Monday, November 12, 2012 at 02:36PM 
This is, I am reliably informed, a true story. But you wouldn't think so. Indeed, you wouldn't expect anything so wholly preposterous to happen outside a comedy sketch or a joke told down the pub. That made me wonder how our hearts can lead us down such strange paths, to such sad ends.
Friday, June 29, 2012 at 06:21PM 
On Wednesday I managed to finish the first draft of a novel. On Sunday my daughter will be born. Today I am composed of a million rapidly expanding particles, most of which are running errands.
Life Thursday, April 19, 2012 at 10:00PM 
You know that bit in Wall-E when he rolls over the little apocalypse-friendly cockroach, and Wall-E's horrified because he thinks he’s inadvertently killed his buddy, but then the cockroach pops back up again? Well, I am now in a position to tell you that is not some fanciful sprinkling of Hollywood fairy dust. No suspension of disbelief is required when watching that scene. That shit is real.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012 at 08:10PM The last two months have been pretty tough, not so much on me as on the people I love. As a result I haven’t had any time to work and, as I sit down at my desk again – back in Sao Paulo, with the air clear after a storm and the lit boxes of other people’s lives remote across the rain-sweet night – I feel horribly blocked up. And I keep suffering from the urge to use this space to try and say something which will sum it all up and perhaps make sense of it. But it’s not my place to do that and, also, I can’t get away from the feeling that it would make pretty heavy going for a disinterested reader.
So instead of talking about life-stuff, I’m going to try and throw down here some of the head-stuff which has been sluicing around my mental washing-up bowl for the past couple of months. I’ll try and write it as a one-shot (I’ve got a fearful-big pile of other stuff to be getting on with), and I’ll try and keep it short and sort of impressionistically interesting. Hopefully if you join the dots you might see some kind of pattern.
1. When Baroness Mary Warnock claimed that we don’t recreate our moral outlook, but simply revert to the one we learned during formative educational encounters, it was really just the flipside to James Murphy singing ‘I wish I could complain more about the rich, but then / All their children would … Come to every show / Drugged and unwashed / And no one / Wants that’. The point is, kids listen even when their parents are too far gone.
2. Don’t let your inner Mondeo driver tell you that poetry (a.k.a. philosophy) makes nothing happen. Ideas only gain substance in the act of transmission, after you’ve let them go.
3. The Occupy Movement is the latest iteration of non-conformist thought. The exact same impulse has existed ever since there was a feudal landlord or factory owner and someone became suspicious not merely of power but the mechanisms of power. The Diggers, Peter Kropotkin and the CNT during the Spanish Civil War are other examples.
4. Kropotkin’s idea that it is mutual aid rather than competition which determines the survival of a species (pace Darwin) is supported by the fact that homo sapiens ensured its survival by coalescing into farming groups and learning to mill and bake grains which were otherwise indigestible, thereby securing food sources unavailable to other species.
5. I nicked that idea from A History of the World in 100 Objects. Another interesting bit of trivia I picked up from that show was that the maximum number of contacts in most people’s mobile phones is around 200 – which happens to be the same size as the average Stone Age community. This suggests that we’re genetically programmed to live in small communities and everything we did after the invention of the wheel was a big mistake.
6. According to Rousseau, natural liberty is the freedom we enjoy in a primitive communion with nature. It’s antithetical to society, but that’s OK, because once we enter society we exchange natural liberty for civil liberty, which is the freedom to determine our own condition (morally, financially and so forth) within the limits imposed by the general will. This is the only way, according to Rousseau, in which man (or woman) truly makes himself (or herself) his own (her own) master (mistress).
7. You can walk into a restaurant in India and there’s a sadhu sipping his tea next to some workmen, a clerk from the railway, a couple of women travelling home for a wedding. That faraway look in his eyes could merely be the desire for another sandwich or a glimpse of the infinite. As far as I know, you don’t get that proximity to mysticism anywhere else these days. Europe had it in the Middle Ages, but the excessive power of the church led to the excesses of the clergy, which led in turn to Martin Luther, and mysticism was eventually buried beneath the austerities of Protestantism. And what filled the vacuum? Pleasure, consumption, the endless hunger of capitalism.
8. A very tidy construction from Bernard Henri-Levy: theology is philosophy, he said, because even if you think God is dead, He left his testimony to man – and that testimony is philosophy.
9. Whenever you exit from the anxious, deracinated limbo of international air travel, passing up through the insomniac hum of the jet bridge, it’s the smell which first anchors you to your location: in Brazil, a warm blanket of cheese and cologne; in the UK, Chanel No. 5 and baked beans.
