PROTEST LONDON

London has become the base location of England for marching activity, granted as the capital city, for the recent anti-capitalist protests to take full effect. From New York, Madrid, Los Angeles, Boston to Liverpool – the ‘occupy’ movement is spreading. From the anti-war protests in the established spot of Trafalgar Square to the blockade of Westminster Bridge protesting against the NHS cuts to the St. Pauls occupation – London has grown a new culture almost, comprised of its rise in groups of people who have simply had enough of the situation that has been foisted by the English government which is continually increasing a fear factor against our welfare. We’re all in this together at the end of the day, whether private sector or public, we all pay the taxes that are going into the tax pot for the chancellor of the exchequer to sort out, ‘the 99%’ or whatever it is deemed to be – there is a growing divide between the social elite and the general public. Where the fine essence of social welfare was once a proud manifestation of English politics, it is now rapidly decreasing into an ‘angry mob of protestors’ or simply individuals speaking out against the social injustice that governs our daily lives – our rights are being taken away, we are not being heard and we strive to get recognition for our voice.

 Today I went to the protest against pension cuts and noted how life just went on by while the protestors marched; the shoppers, theatre goers, even pedestrians walking past the demonstrations was a sight to see. Police officers stood non chalently and sat chilling in their huge police vans with large base systems pumped on by with uplifting tunes, the tube ran underneath the streets while the local street sweepers moved across picking up the debris of fag buts and tinnies from protesters, the MP’s sat in Westminster just up from the Embankment where the scene is occurring, with lecturers, teachers, road workers, train drivers etc. protesting against their own pensions being cut nearby. While students were swaggling limbs to heavy bass in one corner of the street, a city sweeper was picking up their litter – someone’s got to do it at the end of the day. While a triangle shape constructed banner made out of bamboo and fabric from the St. Paul’s movement was moving along, a group of photographers from the Daily Mail papped its tangling in the trees, children danced to music as city workers strode on past occupied in their daily city life. What a scene to witness where all walks of life played their part in the bigger society.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J0SPio6RE-s&feature=player_embedded

Above a video worthwhile watching.

Absolute Hilarity.

I confess, I have not written in my blog for too long, of all things to inspire, this youtube link has done the trick, I want to share.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OzDpMGGrHO0
Words cannot express the pure brilliance attached to this video. The ‘spice’ to a very amusing week indeed! Fire!

It is about the 'gap' in sexual curiosity between heterosexuals, when they are attracted to the same sex.

