commonpeople

Poll #1424647 Crete
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All

How should I review my holiday this past week in Crete?

I walk up and down Regent's Canal every week day because it's the easiest way for me to get to work. I wonder if a day will come when the canal is as clean as a fresh river again and London's eastend residents can enjoy it like an open-ended lido. I once saw a large carp in it, and the swans and coots don't seem to mind the floating plastic bags, but it still looks damn dirty and uninviting to me.

Yesterday, on my way home from work, I saw a student from the Bridge Academy in the water, holding on to his instructor's canoe while his classmates splashed him with their paddle. This morning, a girl tangled her cloth bag with her bike's front wheel, spun in the air and landed at my feet, griddled by her bike's spokes. I helped her up and asked if she was OK, then tried to make a joke that at least she hadn't fallen into the canal. "That would have been terrible," she said. She was deeply embarassed and cycled past me all hunched up, as if I might not notice her anymore.

Up ahead, I came across a note tied to the canal's railings. It said something like this: "to the girl who crashed into me yesterday (01/07/09), I never got a chance to get your number. Drop me an e-mail. ______@gmail.com" I wondered if it might be the same girl who fell off the bike - each day a different boy at the receiving end of her disastrous biking skills.

In the afternoon, I heard laughter and cries from my office window. I looked into the canal and the canoeing students were at it again: this time, at least three of them were in the water, trying to get back on their canoes while the others splashed them and fought like gladiators.

I'd be in heaven if I could go for dips in the canal on my lunch break.

I'm back from Crete and totally out of the loop. How are you all doing? Leave a comment if you have any news, gossip or just some interesting event (or anecdote) to share with me that happened in the last week (it's very unlikely I'll ready back through 1000 posts...)

I've decided that suntans suit me really well. A proper holiday update (with photos) coming soon...

Sebastian Barry, The Secret Scripture, 2008
This Booker prize short-lister and winner of the Costa and Irish Novel of the Year award had all the ingredients to be a great read. An Irish centenarian once famed for her beauty decides to write a secret diary after decades in a mental asylum. Meanwhile, her recently widowed and bereaved doctor is drawn to the mystery of her arrival and presence in the asylum, leading him into an investigation of her past and, to a certain extent, Ireland's great dark secrets. Unfortunately, and sadly, the story doesn't quite hang together despite an easy going (and page turning) narrative. Clumsy dialogue and half-fleshed characters never come alive, the story is full of cliches explored more successfully before by other authors and films, and the ending has a twist you see coming a mile away - the sort of contrived finale that snuffs the life out of any story rather than generate great emotion or understanding. It's a good enough story if you want a hint of melancholia that will disappear within the week.

Some branches of Tesco and W H Smith have featured The Crimes of Josef Fritzl: Uncovering the Truth as an ideal gift for Father's Day. One W H Smith store displayed the title as one of its "Top 50 Books for Dad" (buy one, get one half-price), declaring on a nearby display: "Fathers are heroes". A Tesco store in Leighton Buzzard, Bedfordshire, alarmed shoppers with its suggestion that the book would be a suitable symbol of father-offspring love (The Independent.)

In the spirit of these chain bookstores, here are some more ideas of gifts to give your loved ones on those special days:


Mother's Day: Finding Shannon: The Inside Story by Richard Edwards


International Children's Day: When Kids Kill: Unthinkable Crimes of Lost Innocence by Jonathan Paul


International Women's Day: Hot Chicks with Douchebags by Jay Louis


End Racism Day: Identity. Magazine of the British National Party # 100 by John Bean


Christmas Day: Luciferian Witchcraft by Michael Ford


Valentine's Day: Beyond Belief: The Moors Murderers: The Story of Ian Brady and Myra Hindley by Emlyn Williams


Pope Benedict XVI's birthday: Gay Men and Anal Eroticism: Tops, Bottoms and Versatiles by Steven G. Underwood


Gay Pride Day: The Pursuit of the Good Life by Ted Haggard


World Vegetarian Day: Meat: How to Choose, Cook and Eat it by Adrian Richardson


International Day of Peace: The Leadership Genius of George W.Bush: 10 Commonsense Lessons from the Commander in Chief by Carolyn B. Thompson and Jim Ware

Did I miss out any day?

