clever veil for the truth: in a democracy, power is unreal.
But I digress. In an age where the liquid lunch is disappearing, when the corporate ethos and efficiency-savings are leaking into every sphere of society (this is, remember, to be blamed on whatever vague societal nonsense drives Meme Theory, and not on policy-makers), I think it's time for somebody calm and informed to write a paean to the Frivolous Expenses Claim. I must possess at least one of those qualities, so I will try. On a basic level, especially in a recession, these claims are a very Keynesian priming of the economic pump. Without the allowances, perhaps MPs would be more frugal with their spending. I think only a fool would deny the positive effect on the economy of this intervention. Perhaps this could be supplemental to the Government's economic strategy: rather than investing more billions in propping up banks, perhaps we should be grateful for the much-needed cash boost for moat-cleaners and light-bulb retailers.
My other reason for defending frivolous expenses is simply one from the realm of personal aesthetics. It has always pleased me that somewhere in this repugnant, barren Isle there was one last refuge of extravagance. Grace and favour homes, grand Parliament buildings, banquets with visiting dignitaries; all of it seemingly designed to inspire an other-worldly aura of elegance and solidity. The trappings of the myth of power. It is romantic, whimsical, and therefor meritful. In the public's rage, they may be about to destroy some of the finest ornamental remnants of our profligate past.
Much of the controversy seems to have centred around the idea that useless, untrustworthy politicians are pocketing vast sums of public money. If anyone maintains the same train of thought as myself, they will see that these sums are not only minuscule, they are also essential to maintaining the illusion of Parliament's importance. If you remove the benefits, the perks and the pomp, the public may wake up to find that their politicians are spending a lot of time frenetically getting nothing done, and may demand a more direct say in the governance of "their" country. That, dear readers, would be a sorry day indeed.
The Telegraph's "Matt" cartoon puts it very succinctly: "I went into Politics to make my living room a better place". Given the quality of most living rooms, I think this is a very noble ambition. It's much better than, heaven forbid, someone in politics actually trying to make a difference. Having ideals in government is about the least desirable trait. For evidence, I cite the 1980s. Sensibly, New Labour has abandoned ideals and continued along a journey begun by John Major: one of light-handed, pragmatic non-intervention. Real change is a divisive and terrible thing. The beauty of our political system is that Ministers can let the country evolve in its own way, and then claim credit for it. Their pomp and procedure is a clever veil for the truth: in a democracy, power is unreal.
But I digress. In an age where the liquid lunch is disappearing, when the corporate ethos and efficiency-savings are leaking into every sphere of society (this is, remember, to be blamed on whatever vague societal nonsense drives Meme Theory, and not on policy-makers), I think it's time for somebody calm and informed to write a paean to the Frivolous Expenses Claim. I must possess at least one of those qualities, so I will try. On a basic level, especially in a recession, these claims are a very Keynesian priming of the economic pump. Without the allowances, perhaps MPs would be more frugal with their spending. I think only a fool would deny the positive effect on the economy of this intervention. Perhaps this could be supplemental to the Government's economic strategy: rather than investing more billions in propping up banks, perhaps we should be grateful for the much-needed cash boost for moat-cleaners and light-bulb retailers.
My other reason for defending frivolous expenses is simply one from the realm of personal aesthetics. It has always pleased me that somewhere in this repugnant, barren Isle there was one last refuge of extravagance. Grace and favour homes, grand Parliament buildings, banquets with visiting dignitaries; all of it seemingly designed to inspire an other-worldly aura of elegance and solidity. The trappings of the myth of power. It is romantic, whimsical, and therefor meritful. In the public's rage, they may be about to destroy some of the finest ornamental remnants of our profligate past.
