fabergemonkey

turf dancing

Courtesy of kottke, one of my favourite recent videos of street/break/turf dancing. Great stuff.

jose on the run

It has been an odd few months and weeks, and finally I am in sight of the Cardiff Half. Am I scared? Not really (a smidgeon). Intimidated? A little. Excited? Oh yes.

I have struggled with the training for it, I have found it hard and there have been many ups and downs. Of late, and this is in part to Emily, who has been hugely supportive and pushy as appropriate, it has been good. I finally feel like I can do this, but more importantly, I am very much enjoying the running.

Anyway, that aside, I am supporting the British Heart Foundation by way of this little run, so if you are inclined then please feel free to sponsor me here, or by way of the widget on the side bar over there to the right. The work the BHF does is wide-ranging and important and anything will be much appreciated.

Now… who wants to go for a run?

the idea of heroism

I have, for a long time, been fascinated by the concept of the hero. Many years ago I bought an book of fantasy artwork (no, I’m not going to tell you more). Despite the prevalence of an effectively soft porn-esque idealised concept of the woman there was an intriguing set of prose addressing the nature of the hero. A lot of it was flowery bunkum but several interesting themes could be extrapolated.

The first of these is that the hero is static in relation to his or her tribe. Unlike the tribe, which transitions, the hero/heroine is caught of a moment within the chronological, social and cultural timeline of the tribe. They are, in effect, fixed in time and are unable to change their fundamental nature, even should circumstance and context change.

The second of these was that the hero often represents both the best and the worst of the tribe, reflecting cultural extremes and attitudes and social mores. It is this extremism that is both a driver and an inhibitor.

The third was that the hero enables the tribe to transition or change. The hero’s very immobility of nature is integral to the tribe advancing, he or she is the medium by which this is achieved, often at great cost to the hero.

The fourth was that the hero is of the tribe but apart from it. This separation allows the hero to act, to be break the bounds of social and cultural constraints to act for the greater good of the tribe. This disassociation from the tribe is another form of sacrifice, the hero subsequently revered or reviled, never to be part of the whole again.

These themes are particular to a certain narrow view of heroism, but, to a greater or lesser degree they can be applied to any form of classic heroism. The hero is about a pivotal moment of change, and stories are about transition and transformation. Whatever happens to the heroine subsequently, however they may appear to change, their fundamental nature remains extant. It is on this bedrock of immutability that the world changes, where the hero’s nature is fully and finally revealed and upon which the tribe transforms.

And that is the interesting thing, that the hero is merely a protagonist until the moment arrives and the revelation is made, and their nature asserts itself, no matter how briefly. Anti-heroes, villains, broken or dark or flawed,they are subject to the  compulsion of their inner being; a critical convergence of situation and context and character lead to this exposure, and the hero acts.

David Gemmell was possibly the finest exponent of the classic hero paradigm, his characters where often flawed, driven by circumstance and nature to act in the only way they could. Time and again his books play with this archetypes, playing with the themes of survival, impossible odds and sacrifice, the hero revealed when needed.

Tanith Lee’s heroes are subtler; encapsulating a complex weave of motivations and characterisation, ranging from the obvious to the not so obvious. CJ Cherryh’s, China Mieville’s and Steven Erikson’s heroes are of a similar ilk, fascinating in their various natures and guises.

These are writers and heroes upon whom the fate of the world or worlds depend. Contemporary fiction often requires less of its heroes, and reality less so again. The idea of heroism is mutable by expectation, limited and constrained by experience and situation. The protagonist hero is forced to act, to face themselves and to change or enable transition of the reality in which they exist, no matter how mundane and trivial that may be. In a sense the scale itself almost does not matter, it is the moment and the act that is important.

For me the idea of heroism, no matter the themes above, is dependent upon the above; that the immutable innate nature of the hero is only every reached or revealed, no matter how well hidden or denied it is, and that situation and circumstance force that revelation, changing the world in ways from the subtle to the catastrophic.

Ultimately what intrigues is the journey to that moment, culminating in decisions and actions that contrive to bring about transformation. What happens to the hero afterwards is almost irrelevant, they fade into memory and legend and myth, or are forced to act and act again.

audacious

The last week has been a hugely important one for me, on a very personal level, with three key moments that very much needed to go well. And they did, thankfully.

