Posts Tagged ‘Observations’

Siblings and risk taking

Posted 29 May 2010 — by Jonathan
Category Politics

I’ve written on Assistant Blog before about my interest in siblings. As an only child I’m entirely happy with being sibling-less, and never once considered the thought that I was in any way missing out when I was younger. Nevertheless, it remains a fascination for me, and I find myself endlessly attracted to books, songs, news stories about brothers and sisters. At work this week this came up in some discussion or other, and I successfully bullied Deb into saying she’d be my sister. Not sure it counts though.

Anyway, regular readers of my blog will not be surprised to hear that I’m getting quite excited and involved in the Labour Leadership debate – I could never celebrate Labour’s departure from power and the subsequent Tory-liberal coalition which replaced it, but I do cautiously welcome the opportunity for Labour to rediscover its priorities. I’m far from convinced that the current candidates will produce the debate we need (in fact I wonder if the battle for Labour’s London mayoral candidate, which could well involve not just Ken Livingstone and Oona King but also Peter Mandelson, might be bolder), but I’m hopeful that Labour party members will keep an open mind for as long as possible and think radically about how the direction that the party needs to evolve.

I was always going to be interested in the leadership election, but the fact that the two frontrunners are David and Ed Milliband is particularly fascinating for me. There isn’t, in ideological terms, much between them – I sense that Ed is slightly less bound by Labour’s record than David’s, but that’s a happy coincidence for him, having only entered the House of Commons in 2005, rather than an indicator of a radical streak. So what seems to be separating them in their campaigns is their approach, rather than their values (I’m wholly opposed to this being a choice taken on ‘personality’ but I do recognise that approach is important – and I’m unsure how that can be assessed without taking a long look at personalities. Yes, contradiction). My instinct, early on, is that Ed – the younger brother – is the man best placed to relaunch Labour; he seems more conversational, more engaged, more down to earth, and slightly less cautious.

Interestingly, this fascinating blog post by Ian Leslie seems to bear that notion out, although does so by way of some rather circuitous speculation. It’s very very interesting though. Prompted by research by the evolutionary psychologist Frank Sulloway, Ian takes a look at evidence which points to the importance of birth order in determining character traits. The question Ian asks is ‘which brother will be more likely to take bold risks as Labour leader?’. By examining a huge data set of information about successful siblings through the ages, Sulloway’s observations are very interesting. Ian quotes the New Yorker:

In the family, firstborns identify more strongly with power and authority than their siblings do, they employ their superior size and strength to defend their special status and frequently “minimize the costs of having siblings by dominating them.”In their relations with siblings, firstborns are more assertive, jealous, and defensive than laterborns. They also tend to be more self-confident, and are overrepresented among Nobel Prize winners and political leaders, including American Presidents and British prime ministers. Churchill, Washington, Ayn Rand, and Rush Limbaugh might be taken as illustrative.

As the underdogs of the family, laterborns are more inclined to identify with the downtrodden and to question the status quo-sometimes to the point of becoming revolutionaries. They are more open to experience, because this openness aids them, as latecomers to the family, in finding an unoccupied niche. Their openness tends to make them more imaginative, creative, independent, altruistic, and liberal. From their ranks have come the bold explorers, the iconoclasts, and the heretics of history. Joan of Arc, Marx, Lenin, Jefferson, Rousseau, Virginia Woolf, Mary Wollstonecraft, and Bill Gates typify the behavior of laterborn siblings.

Sulloway’s latest research has focused on sporting siblings, and the frequency in Baseball in which the younger brother ‘steals bases’ (a bold tactical manouvre). The results echo the conclusions reached above – the younger sibling, in 90% of scenarios, takes more risks.

This is fascinating stuff – please do go over to Ian’s post and have a proper read. Incidentally, he doesn’t mention Obama, strangely (given that he authored a terrific book about the US election) – but that can be easily explained. Obama has eight half-siblings; that’s way too complicated for this discussion…

The joy of toys

Posted 16 May 2010 — by Jonathan
Category Observations

I might compile a list of the places in Brighton that I feel ashamed of having never visited, and just get them all done. It’s utterly ludicrous that I could have lived here all those years and never, until Friday, visited the Brighton Toy and Model Museum, which is an absolute treasure trove of joy and pseudo-nostalgia. Not only was the Muesum, as part of the Festival season, open late specially, but the marvellous 0 and 00 guage train set was up and running.

Me, Sam and Dan circled it hungrily, wanting to reach out and touch, while Laura looked tolerantly on and scribbled in her notebook. I like the furniture best, I decided, the level crossings, roadsigns and brick red pillar boxes. Through one window I admire a model landscape more reverently than I do the rolling downs on my daily commute.

I hear Sam talking loudly. He and Dan have stopped by a cabinet containing a model helicoper. “Why does it have twin rotor blades?”, Dan is wondering. And Sam is off. “Well actually”, he says, “the vast majority of Soviet helicopters had twin rotors. The second was introduced to counteract the effects of torque on the single blade…”. I can’t bear it. I don’t care if Sam is right or not. I denounce him as a bullshitter, loudly. Behind him a couple of children, who were listening attentively, look disappointed. Sam is now a pariah in their eyes.

