...If you never know truth,
then you never know love.

And also, the British charts.

Just when you think that the charts are only about 14 year old music buying choices, number one and number two come in, quite delightfully, as this...

When the Secret Santa people thought up the idea of Secret Santa I expect they envisaged the good feeling of being able to make participating webloggers feel ridiculously chuffed to receive an unasked for gift. But I bet they didn't ever think that somewhere there would be one particular weblogger who, when she received her gift, was so happy that she actually danced around her kitchen and wore the smile of a cheshire cat for the rest of the day.

You see it's not simply that I like receiving presents, which I do of course, especially when (rattles gift expectantly) it's a book, because you know already how I feel about books. No the thing that made me gloriously happy was what my particular Secret Santa wrote on the very little and normally unassuming gift tag.

Because my Secret Santa wrote this:

A Merry Christmas from your Secret Santa! Your weblog is a joy to read. I really like your writing style.

Mine! My writing style! My Secret Santa, who has never met me and who knew nothing about me read my blog to see what kind of person I was before buying me a present, and liked it so much they decided to write that on the tag.

It's truly my best Christmas present. I feel so inspired now. I feel inspired to transcribe the book (which I once laboured over a typewriter to write) onto my computer and make it better. I feel inspired to keep writing things, just for the sake of writing, keeping my hand in. And most of all I feel good, which is a lovely, new feeling.

Begone self doubt!

Secret Santa; Thank you. From the very bottom of my happy, brimming-with-confidence tingling toes!

Join the Cult of David Shrigley.


David Shrigley 2003

The suggested idea is that we replicate David Shrigley's little signs and notices, which he calls 'interventions' and place them all over London, thereby creating a sort of 'cancerous' cult artwork.

The 'Ignore this building' one would be a particularly easy starting point, owing to the large amount of fascinating buildings in London.

One day everything is normal and the next everything goes topsy turvy again. And it makes you think: What is normal? Is this normal? Was that? And really, do I want normal anyway?

Hey.

Normal today?

Normal today was making my son's Christmas card with him, ready to take to school tomorrow. I get things done you see. Alright I leave it until the last minute (he breaks up on Friday) but I like to think it makes life that little bit more interesting.

So. It's slow going writing 30 cards when you are not yet six but he managed it, and his picture was wonderful even if, as a doting mother, I do say so myself.



Then I began the task of Lino cutting for adult Christmas card sendage, and owing to my inability to manoeuvre my right hand successfully, I now have nine holes gouged out of that particular hand which are very sore and consequently make it slightly difficult to type.

Hey but it's the pain that makes us. Right?

Dull and depressingly bored.
Dull and depressingly bored.
Dull and depressingly bored.
Dull and depressingly bored.

(I'm still not bored of writing this, so I must be bored.)

Dull and depressingly bored.
Dull and depressingly bored.
Dull and depressingly bored.
Dull and depressingly bored.

(But only boring people get bored, right? At least that's what my Mum used to say.)

Dull and depressingly bored.
Dull and depressingly bored.
Dull and depressingly bored.
Dull and depressingly bored.

(And I could keep going for hours yet.)

Dull and depressingly bored.
Dull and depressingly bored.
Dull and depressingly bored.
Dull and depressingly bored.

Bollocks.

Somebody...

Somewhere...

MAKE SOMETHING INTERESTING HAPPEN!

I am not terribly proud of this site, why would I be? But at least it exists and isn't another project that I have put off until I feel more inclined to interact with the world. I don't keep it up enough, and I haven't done half of the things that I planned to do with it, like the pieces of Net Art I have half done, and that will one day be coming I hope.

It's very easy to beat yourself up about things, unfinished projects or big ideas that haven't come to fruition, or even things that you dearly want to do but just don't get around to. But apparently, the trick is not to be angry with yourself about it, or else you do nothing because you feel too cross with yourself because you do nothing. It's a silly, circular place to be.

This weeks tasks:

Make the Christmas Cake.
Make the Storybook bags I promised I would for my son's school.
Add at least one page to this site. (rethink the navigation, so that new pages are easier to add.)
Draw at least one sketch towards the self portrait painting.
Plant the Twisted Willow which has rooted in the vase.
Finally apply as a Net Art Editor for the Open Directory. (I have no idea why I haven't done this already. I wrote my application out in January and all I need to to do is copy and paste it into the form.)

