Hiatus.

'I am a fisherman'

'You never fish'

'I am a fisherman who does not fish'

'So you just sit there? That's not really good enough is it.'

'SHUT UP. FUCK YOU YES IT IS'

This is nicked from a radio show, but pretty much sums up how I feel about writing at the moment. I'll sum up a few 'why I so useless' arguments before I take down whatever links I have lying around to my blog. It's going to hibernate for a while.

Firstly, I ain't got the drive. It used to be the case that when things happened, I'd immediately start formulating how I'd phrase them up, that just doesn't happen any more.

Secondly, more and more I have a problem with the 'platform' of blogging. If it's writing about myself I feel its unabashedly self- centred, and if its creative work for an audience, then isn't that simply show-y performance rather than art or expression? I don't really know, I'm just not sure writing creatively 'for' a blog is a positive way to do things.

Thirdly, I'm not going to be doing my creative writing masters in September any more, so I'm no longer studying at all (for now). As I've rested the pen for my academic energies, so I seem to have with my personal creative stuff. Perhaps I'm just too old / too young / too confused.

That leads me to my final point. At the moment I'm out in Thailand and having a brilliant time, but really this is a transitory bit of my life, and this summer is just a small time-buyer my parents have let me indulge in. Probably predominantly to delay graduate-depression. At any rate, I am inclined to agree with a lecturer I once spoke to: to write you need experience, direction or both. And at the moment I don't feel like I've got too much of either.

If you've ever read anything I've put up here, thanks, and see you in a couple of months when I change my mind and decide I want to dedicate my life to becoming a world famous blogger / rockstar.

Be good, Tom.

Hey Tom!

Hey Tom! Work harder. Hey Tom! Eat more fruit. Hey Tom! Sleep more, at better times. Hey Tom! Stop spending money. Hey Tom! Charge your phone. Hey Tom! Stop smoking. Hey Tom! Do some washing. Hey Tom! Get a haircut, you don’t look alternate you look weird. Hey Tom! Apply for jobs. Hey Tom! Stop leaving the hob on. Hey Tom! Stop saying shitty things to people. Hey Tom! Buy some clothes, you wear like a variation of the same outfit all the time and call it your ‘style’. Hey Tom! Stop telling people things and keep them to yourself you massive over-sharer. Hey Tom! Organise your work. Hey Tom! Stop thinking in status updates. Hey Tom! Have more / less sex. Hey Tom! For Christ’s sake get the washing up out of your room. Hey Tom! Actually exercise regularly, running 8km then being barely able to walk is fucking stupid. Hey Tom! Get out of bed when your alarm goes off. Hey Tom! Drink less. Hey Tom! Do some grammar exercises. Hey Tom! Go back on social networks, abstaining is not impressive and you miss it really. Hey Tom! Appreciate all this more often you spoilt shit. Hey Tom! Stop talking so much in seminars. Hey Tom! Write something worthwhile. Hey Tom! Concentrate in lectures. Hey Tom! Hey Tom! Hey Tom! HEY TOM! do what you think.

A LAYMAN’S GUIDE TO MODERN LIFE.

Here's an attempt at some experimental poetry:


Wake up, drive to work, sit at desk, drive back, stare blankly, sleep.

wakeup drivetowork sit atdeskdrive back stare blanklysleep
wakeupdrive toworksit atdesk drivebackstareblankly sleep
wakeupdrivetoworksitatdeskdrivebackstareblanklysleep

receive texts, drink too much, talk about change, eat badly, sleep.

drink, texts too much, receive talk badly, sleep about, eat change.
Badly sleep, change about, receive too much, eat talk drink texts.
sleep drink receive change eat texts badly too talk much about.

have break down, quit job, take flights, watch lunch time tv, look for job.

Have break,
down down down,
QUIT job, take
flight, flight, flight,
(watch) lunchtime
tv, tv, tv, tv, tv, tv, tv,
look for Job,
look for JOb,
look for JOB.