Much of the controversy seems to have centred around the idea that useless, untrustworthy politicians are pocketing vast sums of public money. If anyone maintains the same train of thought as myself, they will see that these sums are not only minuscule, they are also essential to maintaining the illusion of Parliament's importance. If you remove the benefits, the perks and the pomp, the public may wake up to find that their politicians are spending a lot of time frenetically getting nothing done, and may demand a more direct say in the governance of "their" country. That, dear readers, would be a sorry day indeed.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Samhain Progress
I thought I'd just give a little update on progress with the novel. I managed to lose some of my work when I dropped my laptop (clumsy error) but have since discovered many of the missing pieces. In the end I'm only a few hundred words behind, which is better than it could've been!
I'm still writing the difficult middle passages, during which my heroine is subjected to quite a lot of abuse and tragedy. I've never had so much empathy for a character, so putting her through so much is very difficult for me. It feels utterly cruel, but I have to distance myself from that feeling as much as possible, as the entire point of the book is to explore what happens to people in times of hardship. With these moments of terror and crisis, I think it's going to be important to introduce a motif of some sort, which I have borrowed from a much older dream, and the painting it inspired. This will hopefully fuse her experiences together into a coherent menace, whose eventual consequences will now make more sense.
The third half of the book, which is a little lighter in its tone but answers many questions about my harsh alterworld, now has a greater degree of focus. I've been trying to avoid a picaresque structure with the action moving too quickly from place to place, so some of my new alterations to the final acts are designed to put definite purpose behind movements and motivations.
I have always been tempted to introduce a character for an element of comic relief during the middle of the novel, who would then become central to the events of the final act. But I haven't been able to satisfy my desire not to disturb the overall tone of the book with this character, so he will essentially be removed for good. This is a shame, and many may find the idea of the book's bleakness overwhelming, but I have to emphatically reassure people that there is a positivist message behind the story as a whole. This will now be more difficult to achieve, but I can't risk interrupting the more sombre, lyrical flow of the book for turns of comedy. It's just not what Samhain was conceived as.
Now, all I have to do is write more of the damn thing. I've resolved not to keep re-writing what I have, but to press on into virgin territory with every new press of the keyboard. That way the novel grows faster and seems somehow nearer to completion, despite the amount of heavy editing then required, and the sheer bulk of notes required to maintain the integrity of so many new plot details! Writing onwards has a habit of exponentially increasing the amount of revisions required...! But one day it will be done.
Just as a note, Samhain is the Gaelic harvest festival, signalling the end of the year at the coming of winter, which I've used as an emotive descriptor to set an Autumnal tone. It's apparently pronounced "Sow-win".
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Wolfram Alpha, the Future of Search?
Stephen Wolfram's new search engine has been all over the web this weekend, touted as a "Google-killer" and much-hyped by the media. This unlikely and clumsily-named little piece of web gadgetry has the potential to revolutionise the way we find information. The "Computational Knowledge Engine" is ground-breaking because of the way it can "understand" and manipulate the data you search for. It is even heralded as a step towards artificial intelligence, because of its ability to take complex questions in natural language and compute a relevant result. By comparison, Google starts to look worryingly like a list of the dead. The sheer amount of irrelevant information on most web search results pages is often enough to make you cry into the collar of your Star Trek T-shirt. Wolfram Alpha will change this. It will be captivating.
All of which is why I'm now so frustrated that the damn thing, despite having been publicly lauded with such energy, is not actually usable yet. It is still in closed BETA-testing mode. So we're left with a situation where one of the most important leaps forward in computer science is just around the corner, but with a vague "it'll be open some time in May" caveat.
That's simply not cricket! I want to play with it now! I want it to be hard at work calculating the distance to Mars in sound wavelengths of D Minor. I want it to be telling me how many times I can listen to the Flight of the Bumblebee before the 2012 Olympics. I want it to confirm the correlation between the decline in Piracy over the last century and rising carbon dioxide levels. I want it to wrestle for milliseconds over the complex question of whether more money has been made from selling coffee or gold in the history of man. It must be straining away under the weight of such problems as how many average-weight thoroughbred horses the Space Shuttle can carry into low Earth orbit, or what the capital of Somaliland divided by the capital of Rutland is. Wolfram Alpha is capable of answering these questions and more. So why is the world left in the unenviable position of knowing about its potential for surreal time-wasting, but not able to use it?