They eye him angrily.

Our enthusiasm for the toys is not infectious. After a while – when we’re on our third lap of the exhibits – Laura announces that she’s going to head off and leave us to it. She does. The men are left to their toys. We grin at each other.

“Pub?”, we muse.

“Pub”, we agree.

Two unconnected thoughts

Posted 02 May 2010 — by Jonathan
Category General

- I don’t use the chubb lock on my front door; there’s already an outer door to be negotiated, so I don’t feel I need that extra security. Plus, I’m a bit lazy. But I realised something funny the other day, when Vic came round for dinner.

When Vic comes round, she has to be watched carefully, because otherwise she will start opening post and peering into drawers. This time, she successfully managed to get open a letter from my landlord, informing me there’d be a annual check on the property later this month. It ended with a reminder that all locks would be used on departure, so I should make sure I have everything with me to get back in. I realised that there is, in fact, one time when I always use the chubb lock.

Ten times out of ten, on those increasingly rare occasions when I go out and drink so much that I cannot recall getting home, I discover the next morning that I have double-locked myself into the flat. I find this fact, pleasing – somehow I not only always manage to make it home, but take extra care to make myself safe, too.

I’ll be alright.

- Four days since The Guardian announced that it’s backing the Liberal Democrats at the General Election, and I’m still too angry to buy a copy. Apart from occasions when I’ve been out of the country, I don’t think I’ve gone four days without buying a Guardian in at least a decade. I wonder how long this will last.

Discovering Chinatown

Posted 19 Apr 2010 — by Jonathan
Category Music, Photos, Travel

As I think I’ve said before, the joy of passing from one district to the next in New York is the rich, seamless transition from one predominant culture, one predominant attitude, into another. Probably I’m seeing that through rose-tinted spectacles, as a tourist – not appreciating that for some the transition is far less painful. It’s probably so for the locals of South Bronx who see wealthy artists moving in and raising the rents, or for Italian families in Little Italy who can’t help but notice that as Chinatown grows, so their community contracts. It was doubtless once so for the many families in Tribeca, Nolita and Williamsburg that have had to move on as property prices have soared. Nevertheless, to the tourist, the endless variety of communities one ecounters in the city is remarkable.

Of all of them, Chinatown is probably the easiest to locate and get to grips with, and yet equally perhaps the hardest to interact with. It’s been a constant on my trips to NY, somewhere I’ve always gone, and somewhere I’ve always been at my most touristy – taking photos, peering at food stalls, always walking, never stopping to really take in what I’m experiencing. The Canal St area is such a bustling, fast-paced neighbourhood. But last week, on the final day of my first stint in the city, I strolled South of Canal St towards the Financial District and, appreciative of the blazing sun, found myself taking a break in Columbus Park. It was just as busy as everwhere else in Chinatown, but the provision of benches, and grass upon which to sit, gave me an opportunity for a breather and gave me, in turn, one of my happiest travel moments. Having weaved through the crowds, and admired the many, complex board games being played by the locals, I found a seat and watched a traditional Chinese band set up their instruments and pass around reams of sheet music.

It would be very easy to accuse me of cultural tourism – only engaging with something if I encounter it packaged up and prettified in an outdoor space, and I’m consious too that claiming to love a style of music so far removed from the Western tradition makes me sound positively pretentious. But sat in the sun, watching groups interact, games unfold and listening to cascades of strange, beautiful notes and thunder-clap cymbals, I felt like I was experiencing a moment of real beauty, and marvelled at the sound of the songs I heard. Very short clip, below.

Heel disintegration

Posted 08 Apr 2010 — by Jonathan
Category Travel

The heels of my shoes arch slightly, the shape curved, a thin band of wood and rubber worn down by my ever-so-slightly off-centre way of walking. On my left shoe, the left hand side of the heel is eroded. On my right, the right. This must mean, I have concluded, that I walk with my feet pointing outward. I am like the cheerful cockney on an old music hall stage.

Much of my heel, part of my shoe, has been sliced and scraped into the paving stones of Manhattan. I walked for hours, yesterday – long thick, springly roads, yielding in the baking sun; back and forth past cafes and bars; down thin passages and across squares teaming with students from NYU, neighbourhood drunks, afternoon chess. As I mentioned before, you wouldn’t believe how hot it is here. It got as high as 92°F yesterday. As I stumbled through East Village, neck craned to catch sight of the heavy blossom, bending the brances, and the iron and steel of the staircases, snaking up the houses, I wondered to myself, “how can a city full of such tall buildings cast so little shade”.

So I back up, veer left, catch sight of some new diversion, and forget the heat, striding off excited, toes pointing outward.

Early days

Posted 07 Apr 2010 — by Jonathan
Category Observations

It didn’t occur to me to check the weather forecast before I came over to New York, as I’ve been at this time of year a couple of times and know it to be bright and cool; good, respectable, Spring weather.