An odd dream

Was with my mother on a bench sitting near Goldsmiths somewhere and was very hung over. Out of the blue a man dressed in a long satin coat and a large satin joker like hat approached us. He appeared a very distinct character with prickly hair face and piercing but sharp blue eyes, he must have been from Eastern Europe. He was not unattractive, although slightly rusky and quite forward talking to be instantly attractive in my current hazy state. He seemed slightly gothic and almost like a thespian in the arts trade. After some conversation, it deliberated that I was going to go with him and see where he lived or hang out. This concept is very odd as we had only just met and my mother was with me. Despite this, I told her that I would return and it seemed fine. We got into a car, a silver one, it was Jono’s same car in fact. Whilst he was driving me to his home we drove through an actual house and I saw the outside of the car in some corridors just wide enough to fit the car. Then I was in the passenger seat and this whole ploy seemed more and more that he was of course very attracted to me. He seemed very hard to read and not easy to have a healthy conversation with, even at some points I did not seem to understand what he was even saying. Although, I was curious to continue with this escapade as it seemed intriguing. At one moment in the car he looked over at me with a certain smile and stare that Jono use to do when we were having a loving moment and I found it quite unnerving. His face at this point was so distinct and real that I will forever be curious as to how I invented him in my dreams. When we got into his house it was much bigger than I anticipated. He was obviously a man of taste and wealth, and then I started to notice that he was a little bit older too, maybe late 20’s. My hazy state had still not dissipated at this point and I was wondering around being nosy. He very casually gave me things as a grand gesture here and there up until this point too and I felt it was incredibly overly generous. Looking round his front room, his house was all open space and full of antiques and beautiful furniture, I noticed that he the rug, the sofas, the cabinets were all from my parents’ house when they lived together. I was shocked and it sunk in after a while that literally everything in this part of the living space had been what I had used as a child. I asked him about it and he seemed again very blaze and almost like he didn’t care, he must have had one particular interest in me besides my curious nature…. At only one point in the house did I find that he really spoke to me and we seemed to find a common ground. I mentioned that I was a little Surrey girl who had come to Goldsmiths some years previous and been in on the access. He returned with an ‘O, God’ and we both laughed together. He was an intelligent man, said he had completed two degrees, hence I found it slightly peculiar when he said he was doing A levels at Goldsmiths in order to do another degree. Plus you cannot even do Al Levels at this university. At one point I noticed he was from Hungary as I saw a Hungary badge hanging off his wall. He again, was very blaze and seemed uninterested to tell me about his heritage at all. Though all the time seemed interested in me, guess just for sex. Thus proved when I sat down on the floor and he sat down slowly getting closer and closer. He gave me another gift, a big black boom box of which I refused and he insisted, though it had no power lead. He got his arm round me and said ‘Let me see your Vagit’. I said no and he said why not? I got up to go and felt bad about the boom box and left it, shame. I told him that’s not what I was looking for and began to leave, thinking maybe I should have just stayed and had some fun. But my mother was waiting for me. I left and walked back to through university campus. God knows how I managed to find my way out of this odd maze. Later, as I was walking up some stairs on the campus toward the bus stop, I bumped into him. I was eager to speak to him as I felt that there was more to the story. He seemed the sort of guy to walk round alone and pride himself in it. He was very blaze with me and said that if I wanted sex I knew where he lived, even though I could not remember at this point, and said that all the other cliquey girls in the uni piss him off. He was obviously insinuating then that I was his sort of ride. He began to walk off swinging some sort of cane back and forth and desperately trying to engage more conversation, I asked what his name was. He replied, looking me right in the eye, ‘Slanders’ and walked off. He could have meant Alexander or something else but I couldn’t really understand and he wasn’t going to hang around to explain.
I then proceeded to make my way home and ended up walking into the old kitchen that I use to live in with my parents years ago. My mother and sister were in there causally cooking food and very happy to see me back. I felt bad as I realised I had left my mother on the bench, though it didn’t seem a problem at all, if anything normal. She was standing by the oven and said that she had made me a special cake and opened to show me. It was a little cake with blue icing, very sweet, not sure if it was wheat free or not. Georgie was making a meal that looked great, I was very hungry. I told them that I had just had the weirdest experience and then woke up.

Wise words from Joan Didion

'To shift the structure of a sentence alters the meaning of that sentence, as definitely and inflexibly as the position of a camera alters the meaning of the object being photographed.'

From her essay - 'Why I write'

Become a tourist again in London for a day

This past few days have been lovely. Upon the idea of visiting the bustling metropolis London from which I used to live, I decided to enter it like a virgin. Granted I have not been there for many weeks, and have lived in a small seaside town for the past year, citylife took some momentary readjusting. Though with a large backpack, half of which contents were unneeded, I took on the persona of a tourist and visited some free sites. A day packed in with evensong at Westminster, a stroll along the bridge with a good friend to the Southbank, a late visit to the Tate seeing Taryn Simon’s exhibition, dinner on the river and a stroll along the sand. The next day to the V&A to admire Japanese enamels and then a trip to Camden to visit an old friend. Hell, I use to do this stuff all the time living there, but just a short snapshot again was certainly suffice to support those awful tourist brochures.

http://channel.tate.org.uk/media/974388916001

A little jiggle

Vertebrae sway and back the other way,
Head fixed, eyes paralysed into one happy glare,
Congestion is gone and the noise keeps standing around at bay,
You dance alone, thought start to pull more limbs into your lair.

O to a soul

O to a soul
Where have you gone?
You started to become flaky somewhere between extremism and dissipating hope.
Don’t be silly, let’s take this seriously, I know you’re hiding somewhere.
Or should I not continue to believe in faith?
Hmmm, I shall continue to consume and consume, that will revive your lingering self.

Though after days, you seem to become more vacant.
Is this a melancholy feeling, because I enjoy this feeling, knowing that you’re sure to return?
No.
Hitting me like a mediocre candle on a mass production line, the candle will only light for someone for so long, till more money must be spent on another. I simply have no more money then, to bring you back. I have no worth to have you back.

You really do need money don’t you. Ok, I’ll buy you back, with what, on a temporary basis of course. Maybe the obvious – a journey to a beautiful location, a kiss with another, an hour of yoga! O what will it take soul?
No little tipples, no more sniffs, no more silly curious acts.
Ok. Well, please let me know when you’re coming back. It’s lonely without you. To be honest, I shall be locked in a cage in the desert.

