Dictatorship of the Fruit and other things addictive

As of today, I am tweeting. (Today in fact was Thursday. Thursday is today once a week, which makes Thursday really happy, if only Thursday could be today everyday, but then everyday is today all the time, which makes Thursday really confused)

Me and Ravi in the latest Sci-Fi flick Fondue: The Next Generation

It wasn't meant to happen. I was an accident, I swear. In an attempt to have a lookie-look at someone else's Twitter account, I accidentally registered myself. So. With a full stop. I could have deleted the account immediately, but as it is the case with all things new and ever so slightly unknown, I couldn't resist. And spent most of my leisure time (some people in my semi-direct environment pronounce this word 'liiiiiisua time') trying to track down people I could stalk with my newly extended Go-Go-Gadget vocal cords. Again I must insist that I am innocent and that I couldn't resist the fangs of the evil tweeting bird of procrastination. 

Peep. So at half two I have one of these super insight moments, where all of a sudden life makes a little more sense in the wider context until I wake up tomorrow with a sleep deprivation hangover, a sleepover, thinking what an idiot I am to stay up that late, and wake up this fucked(ly). Not in the literal sense. If indeed I had been fucked all night (presumably some one-sided action) I might not feel fucked. Communication is low tonight, I apologise, dear non-existing reader, but remember I have tweeted my way through irrelevant human history until just now. To write a blog post... All this could not happen, had I not a piece of silver fruit lying in my lap. Another one of my sleek, suave transitions to refer back to the title: for the metaphorically challenged, I am writing this post from a silver Mac. On its throne of human leg it condescendingly stares at me with the bleak expression of a tyrant who only values its sovereigns for their willingness to submit themselves unquestioningly to its commands. Shift A, em, iiihh, enn. 

Without my silver dictator no Twitter, no Facebook, no Emails, no life. Big fruit is watching me.

Which does not at all cohere with the other half (1/4 more likely) of my life that is crafting away all evening, wearing my thrifted dress, my retro specs with a botched victory roll and a large cup of tea (victory roll on head, tea on desk). How come that there is a increasing discrepancy between my technologically advanced life and my smudging, crafting existence? This question doesn't come out of nowhere; it is tied into the narrative that will become my dissertation at some point later in the year. Why is there an increasing interest in practical skills and rather traditional occupations that contrasts the hyper-technologised life? And this is just the beginning: I wasn't born into a technoliterate society, and I certainly wasn't raised to embrace the use of all things computer-y. Now however, we take it for granted. Try and imagine life before mobile phone, or life before Facebook. WHAT DID WE DO?????? (I sort of have a hunch that I ate most of the time....) Is there a correlation between the above collective loss of memory of 'what was before the computer' and the revival of a lifestyle before the technological awakening? Are select cultural subgroups celebrating the cult of vintage (like a religion) to built a new faith from scratch, one that is both incredibly stylish and comforting in an era where iPhones hit the market like marbles the bullied kid in school? Are sewing and crafting substitutes for values that are lost in the speed of our times? And how much more can we take? We all tweet, facebook, flicker, google, youtube, pinterest ourselves, blog, update, download, upload, stream, comment, like, unlike, unfriend, add, follow, block, tag, untag, scroll, track and click on a daily basis: we are not creating a spectacle - we ARE the spectacle (thanks to Guy Debord for this spectacular insight). There is no longer a distinction between me, my Mac and my Twitter account.

Hm, maybe there is. Spectacular, spectacular, no words in the vernacular, can describe this great event, you'll be dumbed with wonderment. (hooray for Baz Luhrman) I agree with certain grumpy, dead German scholars that quite possibly, we've reached a state of complete commodification, and that now, all attempt to escape it involves a wooden box and cheap flowers (which are bought in by the bucket load). To escape the technified world of pretty, white goods of consumption originating in Silicon Valley, by way of cheap Chinese labour, means to choose but a different commodity to cling onto. Fail, if you observe it from the outside, which you can't really, according to dead German philosophers. But I like consumption. (Also, I would quite like to destroy Victorian/Edwardian metaphors here: I am not Leonard Bast - there are antibiotics - there is more or less central heating: it is time to rid consumption of its negative connotations.) I like to identify myself with a particular group and this year's great event is the Vintage Festival in July, where like-minded vintage consumers gather to celebrate consumption in its purest and retroest form. Hat included. The dictatorship of the fruit is at work here too: how many vintage lovers do you see scrolling up and down their iPads or iPhones to see where one can find the best original YSL gloves in their original packaging bought in 1953 in Indonesia from a passing Frenchman in return for a bowl of soup? Hm, maybe I went a bit too far with this example, but the truth is, because the Fruit still benefits from its 90s and Naughties artsy image, a lot of the artsy vintage crowd are proud to use the Fruit. And I don't see as much of a contradiction in using the Fruit and liking vintage simultaneously. I must admit that I have written myself into a oneway street, and I am way too tired to talk myself out again. So this ends abruptly.