Well, it’s absolutely boiling. I touched down late last night and pretty much went straight to bed, so I woke this morning caught somwhere between real confusion (where was I? what time was it?) and pure excitement (oh yeah – New York). I skipped the hotel breakfast and darted out onto the busy street.

I double checked. Maybe I really didn’t know what time it was? I was pretty sure that I’d adjusted my phone correctly, and that it was 8.30am; but it was just too hot for that. It must have been at least 25 degrees. Now, a couple of hours later, it must be at least 30. In short, it’s fantastic – but I’m woefully over-dressed, having only packed a couple of dark suits and a pair of heavy jeans. No trainers, just shoes. The perfect justification, then, for some spending.

It being early, all I could do at first was window-shop. My hotel is sat at the connecting point, pretty much, of a bunch of Manhattan’s most interesting districts. To the right is the Lower East Side. To the left sit Little Italy and the ever-encroaching, visually-intoxicating Chinatown. Just above is Nolita, which struck me last time I was here as a massively interesting neighbourhood, and to the side of that, SoHo, where I headed this morning.

SoHo is really amazing; wide streets, huge cast-iron industrial buildings, and some wonderful shops. It being early, I pressed my nose up against the glass at McNally Jackson and the Apple Store, and then headed to Cafe Bari, a lovely little cafe on Broadway, where I read the Village Voice and ate breakfast, which consisted of two eggs (over easy), bread, potato croquettes, an unbelievably tasty salad, and some little beef sausages.

That done, I tracked back through Nolita, picked up some books in McNally’s, and started planning next steps – which right now I think will have to consist of buying an entire new wardrobe…

Bristol

Posted 17 Mar 2010 — by Jonathan
Category Observations, Photos, Travel

After my appointments in Bristol on Tuesday afternoon I got a cab back to my hotel in Clifton, got changed, and slowly walked back into town, enjoying the wonderful light and the surprising quietness of the streets, which were largely deserted. I didn’t cover a great distance, but I was still getting my bearings, walking a kind of convoluted, figure eight, cats-cradle route. After a while the streets began to get busier, and I noted that I was swimming against the tide of Bristol’s student population, who were finishing up at University for the day and heading home. I divided my attention, as I walked, between the views across the city and the people who crossed my path; enjoying watching each person approach and file past, quicker than I in their desire to get home and put the day behind them. Some alone, others in two and threes, chatting, shoving and clutching at each other as they passed, preoccupied with their thoughts, their conversations.

A couple approached slowly, both dressed in black. They were positioned close, but something about their body language told me early that they were arguing, and by the time they pulled level, the girl had pulled her arm away from his and crossed the road, clambering up to the raised walkway, continuing alone for a time. The boy waited a bit then sprinted after her, falling into time with her steps. I stood, watching. Unless they whispered, as far as I could tell they exchanged no further words, but looped their long, loose arms back around each other’s waists. Another couple, their body language so different, were dressed in identical tracksuits, talking intently. A girl walked by swinging a bag and fingering her telephone, her eyes lovingly smudged with eyeliner and mascara. And three more girls, ordered from right to left according to the severity of their fringes, floated by in a way that suggested they would be amazed to be told they had shared the pavement with anyone at all.

I envied their purposefulness, their having somewhere to go. That’s the problem with being alone in an unfamiliar place – you tend to just drift, fill time, speculate on the evening ahead, not knowing what it holds. One’s mind is never in the present; it hovers moments ahead, visualising conversations or incidents that will never occur. People become symbols, or else characters in an imaginary play. Up ahead the road dipped, and I began to descend, wondering where I would end up. And another person passed by, and this time, catching my eye, offered a smile. Too startled to return it, I nevertheless basked in the memory for a good fifteen minutes, glad to be acknowledged – feeling that I had been included in, welcomed into, the city’s shape.

A morbid girl

Posted 15 Mar 2010 — by Jonathan
Category Observations

Between appointments at Bristol University, today, I found myself with a twenty minute window, so I walked round to the Bristol City Museum & Art Gallery, which is next door, and had a quick look at the stuffed animals in the Natural History section, before wandering through to the bookshop.

“What’s occurring?”, I heard someone say, in a soft, friendly West Country accent.

I turned round and saw that a couple of security guards had entered the room and were chatting with the woman behind the counter. I continued browsing idly, before crossing back towards the door. As I passed the counter, a book caught my eye so I lingered for a moment to leaf through it, earwigging on their conversation while I did.

“My daughter, she wants to see a pigeon in a bowler hat”, the woman was saying, shaking her head.

I didn’t turn to see the men’s expressions, but their silence implied they didn’t really know what to say to that.

“I don’t know why”, she continued. “She just thinks it would be the best thing“.

“Oh right”, one of the men said, politely.

“And she wants to see a fight between a pigeon and a squirrel. To see which would win. She keeps telling me this. She’s funny. A morbid girl”.