La table de nuit.

La table de nuit de Michael était un peu plus haute que son lit. Par conséquent, elle était souvent la première chose qu’il voyait suite à se réveiller. Elle n’était pas très chère, et les taches rondes de cafés ont formé des pleines lunes et des croissants sur la surface blanche. La table s’est constituée de deux tiroirs, l’un d’eux a contenu à peu près une douzaine des boucles d’oreilles. La femme qui a habité dans l’appartement avant Michael les a récupérés des trottoirs et des pistes de danse, et malgré le fait que Michael ne savait pas celui-ci, il les a gardé comme s’ils auraient réclamés un jour.

Le son des lettres à travers de la porte. C’était le son que Michael a détesté surtout. Il essayait de bannir l’autre tiroir de ses pensées. Ce faisant, il l’a donné un coup d’œil et le battement de son cœur s’est doublé en mécontentement. Il s’est habillé lentement et ramassé son portable, et immédiatement il s’est rappelé qu’il n’avait pas le recharger. Il s’est approché la porte, se mis à sueur malgré la fraicheur du matin. C’était un publicitaire. Dehors, il pleuvait et Michael tentait de couvrir la pile de CVs avec son manteau.

Après quelques heures de la routine d’être « mis en dossier » par les vendeurs, il s’est installé dehors un café, et il regardait les tentatives du vent de voler les fiches restant qui était alourdi par son portefeuille. Il a levé ses yeux en trouvant une serveuse devant lui. Elle a incliné la tête tristement, et elle a touché le lobe d’oreille où elle a manqué un bijou. Michael a tenté un sourire et il s’est redressé. Il a pensé du deuxième tiroir de la table de chevet, « vous n’avez pas les postes vacants par hasard ? » dit-il. Un éclat de rire, et soudainement les deux étaient au milieu d’une conversation passionnée sur ses rêves ; elle s’est attendue d’être une journaliste à présent, elle avait reçu son diplôme il y a trois ans. Michael est parti du café avec son numéro. Il a rit doucement, « ça fait trop longtemps » il s’est dit.

Comme il est revenu chez lui, Michael a enlevé sa veste et a laissé les cheveux sur ses bras s’est fait dresser. Quelquefois il a regardé le ciel sans raison, toujours avec un demi-sourire. Il s’est senti brave, et il a acheté six enveloppes et six timbres dans un magasin de journaux.

La porte d’entrée était entrebâillée. Michael a arrêté de sourire et tout à coup il avait très froid. L’image du tiroir s’est manifestée devant ses yeux. À l’intérieur il y avait plusieurs lettres à l’encre noir et rouge attachés aux murs, il les a arrachés désespérément. L’appartement a été vidé ; ses livres, l’ordinateur, le portable épuisé, la table de nuit et la douzaine boucle d’oreilles, ne rester aucun. Michael s’est mis au centre de la pièce.

Offend me.

‘The freedom of speech is a fundamental right’

The Guild has just announced it is refusing to host the Liverpool Mayoral Elections Debate next week because it ‘will not allow three fascists into the building’.

I entirely disagree with this. I believe we shouldn’t accept any compromise with regards to freedom of expression, even (and perhaps especially) when it concerns voices most of us vehemently disagree with. Why? Because, as a friend of mine put it ‘we have the right to be offended’ – and should want to be offended.

The argument is of course that ‘we should not give them a stage’ – but what this essentially entails is a censorship of views. One representative even claims that our SU should be a political ‘safe space’. Once again, I disagree – political debate, as any other, should be free and open, and not a process of ‘selective listening’. If such a philosophy of choosing the range of voices ‘allowed’ in public debate is advocated, then might we not find ourselves never hearing anything we disagree with anymore? I can’t think of anything worse. To be challenged, to disagree, to be *offended* is the most direct and effective way of fuelling our thought forwards, and advancing our personal and social beliefs.