10. Remember that complaint from Fox News about how the new Muppet movie is the latest instalment in Hollywood’s unfair victimisation of down-trodden oil magnates and the hard-working folk of the American right? Well, I call shenanigans. Surely the illiberal contingent on this planet (Fox News anchors, dictators, psychopaths) get to call dibs on every action movie ever made, from Rambo to Spiderman to 300. And the reason for that is because any film where power and violence are fetishised is readily available as a massive wank bank for paranoid, violent nuts. Nerds (like me) love things like Spiderman because it fulfils our underdog fantasies. But Spiderman also speaks to the wacko, proto-tyrant who distrusts the government and wishes he could kill the man in front of him for taking too goddamn long in the ticket queue.
11. The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet should have won more awards. I suspect that it didn’t because David Mitchell put a postmodern engine beneath the bonnet of a historical fiction, and this juxtaposition was simply too much for most critics. By a postmodern engine, I mean that he took great delight in alternating not only between genres (from orthodox historical fiction to a love story, then a ghost story, a samurai story, a high-sea story, and so on), but also tones – from scatological humour to minimal, haiku lyricism to salty nautical prose. Perhaps the cognoscenti prefer the monotony of a serious novel, while the history fans prefer their history straight. If so, they’re forgetting that the age we live in is absurd and contradictory and that art has the option of reflecting this condition by distorting its surface. Then the distortion becomes the meaning. In this sense, which is to say in its structure, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet emerges as a thoroughly serious, intellectually rigorous modern novel fully the equal of the other big names on the list.
12. Trying to write something which looks delicate is just as bloody hard as hammering the ideas out properly – and takes just as long.
Sunday, August 7, 2011 at 08:47AM I'm doing a lot of work at the moment, and this has already caused me to minimise my activity on here. That's going to continue for the foreseeable future, so I thought I'd better raise my head above the parapet, admit the continuing absence (to myself as much as to anyone else), and tie up a couple of loose ends.
First of all, I think I have twice promised to post some new poems up here, and on both occasions failed. A bit of serendipity now compels me to make good on that promise. My poem 'Time and The Sea' won second prize in the Rhyme and Reason poetry competition run by the Iain Rennie Hospice. It's only a small competition, but I like the work of the judge, Gerard Benson, very much, and entries are accepted from across the country, so I feel entitled to experience a teensy tiny iota of validation.
However, it also served to clarify a few things in my head. The fact is, I don't really see poetry as being the area I want to explore. As a reader, I love it to bits. But as my love of poetry has increased over the years, my sense of my own suitability to write it has diminished proportionately. I am convinced that writing good poetry demands an obsessional, microscopic devotion which I don't naturally have and which it would run against the grain of my nature to contrive. My temperament is too superficial. So, while I love poetry, and am massively pleased that someone somewhere whose opinion I respect thinks I've done something which is sort of alright-ish, I know in my heart that this is only the first step on a path up the near-vertical, slipshod shale of the Parnassian foothills - and it is a path which I probably shouldn't take.
So, yes, I'm delighted, and I remain incapable of not writing poetry. But I am happy for it to be a private occupation, a dirty and secretive habit which I nonetheless take very seriously and from which I derive much (naughty) pleasure. It is in this spirit that I offer the poems 'Pulse', 'Vanishing Point', 'Opposable Thumb', 'Mobile', 'God', 'Mirror Stage', 'Hunter's Moon' and 'The Clouds'.
The other thing to mention is that this competition also had a section for prose entries . I didn't place in this, while my wife (talented sort that she is) placed third. Despite losing, however, I still quite like my entry, so I've put that up in the prose section.
It's called Red Shift, and it probably requires some explanation. The overall theme of the competition was time, so I devised a massively over-complicated, possibly incomprehensible hypothetical conceit about an observation post at the farthest edge of the known universe at the end of time.
My preliminary supposition, for which I have absolutely no basis in fact and which I would love to have corrected by someone who knows about this sort of thing, is that when entropy (i.e. heat death of the universe, itself a contentious theory) sets in, time would break down from the outside-in. Hence this guy, as the human being farthest out from the centre (far out might have been a good title, actually), would be the first person to experience all the weirdness arising from time collapsing.
That's how the idea started. Then, however, I got all excited by my reading, and particularly by the principle of redshift, in which time and gravity are thought to dilate as they approach an event horizon such as a black hole. Light emitted from beyond the event horizon can never reach the people on the other side, so I postulated that, if the observer could not communicate out then his superiors wouldn't be able to communicate in, effectively isolating him in a discrete envelope of space-time. I also presupposed that shit would be pretty messed up even before the 'event', what with being so far out from the centre - hence the bit about supernovae recurring (which is meant to imply that time is jumping back and forth).
Of course, all of this science is implicit in the story, as there's simply no room for exposition of that kind (there was a 500 word limit and, besides, it would have been boring). Finally a message arrives but, doh, it's a message that has fallen through a convenient worm hole from another era which is not intended for the protagonist and therefore merely confronts him with the futility of everything, ever.
Well, there you have it. It's far too complicated, I pulled most of my hair out trying to balance expository needs with dramatic ones, and no one liked it. Enjoy!
