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Posts from the ‘communication’ Category

If This Were A Film

If this were a film
You would show up at my door
Sweating slightly, awkward and humble
Love in your eyes like a big panther that doesn’t know where to put its paws
You would stutter slightly and ask to come in
I would look surprised and somewhat preoccupied, with an air of suspicion
Aloof and yet totally open, like a glass lake
You would say something funny, not that funny, but funny enough to make me smile
And on seeing me smile your face would break out into its glorious grin and I would have no choice
But to just dive in
We would take a walk in Regent’s Park
No matter that it’s 40 minutes away by train with 2 changes
In films you can get from A to B without really travelling there
And so it would be with us
Talking and strolling I would soften
As it became clear how far you’d come
The trials you had endured just to be there
You would listen with curiosity and a grace that comes with almost losing everything
I would see the whole person for once, no longer blinded by fantasy
And the audience would feel gently reassured that we had earned each other
Despite our differences they could see it working out
(Whatever that means)
The film would close on a subtle shot of you looking at me
The way you sometimes do, with a kind of blissful bafflement
Content not to know
Eyes half-closed in complete surrender
The credits would roll
The crowds would leave the theatre with cheer and humour –
‘Did you see his face?’ and ‘She was mighty strange’
‘I wouldn’t have put up with that, would you?’
But deep down feeling some common glow
That for some people, somewhere, scenarios like this
Really do play out, it’s not all completely hopeless
And maybe they too could see the better parts of themselves
Unfettered by the grinds of what is considered to be reality,
Learn to forgive in public, buy oranges, tip waiters, make implausible journeys,
Love wholeheartedly
If this were a film



Image by Bruce McAdam from Reykjavik, Iceland 

Huge mistakes, mistakes that were huge…

“Huge mistakes, mistakes that were huge…”
(Sean Penn as Sam in I Am Sam)

I’ve made some pretty big mistakes lately. (huge mistakes, mistakes that were huge.) Or maybe they weren’t mistakes. Or maybe they were. But that’s not really the point. The point is I made them. In good faith! Motivated, as always, by a desire to further develop the intimate connection with myself that this life offers, and of course, perhaps more dangerously, with others. Everything I do comes from here, from the desire to give and receive love fully, with abandon. Well, so sometimes it goes horribly bastard wrong. I walk into the fire and I get absolutely fucking scorched. But tonight as I arrived home to a freshly empty house and faced what may or may not be the truth of my situation, I had a new thought: what if it’s ok to make mistakes? And not just ok…What if they are even great, my mistakes? And the seemingly inconsequential small ones that slip drearily through the net…what if they’re ok too? What if instead of sitting at home beating myself to a pulp with a horsehair whip (I’m not actually doing that, if it were even possible) I could dance, dance naked in my room (or maybe with just a sports bra and appallingly tight lycra shorts on) like a madwoman (whatever that is) and celebrate my huge fucking mistakes, safe in the (lack of) knowledge that I will never actually know whether they were mistakes or not, because who I am now is partly because of them. And who I am now is definitely wiser as a result. Who I am now is learning to be itself the hard nasty brutal boring way with lots of potholes and although it is painful and infuriating to keep on falling in, surely that doesn’t preclude having a little jig at the bottom and a grand knees up when one finally climbs out?

“In the name of heaven and earth, you can afford to make love to yourself”
(Chögyam Trungpa, Shambhala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior)

Amen to that.


Mai les jeux commencent!


Alors, j’ai décidé à prendre le plunge avec ce whole internet dating chose. Par ce que je suis artiste, est des artistes ont besoin des muses. Et je suis un peu sick to death of mon current muse. En fait, il a devenu plus d’un albatros qu’un muse, si je peut être so bold.

Mon ex-homme m’a dit, ‘Ah, l’internet dating – c’est un projet d’art pour toi, n’est-ce pas? Tu pourrais écrire un blog about it.’ Et voilà. Si j’ai fait tous les choses que mon ex-homme a suggested je would probably be un grand succès by now. Il est un des annoying people qui a les bonnes idées about other people’s lives. Mais ce n’est pas toujours facile à prendre l’advice d’un ex-homme.

Incidentalement, il est encore homme, il n’est pas devenu une femme. Mais il est ex de moi.

Alors, nous shall see, non? Et, as chance would have it, mon premier date est un Frenchman. Heureusement, il parle le franglais, otherwise nous might have had some problèmes sur nôtres mains.

‘Bonne chance, Wilson,’ j’écoute tu dire. Et merci, je réponds!


You’ve either got them or you haven’t. No big deal. But they do change the shape of things somewhat.

As breasts are quite topical at the moment I thought I’d share my own breast-related story. Not about sunbathing topless, although I have plenty of not particularly interesting stories about that. Incidentally, why do they keep locking up the naked rambler guy? For what, just BEING? I don’t understand what the problem is with nudity. Why is it even an ity at all? It’s just what happens to be under your clothes.

Anyway my story is about breasts in clothes, or not in clothes, as the case may be. I was recently frustrated during an online shopping trip by the lack of breasts on the models in the pictures because they do change the shape of things somewhat.

