so...what?

Yesterday was another shocking day, the latest variation on a theme of 'work is hell'. Yes, I can occasionally descend into hyperbole, but yesterday was truly one of those awful days where everything cascades into shocking perspective and you realise that you've killed time for the last few years.

Actually killed time. It's such a cheap cliche, hides such a terrible truth.

Anyway, yesterday is long gone (and has soppy happy ending besides) so I'm not going to waste further time on it.

This evening I went with a friend to a talk at her church. I'd said I'd go then immediately regretted it but the friend is a good one and I was happy to hang out with her. It turned out to be a very nice evening and I'm glad I went: the food was good, the setting was lovely and the company excellent. I met new people who I'll be happy to meet with again. It was good.

So far I haven't mentioned the religion part of it... and it's here that I start to get confused. Hence the post title. Because the only wrong note in the whole lovely evening was the religion.

Now, I grew up attending my local C of E church - Sunday school, choir - and had a brief fling with Evangelism. Throughout my twenties I considered myself pagan, though I thought seriously about Quakerism. Then, I started to read about Judaism. 

I've come to a comfortable place with my religious belief, or lack thereof. I'm no atheist, and I have complete belief in *God*, though ask me what I mean by this and you'll still be listening to my bimblings forty-five minutes later. I know what I don't mean by it, and I've got a good idea what I do, but everything I think is contradictory ...so I don't know what to do with it.

When I start to think of wedding my spirituality to religion, I start to have real trouble. Part of me wants to be religious, but I don't believe the framework, the theology. I just don't see how it can be right and I don't see how anybody else can see that it is right. I'm talking specifically about all this heaven and hell stuff, about original sin. I think all of this is nonsense, and I'm sad when it makes God into some kind of horrendous creature incapable of even the same amount of empathy, compassion and understanding as your average human.

But this evening I had an idea that the church I went to might offer that other aspect of religion: community. That this would be a good place to come and hang out and build a community. I'm half-tempted to go back...but then the whole religion thing stands between me and them.

So..what?

Fallow Field?

It would be very cool if I could explain the blogless 3 days by writing a report of a whirlwind weekend spent doing cool stuff: maybe something to do with the Oscars, maybe something to do with a secret NASA project, maybe something to do with Mount Everest. 

Sadly, I am not able to report on any of those things. The blogless 3 days have come about because I've been a big lazy blob.

I'm a little cross at myself, though: on Saturday morning I had a flow of creativity and was buzzing with excitement about the piece of fanfic I'm writing at the moment. I could see exactly where it was all going - or thought I did - and had a ton of great ideas. I stopped mid-flow to go shopping and didn't worry about it, because normally when I stop mid-flow I get straight back into it when I go back to the text.

It didn't happen this time, though. And so I've barely done any writing over the last few days. I'm hoping it's my brain having a necessary fallow period, and not the texts in question revealing themselves to be hollow men. 

And half-term is over. I've been depressed that it was coming to an end since last Wednesday, so you can probably imagine how rotten I felt on Sunday. And yesterday.

Today isn't much better. So there's a good chance I haven't been writing because of my misery about work. Which is rubbish, because writing is the way of tucking all that pesky reality to one side and focussing on the infinitely more satisfying world of fiction.

Yeah.

Yawn

*rubs eyes*

Blimey, I'm tired today. It's 5:30 pm and I'm struggling to stay awake. One cup of tea hasn't quite done it. I'll try a second.

No reason why I'm so tired. Yesterday was very nice, thank you very much. The National Portrait Gallery was fun - although Joe Orton was nowhere in sight, grrr - and then my friend and I went for a burger at Hamburger Union (which was very nice) and then for cocktails at Bar 5 in Waterstone's Piccadilly. That was very nice, too, since I discovered Hazelnut Martinis. 

It wasn't a late night, by any stretch. But I'm v. tired. 

Yawn.

Geekdom is a terrible thing...

...just signed up at the Doctor Who Forum at Outpost Gallifrey. A quick scan over the series 4 threads have sent me into a state of squealing over-excitement. I don't even know when the series returns (late March! early April!) but I can't wait. I. Can't. Wait.

Yes. It's time for the shameful truth to out. I am a proud Doctor Who geek. I am also a fangurl of anything Joss Whedon. I love Supernatural. I get embarrasingly passionate when discussing Battlestar Galactica. (Of all those things, Doctor Who comes first. Just to be clear!)

I am a geek and a fangurl and I'm proud of it.

I've never been to a convention of any kind, though. Clearly I need to put more effort into it.