We should be holding the mayoral elections, we should let them speak, and allow it to feed and further the discussion on such discriminatory, racist politics, rather than let our SROs decide to bury our heads a little further in the sand.

On Social Media

That forums such as Twitter and Facebook shepherd us towards brevity of language is undeniable. Twitter, famously, restricts each update to 140 characters or less, and Facebook insinuates the same with its minute text boxes and racing ‘newsfeed’. Of course, this restriction is no coincidence. It is, I claim, part of the magical formula of social media’s (henceforth SM) success; by the suggestion that what we’re saying is only a brief and glancing reflection we are encouraged to update again and again, keeping the flood of ‘news’ pouring in.

This is all well and good, and I love my one-liners as much as the next guy with a taste for facts and introspective lyrics – but the limitations of such ephemerality are painfully exposed whenever SM is high-jacked to really communicate ideas. Then, the instantaneity of it seems to simultaneously over-charge and make nonsense of any attempt at real discussion.

Take for example the recent Kony12 project. Here was a campaign which explicitly aimed to exploit the ‘easy-share’ nature of personal media – which was matched in its success only in the ferocity of the backlash to it. I will not here go into the ethics of the Kony12 campaign, that isn’t my aim – merely remark on what was revealed about Facebook (and its bedfellows) the day it really had something to talk about.

Firstly – that SM encourages the shallowest form of engagement with the issue at hand. The video was designed to be viral – so ‘sharing’ it was for most a natural reflex, and this I do not condemn (the theory being of course that I have friends you don’t have who might not have seen it yet). However, ‘liking’ other people’s postings of the video seems to fundamentally misunderstand the concept – if two people share the same thing, clearly you are both sympathetic, and patting each others’ backs for it advances nothing. It is my belief that such projects are intended as a social catalyst for further action, and not for congratulating each other on being such upstanding chaps on any one particular morning.

Secondly – backlash movements, in certain cases, are even more unthinking and shallow than the movement itself. Don’t mistake me, I am all for criticism and contrasting perspectives – they’re fundamental to ‘working out’ an idea. However, please let’s differentiate this from the mass posting of the most popular piece of criticism as seen on SM: Most that post such a response are then unwilling to engage in any further debate, as if their one article constitutes ‘an answer’ (in some cases perhaps not even having watched the original material).

Therefore, thanks to both the brevity and ‘share-happy’ nature of our chosen channels of conversation, both hastily formed ‘sides’ end up at best under-informed , and at worst misinformed. However, I believe the backlashers are doubly contemptible in this. The speed at which they are willing to speak out against a movement which appears to be attempting to improve the condition of human lives is deplorable, and their accusations of ‘slacktivism’ and ‘jumping on the bandwagon’ allow them to denounce any kind of social movement which might arise; perhaps one of the few merits we might wrangle out of such a limiting platform.

As a side-note, I propose an addition to our online vocabulary to better arm our poor keyboard warriors:

slack-lash: (n) the online backlash against a movement/campaign undertaken with the minimum effort / research.

Despite what I’ve said, I’m happy to use Facebook and Twitter, and even happy to use them in a throw-away manner most of the time. But please let’s not its restrictions restrict us. Perhaps Kony12 is an evil puppet organisation to gain the west access to more oil, perhaps it’s not, but next time let’s not waste our time supporting each other’s support, or creating acidic memes. Let’s instead get informed and angry, then post one last update arranging to get together, and meet somewhere where our arguments can transcend character limits, and our opinions exist beyond their likability.

Direction.

In bed
with my possessions,
the light switch doesn’t work.

The duvet
is irreversibly tangled,
the sheet screwed up too.

The company
isn’t exactly,
a sleeping stranger.

The rain
would be timeless,
if it weren’t hitting plastic.

The knock
makes me start,
but I only roll over.

The cleaner
peers into the half-light:
‘vous partez quand?’