I wrote the following email to Karen Millen, one of the many offenders:

I just wanted to give you some feedback about my experience of on your website. I am an average sized woman, with breasts. I have nothing against skinny women with flat chests, and I understand the usefulness of that body shape when it comes to demonstrating the art of fashion, as well as the historical development of that trend. However, when it comes to online
shopping, it is really unhelpful to see what your dresses look like on people who are extremely thin, because it’s essentially the same as looking at the dress with no one in it. What I want to see is how it would look when filled out with flesh, and in particular, some kind of feminine curves – because then I can see whether it might be flattering to me or not. If the reality is that your dresses only look good on people who are stick thin and have no breasts, then you aren’t really servicing the majority of the female population, of this country at least. My suggestion therefore, is that instead of photographing the dress with the same woman a number of times in different positions, that you photograph three different women of different sizes, both with and without ample breasts, hips etc. In this way you would actually be helping the customer to make an informed choice, rather than lulling them into a fantasy about how the dress would look, if
only they happened to be Kate Moss.
Kind regards,
Annalie Wilson

No response so far…

Sorry for the mass text

If you are ‘sorry for the mass text,’ why are you sending it? You could also not send it. Alternatively you could send it and stop apologising for it. Is anybody forcing you to send it? You could send an email. You could call people individually or send them a message in the post. It’s really up to you. Presumably you think it contains something I might want to know. This is not such a bad intention. I might be genuinely interested. But your apology makes a mockery of my enthusiasm! And yet you feel the need to express your guilt. This is quite unhelpful. Preceding everything with ‘sorry’ doesn’t absolve you from the responsibility of what you’re about to do. ‘Sorry I’m about to hit you in the face.’ ‘Sorry I’m going to sleep with your wife.’ ‘Sorry I’m going to drink 17 beers and make a dick of myself. It’s just who I am.’ In the grand scheme of things sending a mass text is not really that bad. Of course if you send it at 3 o’clock in the morning it’s really bloody annoying. But being really bloody annoyed, momentarily, over a mass text, is not that bad. I might think you were a dick, but probably only if I already thought that. It’s definitely not a deal breaker. So if you’re the kind of person who likes to send mass texts I say go for it. Just don’t apologise for it.

Lyrics to kill for

I am depressed. I am depressed because I went shopping for clothes, and a song came on – by Bruno Mars, as I later discovered. It’s called “The Lazy Song.” It didn’t make me lazy though, it made me want to punch someone. No not someone, him.

On reflection, it’s actually a rather accurate title. He was obviously feeling so lazy that he didn’t bother to write a decent melody, interesting chords or lyrics that made sense or had any meaning. I feel for him, because sometimes I also experience laziness. What I don’t understand is why he felt the need to inflict this particularly uncreative mood on the rest of us.

If you have hitherto been spared the joy of this song, the premise of it is that he doesn’t feel like doing anything. He then goes on to list all the things that ‘not feeling like doing anything’ is going to make him do. Wild isn’t it? Perhaps this irony is part of his genius. Perhaps it was a mistake. Who knows?

The lyrics themselves are equally blinding.

Today I don’t feel like doing anything
I just wanna lay in my bed
Don’t feel like picking up my phone, so leave a message at the tone

It’s a classic rhyme (phone/tone). Let’s face it, we’ve all thought about using it in a song, but something has always held us back. Well it didn’t hold him back. He’s obviously got a lot of balls. In fact we know he has. Because he tells us about them:

I’m gonna kick my feet up then stare at the fan
Turn the TV on, throw my hand in my pants
Nobody’s gon’ tell me I can’t

This is in the early part of the song, when he’s still wearing his pants. Later he expresses his intention to

…just strut in my birthday suit
And let everything hang loose

I don’t have a problem with this. I also enjoy walking around naked. Great. Pro-nudity. It’s just… well so what?

I’ll be lounging on the couch just chilling in my Snuggie
Click to MTV so they can teach me how to dougie
‘Cause in my castle I’m the freaking man

But what’s this? A rare moment of psychological insight? Mars lets the heavy veil of ‘inarticulate moron’ lift for a second to show us the hideous insecurity lurking beneath. In his castle he’s the freaking man. But what about outside on the street? A helpless bag of nerves? A blubbering emotional wreck? Is he being bullied? Does he use MTV to numb the pain of his freakiness?

Sadly, we never get to find out because he reverts to fantasy land.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up, do some P90X
Find a really nice girl, have some really nice sex
And she’s gonna scream out
This is great

Really nice? Is that the best you’ve got Bruno? No freakiness? No manliness? No balls-out strutting-ness? Just ‘really nice’? And twice in one line??? True laziness. I am beginning to alter my opinion of this man. He is a master of the genre.

I hope I have whetted your appetite sufficiently, because to properly revel in the glory of this musical travesty you really have to hear the song. And thanks to youtube, you can even gaze in horror at the appalling video.


Fear And Loathing in Cavendish Square

Tonight I have been rehearsing for the Liars’ League. I am performing a story for their monthly night this Tuesday – the theme is ‘Fear and Loathing.”

The story I am reading is by Niall Boyce, whose work I have had the pleasure of reading before at a similar event a few years ago.

Liars’ League, if you’re not familiar with it, is a monthly live fiction night, where professional actors read new short stories by writers from around the world. (I lifted that definition from their website, because it’s late, and I really should be sleeping soon…)

It is always a most enjoyable evening, and Niall is an adorable doctor turned writer with a flair for the dark and disturbing. Not in his doctoring, of course. Just his writing. There are other stories being read too, all new and all in the vein of horror/sci-fi/haunty type stuff.

There’s more info here on Facebook – it’s held downstairs at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square, W1G 0PP, near Oxford Circus tube. Not incidentally, The Phoenix on Shaftesbury Avenue, which is where I was going to go until I researched it in order to write this blog. Which is why blogging is a socially useful activity. Because now I will be there and not somewhere else. Good night.

Oh P.S. there’s also going to be a brand new story by Stephen King! He’s famous and brilliant! I probably should have mentioned him earlier.