I am always astounded at what or who life can throw at you, how it can change and turn your life upside down so unexpectedly, and in so many ways, with such varying consequence. Life has done that to me; I am re-assessing, re-evaluating and reminiscing. I find myself in a situation completely unanticipated, and I find myself embracing it with with everything that I have. And, despite the risks inherent in such reckless disregard, I am fiercely willing to do whatever is necessary to make it work. I have to. I can’t not do.

Sometimes the need for reflection and introspection needs to be balanced by action and change, by a willingness to experience life and take risks and be one hundred percent yourself. Sometimes you have to be brave and unplanned and open, abandoning caution and self-preservation for something or someone so utterly worthwhile you are left humbled and in awe.

And so I am.

Here’s to being facing fears and being audacious. Here’s to dreams and hopes and the reaching of them. Here’s to Emily, who has come from nowhere to leave me stunned and vulnerable, transforming my world into a much better, more magical  place.

Here’s to being, finally and at long last, me.

snippets

I guess I am in a bit of a funny mood tonight. Nothing untoward, not angry, frustrated, grumpy nor down. I am just… melancholic.

I am supposed to be putting away the vast pile of laundry that has accumulated over the last couple of day. I am supposed to be going for a run, making dinner, reading, writing, all sorts of things.

Instead I went looking for something, I am not sure what, but I was looking for something, and in the course of the looking I discovered a whole heap of memories; photographs, writings, snippets of this and snippets of that. Nothing but memories, captured in colour and word.

Holidays and friends and loved ones and good times and bad times and small reminders of events and happenings that I had been present at but had somehow, in the melee of life, slipped my mind. There are smiles and tears and laughter and sadness and each word or face or scene drowns me in memories and nostalgia and happiness and regret.

I know I am a many layered beast, we all are, shaped and formed by the accretion of circumstance and influence and events that stretch back into our past. We carry with us a vast cloud of ‘us’ or ‘ourselves’, malleable and formless and indistinct, and it takes but a trigger to bring a part of that cloud into sharp focus, coloured by emotion and time.

I am surrounded by these memories, intangible and ephemeral, and I forget their weight and their significance. I forget the power they exert over me, reaching forward into the now, until suddenly I remember and their relevance becomes all too apparent.

I am making memories, I always am, and those of the now are happy ones; bright and cheery, full of hope and breathlessness and anticipation. I wonder that they in time may fade into the background, shaping me from the shadows of my mind, until I once again discover a trigger that reminds me of who I once was and who I am now.

I wonder how much of myself I have forgotten, hidden away beyond my ability to recall, beyond the bounds of rediscovery. I wonder how much of myself I will forget, how much of me will only exist in photographs, emails, writings, tweets and all the paraphernalia of my current life, a mere facsimile of the truth of me, whatever that may be.

sunday odds and…

At the moment I am finding it quite difficult to concentrate on writing (things going on) and the blog in particular, hence the rise of this more snippety kind of post…

***

I finally, after a couple of years of intent, joined the Thali Cafe‘s tiffin club. And it is bloody marvellous. The food was plentiful (fish curry, spicy dhal, tasty rice and a weird little veggie salad thingy) and incredibly more-ish and more than enough for two people. Delicious and inexpensive when you consider refills are only £6-7.50, depending upon the type of meal chosen. Joining the Tiffin Club itself is only £22.50, and this includes your first meal (and gives you ownership of a very pretty set of metal tiffin pots too).

The Thali Cafe can be found in Totterdown, Clifton, Montpelier and Easton. The atmosphere is invariably relaxed and the food amazingly good value.

***

Having joined Thea Gilmore‘s Angels in the Abattoir project last year (and finding it worth every penny of the £52 it cost me) I have also joined Liz William‘s short story experiment, in which, depending upon the level of commitment chosen, she will send you from 4 to 12 short stories over the year, for the princely sum of £18 to £50. Subscriptions run for two years (from what I can work out) and are limited in number.

I have received the first three short stories and will be reading over the next week. More on this when I have done so.

Thea Gilmore’s approach is very much an experiment in direct contact with her fans, and the ‘package’ is designed to add value over and above the simple purchase of a cd or iTunes download. Liz Williams’ effort is much more of a direct sales approach, with the limited number of subscriptions adding rarity ‘value’ whilst keeping the overhead of managing these at a reasonable level (both artists take the time to be personal in their approach, as much as they can be).