Terminator Salvation, Dir. McG, 2009
Why did Christian Bale agree to do this movie? Did he sign a contract before the script was even written? He gets the film stolen from underneath his feet by nearly everybody and everything- especially hunky prisoner Sam Worthington, a man on a quest to find out who took away his humanity (and who is the real star of the film). It's the future and the machines are wiping out mankind's remains ("if you are a human, you are The Resistance"). Christian Bale races against time to save the teenager who will one day go back in time and become his father, while also trying to figure out a way to destroy The Machines' headquarters in San Francisco. The special effects are excellent, especially in the Mad Max influenced chase sequences and the Governator's cameo, but I couldn't help cringing every time Bale opened his mouth (he has developed this new, forced, form of speech in his last films that makes him sound like he's always got a bad sore throat.) There are some massive plot holes which can be easily ignored if you are in the mood to see shit getting blown up.

"The calling of art is to extract us from our daily reality, to bring us to a hidden truth that's difficult to access - to a level that's not material but spiritual. That's what poetry and music do, and that was the first calling of religion. Religion works on some people but not on everyone, because it says, stop thinking and accept what I tell you. That's not valid for people who want to think and reflect. Art is a better way of achieving that, though the aim is the same."

From an interview with Abbas Kiarostami published yesterday.

A house on my street decided to throw a party. People spilled out onto its back garden and, by the sounds of it, it was a very happy occasion. All the way up here on our tower block, the sound echoed and probably became lounder than for houses nearby. By 1am, I couldn't fall asleep thanks to the ruckus. To make matters worse, I thought it was a good idea to drink a Guiness before hitting the pillow and my upstairs neighbour decided to party with his missus.

By 5.30am, I was awake again. The party was still going. I went outside and took a photo of them with my (cheapy) camera. There they are (see photo above), standing in the back garden, holding wine glasses and chatting, oblivious to the sun.

Now they are fast asleep and all their doors and windows are wide open.

Happy Friday!!

Question for gym bunnies reading this:

Let's suppose you wake up at 7am to be at the gym by 7.30am, for some cardio and weight lifting. What's the best food/drink to ingest at 7am so you can have the energy for the workout? I had a banana and glass of milk this morning but don't feel it was enough.

Ta!

Freshly baked bread with salty butter. Brasilian coffee with milk and sugar.

Comets hit planet Earth again - this time only two of them. The first one crashes somewhere far away; the second heads in our direction, a red ball of fire slowly growing in the sky. It falls in the river with a great crash and disappears from view.

The river bubbles, all its fish devoured in a frenzy by what landed in it. Men go into the water, leg deep, and laugh. I tell them to get out, that they'll also get eaten by whatever came from space. They disregard my warnings.

The thing in the water grows and comes together like grey playdoh, forming the shape of a dinosaur. The river is now devoid of life. The creature climbs out and stands on a podium as if it were merely a statue. Those that approach it for a viewing get killed.

Now it's on the move. It's going to eat everyone in this city. We don't have the technology to stop it.

At lunch hour, police were checking motorists outside Liverpool Street Station. I saw one of them nervously walk through the traffic and tap a biker on the shoulder, ordering him to pull over. The biker sped off as soon as the light went green. Sirens. Police van in pursuit. Bemused bystanders.

Inside the station, two police officers chased a boy wearing a red backpack on the second floor, down the stairs and into the fairly empty main hall. A cameraman followed their move from the second floor accompanied by three women carrying all sorts of equipment and bags. Train announcements. Real policemen standing by. Bemused bystanders.

I went back outside, down to Mapplin for some office supplies. I walked past a blue motorbike on the sidewalk and a policeman standing guard over it. Either the biker didn't get very far or he thought he had a better chance on foot.

Bjork asked the audience to attend her gig dressed completely in white. It was the best gig of my life. The venue was like a cave, but all the bodies shimmered.

We were sitting outside, enjoying the summer sunshine, when a cataclysmic event took place in the sky. Pieces of rocks flew towards the earth, exploding like bombs. One of them hit a crowd nearby. The little boy that escaped tried to explain to an adult that many people were killed. Another one of these comets nearly missed us, exploding behind my back. We were in no hurry to get away - too transfixed by what looked like make-believe.