Make one step towards planning the future, istead of indulging in procrastination.

Don't you just love arguing online with the relatives?

No? Nor do I. *Sigh*.

A book! A book in the post from my friend. It's called 'Holes.' It came in a wrapped package from Amazon, and had a little card on it and everything.

How lovely to get a book I wasn't expecting in the post, when I almost never get interesting post and it's generally only bills from the Inland Revenue saying I owe them �290.00 in N.I. from 1998. (How? How? How can I possibly owe them anything from 1998, I'd just had a baby. I wasn't WORKING. My country was supposed to be supporting me, providing me with income from all the tax I'd paid already, not secretly charging me for being a full time mother. And how can they get away with sending me a letter 5 YEARS LATER telling me about it? This country, Jesus.)

Anyway. Now I have this lovely book, which I am desperate to read, but which I can't because I'm only a third of the way through Brick Lane and I can't start a new book when I haven't finished the one I'm reading, it's just not right.

So I'm going to read and read until I get to the end of Brick Lane and I probably won't take much of it in which is a shame for Monica Ali as she probably spent a great deal of time on getting it just right.

But I'm flightly like that you see. And I do so want to start the new one.

A book! A book in the post from my friend. It's called 'Holes.' It came in a wrapped package from Amazon, and had a little card on it and everything.

How lovely to get a book I wasn't expecting in the post, when I almost never get interesting post and it's generally only bills from the Inland Revenue saying I owe them �290.00 in N.I. from 1998. (How? How? How can I possibly owe them anything from 1998, I'd just had a baby. I wasn't WORKING. My country was supposed to be supporting me, providing me with income from all the tax I'd paid already, not secretly charging me for being a full time mother. And how can they get away with sending me a letter 5 YEARS LATER telling me about it? This country, Jesus.)

Anyway. Now I have this lovely book, which I am desperate to read, but which I can't because I'm only a third of the way through Brick Lane and I can't start a new book when I haven't finished the one I'm reading, it's just not right.

So I'm going to read and read until I get to the end of Brick Lane and I probably won't take much of it in which is a shame for Monica Ali as she probably spent a great deal of time on getting it just right.

But I'm flightly like that you see. And I do so want to start the new one.

Link�Leave a comment

There were people paraponting, and Chuffs playing - catching the currents for no other reason than they can, and the sky was bitter pure blue, and the air was icy finger-burning cold, and the snow was so white it hurt our eyes. And there was ash in my mouth and my hat and my hair, and in my eyelashes and in my scarf and down my top, and I cried like a hysterical child, and I loved the fact that once again I was physically touching him. And I toasted his life with a glass of ice cold Prosecco from a bottle we'd buried in the snow, and my son threw his arms up in the air and covered himself in ash and shouted as loud as he could, "Bye-bye my lovely Grandad."

And it was as perfect as it could ever have possibly been.

How many people have trekked up a mountain carrying their (heavy) father? And how many who have died get to be scattered in such a beautiful, inspiring place?

And, well. Ha, ha...at least he can't complain about the view...

The objectivity of images is just an illusion; all it often needs is the slightest detail to give a photograph a meaning that is diametrically opposed to the one intended.

At the still point of the turning world.
Neither flesh nor fleshless.
Neither from nor towards,
at the still point,
there the dance is.
Where past and future are gathered.
Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline.
Except for the point, the still point.

T.S.Eliot.

This is all very self indulgent, isn't it! Talking about me most of the time, what I like, think, feel. Ah well. better I do it here than bore the tits off people elsewhere. I've started a section with all my drawings in it and when I've uploaded enough I'll add it to the homepage as a link. But for now here's a little taster...

Golly, I don't like it when the bickering gets going, it just makes me want to hide under the table. There's a big vibe of anger on Barbelith at the moment, and all the good stuff gets buried under threads which are titled 'Are there cliques here?' and 'Outing the bad mod's' and stuff. It's supposed to be a place where like minded people can meet but lately it's mainly been meta-conversations about the site, and pretty little else.