Scribblings Bimble Inn Sunrise - inspired by dancing of mug and spoon by myself and a fellow chap

After meeting an interesting chap in the canteen at Green Stewards we preceeded to the Bimble Inn to watch some folk music and enjoyed observing dancers, and dancing with a mug he won which said 'world's best nan' and a spoon which my friend had acquired form some location. The time seemed suffice to do some stream of conciousness drawing, seeing as we both said we couldn't draw. His was the first drawing and mine the second above. I don't think we both quite understood what they meant but it seemed right at the time.

O Bimble Inn,
Wear yourself fat or thin,
With your limited space but unlimited drink,
Ridding boundaries to let people think,
We dance with spoon and mug,
To your folk tunes beyond the rug,
Not a toe unmoving or a beat unmissed,
To you our bodys moving and our souls kissed.

How much can we really relax at home...

I sit at home after a lovely time at Sunrise festival and am reading, watching and writing and eating away. What a relief after a saw ass in a tent for 5 days to be lying on my comfortable bed and not worrying about waking up at any time to get up for uni or whatever. I can just remember good times in a field or lose myself with entertainment. Although there is a distinct lack of friends to converse with, a hell of a lot of miles between me and them and no cultural landmark, shop, tower to walk to for miles. With a mother who’s very unappreciative of others coming to stay and living in the middle of nowhere with plenty to walk, but a large walk to get to anywhere – I have really started to ponder what exactly constitutes relaxation at home. Aside from the obvious stated before, there really isn’t much else to do at home so what constitutes a more defined relaxation? I love to spend time alone, but for how long till you mind starts to distort reality slightly. Straight after the festival I stayed in a random Somerset location with a lovely friend and her more than accommodating parents. Upon arrival I was urged to help myself to use anything in their fridge and their intensive conditioner on my dreaded festival hair. I could have stayed there for days on end, with delightful and intelligent conversation, a very large collection of decent movies and a nice rounded collection of literature with a light atmosphere. Though to how much was I worthy of this relaxation? I needed to get home. I certainly don’t expect it at my home with friends, I am use to it with others for sure rounds theirs, though I never like to outstay my welcome. Throwing uni into the equation, I pondered how much your university home constitutes relaxation too depending on the housemate, location and stress levels at the time, so with these different dimensions of home life, friends houses and university accommodation – how does relaxation in the home really define itself or does it even exist at all. Well certainly not for everyone anyway. 
Hmm, I don't really know what to do now..... Country walk?

This is the excretion of my feelings and the recycling of my waste (an insight into Sunrise festival)

Having been inspired during Sunrise festival after a very large conversation with a lovely man who worked cleaning poo and such, we both concluded that this topic of the excretion of feelings and recycling of waste should definitely be touched upon. The man himself was Raj, an interesting chap to say the least who spoke about laminating poo, karma free meat and bird documents dating back to the 16^th century.  And much more than just that. Though what would inspire an excretion of feelings? Holding this chaps hand for an hour without much recognition of time during a rainy shift and little food brought us about to conversing about feelings and the planet in general. That old chinwag – seemed to fit well with the excretion of feelings as a theme – the underlying conversation of laminating poo seemed to pop up every now and then as a subgenre. Speculating the free love vibe, I guess it does make a lot of sense. The excretion of feelings was purely natural and the recycling of waste was pondered on to channel into the use of words. The festival itself was great; lots of chai tea, a variety of beats, interesting characters and a hell of a lot of veganism. How can you go so far as to not eat honey because a bee’s wings were clipped during the process of the honey collection? Well a great debate to have I am sure, I did find myself pondering it for quite a while and have even considered becoming a vegan with my friend after such a heartfelt encounter with a chap on the gate we worked at. Though, I do not eat meat too often now, I find eating steak to be imperative every now and then and also salami completes a sad Thursday – with a little homous in a rye bread sandwhich.

I recycled waste over a period of five days, so I thought I’d recycle my words here replacing waste with words of course – pork pie, twirly around thing, gypsy woman, decent smelling hand wash, yup, chai tea, oi, indifier, jemma and the jemmas, flask, pirate, mutiny, sunflowers, too nice to talk to, healing, strange –

Twirly round pork pie thing

Strange healing mutiny

Gypsy woman oi

Decent smelling Hand wash yup

Sunflowers pirate indifier

Chai tea flask

Jemma and the Jemmas too nice to talk to

O well, makes sense to me.

Will we ever understand or stop striving to understand our parents?