We swam, played hide and seek and catch before Bjork's concert. The man perusing the pet shop never owned a dog - he only liked cats. I wanted to buy him a dog so he could change his mind - I just knew he would. We'd put our credit cards together and buy the best dog in the shop. He'd see. He'd understand.

Later, at Henrique's very crowded and labyrinthine home, I had trouble finding my suitcase and kept missing my flight. His parents gave me a bedroom in the servants' quarters.

Poll #1410295 New Music
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: Friends

How do you get new music these days?

Other?

Feeling Gloomy played Umbrella-ela-ela last night.[1]

That is all.

[1] OK, so it was the Manic Street Preachers' cover. But it was still pretty cool. I danced all night, with a little help from my friends. And I left an important part of my brain in a field somewhere in Hampshire, alright.

I first heard of Rokia Traoré a month ago, when I was skipping TV channels and landed on Later with Jools Holland. I fell in love with her performance and logged onto the internet straight away to find out if she was playing London. And she was: the Barbican last night, tickets as low as a tenner!

The thing I like about her is that it's music that brings together a whole bunch of stuff: a little Blues, a little Folk; some lyrics in French, big rhythm that makes everyone stand up and dance; a Billie Holiday cover; a lot of emotion that you can feel even if you don't understand a word. A type of Funk. And a lot of happiness.

Her performance at the Barbican could have blown the place up. It's only too bad that she didn't perform in a venue where everyone had to stand - and couldn't get away from dancing. That's what her music is meant for. If it were a gig in Brasil, everyone would be pouring out of the gig with sweat dripping down their bodies. But this is England... though, to be fair, she managed to get everyone up by the end, dancing in front of their seats.

Many of you may not know this, but although my mom is Brasilian and my dad is English, I was born in South Africa. I don't have family there, I left when I was quite young - to be raised in Brasil - but I still have that connection to Africa, no matter how small. It's in my childhood photos and my first memories. I feel drawn to African culture - in all its variety and distinctiveness - because this is what surrounded me: my parents' records, paintings and books on the Zulu; the stories I was told of my parents' life there when we left for Brasil (escaped South Africa's government, actually - my mom didn't want my brothers and I serving its compulsory military). It's a part of me I haven't really explored, but I've always known it's there.

I know that Mali is as different from South Africa as Brasil is to Peru, but there are certain things that countries share when they are on the same continent. A spirit? An imaginary closeness? History? I like it, whatever it is. Last night, I reflected a lot on my own birth and life, and the birth and life of others...

Carson McCullers, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, 1940
This unusual little book caught me completely by surprise - if I'd known how good McCullers was, I'd have picked her up a long time ago! In a nameless American town, deep in the empoverished South, four lives become intertwined thanks to a solitary mute, Mr Singer. There's little Mick, a tomboy about to enter puberty and abandon tree climbing for dresses, who enjoys visiting Mr Singer's room to play chess or just talk (he's a boarder in her home.) There's also Dr Copeland, the town's black doctor, who dreams of bringing revolution to America's race divisions and is uncomfortable with every white person apart from Mr Singer. The group is completed by Jake, an angry drunk also frustrated with the state of America, and Biff, the recently widowned owner of a local bar. These four characters are seduced by Mr Singer's silence - they believe he understands/cares for everything they tell him. They can be themselves because he doesn't judge. They project onto him the image of a person that doesn't exist.

But who exactly is Mr Singer? From what I could read between the lines, he's a "queer" man that's had his heart broken by the sectioning of his friend Spiros. There's the Nazi's rise to power in the background as well as the struggles of American workers (whites and blacks brought together in their efforts to keep afloat, though it's clear who has the worse end of the stick). But it's also a coming-of-age story, a call to arms for bringing change to America and a portrait that captures the South's mood at the time. I suppose it's the kind of book read widely in American high schools because of its themes. It's one novel that everyone should read: in this period of economic crisis, it's more timely than ever.

There's a man outside my office window listening to Verdi's "La donna è mobile" on a gramophone. He's inside a paddle boat, rowing up and down Regent's Canal. He's wearing a cream suit and a summer hat, and he's being filmed.

I wish I could be outside today enjoying the sun.