Thailand. Full moon, bright light beach. Shadows.

Yoga, in a hidden corner, facing East.

Calm, calm. Pushing away the pain and the worry. Smoking sweetly in the dark early evening, laughing, giggling, and eating chocolate with people I see myself in.

I could stay here...

There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,
And we must take the current when serves,
Or lose our ventures.

William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar IV, iii, 217

There's a thread on Barbelith at the moment that I really like and which begins: There's a fairly well known contradiction that derives from seeing God as omnipotent�having unlimited power. It goes kinda� like this:

Could God make a stone so big that even He could not lift it?

If God is omnipotent, then He can lift any stone, but the contradiction, of course, is that His ultimate power ought to be able to create a stone that can�t be lifted�even by Him!

You can find it here.

Barbelith. Don't it rock.

I miss you.

I miss the way you smell, the way you�ve always smelt since the very first day I can remember.

I miss the way you thought everything was solvable and fixable no matter what the problem. Rational. Sensible. So different from me. I was not my Father�s daughter. And yet...

I miss your random, rubbish email jokes and your bad, bad text messages with their total lack of punctuation and capitalization; you, you with your grammar and your spelling obsessions, so knowledgeable about technology yet so appalling at texting.

I miss the way you rang me just to tell me there was a rainbow, or a robin in your garden, or a spider in your window or a joke that made you laugh.

I miss your laugh.

I miss the way you could do anything you chose to. I was so proud of you, I am proud of you still. And I miss you being proud of me.

I miss you calling Harry a prune and I miss you telling us we�d got fatter, (although I never thought I�d say that) and I miss your always, always having to be right, even when you were really, really wrong.

I miss your delight in a brand new full bottle of Prosseco, generously monitoring everyone�s glass to make sure it was full but always making sure yours was the fullest, and I miss you being excited about yoghurt, and ice-cream and raspberries, and Dad�s Beef Stew because even though I�ve got the recipe it won�t be the same as you making it.

I miss the way you stroked my hair and cuddled me when I was sad and frightened. I miss having someone stronger, older, wiser, someone who loved me so much they would always, always look after me no matter what I did or said or asked for or shouted about.

Who will look after me now?

And how can I change the file name of the picture of you from me.jpg? You called it that, and now you are not here to call pictures of you me.

And how can I delete you from my phone? From my email? How can I press Yes when my computer asks me Delete: Daddy?

My Dad.

How I miss you.

And nothing I write can do you justice because you were such a physical, visual person. How can I represent you in words when you were colours and sounds and smells and ideas and suggestions and emotions? And so very much more besides.

All I can do is write this for you, about you. An online note which explains to no-one how I really feel, or what you actually meant to me, and which does not do you justice.

And all I can think is that I want you to be back. Even though you were so sick, and so sad, and so tired and so very, very fed up I want you back. Just for a bit more. Just for one more cuddle, one more witty comment, one more clink of a glass, one more wink, one more smile, one more, one more, one more...

...Just one more.

And how selfish is that?

Oh, and how selfish is that.

I love airports.

I love the security, I love the huge lifts, big enough so several tens of people and their life's possessions can all cram in, and I love the dreadful coffee and the pointlessness of the huge new hardback novels that you haven�t read in WH Smith, because who the hell is going to buy a book that weighs so much when they�re travelling, and I love the lady who announces things in 18 different languages, especially when she�s asking for someone by name because they�re just about to miss their flight, and I love the passionate, tear-filled goodbyes between new lovers at the Departures gate, and the posh shops with their irrelevant, inappropriate discounts and the people who buy armful�s of cigarettes in Duty Free because they�re �2 cheaper even though they know they can get then for �10 cheaper when they get to their destination, and the Boots shops full of travel adaptors for every country in the world, and the smoking rooms so full of smoke that when you open the door you think you should call the Fire Brigade, and the Stewardesses who stride purposefully through the concourse with their smart suits and neck-scarves and pull-along trolleys, and the hundreds upon hundreds of people who are biting their fingernails in tense, expectant excitement because there about to embark on something new, something they haven�t experienced before, a new country, new people, new cultures...

I love it.

But most of all I love to fly.