It's a crime against my manic over-active imagination. I need it now. Otherwise, I may explode from daft inquisitiveness.
All of which is why I'm now so frustrated that the damn thing, despite having been publicly lauded with such energy, is not actually usable yet. It is still in closed BETA-testing mode. So we're left with a situation where one of the most important leaps forward in computer science is just around the corner, but with a vague "it'll be open some time in May" caveat.
That's simply not cricket! I want to play with it now! I want it to be hard at work calculating the distance to Mars in sound wavelengths of D Minor. I want it to be telling me how many times I can listen to the Flight of the Bumblebee before the 2012 Olympics. I want it to confirm the correlation between the decline in Piracy over the last century and rising carbon dioxide levels. I want it to wrestle for milliseconds over the complex question of whether more money has been made from selling coffee or gold in the history of man. It must be straining away under the weight of such problems as how many average-weight thoroughbred horses the Space Shuttle can carry into low Earth orbit, or what the capital of Somaliland divided by the capital of Rutland is. Wolfram Alpha is capable of answering these questions and more. So why is the world left in the unenviable position of knowing about its potential for surreal time-wasting, but not able to use it?
It's a crime against my manic over-active imagination. I need it now. Otherwise, I may explode from daft inquisitiveness.
Alone with the Moon
Save for a brief period of long-distance intimacy this winter, during which I was content to think of the girl in question and myself both staring up the starlight in silent contemplation, the one for the other, it's been a lonely year. During the harrowingly damp summer of 2008 I began to feel, for the first time since my adolescence, that all-too-familiar emptiness gnawing at my gut. This inspired me to write one of my better songs, Professional Jealousy, about the missed comforts of company (See here). The song-writing process seems to fulfil its purpose for me in this respect. It's a cathartic act, allowing me to succinctly express my grief and recall the wiser words at times of crisis; in the slough of despond.
Similarly, Darkness Falls provides a trite few lines about having faith in providence and the ability of the world to surprise and delight you. But the song's essential promise, that time will provide, grows ever more hollow. My best efforts at friend-finding, those frequent and exhausting exploratory sorties into the world of people, seem substantially in vain. The circle of friends I rely on for my daily dose of sanity simply can't cope with the level of communication and succour I require. I am the ringer, the harasser, the constant botherer of innocent contemporaries. I am needy.
This bit of self-awareness, seeing that I am so dependent on so very little human contact, has forced me into a new goal in life: emotional self-sufficiency. In practise, in my situation, this essentially means giving up, going mad, and being "fine" with my isolation. I have toyed with this. I've given it a go, more or less, and my conclusion is that it's a path to destruction. The eventual destination of that particular yellow brick road is becoming the sort of socially inept person one finds at the local Library midday on a Wednesday. Another result is a general slide into rudeness and inconsiderateness. Now, my antennae on this particular set of social principles have never been that well honed, but I have noticed a definite downward trend. I will say virtually anything these days. Profanities gush far more readily from my mouth than they once did, and there is a growing contempt for people of all hues. I distrust the world.
Now, all of this seems utterly lamentable and desperate, yes, but even with this understanding of the problems, I'm truly at a loss for finding a remedy. Moving seemed to be an obvious answer, but it hasn't exactly done me much good. If I'm lucky, I might see humans once every two or three days. Go me. And obviously the depression deepens with solitude, making it harder to contemplate yet another (inevitably doomed?) expedition into the wider world in search of someone, anyone, to have a conversation with. And even then, I'm so desperate for the conversation that it never really goes well. I can sometimes muster that elusive blithesome nonchalance so important in the social world, but it's a struggle.