Yes, I'm in a better mood today. Haven't written yet (Dr Who Forums! Beliefnet! I've been in a lurking mood) but that's next. Dreamed of blogging though - in my dream I had about thirty blogs, each set up for a different part of my life, but I couldn't remember which one was which. And it would be like that in real life, as well. 

Right. I'm off to do some writing and then it's to the National Portrait Gallery to say hello to Joe and Emily. 

We're All Going To Hell, part 2

Somehow I've managed to walk myself into a lousy mood.

The day started out okay. It was super-misty outside which gave my apartment a pleasant feeling of being wrapped in cotton-wool. I'd dreamed of work - a nightmare, of course - but I managed to forget the feeling of it while doing the whole early morning routine. 

After that I wrote, did a quick read through of the story so far, decided I liked it, then played a bit of Sims 2. It was a rationed amount, though, so I didn't feel all fluffy-headed when I finished.

'Ah,' I thought.  'A good morning so far! And now I will walk to Tate Modern and Do Some More Culture, before settling in the cafe and having a nice (albeit expensive) cup of coffee; while I'm there, I'll finish a bit of Dr Who fan fiction that I'm enjoying writing.'

Except, on the walk I began to think about work, and when I began to think about work, I began to rant. Work is manageable only when I'm there; outside of it, I gain a bit of unwanted perspective. 

But because I refuse to write or think about work while it's still half-term, I stopped my silent ranting and arrived at the Tate Modern. Mistake.

It's full of rubbish. It's full of absolute shit. No, wait, that's not entirely true. There were a few paintings by Matisse and Picasso that I looked at and enjoyed. Everything else...

...look, I know it's a cliche to complain about modern art. It doesn't make it any less true. I expect to enjoy art on a number of levels: intellectually, technically, emotionally. Modern art throws everything it has at the first of those levels and completely ignores the rest. Sorry to be explicit, but it is, (in some cases literally) wank. Masturbatory art produced by people who have never grown beyond their teenage solipsism. They think that angst is the sole emotion worth any kind of notice and produce everything from that place. It's terrible. It's like reading a diary entry from a teenage journal: it no doubt means a lot to the writer, but means absolutely nothing at all to anybody else. 

Of course the modern artist knows that, which is every piece in the Tate Modern is displayed with a thesis-long explanation of what the art 'means.' Presumably, if they shout loud enough and use long enough words, people will take them seriously. And if that still doesn't work, they'll try and shock the observer: cos, you know, they're like so anti-establishment.

Blurgh. It was rubbish. I felt more and more depressed as I walked around, that all those centuries of human aesthetic accomplishment could come to this. I wasn't ranting then, by the way, that came later. I felt depressed because I felt nothing: it was all emptiness on canvas.

I know it's deeply unfashionable to talk about souls nowadays (in case you're inching towards the whole religion business) but when I think about art (whether that be painting, sculpture, drama or writing) I think of spirit. I think of humanity, in all its precarious dignity, trying to find beauty amongst the savage reality of survival. Yes, beauty: a word as disdained, nowadays, as soul. 

I didn't do my writing; I didn't have the coffee. I just had - still have, in fact - that feeling you get when you know you've lost three hours of your life that you're never getting back (no, I didn't spend three hours at the Tate. How would that be even possible? It was about twenty minutes walking around the whole gallery, and the rest of the time was spent on the walk there and back. I slowed down on the way home.)

Oh well. I'm meeting a friend at the National Portrait Gallery tomorrow. I haven't been there in ages, so I'll be sure to see if they still have the famous Joe Orton photo hanging someplace. And tomorrow I'm going to make sure that shiny happy mode is reinstated. 

Too much Sims 2...

I had every intention of writing something intelligent today, something thoughtful, perhaps philosphical. If nothing else, I was going to write something petty. 

Pettiness is important, I think. A quick browse around the notable blogroll on the front page of blogspot introduced me to a whole range of people doing profound and noble things. Sacrificing their wellbeing and safety for other people, for example, or trying to spread hope into regions of the world currently consumed by suffering.

Thank goodness for people like me, who maintain the balance of the universe by spending their days doing nothing of such charity. I've managed to waste the day admirably. I did write - 2000 words before lunch, now there's an accomplishment - but the rest of the day has been swallowed up by clearing out my cupboards, watching tennis (albeith WTA, bah) and playing Sims 2. 

Don't worry! The time has not been entirely wasted, and I've been reading a few things recently which suggest that writers need time where their minds are left to lie fallow. That's my excuse for Sims 2. But then I've come online with the intention of writing something intelligent and all I can think of is getting back to Bon Voyage and getting my latest simmie through uni. 