One of the men laughed. “Ah well. How old’s your little girl, then?”.

“She’s 22″, the woman replied, flapping a hand into the air. “But very immature”.

Trains and eye-contact

Posted 13 Mar 2010 — by Jonathan
Category Observations

The trains home from work last night were completely screwed, as so often seems to be the case on Friday afternoons. Statistically, are people more likely to throw themselves on the tracks at the end of a working week? That seems the least likely time, when all the work is done. I suppose some people dread going home more than they dread going to work, and for the fact that I dread neither, I should be grateful.

I work adjacent to Chichester station, so I spent much of that final couple of hours staring down at the crowded platform, willing the trains to start moving again. Happily, they eventually did, and I made my way out of work to what looked like an empty station. But I’d judged it badly – instead the crowd had merely transferred its presence to the stationary train, which was waiting to leave. My colleagues and I walked briskly down the platform looking for an opportunity to board, finding each entry point more densely packed than the last. The general rule, as far as I can observe, is that as much as you don’t want to spend an hour standing, crowded into someone’s armpit, it’s immeasurably better to stare into a stranger’s armpit than one belonging to a colleague. So we took a carriage door each, positioning ourselves evenly through the train.

The English are masters at avoiding eye contact. I was stood uncomfortably close to a bull-necked man with a brief case. I turned my head right, he turned his left. After a while, I turned my head left, so that I could exchange a rueful smile with a co-worker down at the other end of the carriage. So bull-neck, breathing heavily with the heat, turned his head right, ensuring we didn’t have to stare into each other’s face. We continued this dance for twenty miles, alternating our perspective, left right, right left – our only concession to the enforced intimacy a sweep of peripheral vision.

finally

Posted 13 Feb 2010 — by Jonathan
Category Observations, Photos

I’m back at my parents’ house in Cambridgeshire this weekend, where I am normally made to feel unwelcome by their distant, rather jumpy cat, Millie. This time round, however – perhaps spurred by the poor weather, which is keeping her indoors – she seems to be have adopted a tolerant attitude to me; not scampering angrily from the room when I enter, nor leaping a foot into the air when I extend a hand towards her.

And then, finally, a sign that, ten years in, I am finally beginning to win her over.

A gift!

uncontrolled aggression

Posted 22 Jan 2010 — by Jonathan
Category Observations

Last night I was sat reading my book on my journey home, the train idling at a quiet platform – when I saw out of the corner of my eye someone running alongside the train. I heard his feet land heavily on in the carriage as he leapt through the closing doors, and then his bag land heavily on the seat opposite mine. He slumped after it, not red-faced but out of breath. He was young, handsome, in his mid-twenties, with long hair and a close-cropped, fashionable beard. The train pulled away and he began a familiar mime; patting his pockets, shifting in his seat, flipping open the lid of his canvas bag. It’s a spectacle I put on myself near enough every morning when I see the ticket-inspector approaching, wondering where I’ve put my railcard.

His movements shifted up a gear. I recognise that, too. It’s not just in a different pocket. It’s not here. I left my wallet on the bedside table, my telephone at work, my book on the bathroom floor. He began to search frantically, repeatedly, replaying the sequence as if he were a caged animal obsessively retracing a route. I fought to restrain my mouth from twitching into a smile, not because I took pleasure in his discomfort, but because I know the feeling all too well, and sympathised. Then he brought his fist down hard upon the plastic table, and swore. His bag, now thoroughly searched, turned inside-out, he flung hard into the adjacent seat. He swore again. And again. That flicker of a smile had long since disappeared and I tried to immerse myself in my book, shrinking backwards in my seat. Great.

His temper did nothing to abate. He thumped the table again, and punched his bag. He tilted his head back and let out a volley of curses. I began to wonder what he had lost. He pulled a mobile phone from his pocket and held it to his ear. So, not that. A moment later, he was talking, hissing, words tumbling out. His opening conversational gambit was “I’m really fucking angry”. His wallet, I suppose, or an iPod. House keys? He kept swearing.

As he muttered on, still occasionally slamming his head back into his head-rest in frustration, I fluctuated between interest and revulsion. It was a remarkable display of petulance from a grown man. It made me think how controlled I am. Over the years I have lost a quite absurd number of vital or expensive things, from spectacles to mobile phones to expensive gadgets. I don’t recall ever doing more than closing my eyes in frustration and musing over how careless I am. I honestly don’t think this guy was far from punching a wall. Or someone else. His girlfriend, if that’s who he was talking to on the phone, must have moments when she really wonders at his capacity for aggression. I’m not saying I don’t understand temper, and possibly he’d just had the worst day of his life, but it was incredibly unappealing.