I do wonder whether there will come a time, if this model explodes, where we will see eBay auctions for virtual, authentic and rare ‘subscription certificates’ to well known authors, musicians and artists. Interesting…

***

Breakfast this morning has been the remnants of yesterday’s bag of Jelly Babies. No, I’m not proud of myself at all.

***

A number of things have arisen of late where I have had to think about fatherhood and the idea of having children (no, I am not about to have a child nor am I planning to); I am still pretty much convinced that my choice is the right one so far.

Okay, the significant change there is the so far bit. I am well aware that things change, and having pontificated at length on the flexibility of change and life choice off-line, I realise that just because a decision or choice is the way it is now, doesn’t mean it cannot change in the future. Life has a nasty (or blessed) habit of throwing a curve ball and when it does you have to re-evaluate your choices based on the situation and principles at hand, rather than stubbornly adhering to a possibly outdated and less self-aware decision.

I spent yesterday with my mum, brother, sister-in-law and the two nephews (and small jug). It was bedlam. I can see and understand that having children and raising them is no mean feat, but gods, I don’t know it. And I am quite happy with that shallowness of knowledge, to some extent.

My hat off to those of you who have done and are doing it. ’tis a brave and crazy thing you do, and best of luck with it.

***

I am quite particular and opinionated about books, and a brief conversation with Emily last night highlighted this. I love reading and I love books. I love people’s writing but I can be a bit snotty about the quality of writing and storytelling contained within a book (this in no way contradicts my occasional penchant for horribly written pulp fiction, okay, it does).

I do not like the Brontes, the Austens and I dropped GCSE English Literature like a hot stone after reading the first couple of pages of Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd. Heathen as it may be, I just don’t like these classics and making me read them will only get me as grumpy as the time I was made to read Dan Brown.

On the flip side I do love the ancient classics; Aristophanes and Ovid and Euripides are great, and Fagle’s translations of the Homeric epics the Odysseus and the Iliad are just fantastic. Moving forward through time, Dumas’ the Count of Monte Cristo and the Three Musketeers are true classics, as is, indisputably, Cervante’s Don Quixote. Of course there are non-European epics/classics I like as well, such as Journey to the West by Wu Cheng’en and the massive and intimidating Indian epics Ramayana and Mahabharata (although to be perfectly honest I only really ever watched the latter on television).

I just have a real blind spot when it comes to Hardy, Austen et al (and this goes for worthy Russians such as Dostoyevsky and Chekov). Perhaps time will change my mind.

***

Mini-recommendations:

Sustrans is a cycling charity set up to promote cycling in the UK and they have been instrumental in the massive growth in the National Cycle Network. They do lots of good stuff at all levels of the community and if you are into cycling in any way you should consider joining. They also have some great helmets in their shop (ahem).

I have just recently picked up a copy of Dario Mitidieri’s Children of Bombay. The pictures are stunning, heartbreaking, emotive, brutal and observationally astute. The photography is superb. Go and find it.

The universe. I really like it. Despite all it’s odd bits; dark matter (confusing), exploding suns, life, incomprehensibility and unimaginable vastness and minute complexity, it has it’s good points too. Just look around, you’ll see examples of both. Love it.

hidden

behind your voice
in the shadows
of what you say
a hidden thing
a child born of
something feared
in the way you pause
the silence
and the shades
of your tone
the whisper
that is your conviction
the emptiness
that colours words
squeals faint agony
in the tautness
of your voice
a simple need
for solace
stares out from behind
the shallows of
your laughter
little earthquakes
along the edge of your
world
echoing
the crying inside
waiting for something
someone
to turn their eyes
into the sun
and see the child
inside
to turn into the glow
to bear the heat
of your truths
clasp the hand
that cannot reach out
to walk a while
with the shadows of your
smile
and stand witness
to your self belief
to see
all there is
to see

220499

thursday, friday

Just… right.

book blogs

Despite being online and reading books for years I have only just recently stumbled into the world of book-blogging (where everything and anything about books is discussed). To this end I have created a set of links under books in the blogroll bit to your right with some of the frankly fab blogs/websites that I have started following/reading/enjoying.

I have deep love for science fiction and fantasy from the 30′s through to 70′s and I so far haven’t seen anything that really covers this. I am toying with the idea of setting up my little blog to this end, as I have read and loved (and occasionally hated) so much of these genres from these periods. It won’t be of the quality of these guys and girls to the right, but it will be something.