Something serious amongst all the pettiness. Another teenager has hanged themselves in Bridgend. There's a lot of talk about suicide cults and social networking sites; certain parts of the media are winding themselves up into a fine dander about it, too. I'm not sure that there is some kind of Bebo-based pact, though it is strange that all the teenagers have hanged themselves. What's worrying - not worrying, chilling - is that right now another teenager might be thinking that since everybody else is, maybe they will...

No, it's not a pleasant thought and it's not supposed to be. Apparently there's some kind of suicide prevention squad currently descending on Bridgend. I'm not sure these well-meaning practitioners can accomplish too much, though. Surely the point of teenage conformist behaviour is that it is oblivious to the efforts of any adult?

How horrible, to be talking about suicide as a form of conformist behaviour. I sincerely hope that these deaths are unrelated, and I sincerely hope that there won't be any more names added to the list.

Frosty Monday Mornings...

...there should be a song about them, because they're excellent. No, really. I live 18 floors up and my lounge faces west: my view is the London skyline. I can see St Paul's Cathedral. The Gherkin. Lloyds of London. Southwark Cathedral. The London Eye. On a clear day I can see Alexander Palace. 

And on a frosty day like today, all those buildings look better. 

Oh yes, I'm in a good mood! Of course I am (see yesterday for a list of reasons, of which the most important one is the last one). There's nothing like a frosty Monday morning which is also the first day of half-term to make you feel pretty darned good.

Hamlet yesterday was superb. So good was it, in fact, that I am encouraged to Do Culture far more often. I wanted to go see David Tennant's Hamlet, but Stratford's far and I can't drive. And it would cost an eyewatering amount of money to book a hotel overnight. I might want to Do Culture, but I don't want to bankrupt myself to do it. I read somewhere that it's coming to London at Christmas, but if I want tickets I'm going to have to buy a subscription to the RSC: oh, yes. It's the only way to see any RSC production: by the time regular plebs are allowed to buy tickets, they're all gone, snapped up by the subscribers. So rather than complain about the privileged who can afford £36 a year, I'm going to become one.

But! This is starting to sound bitter. Back to what matters: which is, that I heartily recommend The Factory's Hamlet to everybody and anybody. It was excellent. The initial sighting of the ghost was rugby-themed (the actors take props from the audience as they're going along); a pineapple became a means of communication; Ophelia used a camera during her 'rosemary, that's for remembrance' speech; the final duel was fought using slinkies. The theatre was used fantastically also: the stage area was used for two acts, but so was the bar, the outside courtyard and, most atmospherically, a dusty area underneath the railway arches. The actors appeared behind the audience, in the audience; they climbed walls and hung off railings. All of this should have been gimmicky, perhaps detract from the piece. But it didn't. Not once. 

The actors did a sterling job to maintain the energy of the play. Hamlet especially - Alex somebody, I'll have to check his name because he deserves the plaudits - was Hamlet all the way through. Even though two characters were playing tennis behind him during the famous 'To Be Or Not To Be' speech, he never once lost the emotion. He was excellent, all the actors were, and I'll be going to see it again.

It was inspiring. Humbling, too, because Shakespeare is such a writer - the writer - and if I were feeling less happy I'd wonder why anybody else bothers to write. Why I bother to write. But it was such fun, and the actors seemed to be having such fun. It reminded me that people don't just Do Art so that they can make a profit; they do it to enjoy the process. They do it to create. 

Hurray! A potential Double Entendre. Always a good start to the week.

No, I'm not a natural blogger...

...but you guessed that already.

But! Look over there --> today I'm going to be positive. Indeed. I will be both Shiny & Happy today.

Why the change in heart? I went over to www.thesecret.tv and watched their morning affirmation video. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, I was genuinely moved.

No, really.

Because today is a good day. It's a Sunday, which is a day I like. That's good. Adding to the goodness, this evening I'm going to see Hamlet at the Southwark Playhouse, as acted by The Factory. It sounds funky - the audience supply the props and which actor plays each role - but most importantly it means I'm Doing Culture, which is something I haven't done for a long time.

Goodness doubled.

Goodness continues: tomorrow is Monday, which is usually a Very Bad Thing. But tomorrow's Monday is different. It's half-term. This is a Very Superb Thing. 

Woohoo! No work for a week. Genius.

Goodness quadrupled. 

And then I've woken up and switched on the computer - but not the TV - and I'm writing right now and there's a pretty good chance (say 100%) that I'm going to open my current writing project and work on that. 

Goodness octrupled.

So. I'm shiny and happy. 

About bloody time.

Edit: I can't help myself. One minor niggle. Why isn't there a new Jeremy Clarkson column in today's Sunday Times? He can't be having a day off. It's not as if he's got a real job and needs a holiday.