In the end I learned from his call that he was upset because, running for his train, he had pulled his ticket from his jacket pocket and unknowingly dropped a £20 note on the station platform. I got off the train ten minutes later, glad of my even temperament.

the consolation of town planning

Posted 17 Jan 2010 — by Jonathan
Category Books, General, Links

Sometimes a whimsical observation you read stays with you for days; this was the case with one of Wendy’s recent posts over at her Wendy House blog. It was only a light-hearted quip on her part, but it struck me as the kind of playful, sudden thought that shouldn’t be mistaken for a hackneyed one. I’ve heard the phrase ‘relief road’ a million times, but somehow never quite noticed it’s charming quality. Wendy writes:

Here in the UK we have roads who’s whole purpose is to provide relief, relief Roads.

The pleasingly named Rose Kiln Lane is a Berkshire relief road. Roads that provide relief. A very pleasing idea.

Having a stressful day at work? Then visit Rose Kiln Lane to find relief.

Nothing more to it than that. But the phrase has stayed with me. If only the government really did build infrastructure designed solely to console.

Incidentally, I just bought Anna Minton’s ‘Ground Control: Fear and Happiness in the Twenty First Century City’, which I think will be an interesting read, and I hope to blog about it in the future. The Guardian review of the book, which alerted me to its existence, begins:

The important thing about a castle is not that it is comfortable, but that it is secure, which makes the Englishman’s proverbial urge to live in one rather bleak. Against whom are we fortifying our homes, if not one another? We pretend that our property obsession is a lifestyle choice, but it could just be misanthropy: worshipping the private retreat out of distaste for being in public. If so, the problem stems from bad policy as much as national character. The British approach to managing urban space is utterly wrong, according to Anna Minton in Ground Control. Successive governments have conspired, Minton argues, to create environments that make people suspicious of one another. That makes them miserable. We are one of the saddest, loneliest peoples of Europe.

Sounds like it might be fascinating.

money makes the world go round

Posted 14 Jan 2010 — by Jonathan
Category General

Strange going ons in the world of football. For those of you who have no interest; you’re missing out – this is a peculiar and interesting season for a number of reasons – the big clubs are struggling, the smaller clubs are contracting and expanding, playing rich, rewarding football on the one hand and spitting out managers on the other. Adapting to face new commercial realities, and creaking under the weight of the grim hold that capitalism exerts on the game.

And old certainties are no longer quite so certain – I can no longer find it in myself to hate Sol Campbell for leaving Spurs all those years ago, for example, and I find myself inwardly applauding the dreadful Joey Barton for claiming that footballers ‘are knobs’ on Radio 4, of all places. Grand old clubs like Man City, Portsmouth and Notts County, meanwhile, have futures which are suddenly, truly, completely unknowable. Glory or bankruptcy.

This isn’t the prelude to a review of the year in football or anything; just a few notes before I sling off a couple of interesting links I’ve encountered in the last few weeks. The first concerns the afore-mentioned Portsmouth, for whom every moment seems a drawn-out agony, for all that (actually) they have an OK team, who play nice football. Their problem is not that they look dead-certs for relegation (actually, that’s the least of their problems) but rather that they tried to compete with the big teams financially and messed it up, before taking the hand of the first person who promised to clear up the mess without checking him out properly first.

If anyone wants to formulate an argument about capitalism ruining football, they should board the train to Fratton. Jamie Jackson, writing for the Guardian, delivers a damning indictment of Portsmouth’s profligacy.

John Utaka was Portsmouth‘s record signing when he joined from Rennes in July 2007 for £7m. In two and a half years, he has become their record waste of money.Utaka has started 31 Premier League games and scored seven times in all competitions. Since claiming five of those goals in his opening season the Nigerian’s form has declined disappointingly. This season his highlight was scoring against Hereford United in the Carling Cup five months ago. Despite Portsmouth’s well-documented problems – Avram Grant has only 17 outfield players, and is operating under a transfer embargo – Utaka has started only twice in the league, back in August. Not only was Utaka rejected by Nigeria for the Africa Cup of Nations that starts tonight, he did not even get into the 32-man preliminary squad.

Portsmouth are debt-ridden and threatened with administration. Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs served a winding-up petition on the club just before Christmas, and Portsmouth cannot find the £10m required to lift the transfer embargo. Utaka, meanwhile, continues to enjoy the rewards of his four-year contract on a barely credible £80,000 a week. If he stays to the end of his term, the total cost to Portsmouth will be about £23m. That would be enough to secure their immediate future.

If that tale of excess isn’t enough to momentarily divert you from the small pyre of wicker bankers which you are absent mindedly building at your desk, a slightly more jolly tale from Manchester, where at Man City, meanwhile, things could not be more rosy since they shacked up with their own – somewhat more credible – Saudi sugar-daddy, and made the decision to sack Mark Hughes.

Football being football, they elected to do so in an entirely dishonourable fashion, and earned the condemnation of many in the game for their methods, but, football being football, they’ve won every game since (under the stewardship of the handsome Roberto Mancini), so everyone has forgiven them. Except for Mark Hughes, presumably.

Even I’ve fallen under the spell of Mancini. He’s just so sophisticated. Look, here he is bemoaning the food culture at his new club. He wants the players to eat better before they run out onto the pitch.