I love taxiing with your belt buckled tight, and the shriek of the engines as you start to hurtle down the runway, and the lift in your stomach as the plane takes off, and the houses with swimming pools that you can always see below you, and the rubbish, rubbish food in its little organised containers, and the bad film sound through the headphones, and the �Where We Are Now� map which shows you a little icon of a plane and a red dotted arc depicting where you are and where you�re going, and the tiny, tiny toilets with the weird vacuum flush which makes you think the plane is going to invert itself so the inside becomes the out, and the full make-up of the Stewardesses and the way they say �Tea? Or Coffee? like they really care, every single time, and the �What To Do In An Emergency� card, with its picture of people without their shoes gaily sliding down a big yellow inflatable slide, right into the depths of the Atlantic Ocean.

Oh.

I love it.

But most of all I love to land, when the wheels come down and you have to put your belt back on and put your book away, and you know in 10 minutes, 2 minutes, 1 minute, 30 seconds, 20 seconds, 10 seconds, 3 seconds, any minute now as the plane brakes and brakes and brakes and you think it won�t stop this time, any minute now you�ll be standing on soil you�ve never stood on, being interrogated about your visit by sullen immigration officers, following signs in a language you don�t understand and being accosted by dodgy mini-cab drivers who think they know where you�re going, and paying for things with multi-coloured toy money, and meeting people you never imagined existed, and seeing things you couldn�t dream of, and smelling smells so alien to you that you can�t place them...

And I love, love, love it, love it best when the Captain says:

"Ladies and Gentlemen,

welcome to .....

The time in ..... is .....

And we hope you have a wonderful stay.

We really do hope you have a wonderful stay."

Spiteful, hateful, text messages?
That�s not love.

Sending them over and over, because I ignore them?
That�s not love.

Winding me up and up and up until I call in frustrated rage?
That�s not love.

When I call and you hold the phone to the speakers in order to ignore me?
That�s not love.

Accusing me of lying, all the time?
That�s not love.

Wanting something back, just because you�re pride is hurt?
That�s not love.

Attacking the person you say you love?
That�s not love.

I see it never was.

That was control. Not love.

And now it never will be.

Illness insists that I remain resting on the sofa, so apart from these brief sojourns to my computer when utter TV hell boredom sets in, that is mainly what I�ve been doing.

Lying, wrapped in my duvet with a leopard skin print hot water bottle on my tummy I have watched crap TV show after crap TV show, contemplated the state of British TV today, wondered at what on earth induced the BBC to employ Dom Joly in his own chat show, and have generally become convinced that telly isn�t like it used to be.

Apart from the delivery of the aforementioned hot water bottle by someone very kind, I�ve been on my own all day, which is an unusual state of affairs; I don�t think I�ve been ill on my own for a very, very long time. But I found it strangely liberating in a lonely sort of way, after all, if I can be ill on my own, I can manage anything without the help of anyone.

Can�t I?

You know those days when you just think, 'Oh how much easier it would be to keep going straight on when the road bends round'?

But that's not an option. Not really. Now, if it were able to kill off my emotional self, whilst leaving the physical one perfectly in tact, that would be an option. And how lovely. To do away with all the pain and the constant dull, nagging, aching awareness of the devastation literally just around the corner. To make all that go, and be left with a brand new, clear headed, uncaring, unemotional me.

But instead I drive down dark motorways, my eyes full of tears that make the world seem out of focus and the lights streaky, and instead of gathering myself together, doing a bit of breathing or whatever, I decide the correct course of action is to put the song which is playing on my CD and which is partly responsible for this feeling onto repeat, and turn the sound up, and put my foot down, and really wallow in it.

Bleh.

The worst week (and one day) in the whole worst world ever?

Thursday: Like a mad person I leave home with just one car load of stuff and transport myself instantly into the land of singleness, skintness, loneliness, and nothing to do on a saturday night-ness.

Monday: A mad person crashes into my car, in the *fast* lane of the M4, and stoves the side in so much that you can't get in the passenger door.

Tuesday: A mad person driving the other way to me runs over a dog, I get out of my car, scream 'Get the fuck off his fucking paw, fucker,' pick up the dog, and take the dog and it's freaked owner to the vet. Then I come home and wash the dog blood off my back seat, throw my shoes/clothes away due to blood everywhere, and all my neighbours peer out of their windows going, 'See her next door, she's an axe murderer.'

