Intro

 Watching the world go by at Tottenham Court Road station, waiting for the meeting to happen, it strikes me just how introverted the majority of people are.  The blatant disregard for what’s going on around you.  The lack of observation, the people who are so wrapped up in their own world, who fail to appreciate anything, or anyone in their vicinity. 

If only they opened their eyes properly.  If only people had some even an inkling of the awareness of the world that I see, they’d understand that what matters in life, what really makes a difference, are people.  The people who touch your life, and those who don’t, but who could if you chose to let them in.  You need to look into their eyes.  You need to see people for who they really are.

Some simply don’t get it.  You look behind the eyes, hoping to see the glimmer or spark of a soul, but the fires have never been lit. You look to see if something is going on, but nothing.  Perennial disappointment.  

However, if you stop what you’re doing, the banal act of looking at your phone, and take a moment to consider the throng of human energy swirling around you, you begin to comprehend why the world is how it is, but more importantly, what makes people the way they are.

Then you can start to choose the people you want in your life.  Those who inspire, those who fill you with excitement, who are capable of making you laugh, uncontrollably. That make you smile, that make you strive for more, that understand you, just as you do them.  The ones that constantly surprise you, the ones that make you feel…alive.

The Nabatean

The blood that flows freely from the wound, created by a ruthless cut, in which the flash of the blade draws a second, crimson smile beneath the first, reminds me of the wine my father uses to bury our dead in the family tomb. The sense of irony is not lost on me. When no blood remains within, it must be laid about, until the corpse floats freely on its own accord, as if mimicking some River Styxx ideology will somehow transport the soul to the afterlife. And although that’s taken from a Greek tradition, it’s what we believe too. We are the Nabateans.

Not only does the spirit of our kin pass from this world to the next on a hazy, slippery cloud of succulents grapes-we also find our own spirits wishing for salvation from a higher place the next morning after gorging ourselves on red, red wine. Decreed by Dushara, God of the Nabateans, it would be sacrilegious to disobey his orders. And so, we drink in the amber nectar of the Gods as our relative ascends to join them.

But instead of celebrating passing tonight, what I witness before me here is a sacrifice. No humans are ever put under the knife here at Sella, as for man’s blood to run here, only in combat with the enemy is this honourable. As the animal struggles under expert hands the embers of life are extinguished in short, sharp convulsions.

We are peaceful, deeply religious folk, choosing to exist without quarrel with our neighbours in Rome, or the silk and spice merchants who pass through our kingdom by the King’s Way, heading for Damascus. All that we ask is they pay us a tax for this journey, just as we offer this sacrificial lamb up to Dushara to mark the pilgrimage of the many Nabateans who have clustered, as moths to a flame, on the sacred High Place at Sella.

These master craftsmen have travelled for many, weary days across the desert to pay homage to our most revered of subjects. A strange Nabatean force pulls them in, like the sand devils that seem drawn to our caravans of camels, blinding us with grains of distraction and carrying off our most precious cargo-gold.

The Romans, those nomadic wanderers of the modern world, whose ambitions grow far and wide, are masters of their own destiny. Something tells me they are not to be trusted. Perhaps the wine we deliver to the Emperor each year is not enough, even though we choose the sweetest tasting drop. Just as water enables survival in the desert, and at Sella, so our substantial gifts maintain a healthy relationship with the Romans, for now.

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Our water supply, the main artery to the hidden city, poisoned! They have discovered our hidden means of transporting this elixir into the heart, polluted it with hatred and and greed so, I fear, all is lost. Greed is a rotten apple, and the worm that lives within, Rome.

Phalanx’s appear as tortoise-shells, ridged and impenetrable. We are but master-carvers; our knives are no match for spear and arrow and might of the Roman Empire, which crashes down on us as if from the heavens themselves.

In the flash of an eye, with the army almost upon our tomb, I take my dagger, for so long creator of ornate, beautiful carvings, symbols of peace and culture, and draw it across my neck, reminding me of the lamb and it’s drip, drip, drip viscous blood life-spirit slowly ebbing away, being absorbed, welcomed even, into the light, sandstone earth below.

All the wine in the world could not elicit this feeling of delirium.

Submerged 37

They say that what doesn't kill you only serves to make you stronger.  It's probably very true, but for that split-second in time when I turned that corner round the furthest buoy in Hampstead Ponds, a calm serenity flooded over me.  I'm at least 50 metres from the nearest human being, I'm thinking, and my strokes are decreasing at an exponential rate.  If the old heart, as good to me as he's been over the years, suddenly decided to pack it in now, I'll sink like a stone.  And there won't be a chance of finding me, in the middle of this lake, sleeping with the fishes. 