“I will calmly make corrections to what they eat before matches,” City’s manager told the Italian newspaper Corriere dello Sport. “You need more chicken, pizza, carbohydrates. As well as a glass of wine, which isn’t being served.”

Brilliant! He wants his players to eat pizza and drink alcohol before they play!!! I love this man. When his time comes, I hope his petty, fickle, nouveau-riche employers treat him better than he did his predecessor.

And, more importantly, last night’s game between Liverpool and Reading was just fantastic, fantastic stuff – a genuinely deserving smaller team, a huge team in a state of crisis, and a great finale. Here’s Dan, rather pleased with Reading’s performance.

the architecture of dreams

Posted 04 Jan 2010 — by Jonathan
Category Observations

I’ve never been inclined to analyse dreams, or read too much into them. There are people, I know, who think they have great significance, that they are the key to unlocking great mysteries of the mind, or that they have a strange, totemic significance for the future. I don’t think any of those things, nor do I spend much energy thinking of them. Most of my dreams are vivid, realistic, meandering, and easily forgotten; often within moments of waking.

A dream, for me, has no significance but as an insight into the odd physicality of the mind – I like to think of dreams as surges of leftover creativity and power. A light-bulb doesn’t go cold the moment one turns it off, and nor does the mind. Once we drift into sleep I like to think of our brains throbbing on, unharnessed, no longer dictated by logic, until the detritus of the day is worked through.

What I do find amazingly interesting about dreams, above all else, is the incredibly lucid architecture they summon up. Take the dream I remember from last night:

It was set on the grounds of a University campus. It started in the canteen, where I was eating. From there, I moved through to a foyer and entered a newsagent, where I flicked through magazines and through a box of second-hand books which were on sale. I picked up a bundle of four books, which were banded together, because they were all academic studies of the band Bloc Party (of whom, incidentally, I’m not a fan, so I don’t know where I dredged that up from). I then walked out to the open air and boarded a bus, heading off campus. I sat upstairs. A girl noticed my books and asked what they were.

Nothing there is interesting or insightful, but when I awoke, I awoke with an incredibly keen memory of the landscape I created. As an editor of academic books, I spend a lot of time on university campuses, so their layouts are familiar to me. I could have picked any one of thirty or forty campuses I know well in which to set my scenario. But all day I’ve been remembering, visualising the architecture of my dream-memory and I am sure of two things. Firstly, it was incredibly real (although it is a memory shot from a single angle, as if cinema), and secondly, it was a landscape of my own design. Bits of pieces of it no doubt constructed from real memories, but the overall picture was original. A place I’ve never been to, and to which I can never return.

I’m just flabbergasted, when I think of it, at the fact that when we dream we are able to imagine with such incredible, complex detail. I could draw a map of the dream and it would – and this is the depressing bit – probably represent the most concerted bit of creative imagining I’ve performed, awake or asleep, in 2010 so far.

How weird, and how exciting,

once in a blue moon

Posted 01 Jan 2010 — by Jonathan
Category Observations, Photos

Last night was notable not just for being the start of a new decade, but also because it offered a rare opportunity to see a blue moon; the rare sighting of a 13th full moon in a calender year. Doesn’t happen often, and, while it’s no different to any other full moon, it somehow felt like a priviliged, mystical moment to be eyeing it as I walked home from Dan’s party at four in the morning.

To all reading who I’ve not spoken to in person over the last 24 hours – Happy New Year.

meat after moral certainty

Posted 28 Dec 2009 — by Jonathan
Category Observations

Sitting having breakfast in Billie’s Cafe in Brighton this morning, Alba, Lyndsey, Dan, and I discussed foods that we can’t – or rather, won’t, eat. I was a horribly fussy eater as a child, forcing my poor mother to serve me up all sorts of deeply indulgent dinners as a way of encouraging me to eat. Like a lot of kids, the number of foodstuffs I rolled my eyes at was embarrassingly great – eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes etc. The one constant component of my diet was always meat, although I’m proud to say that I have eliminated practically all of my food-phobias in adulthood. There’s pretty much nothing I won’t eat now, with the exception of grapefruit (I know, weird). I like just about everything, including things I would have had a cheerful tantrum over when I was a kid – brussel sprouts, frog’s legs, olives, avocados. I still eat an awful lot of meat though – too much to make ever becoming a vegetarian absolutely unthinkable.

Still – this article, by Neel Mukherjee, is pretty much beyond reproach. He’s absolutely right to say that the intellectual and moral argument over the eating of meat is settled, and that vegetarians are on the right side of the debate. That I can admit this and at the same time admit that I’m still not tempted to abandon meat is evidence, I guess, of a certain moral cowardice. But it’s tempered by the suspicion that attempting to live one’s life by virtue of rational, intellectual moral arguments alone is ultimately fruitless; a never-ending quest. There will be many painful decisions still to be made once animal welfare issues are resolved.

And anyway, I’m much too thin as it is, so I need the sustenance. So there.