Friday: I go to get in my car only to find a mad person (is this the same mad person that I am, and that clearly has it in for me?) has gouged big holes all around the lock and broken the door handle in a bid to break in. So currently, the only way to get in the sodding car is to get in the back and climb through to the front, which, frankly, makes me look like a bit of a dick.

Bad, huh?

Bloody mad people.

Trying to achieve at least one thing on my list of things to do whilst I am 30 has led me to investigate MA courses in Creative Writing, and to begin trawling the internet for advice on how best to start THE BOOK. So far, I've got THE IDEA and I've even started writing but before I get too engrossed I need to know what the general consensus of opinion about writing in the first person. You see, most of the time and in most of the things I write I use the first person, and not the third person. (I think that's right, but if it's not, basically I mean I like to use I thought rather than she thought.) And then, what about past and present tense? How easy is it to read something written in present tense? Does it sit better if I write: Slowly I walk down to the river, my shoes slipping on the still wet grass or if I write Slowly I walked down to the river, my shoes were slipping on the still wet grass.

Damn, now I'm not even sure if that''s right.

Hmmm.

Anyway....In my search for writing style enlightenment I came across this advice, posted on a board about creativity and specifically about writing a book:

1) You're using too many adjectives.
2) Message is for hacks - if you write the story, the message will be there.
3) "The cat sat on the mat" is a piece of trivia. "The cat sat on the dog's mat" is the beginning of a story.
4) You're still using too many adjectives.
5) You know that first page you wrote which set everything out, introduced the character, set the tone? Delete it. That's what the rest of the novel is for.
6) Don't tell me about stuff. Tell me stuff. Let me do the judging.
7) See that? That's an adjective you don't need. They're like roaches - let one in and you'll see more.
8) Don't sit down in fron of a blank page without a clue what you're going to say, and always leave yourself something easy to do when you stop at night, so that you have a gentle run in in the morning.
9) Not every page has to sing opera. You are allowed to rest for several beats.
10) Discipline.

Good writing about writing advice, and good writing advice, at that.

How do you know what you want?

How do you decide?

I always thought it was crazy to make 17 year olds decide what to do with their life. Make University choices. You can't ask a 17 year old what they want to be, how would they know? No life experience, no idea really of who they are even though they may think so. Yet they have to decide what they want to study, something that will affect the rest of their lives. Me? Back then I thought, 'Oh, well I'm good at Art, Music and Drama, so hey, I'll do Contemporary Arts.' No more thought than that. If you asked me now, it'd take a year to decide, and I still wouldn't be sure I'd made the right choice.

And then, what about the fact that the choices you make affect your life in so many different ways, a lot of them in ways you wouldn't begin to dream of even when you make them? If I do A, then B will happen. If B happens then C may occur. And what if you bring D, E, and F into the equation? Then what happens? Then how do you make the right choices? What if you never even knew D, E and F existed until the opportunity had presented itself and gone, until it was possibly too late? Until you couldn't rethink your choices, because they were out of your hands? And what if those things will continue to be in your life until the day you die even though you didn't choose right at the time?

Can you go back?

Can you re-choose?

Is this fretting a form of existentialism?

I tell you, it's a minefield.

And one I am still finding it difficult to navigate.

Recently someone I used to know rang me out of the blue. (Well not quite out of the blue since prior to the call we had been corresponding by email, MSN and text, but still, to say it was a shock would be somewhat underplaying the scene.) The last time we spoke would have been ten years ago, and in that time I have changed a great deal so it was interesting to me to hear that they sounded *exactly* the same. Now I'm sure they don't look the same, I know I don't. Older skin, older eyes. So I got to thinking; why is it that voices don't age? How can the rest of my body note the passing of time, yet my voice doesn't?