The freshwater weighs down on me, strangely viscous, like mercury.  The cold seeps through my  pores, biting its way into my very core.  I've not got the shoulders for swimming, this much I know.  For all the good the power in my arms does, it effectively becomes an albatross around my neck if it isn't transferred into a meaningful stroke, a thrusting of the hands first forward, then curving outwards in a smooth, sweeping arc.  Sapping more and more energy out of me, draining my concentration.  My movements becomes ragged, my head bobs from side to side as I desperately try to bring my stroke back in line to resemble  some sort of semblance of technique.  But to no avail; it only serves to quicken the heart-beat and shorten my progress to salvation.  I twist my body and swivel onto my back in an attempt to reinvigorate my aching limbs.  Backstroke!  A new direction.  Less strain on the lungs, lazy wisps of cloud drift across the sky.  But the effort of forcing my arms up and out iof the water relinquishes the dulling throb of pain (my heart?), before this too becomes just another contributor to my downfall.

The extremities of my body are shutting down on me one by one.  An iciness creeps up my fingers, tingling through my nerves, playfully, sending a shiver down my spine.  It dawns on me that I've been thrashing around valiantly for maybe two minutes now since that first thought of not actually making it reared its ugly head.  I roll over onto my front and look up; I don't seem to have gone far in that time, while my fellow competitors are way off in the distance, by the finishing pontoon.  They seem to be gesticulating wildly at me.  I can see their mouths frantically opening and closing, yet no sound reaches me.  My ears have closed up; the cold water has made its way into my olfactory canals, my very essence. 

I break into a crawl, perhaps now is the time to put on a grandstand finish for the cheering crowds!  As I kick for home, my body tenses.  A bolt of pain flashes through my chest, I'm paralysed through fear and agony.  I go limp, losing all control over my limbs.  My senses desert me in my hour of need, I'm helpless.  I'm watching a shadow of my former self, trying to find my voice to shout for help, but plunging into the deliciously dark, icy abyss.

37 surburbanite

Shoulders slung low. Head downcast, downtrodden. Eyes dazzling, reflective sparks caught in the moonlight.  Cat's eyes. Padding forward, alert. Instinctively inhaling her surroundings with an all-consuming arc of the head. Danger is never far from Trouble. But for now, nothing stirs.

A treasure trove offers itself up for scavenging; a bin spews forth its contents, bulging at the seams it seems from the gluttony of Christmas. Peering at the contents, gingerly, reluctantly at first before hunger takes a hold and suspicion and self-deprivation is cast aside. Ravenous.

Discarded waste makes for tantalising treats dressed up in tinfoil, wrapping and egg-shells. Carefully she tip-toes around these and wolfs down what's inside. Been a few days, but that's about normal around these parts. She sticks out like a wild animal here in leafy suburbia. Not that the others are coming here any less mind.

Used to be, you could make a decent living central, feeding off society, scrounging. But now, night isn't so safe in the parks, on the streets. They treat you like vermin, chasing you off, never a moment's peace. And the ones like her are just as bad. Sooner steal your last scrap than look out for you.

Even if they do there's always something in exchange, some unspoken gain that later rears its head in a fit of anger and rage. And so you gravitate to the very edges of this fabric. Less rigid. Frayed feel to it. Comforting, in a way. More opportunity, especially tonight, when it's safe...but wait, listen!

What was that?

37 Mad Men

So...a change to this series, in fact to Mad Men as a whole-Don's inner conscience is given a voice. This is important, not least of all because we, the audience, are now party to his thoughts, his reasoning, his justification, if he has any.

Although so far we have only been given an episode's snapshot into this, I hope the writer's persist with the techn ique, because it clearly shows a tortured soul struggling to find any semblance of satisfaction in his life.

More humane than his previous womanising-self, Don now gives off an air of sadness, and when you consider what he had-a wife, three children, a home; a seemingly perfect, American-dream lifestyle, you wonder where it all went wrong.

Alcohol? The extravagent, moorish attitude of the American advertising world of the 60's? A sign of the times? Or simply a twisted individual with no morals, or just very, very flawed but determined to become better.