Back to the article – it’s hardly an in-depth study of the subject, but I like Neel’s candour, and his own admission of inadequacy at the end. Worth reading.

“To understand intellectually is one thing, to put it into practice quite another, a whole untraversable territory away. I still haven’t been able to stop eating meat. In any restaurant, my eyes alight first, as if by an atavistic pull, on the meat dishes on the menu. In any dinner party I throw, I think of the non-vegetarian dish as central. I view this as a combination of weakness, greed and moral failure. Someone please help.”

No need to help me – but I’m roasting a chicken tomorrow, so let me know if you fancy lunch.

taking heart

Posted 16 Dec 2009 — by Jonathan
Category General, Links

This week lots of the bloggers I read regularly seem to be preoccupied with relationships, ineractions; how we get on, and why. It would be nice to report that everyone is filing success stories – but original thoughts, confidential whisperings and admissions of failure are just as welcome. Wendy is dredging up the past over at her Wendy House; I don’t think she’s the only person with a story like this in her past:

We laughed together at his assertion. It was one of the most honest expressions of closeness I’d heard then or since.

After two weeks of dating that involved lots of

  • laughter,
  • sleeplessness,
  • loud singing after dark,
  • passionate debating of the relative efficacies of pychological theories,
  • burning of incence, nicotene and canabis

He dumped me.

Easing the suprise with the phrase ‘you’re the only girl for me’ and explaining that he preferred boys. With hindsight, this explained the dearth in exchanges of bodily fluids.

20 years later. He’s still passionate, humourful, debating, smoking, prefering boys and I’m still the only girl for him. Only now there is even less excahniging of bodily fluids because the boy’s grown into a christian priest.

Over at his Potentially Eventually Funny blog, our eponymous author has been told he is a good listener. Instead of taking heart, he is coming to terms with some home truths. Honesty compels me to admit that I know exactly the instinct that he describes in this passage, and the truthfulness of it makes me feel ashamed. Still, it’s good to know that I’m not the only one (and – disclaimer – it isn’t all the time).

Anyway, my point is that I’m not a good listener – whether to females or males – I am simply quite good at finding something with which to agree on about their position and focusing on it. Or, alternatively, I am good at finding a positive in a situation and exploiting it to make it seem that the overall impression that the person I’m speaking to has is that ‘everything is, or will be, alright’. I caught myself doing it automatically the other day. A friend (not you) started to tell me about an issue that he/she had in a work relationship the other day. Immediately I discovered that I was scouring his/her testimony for anything to alight upon as a positive or as a signal misinterpreted. I was simply looking for the most simple way of getting from A to B; from concerned / depressed / upset, to at ease / positive / happy. That is not being a good listening: at best it’s prostituting my ability to rationalise interpersonal dilemmas in return for friendship, and at worst it’s a technique to change the topic of conversation from something boring – other people’s problems – to something interesting – my problems.

Perhaps because I’ve just been reading about the slow train crash which is the Copenhagen summit – a meeting beset by the failure of disperate communities to find a compromise for the greater good, Matt’s observation over at his Zen Bullets Blog rings true today. Why Can’t We Just Get Along, he asks?

Atoms work together to make cells. Cells work together to form organisms. Organisms work together to form societies, and societies work together to make cultures.

Getting cultures to work together seems to be the tricky one.

Agh. Yep.

leading up to tristram / folk music

Posted 16 Nov 2009 — by Jonathan
Category Music, Observations

Let me preface the next music post, which will concentrate on the best young musician I’ve encountered so far this year – Tristram – with the kind of weary complaint you’ll often hear from people who believe, rightly or wrongly, that they’re old enough to know better. The complaint is this: over my years of gig going (which, actually, I’ve been chronicling over here) I’ve seen enough scenes begin and end to have got pretty good at recognising the tipping point – where the joyful originality of the first wave of performers (who might decide to take as their starting ground the work of, say, The Kinks or the Pretty Things, Black Sabbath or Talking Heads) gives way to the clumsy, plodding fare of less talented followers; the second and third wave of artists who pick up a fashionable sound but wield it clumsily, missing the dynamic that made their immediate forebears effective.

The sound which has dominated indie rock in the UK and the US for the last few years is drawn – however unlikely this might have seemed five years ago – from folk (and, to a lesser extent, country) music; from Karen Dalton and Nick Drake through to The Band and John Fahey. And we’re now at a point where it is positively de rigour for every young band to have a xylophone and a ukulele, and to follow in the footsteps of the likes of Noah and the Whale, Jeffrey Lewis and Bon Iver by creating delicate, mournful and precise folk music.

There are literally dozens of musicians who do this terribly well. Too many. Take William Fitzsimmons, a hugely talented but underappreciated American songwriter whose new album contains a set of deeply personal, overwrought marvels, run through with a sorrowful beauty every bit as rich as Bon Iver’s. Or the likes of Fanfarlo or The Leisure Society, both of whom make lovely, homespun indie-folk which, for all their skill, may not be original enough to set them apart.