Leadership theory. Is it just me?

Amplified self-confidence and the long way back

It felt like a long, warm hug from the Über-mother. A soothing drink for the soar self-confidence. A pat on the back of my ego. A Networking and Life skills workshop. 

That's the normal King's: all levels to a minimum

There is something intrinsically funny about a workshop hosted by a top agency, top people, with loads of free material and a well-structured schedule on the premises of King's College. But then we are CMCI, we like the binaries. It's now Saturday, sometime around midnight and I still feel energised. In fact, today was the first time in my entire time at King's that I felt energised at all, not drained of all my passion and will to live. I went into the workshop with little to no expectations at all, hoping to find at least some like-minded people to talk about what is bothering me. In addition to these people, we were presented with a group of professionals who actually cared about us. C-A-R-E. Unheard of in the area around the Strand, London, where levels of botheredness are so low, they fall beyond the bother-o-meter, off the scale into the Thames. And here are these people talking to us as if we were real human beings, valuing and evaluating every word we say. They even brought a former policeman in, who, admittedly, put a bit too much emphasis on the fact that he was not one of us, but a South-London boy with a Cockney accent, and a suit that wouldn't win the hearts of the Fashion Week people. Nevertheless, he rocked. And still rocks on. My hopes are all set on becoming a hostage negotiator. Denzel Washington-styly. Only that I am not male, not American, not black, not good at it, and not in a movie. The essence is that these people made us dream. Very realistic dreams in fact, about what is possible, not about what is impossible. 

The positive vibe that infused King's today was almost too much to bear - only hyper-regulated lunchtimes managed to keep us grounded. So where do they go right, where most other people go wrong? How did they manage to get my attention and keep it for two entire days with hardly any interruption (apart from said mealtimes)? How come that coloured pencils work more effectively than lecture handouts?

My main question of the day, and one of many unanswered ones (and that is a good thing!), was how can I make people listen to me? I find that people often switch off while I am talking. So, is it the boring content? My uninspiring articulation? My tone? My expressions? My general unappeal? What turns them off? Rather than being upset about it (though I still am, a bit) I explore the room for improvement, thanks to somebody who talks people off buildings, and somebody else who worked for a toothpaste manufacturer. I simplify here, because it makes the better story, and THAT is exactly what these two days were about: a story! My story, my life and the chapters to come. The dull prequel and the rather unimaginative introduction are over, now it's time to make things happen. What I need to do is work on the brand that is 'ME': 'ME' is the latest product of Alice, your trusted manufacturer of useless goods. 'ME' is launched in just one flavour, but with the promise of more to be developed within a short time. The components of 'ME' are a rather eclectic mix of novelty, eloquence, exchange, unattachedness, faithfulness and passion, shaped in the form of a regular Alice, but with a completely new recipe. 'ME' does not promise: 'ME' does. With its active ingredients of passion and novelty, 'ME' has everything future employers want: 'ME' will facilitate the generation of novelty ideas; it will provide the drive to make ideas go further; it will have the necessary distance to the project to see the need for correction; it will commit to the cause and want to finish the project: 'ME' does what others don't. (I love writing my own adverts) 

Also, what I learned today is that I need to stop complaining about my faults (see egocentrism) and start working with them as part of me, and potential strengths if modelled to my satisfaction. So I start here: 1. complaining (one for today is enough, I think). I like to complain, I have written to you, dear non-existing reader, about my complaints and what they mean to me. I have come to terms with them, and yet, they keep me from seeing myself clearly. They act as a veil of mounted dissatisfaction over my chubby face, blurring the distinctions between real unhappiness and just a bit of discomfort over some things that went a bit square. So, out with the complaints, in with positive feedback. I have decided that starting now, I will say positive things and stop moaning about everything, because my time is just NOT worth bothering. Uff that is quite a New Year's resolution, in mid-February.