On the subject of voices, I have also taken up thinking about the personality 'voice'; the things I say or write. The subject of conversations which take place in reality (either on the phone or face to face) as opposed to online or by text. It struck me that the person I am online, for example here, is not the same as the person I am if you are face to face with me and giggling. The opportunity to censor yourself, present yourself in a certain manner, adjust phrases or change words is available in any textual conversation, something not present in real life. Things meant with a laugh in the throat or a smile in the eye can easily be misconstrued when written down. For instance, if I were to write this: very funny it would be easy to assume I am being sarcastic, and think that in fact I mean something isn't funny, but if you could see me as I fall off my chair whilst I write you would know that I mean it.

So is it possible to piss someone off textually when in real life emotions and reason and meaning are clearer? Is the person you see in the words the real one? Even the use of emoticons can't really express a true feeling, so we are left with a choice of words. But having choice in what you 'say' can become another gag, another way of stifling a true personality. For someone who worries about words, only being able to use writing to converse is like running one-legged. For everything I write I have deleted something else, and if I haven't done that I've hesitated and sighed, and pondered and considered. The end result in text conversation probably sounds pompous or *loud* or over emotional and unrealistic, but anyone who knows me would say most of the time I am grinning, silly, affectionate and a bit odd.

There, you see? Now I have made myself sound like The Fool, which was not how I meant to present myself at all...

I can see it would be very easy to send myself slightly insane continuing to think about this.

There are some moments that are made up of too much stuff to be lived at the time they occur.
John Le Carr�






*****ADVERTISEMENT*****ADVERTISEMENT*****ADVERTISEMENT*****ADVERTISEMENT*****

Feeling Low? Can't face getting up in the morning? Is the whole world getting you down? We have a brand new offer just for you and it's available now.

*****************************BE ME FOR JUST ONE DAY!****************************

With this revolutionary new idea you can be sure to chase those blues away and start the rest of your life with a new, happy outlook, a positive fresh start. This simple yet original method can be purchased exclusively from us; it's easy to use, revolutionary and is your one step answer to changing your life.

100% guaranteed to make you feel better or your money back. Contact us for more details.

*****ADVERTISEMENT*****ADVERTISEMENT*****ADVERTISEMENT*****ADVERTISEMENT*****

Out of the Mouths of Babes - Part One.

This is a transcription of a conversation I have just had with my son Harry as we were driving home on the A303, past Stonehenge. (Harry is 5.)

Harry: That's Stonehenge.
Me: That's right! What do you think it's made of?
Harry: Rocks.
Me: Yes, well, stones.
Harry: I know how they got them there.
Me: Do you? How?
Harry: They got some rope and they pulled them.
Me: Well done! You are clever. Did someone tell you that?
Harry: No I just knowed it in my head.
Me: Well it's a clever thing to know.
Harry: Yes. But Mummy?
Me: Yes?
Harry: How did they get them through?
Me: Through what Darling?
Harry: Through those gates Mummy! You *are* silly.

There seems to be a sudden spurt of lists concerning 'Things to do before you're 30'. I have noticed these lists on a television programme, in the newspapers and on the radio so I thought I'd make my own list (although mine will have to be 'Things To Do *When* You're 30,' since I currently am).

so:

Things To Do When You're 30

� Learn the names of all the British trees
� Learn the names of all the wildflowers
� Learn the names of all the wild birds
� Learn the latin names of all the plants in my garden
� Learn where all the countries are in the world
� Learn the names of all the Kings and Queens of England
� Learn the names of Henry VIII's wives Reciting divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived isn't acceptable.
� Learn how to play poker
� Learn how to read the Tarot
� Paraglide Once is not enough.
� Watch less television *Never* say 'what else can we watch?'
� Learn another language Minor abilities in French do not a) a good conversationalist make or b) count.
� Work out who I am.
� Work out what I want.
� Find a source of Sloe bushes so I can make Sloe Gin
� WRITE THE BOOK.
� Learn how to astral project
� Contribute to Barbelith instead of just lurking.
� Paint a picture a week.
� Be true to myself.
� Stop having conversations which go like this:

Me: Oh, I love winter trees, they're so beautiful.
Person who shall remain nameless: Mmm.
Me: You can see their skeletons, all the branches and twigs.
Person who shall remain nameless: Hmm.
Me: or like arteries and veins.
Person who shall remain nameless: Mmm.
Me: You can still see the shape of the tree though, even without the leaves, see?
Person who shall remain nameless: Mmm.