Others, meanwhile, do it really badly. There are a number of Brighton-based singer-songwriters, often to be found on ostensibly decent bills, whose crass, myopic takes on Dylan’s troubadour shtick are faintly agonising to listen to – the folk music equivalent of those awful, unimaginative bands – rhyming ‘treason’ with ‘reason’ – that briefly dominated the tail end of Britpop.

And then there are charming bands consisting of mere kids, who play far better than their tender years imply, and so unselfconsciously in the style of, say, Noah and the Whale, because folk music has been de rigour for most of their teenage lives.

Had I been 16 in 2009, I would doubtless be doing the same. But I was 16 in 1993, so I played in a grunge rock band. Three years later and it would have been different.

Scenes offer tremendous appeal to young musicians and music fans; they offer a warm, welcoming safety blanket and a spirit of mutual exchange and discovery. I’ve watched scenes from a distance (shoegaze, grunge), participated half-heartedly or over-enthusiastically in others (riot grrrl, britpop), and found something to love in nearly all of them. But every single one, in the end, turns to shit. The joy of discovering new music consists largely of finding beauty in unexpected places; the moment beauty – even genuine beauty – becomes predictable, it loses some of its shine. That day always comes.

In the meantime, however, the fact that it is possible to walk from one’s flat down to a local venue and discover, completely unexpectedly, someone as warm, wonderful and winning as Tristram, is a very lovely fact indeed. So, next music post: a complete recording of his live set – worth treasuring.

trains and tolerance

Posted 04 Nov 2009 — by Jonathan
Category Observations

I’ve had bad luck with train companions lately. It’s usually the case that, when someone sits in the carriage and cranks their headphones up to brain-damage levels, their thoughtlessness about the noise pollution is matched by a corresponding surliness, bordering on the suggestion of violence. Having suffered just such a companion last night – I boiled in silence – this morning I sat myself down and hoped for a peaceful commute.

At Hove, the noise pollutant boarded. I’d placed my bag, optimistically, on the empty seat beside me but readied myself to move it once I saw how many people were boarding the train. When someone arrived beside me I glanced up to spot a teenager on the verge of tipping over; hurrying to grab my seat and overloaded with a bag, a paper, a mirror, a drink, and several tubes containing glosses, creams and ointments. They tipped onto me as she sat down.

I retrieved them and held them out as the girl flopped into the seat, grinning apologetically. She leant forward, loosed her hair out of her pony tail and shook it, whipping my face as she did with a clutch of curls. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Seated at last, she poured her various belongings onto the fold down table, and began going through her bag, emptying further clutter – crisp wrappers, a mobile telephone – onto her lap. She turned and grinned again, conscious how disorganised she looked. From the bag she retrieved an iPod nano. I felt a familiar sense of dread.

The music, when it came, was, I think, Leona Lewis. It was cripplingly loud. Worthing, I thought. She’ll get off at Worthing. She didn’t.

What was odd, however, was that haphazard, clumsy, friendly way she carried herself. The big, apologetic smile, her inability to impose order over her spilling belongings, I found strangely endearing. In the end, having been gifted a noise-polluter to whom I wouldn’t have felt self-conscious about asking to turn down the volume – I felt too fond of her to do so. Which is not to say that her music didn’t annoy the hell out of me. It only goes to show I’m too tolerant.

szimpka kert, budapest

Posted 13 Oct 2009 — by Jonathan
Category Observations, Travel

Rather than soak an experience in and then think about it, analyse it, write about it later, I’m going to have a go at transcribing my thoughts about the latest chapter in my Budapest adventure as I experience it, so consequently I’m crouched over my iPhone while I should be drinking in my surroundings. On the other hand, I am sitting in the pitch black.

A couple of people have mentioned Budapest’s ruin pubs to me since I arrived, but it took my friend Laura recommending Szimpla Kert to me to get me in the door of one of them. The ruin pubs are essentially ad-hoc bars created in the space of one of the city’s many ruined buildings. In Szimpla’s case, it is housed inside a crumbling mansion, a haphazard sequence of rooms, some without proper ceilings, and a huge courtyard in the centre of District VII, the pock-marked, culturally rich part of the city that proved to be first a haven and then a prison for the Jews of Hungary during the thirties and forties.

Everything inside the pub is delapidated and decaying, but the extent to which the space, and the objects within it, have been repurposed is absolutely staggering. Each room has it’s own character and is as cosy as the last, even if some are filled with broken chairs, upturned bathtubs and old televisions. The space I’m sat in the at the moment contains 13 of the latter, suspended from the ceiling, each showing a gradually evolving psychedelic image. Apart from the TV’s, there is no lighting. So until one’s eyes adjust, one is basically sitting in the dark. The room opposite, by way of contrast, is just a few seats and a wall, upon which films are projected. To my left, dimly visible through the archway, a room with ivy snaking across the mesh roof.I’ve really never been anywhere quite like this before – it is the comfiest, richest, most dramatic and at the same time most basic pub I’ve ever frequented.

It’s absolutely wonderful, in short.