A wise friend said to me the other day, ‘Rosie, we will never, not matter how hard we try, understand our parents.’ I started to think, will we? After all how much do we really actually know about our parents? And how much do we compare ourselves to them? ‘It’s because they’ve got a unique relationship to you. They’ve got a unique relationship, more to you than anyone else,’ she said.  Caught in a bad romance, oops just heard the acoustic version off some sound device. Back to reality, yes, it could be some Freudian theory maybe, though let’s be honest, is it really about us wanting to suck our mother’s nipple? Nah, we just want to know that ‘things’ are cool with our parents at all times and then we feel slightly less anxious or maybe so far as absolute in ourselves. After having an argument with my mother for what seemed like years, in reality minutes, after being fine with her for months, I felt ready to renounce myself – for the bigger judgment had come and granted me unworthy. Evidently they are our biggest example to lead by, like a God in some way, so in order to disobey is either rebellion or complete confusion. Another friend said: ‘People strive for the ideal family, but go through different things anyway, like the father who supports the family won’t lose his job, or his wife might die or might become ill, all that will influence his relationship with the parent to the child. Depending on how that parent reacts is between, maybe neglectful or compassionate shown to different degrees so you can’t really wholly express a mass ideal of the parent and as well if you consider historic context people in more affluent families would spend a lot of their developmental time away from their parents, maybe with their nannies, so their relationships to their children are wholly down to their own experiences.’ Although slightly eschewed and alcohol strung, my friend made a good point. The point he made was different to that of my other friend, and again, just brings me back to the unique volume of relationships we all have to our parents. That’s just it, we can’t judge, because they are all different and only our individual selves just know how to roll with it.  

The defeminisation

As I put on my big comfy boots and wrestle with the idea of putting on a dress or not, I finish a phone call ‘catch you later, man.’ The dress can wait another day, the attempted flirtatious advances from the boy down the road ignored and the music plugged in, Nirvana or Portico Quartet? Were the high postured smiley walks down the road a thing of the past, the hair rearrangement with that special passer-by gone? I don’t know, I’m just walking down the road to the shop, o look the sea in the distance, that’s nice. Why bother about menial topics such as turning on my sex vibe? I’ve got my friends, my work, my mind. What seemed to occupy my sense of being has dissipated into the past like an enjoyable mystery gone silent. Although, I noticed it this morning as I put on my mascara that on some sub level, I do care still, just, I feel completely defeminised by this town. Rarely am I compelled into instant attraction, like I was so before, that I actually did something about it. Must sound like some awkward single cry out for help, though more it’s the enquiry as to what the hell happened? Is this defeminisation or disinterest? I still practice the feminine routines, in self-pruning, a healthy level of vanity and an awareness of sexuality. Though males do this too. I just focus a lot more on other stuff, though in the process have misplaced something somewhere. My male friend comes in ‘I should start knitting, that would be amazing.’ Hmm, maybe there is some sort of sexual distortion here.

The 'top' man

We are only but an amalgamation of different beings which keeps your soul alive. You do not feel us, warrant us any credit, and though, surely by some way inherit our laughter as a token to show of your appreciation for friendship, just because you are so great. Hit us with your strong beautiful words that linger around in the atmosphere for days with silent merit. We dare not mention it too much amongst us. We all learn from you, though you fear us, we really fear your judgment and beg on our knees for your approval. Hold us, in your thoughts, please, and please blend your respect for us in with your luscious creativity. Wow, we are all just selfish beings. O god, acid, not that bloody conversation again.

That kind - the soul searching stuff....a very late re draft, with a more personal touch

In writing a text, I was asked to recall a moment in time of my life and criticise it. I guess that moment was meant to be one that inspired me and made me change my mental attitude towards what I thought before, thus the importance in writing and applying a critical text. I pondered many moments to write about as many have been life changing, although being too cliché, I picked the least and wrote about a Peruvian experience I had with a local boy on top of a mountain. Notice a hint of sarcasm? I was dishonest  in thinking to myself that this would fit the brief, so now I shall re write it using a psychoanalytic approach to what moments I feel now and how they have rather drastically changed from my former self to the current person I inhabit.​

I recall moments of complete joy and solitude in the past, where I fell in love or when I hugged a new born puppy. Also when I was close to my mother and we spent days and days together idealising our perfect selves after she left my father. I recall excitement and desire whilst pondering men and suspense in waiting for communication from a many fancied men. The many relationships I had with others, where never ending trust and appreciation was had which was unquestioned. I recall the first time I discovered sex and on a negative note, in such a way that I was disgusted by my body and my decision making that I refused men for two years. In sadness I then recall the tears rolling down my sisters helpless face after cutting herself so much that there was no more space on her arms to cut. I recall the beer and spit all over me in the street with laughing faces mocking me and waiting till next time, I recall the pain in a broken heart with no hope at all in how to mend it and I recall the many, many decisions that sliced my brain in half making it insufficient to use anymore. 