� Stop making lists and start doing the things on them instead.

I need a new view.

If I believe that time's arrow is not straight, and that now is both the future and the past, could this mean that the I in the future is helping the I now? Could it be that the things I will learn are being returned to me by me in order that I may grow?

In 'The Matrix' Neo has two choices. If he takes the blue pill that he is being offered, he will forget about the matrix and go back to his illusory but relatively safe and predictable life. Take the red pill, however, and he will see the world as it really is. The trade-off is clear: comfortable fantasy or harsh reality?

I wish I could transport my desk, my computer, my chair and me to a different place each day. Ready, steady, one-two-three and I'm looking out the window at Kynace Cove

In pursuit of happiness.

In considering the search for personal fulfilment and happiness, we first need to consider the definition of happiness. According to the dictionary, to be happy is: Enjoying, showing, or marked by pleasure, satisfaction, or joy but this does not satisfactorily cover it. For example, and at the most basic level I am 'happy' to have given up smoking, but today I don't feel very 'happy'. Clearly happiness as defined by the dictionary is not the pure form of the state, that which can be found through the learning of the Tao, or Kabbalah or indeed Yoga.

I have chosen this topic partly because of my rapidly growing interest in Ashtanga Yoga and the fundamental belief which underlies the practice of it. Ashtanga is the Sanskrit word for Eight Limbs (Ashta-eight, anga-limbs) and the eight limbs are as follows:

Yama-restraints
Niyama-observances
Asana-posture
Pranayama-breath control
Pratyahara-withdrawal of the senses
Dharana-concentration
Dhyana-meditation
Samadhi-realisation.

In Ashtanga we believe that in order to achieve enlightenment, one has to master all these limbs.

The fifth limb Pratyahara (withdrawal of the senses) means to turn the attention inward and I think for me this is one of the reasons Ashtanga has become so important to me. In this modern world we tend to assume that much of our happiness depends on things like wealth, pleasure, satisfaction and falling in love, but these are external physical states. Pratyahara is practised to make a person independent of these external stimuli and the objective is to discover the real source of happiness within us. In the physical asana practise for example, you are listening to your breath, gazing at specific focal points, holding internal locks (bandhas) following the flow of postures and you become totally absorbed with what you are doing. In other words you are directing all your energy back inside and creating a space for yourself that is completely detached from the outer world.

I think many people take up Ashtanga yoga initially for the physical aspects of it, maybe they suffer from a bad back, or perhaps they just generally feel stiff. But what tends to happen with people who practice regularly and become interested in the spiritual side of it is they become absorbed with the core principles of the practice. Ashtanga is not just exercise, not just about being able to bend your body into fantastic positions, although this is a consequence of regular practice. No, the 'point' of Ashtanga or the true subject of it is to achieve an inner awareness, to be able to observe the void within oneself and become a witness to our true nature. Eventually the aim is to realise that your individual self (atman) is at one with the divine self (brahman).

Pattabhi Jois, the Master of Ashtanga Yoga says �Partial yoga methods out of line with their internal purpose can build up the six enemies (desire, anger, greed, illusion, infatuation and envy) around the heart. But the full Ashtanga system practised with devotion leads to freedom within ones heart.�

Now I don't profess to be anywhere near the eighth limb, indeed I have much work to do and am far from it. But it has occurred to me that perhaps if we were all to follow Ashtanga and take its principles on as our life's path we might find ourselves less concerned with the pursuit of physical happiness, and in doing so suddenly find that we were surprisingly satisfied and content in our lives.

The certain and imminent death of a loved one has had a intense consequence for me; it has resulted in an uncontrollable personal sensual adjustment, changing the way I interact with the natural world. My once vague acknowledgement and flimsy awareness of all things beautiful has now become a sort of hyper-reality, an awareness of colour and texture and scent. These days the world to me looks cleansed by rain, the dust washed away, and my eyes cleared by tears notice the sharpness and contrast of everything I see. Smells have become stronger and the things I pick up feel overly large and heavy in my hands. Typing is no longer a rhythmic and unconscious action and has now become a conscious awareness of each and every brain signal, the decision to allow my fingers to press each individual key.