Volunteering may still provide some sort of route into the world of bonhomie, but it's an exhausting process introducing yourself to new people and situations all the time, with your hopes high and then dashed by other peoples' sheer indifference. I'm pretty sure it was never this hard before. Is it the weary, bitter me that people see? I'd like to think that in person I'm still jolly and talkative enough for most people, but they never actually seem remotely interested in anything as bothersome as being friends. A group of passing acquaintances is about all I seem to be able to hope for, but you can't build a life on that.
So in the solitude, in the grips of depression and a desperation to give up on it all and join some sort of cult, where is solace to be found? The only answer I have found for that is simply ideas. Learning old ones and thinking of new ones. Becoming a vessel for all of the ideas you can possibly imbibe. This seems to have a certain charm to it. So, in lieu of anything else, I shall become the latter-day personification of my adolescent self: a thinking recluse. Willing or no.
Similarly, Darkness Falls provides a trite few lines about having faith in providence and the ability of the world to surprise and delight you. But the song's essential promise, that time will provide, grows ever more hollow. My best efforts at friend-finding, those frequent and exhausting exploratory sorties into the world of people, seem substantially in vain. The circle of friends I rely on for my daily dose of sanity simply can't cope with the level of communication and succour I require. I am the ringer, the harasser, the constant botherer of innocent contemporaries. I am needy.
This bit of self-awareness, seeing that I am so dependent on so very little human contact, has forced me into a new goal in life: emotional self-sufficiency. In practise, in my situation, this essentially means giving up, going mad, and being "fine" with my isolation. I have toyed with this. I've given it a go, more or less, and my conclusion is that it's a path to destruction. The eventual destination of that particular yellow brick road is becoming the sort of socially inept person one finds at the local Library midday on a Wednesday. Another result is a general slide into rudeness and inconsiderateness. Now, my antennae on this particular set of social principles have never been that well honed, but I have noticed a definite downward trend. I will say virtually anything these days. Profanities gush far more readily from my mouth than they once did, and there is a growing contempt for people of all hues. I distrust the world.
Now, all of this seems utterly lamentable and desperate, yes, but even with this understanding of the problems, I'm truly at a loss for finding a remedy. Moving seemed to be an obvious answer, but it hasn't exactly done me much good. If I'm lucky, I might see humans once every two or three days. Go me. And obviously the depression deepens with solitude, making it harder to contemplate yet another (inevitably doomed?) expedition into the wider world in search of someone, anyone, to have a conversation with. And even then, I'm so desperate for the conversation that it never really goes well. I can sometimes muster that elusive blithesome nonchalance so important in the social world, but it's a struggle.
Volunteering may still provide some sort of route into the world of bonhomie, but it's an exhausting process introducing yourself to new people and situations all the time, with your hopes high and then dashed by other peoples' sheer indifference. I'm pretty sure it was never this hard before. Is it the weary, bitter me that people see? I'd like to think that in person I'm still jolly and talkative enough for most people, but they never actually seem remotely interested in anything as bothersome as being friends. A group of passing acquaintances is about all I seem to be able to hope for, but you can't build a life on that.
So in the solitude, in the grips of depression and a desperation to give up on it all and join some sort of cult, where is solace to be found? The only answer I have found for that is simply ideas. Learning old ones and thinking of new ones. Becoming a vessel for all of the ideas you can possibly imbibe. This seems to have a certain charm to it. So, in lieu of anything else, I shall become the latter-day personification of my adolescent self: a thinking recluse. Willing or no.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Not Another Online Project
Well, this isn't quite true. I've had many websites and different online projects over the years, but no real personal blog. Other people seem to have them and enjoy the process. So I have decided to take my own slice of the interweb cake, with this crumbly bloggamy-jig. Like all good cakes, I hope it delivers on the promise of jam and dusted icing sugar. In the end, that's all we can ever ask for.
Overt and out,
Shrubs.
Overt and out,
Shrubs.
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