There is a theory that the brain changes the most chemically from the ages of 18 to 21, which in a sense is why we begin the transition of childhood into adulthood at this particular age. All the emotions, decisions, attitudes and particular characteristics of one person cement themselves into the brain and help us define ourselves more than ever before, ready for the future. In mind of this theory, I have used it to shed light on a transfer of one mind to another; mine. In the past, I never recalled much aggression and anger to the point it became physical and manifested itself. I always use to have a relief button which slipped up from the surface in need of a break from overwhelming emotions and was there to press. I always had an escape or an empathetic ear who wouldn't worry too much about me. I never needed drugs to stop my brain from working in one way, because I always had the sense in which to rationalise any mental issue. I felt joy often, sadness, jealousy, empowerment, success, fear, pain and pleasure.

Though now I can't quite place a label on any emotion I feel as these are so new and difficult to define. The ups, the lows. The unbearable light that wakes me up in the morning, in tescos, in the cheeriness behind smiled eyes and the complete innocence behind the pointing finger of blame. The beautiful flowers that bloom out of gardens hardly kept, the moment of engagement of a particular text, the freedom behind choice. I find these moments winding themselves around my mind, gaping in and out of each other careful not to let each other know they exist. In between all there is, is just a dark space, a circus laying dormant just for the mental structure – waiting to explode and perform when needed.

In short and to conclude, the moment in which I wish to analyse and apply a critical approach is the moment I lost in time, and I am not sure exactly when, when I lost control in knowing the reality behind any moment. A circus has always been at the back of my mind, waiting to perform at will, whereas now the circus is used only for stability of mind, for routine. The extravaganzas, the popcorn and smiling faces, the applaude so loud it shook the tent, the many many colours all cease to exist now and are lost in the past, having dissapated into a dream which is waiting desperately to be dreamt again.

Orgasm

An orgasm is a beautiful thing.

It rids of hunger or highlights it in your mind.

It makes you sing out loud or in your head.

It makes you work and sweat or lie in your own filfth.

Regardless, it does not matter because it has been had.

Anti English binge rant

Having spent so much time speculating drinking and university drinking with many long winded discussions over tea and walking down the street with different companions, I have come to some conclusions. The year before this moment of writing, a glimpse into the past of many years before too, has been fab. A party full of excessive bottles of wine,cider, spirits, more cider, drugs, cigarettes, rollies and more drugs. I have drunk past the point of memory loss for nights I cannot even date and have spent many an evening on one bottle of wine for just a chilled 'one in'. Although the drugs took their toll and intoxicated my mind with depression, vulgarity and inability to function on too many levels and after a large depression of the soul I stopped. I also find now that I have stopped drinking as much as well. In this I have realised that gone are the days of mass consumption for pleasure and the cool label of saying to people the next day in college : 'Yeah, I got fucked last night, I don't even know what I did and I can't even see straight, this lecture is bollocks.' Gone are the days where I had the destructive nature to get myself lost in so many intoxicants that I found it funny to be found by friends in odd locations such as back alleys or passed out in a bed. Gone are the days of thoughts that only evolve around what alcohol is the cheapest or what drugs can last me the longest.

Don't get me wrong, I still love to go out and drink and enjoy myself but there's a new perspective I find that has creeped out of my experiences, especially as a fresher, which have made me find large distaste and even want to renounce my English heritage when it comes to the English drinking culture. The mentality, for a start, of completing losing one's mind as often as possible in order to get the best of a night out. The freezing weather which either shakes up or precipitates over naked girls walking down the streets longing for warmth and comfort but insisting on more shots. The depression of a hangover wasting a whole day and making reality incromphensible to appreciate and the jealousy of those who can look fresh faced and ready for anything even though they were the most 'fucked' the night before. The mountainous number of calories swimming through your body and placing themselves in every crook and cranny and further such intoxicants sticking inside your liver. Though most of all, the memory loss and waking up trying to remember what you did and where you are which happens more and more. So, taking all this into consideration, I have resided myself to drink on a weekend and the occasional weekday, not just for health, but also for mind of passing the degree that I pay nearly 6 grand a year for. Essentially, why I am here in the first place.