It reminds me of an article I read in New Scientist this week on the Thought Translation Device which allows completely paralysed or �locked in� people the opportunity to write by amplifying and dampening their brain waves in a way that allows them to select letters on a video screen and spell out messages. This technique is excruciatingly difficult to control, extremely slow (averaging about 2 letters a minute) and on some days the patients find they can�t control their brain waves at all, but given that the alternative is being totally unable to communicate it�s an enormous benefit to their lives.

Give a thought and make it so.

This consideration of the brain, coupled with my newfound awareness makes me think perhaps the here and now is the truest moment in my life and all the things I have previously aspired to or wished for in order that my life may become 'perfection' can now be allowed to float off into irrelevance. Maybe now is the beginning of a new consciousness for me, a new reality, a move away from the chronology of time and a step towards the concept of Kairos.

"I am the sum total of my parts," she said, flicking her hair suggestively,
"Then where is your left foot?" he said, peering downward underneath the duvet.
"You are delusional," she said, "my foot is here, see?" she wiggled her toes,
"No," he said, "it is not there. I cannot see it and my eyes do not lie to me."

My dog and I are standing with our noses pressed against the window, watching the pouring, unending rain. we had planned to go out and if it were up to me I still would, a little wet hair has never bothered me much, but the dog? Well the dog is a bit of a girl about the rain and if I were to force him out in it he would stand there with his tail between his legs looking the epitome of the expression 'hang dog'.

So what else can I do? This morning I read about a site called there. It's an amazingly designed virtual world and inside characters can talk to each other. So I go and look only to find it's not available for macs yet. I ask them when they think they might produce it and they don't say a month, or three months or even six. No. They say they think they might get around to bringing out a Mac version in...2004.

On the study of words, their meanings and where they come from (or the language skills of a 5 year old).

Vacuum cleaner - Vacroom cleaner
Windscreen wipers - Windowscreamers
Plant stems and tree trunks - Standers
Roundabout - The Go Arounds

Yesterday, as part of a conversation on children and their incredible way of seeing things exactly as they are, my friend said this to me: I like to try and think like a child when I'm coming up with ideas, and I wish I still had that bit of imaginative ability that growing up kicked out of me (I think making up words is the closest I get these days...) It made me sad that he felt his imaginative ability had been kicked out of him, and made me wonder at what point do we become unwilling to accept any thought or feeling as possible? For example, at what point does the breath you blow out on a cold morning stop being �Dragons breath�, and become just condensation, just the Encyclopaedic answer: There is always some moisture in the air, even if you cannot see it. As the temperature drops the air cannot hold all the moisture and tiny drops of water appear. This is condensation and you notice it when you see your breath on a cold day.

Personally, I much prefer the Dragon�s breath concept � the idea that inside of us we all have a little fire breathing beast who only shows his face in the very cold weather. And I for one shall try as hard as I can to remain in this frame of mind, this alternative reality, and allow myself to think the oddest and most subnormal thoughts I can.

I have been inspired to start my own blog by reading that of another blogger; someone who is not yet my friend but to whom I can lay a small claim. I allow myself this link because my best friend spent time with him in Sydney, lolling in the grass.

So tentatively I begin my first post, a little unsure of what to write, a little unsure of how to write it. Nervously I taste the words that come; the large and the small of them, the right and the wrong of them, determined that they should compliment one another before I send them off into the world. This linguistic vanity is typical of me, I am not lazy with syntax, or lax with semantics. I do not care very much if I do not have my make up on, but I could not go out in public without the right words in my head. This sounds like I plan every conversation that takes place, but I am referring only to the written word, these words I send out to other people, the ones with permanence.

Interestingly, I seem now to have talked my way round to today�s subject: I am not the only one with this language obsession, a site I was sent today is introduced as follows: An experiment in language and interface, Plumb Design's Visual Thesaurus is both an artistic exploration and a tool to explore, study, and analyze the structure of language. By displaying the interrelationships between words and meanings as spatial maps, the Visual Thesaurus translates language into a visible architecture. I like the idea of visualising the structure of language because as well as my passion for words I am also a very visual person. I think in pictures. If you say �word� to me, I will see a picture of a word.

So Plumbs Thesaurus pleases my visual, wordy mind immensely.