There is no one absolute reason I suspect, instead each factor amalgamates to give rise to one complex human. How to be Good, and How to be Bad, by Don Draper, or Matthew Weiner.

I sympathised with him by this episode, the 8th of the 4th series. His inner turmoil seemed genuine, and he appeared to be trying to fix his broken self. Then however, you'd catch him staring through the remnants of another glass and see the fragments of his life distilled in amongst them.

Sad, that downward spiral. Chilling, if you're on it, for there is no way out for Don, is there?

'Down in the shadows of your deepest secrets
I sleep next to the precepts you hold most dear
Your heart is in my province hour upon hour
I shiver when you feel the cold,
Everything you say I hear

Like a bomb and its fuse,
We bring bright light
But I could be a devil to you
I could bite like a tarantula
Right through the skin
And leave my poison dripping

Deliciously unsuspecting
Protecting you from all harm
Except perhaps from these arms that hold you'

37. Mad. (Men).

Stretched out 37

Does everyone try and extend their birthday celebrations for as long as possible, or is it just me? Well, Elvis says I'm pretty sad to do it, but then again, why not? So last week I went out for dinner on Monday, got promoted on Tuesday, was cooked an amazing steak on Wednesday (this is sounding a little Craig David, hmmmm) followed by more tasty food on Thursday (clams and chorizo amongst others), saw Shapeshifter live on Friday then danced to Marky and finally topped it all off by Mulletover on Saturday dressed in typically ghoulish fancy dress.

It was truly a celebratory week (and not just my birthday either), surrounded by a mix of friends old and new, some very old and some very new, and all pretty special, some very spooky Halloween gear, good banter, seriously energetic dancing (for 6 hours non-stop-no joke), a full game of 11-a-side on Hackney Marshes (and a goal), a number of fine wines, some brilliant presents (you know who you are), a dab of fake blood, a flatscreen tv and would you believe it 250 quid credit note from npower! I could hardly believe my luck.

Yes, this week has been...epic. And that's just out of work. Our busiest booking period of the Winter holiday season draws to a close in a few weeks so we are pulling out all sorts of marketing tricks to sell as many skiing and Winter sun holidays as possible. It's a numbers game and they just keep on getting bigger and bigger. How long can you keep growing for? Forever, if you're wearing the right shoes...

So, 37. Now that week of amazingness is up, you and I are going to have a sit down, and a proper chat. Tiik haain? Acha hai. Although, I have to warn you, I'm off to Berlin in a bit, and this week booked to escape to St Anton, France and maybe a little festival in the desert called Transahara. But we'll work something out.

37 into 28

Strange to think I could possibly be turning 28 about....now. Are you sure? No. I'm dubious. Take the dub out and you're not left with much...of both that word, or music, or life in general. I'm happy to say the first mix of my 28th year my ears have the pleasure listening to is by my good friend Maarten Klein: http://soundcloud.com/maarten-klein/big-daddy-klein-dubstep-mix.

Does anyone else find your birthday always seems a long way off until suddenly it's upon you, having crept up in the night and waited patiently for the right time to pounce. I can't quite believe it's almost the end of October already, in a year that is flying by at an unprecedented rate, twisting and turning and throwing up surprises along the way. And with plans afoot for much of next year the future looks to be mapped out ahead of me, which I both love and hate at the same time; excitement at events that I know will be amazing, but also wary of making too many plans, planning your life away as Randle would say, no spontanaeity...not that I really agree with that, though it made a refreshing change to be free last Friday after work and meet up for impromptu drinks with the gang in Clapham.

Mad Men. Is anyone watching series 4 on the iplayer? Loved the first 3, and I wasn't aware any more were being filmed so assumed that it was being brought a natural conclusion as 3 wound down, only to be thrown a curveball in the finale and to suddenly discover 4 was airing just a few weeks after...excellent timing. I absolutely loved the first 3; the detail, the intrigue, the slick dialogue and character development. I realise that the writers reached a point where they had to shake up the storyline and refresh certain dynamics and settings, but for me this series is not as good as the others so far because I think the creators are now unsure of where to take the story, and more precisely, Don, next. However, they may suddenly ramp it up at any moment and leave us in admiration at the new direction...but I can't see it happening somehow, which is a shame. Has it run its course? I'm off to watch episode 7 to find out.

Final thing. Loved this line from 7 Days this week. Ben's mum is talking about how she once starred in a pantomime whilst in prison many years ago...to which her date asks: "Was it a captive audience?" Genius.