Made me think about a beans party

Michael Caine is speaking, talking Italian

If there was any doubt that my brain just can't focus, not for two seconds, it was eradicated today. While I was meant to write, or at least meditate on the subject of rather dull questions, my brain was occupied trying to make my inner voice sound like Michael Caine ('Hello, my name is Michael Caine. Not a lot of people know that'. Try it, it's excellent fun). In case you were wondering - no - it is not very helpful in an exam. Having said that, there is something that's been nagging on me for a while and relates to an earlier post here (that you won't have read). I was thinking about being a grown up and how that is meant to change you. Now, I do not want to relate to myself as a grown up, but I have crossed the line, I think of grown-up behaviour, never to come back again. I have bought a gift and a card for a newborn, which means that 1. I know somebody with a baby and 2. I sort of care, and 3. I no longer belong to the entity that is my parents, who will send a separate gift and card (that is if my mother is bothered enough).

Part of the Guardian's solution for future graduates.

Now a month has passed and I spent that month trying not to freak out over too much work and not enough sleep. My chronic lack of ambition and stoic mind help, but mornings like today's do not. Why are some lectures boring? Why was I tired despite 10 hours sleep? Why does my tea no longer remain hot in my thermos? All in all, not a good day for reflection, fashion, nail polish, hair and certainly not a good day for productive ideas towards a dissertation. AND, it's Valentine's Day, another perfectly ordinary day highjacked by commerce and transformed into a Disney production of love and affection. Yes - this is a single speaking, and yes - I had a lot of cake during the last couple of days. I mean a lot. 

My weekend was spent with cake, beans and a treasure hunt - possibly the best hunt I've ever done. Beans included. And at the risk of blowing my own trumpet, dear non-existent reader, I summed it all up on Saturday night: 'if this is what being an adult is like, I want more of it'. True. It was a genuinely great day, spent in the glorious cold London sun, with people I like, doing crazy things of our own and others' design.  And lots and lots of rhyming, photographing, laughing and random silliness. I secretly wish never to look back onto my teens again, where everything was tense and not so very cool, despite my very hard attempts.  Have we reached the summit of coolness without trying? Or have we reached a state of coolness through a reversal of all that is classified as cool, de-accelerating to the point of total acceleration? Paul Virilio would be very proud indeed of me now. Reaching the level of complete acceleration where the only possible way is regression, the return to what has already been. What is coolness in the first place? Is it a virtue? An accomplishment? Is it natural? Can it be learned. As an outsider, a non-cool person, I have only ever had the possibility to observe coolness from the outside, i.e. with the longing to become or be cool, or cooler. Interestingly, it manifests itself in a variety of ways, which only have the ideological notion of coolness in common - it translates into so many visual, physical and metaphysical details that the only valid comparison I find is the universe, a an indefinitely large mass or un-mass, hosting galaxies and planets and and and... The question whether coolness is experienced by the bearer of cool him- or herself is an interesting layering of the idea that coolness may be only experienced by the outsider, and that 'a' cool person is not capable of grasping their own coolness. 

'Hello, my Name is Michael Caine'

Coolness as a distorted mirror image of the self that does not allow for a coherent evaluation. Which implies that anybody thinking of themselves as cool, could not possibly be cool, for cool cannot be self-experienced. This would explain why coolness seems effortless - because it is.

Any conscious effort must result in the individual's fail to be cool. Michael Caine is a prime example (notice how I make a suave link to an earlier bit): he spent the 60s and early 70s being cool. Nerdy glasses, mod-cut suits, unruly curls, Cockney accent, a good choice of movies, and the best spy movie scene in human history in The Ipcress File; two agents with trolleys in a supermarket. Coolness was a byproduct of good British acting. He did so well: and this is where it all went wrong. Michael Caine realised that he did well. So he made the effort to continue doing well, and did not so well in consequence. And what's worse: he lost his cool. I am particularly referring to the actors' workshops (1987) and a range of 'straight-to-video' films he made in the late 70s and 80s. In trying to replicate earlier coolness, Michael Caine created a caricature version of himself; a sort of postmodern pastiche of the actor he once was. Michael Caine in the 80s was a construct, designed after a bad description of Michael Caine in the 60s: an overemphasised Cockney accent, weird glasses, set hair (like his own grandmother) and bad 80s fashion. He might not have been responsible for the fashion, but it articulated well what had become of the 60s icon. It was the attempt to continue being the same character 20 years into his career - it was bound to fail.

Luckily, Caine grew up. There was a transition period where he had to age and mature to distance himself from Alfie, and where he became a sleek, witty, short-breathed grandfather. It took nearly 40 years, but Michael Caine is cool again, because he doesn't give a toss about it.