It will also give me (not that I need one) an excuse to surround myself with lovely stacks of the relevant books, to re-read and re-enjoy, and to quantify what they mean to me and why they should be read. There is a hell of a lot of classic, clever and inventive writing out there, undiscovered or more often than not, sadly forgotten.

Okay, I think I have just convinced myself to do this. Now to think of a suitably appropriate and odd name for said blog…

tuesday

It has been a good couple of weeks. Lots of stuff has happened, and I seem to have found my ’centre’ again. Karma, Fate and Serendipidity  have deemed to involve themselves and throw me into the midst of a situation most wonderful and intriguing and exciting (more about that, maybe, at some point). Goals that were beginning to look ominously difficult are suddenly looking achievable and realistic. The writing is coming on and cake never tasted better.

I guess what I am trying to say is that I am happy. And that feels good.

***

The @NaNoWriMo twitter account tweeted yesterday that there were ‘only’ 98 days to go until NaNoWriMo. Last year I met a whole bunch of rather wonderful writers and scribblers through NaNo, and other than the fact that I ‘won’ the challenge, this is my favourite thing about the event.

Writing is a solitary activity, and yet Twitter and NaNo have managed to make this much less so. As I blogged during last year’s endeavours, the support, friendship and patience shown by fellow NaNoers was immense and was instrumental in getting me through. The encouragement given by the team running the challenge was incredible, as was their energy, and the gee-ups from the numerous professional high-profile writers and authors did much to keep us going.

I am going do it again this year, and this time I will attend the bi-weekly writing events, hopefully to catch up and meet some of my fellow challengees. Apparently I was quite grumpy at times last year, this time I will make a concious effort to chill out and enjoy the process (I did last time, but oh boy, I did get a tad stressed occasionally). If I had the time and money I would even fly out to San Francisco for the Night of Writing Dangerously. That would be awesome.

I am even seriously thinking about appling for the Municipal Liason position for either Wiltshire or Exeter and Devon, although both are a little out of my way. Or in India, because I could always do with a month in India.

So I have 97 days to come up with a plot line, characters and a world to base them in. Shouldn’t be too hard… should it?

***

I’ve just received an email from my mother, addressed to the whole clan, regarding land and tax issues to do with property in the homeland. It clearly lays out the issues and liabilities, calculations, historical situation and ends with options for moving forward. It is concise, clearly and well written and very easy to follow.

It is at times like this  that I realise that I don’t really know my mum that well at all.

***

Yesterday I ran home from work. Today I did it again. It doesn’t sound like much, roughly 4.7 miles with some up and down. But I enjoyed it, thoroughly.

Oddly this has been a little milestone of mine, being able to do this. And I did it.

On Sunday the thought of the route home felt long and unknown and scary. Yesterday I discovered that it wasn’t. The distance had shrunk, the effort needed wasn’t as intense as expected, the time needed not much more than my normal journey.

Today it was smoother, easier, not at all intimidating. Each step was a step already taken, familiar. The environment was known, the expectations set. Even accounting for the couple of minutes wasted yesterday on slight detours I still managed to take three minutes off of my time.

I ache, and my knee is a little sore but I still feel like I could go for a run right now. I want to go for a run. I am going for a bike ride tomorrow and all I can think about is going for a run instead.

Its odd, but finally, I think, I am beginning to understand where I fit in with this thing called running.

***

Mini-recommendations:

Cafe Maitreya is considered one of the best organic vegetarian places in Bristol, and deservedly so. The food is fresh, inventive and tasty. Mmm. Or, as we like to say on Twitter, #nom.

Travels on My Elephant by Mark Shand remains one of my favourite travelogues. Very much of its time it charts Shand’s 800 mile journey through India, and his developing relationship with Tara, his elephant. Funny, moving, insightful and full of character, it well portrays the romanticism of India against the dying embers of its colonial past. It is, at heart, a love story and is well worth seeking out and reading.

Amanda Palmer‘s Who Killed Amanda Palmer? [Alternate Tracks] is hugely enjoyable. I am not sure how you describe her music, it is tagged as baroque-pop and punk-cabaret, both of which seem apt. Its dark and playful and soulful and quite strange, but I like it. I am particularly taken with Runs in the Family and Blake Says.