Why lasting cannot last in a week of everyday lasts

I am in the final round of my education. Tomorrow, or today (1.39 am) I commence what will be the last week of proper school days in my life. And I couldn't be less interested.

So over to more exciting things: I have finished THE present and it sits here next to me, wrapped in brown paper, in its full glory, waiting to be shipped and delivered come the end of the week. I feel the pain a mother feels to see her child leave the nest. I put my whole heart into that parcel, and I hope the charming notifications on the outside will encourage the postman to handle it with extra special über-care. I have an intuition that he or she won't, but by then, I no longer hold any control over it. 

Also, I finish work, which is a bit more sad than finishing school, because I really like work. I think I have written about it before. I even had to capitalise it. I will attempt to drown my sorrow in carrot cake: I find that a good measure of sugar always helps overcoming the lasting feeling of interrupted routines. I think I might have written about that, too. 

Camilla I Regina

A lot more exciting is the run-up to Thursday's school event/do, which involves even more sugar, and possibly, a lot of high percentage beverages. It is of course a fancy dress evening (my insistence), and the theme is rather royal. I hope to impress with this charming hat (picture), a blonde flick-wig, and a navy blue dress. I am Camilla I, Queen of England (what else?). I even learned how to smile like her. The rather angelic touch of the picture is due to recently uncovered/discovered photoshopping skills on my behalf, so that now every single image that leaves the Fruit is digitally altered. Bliss.

I won't lie here, you, dear non-existent reader, have probably seen better. You will, of course. But remember the blood, sweat and tears that have contributed to this charming image, and you will award me an Oscar. Or the equivalent for photoshoppers. I really like my costume, the hat is very Edwardian, quite heavy, and will leave me with an irreparable neck damage for the rest of my life, but it's soooo worth it. 

Shallow, you say, non-existent reader? Bah, humbug, that's an Ascot-neck for you. Speaking of Edwardian, I just saw Julian Fellowes' latest effort, Titanic, in an ITV mini-budget, mini-series version. Mini-pleasure. 2 minutes into the program and I KNEW that I wouldn't like it, let alone follow it with the same attention to detail (that is obsession to me and you) that I follow Sherlock with. No, 2 minutes in, and I have not only a massive déjà-vu, I have a bad déjà-vu. While I won't even go into the accuracy debate - I am no authority, but those clothes seem a little too starchy on the stoker - the plot is borrowed from Titanic, the movie, and Downton Abbey, the not-yet-movie. But, haha, it's not just borrowed, it's a bad copy: the story of Jack and Rose, A and B, is retold with a different set of A and B in a slightly different version of the story. In fact, I suspect that one of Fellowes' mates saw the original movie and then, via Chinese whispers, got the message to Fellowes, who re-told the story is an awkwardly upper-class way. Today is the last I have seen of this monstrosity. 

Portraying the servants, yet keeping that distant gaze is what one does, isn't it? It's nice to see that they are there, but that's it. Those filthy creatures are not to venture into the dining room. Let alone the drawing room. Prime example: that French mistress we all know not to be married to that bloke she's with. No, she's married to Mark Ronson, everybody knows that. Uuuuhuuuhh, they are together but not married. Does such a thing exist? Not in Fellowes' world - I very much doubt it. In the land of country houses and posh toffs in morning gowns, people are either married or dead. There is no in-between, Unless you are a man in possession of a good fortune much in need of a wife. Then you may spend a glorious 95 minutes on screen, chasing Keira Knightley (or somebody equally costume drama-ish), without being married to her. You may consider proposing once or twice, in the rain, in a shed, under a table; but never, never for the love of god let that plonker Collins get her. We all know why.

The creation of need: a birthday present

Hooray, I get to buy a birthday present! I love buying and making presents (more of that later), but sometimes, my super hot, topless male muse is a bit slow on his feet and does not inspire me at all. Still, he's topless. However, I need to find a birthday present for a bored Capitalist in the land of the banks. A very bored Capitalist who is also looking for a job. I have this project that I am working on at the moment,  '25 Days to 25', a mammoth project if ever I've seen one, where I dedicate some time every day to the creation of, what is essentially a glorified diary for creative people. A mood book, if you like, dear non-existing reader. 

Here is a detail of the cover picture: I call it
 'Daniel Craig through the mincer'
(and I've cut him in pieces, too)

It's coming along nicely, I have written, pasted and rambled into it every single day since the beginning of March - and I do not see a reason why I should loose interest or creative drive. But for a quarter-centenarian, a simple book is not enough, is it? I was really inspired at first, but then realised, I have no cash to spend on original art, or anything else for that matter. And I lack talent for most other things. I even thought about making a blog for the bored Capitalist, but it's much more fun pasting stuff into a book. Then there are several rules I must obey in the search of the gift: a. it has to be postable (this rules out the Pug) b. it has to be a no-food (my own rule, don't encourage eating) c. it has to be really fun (common knowledge) d. it can't be a voucher (see c.) e. it can't be a graffiti-ed mannequin, a customised dress, a petticoat, a hat, candles, cosmetics, homewares or a two-tiered cake. Which leaves me with......what? 

In eleven years, I have outsourced cool birthday gifts, including fake vouchers for intimate piercings. So what now? Should I make a fresh start? Buy a pyjama? A scarf? Should I try and breed funky birthday gifts, like they do when Tuna has been outsourced? I can see a birthday gift farm with lots of free range birthday gifts, reared and fed to perfection, ready to be presented to somebody. Seeing that I can't even keep a blog alive, I doubt that I'd be much of a birthday gift breeder, but you never know.

I have managed to isolate my problem: it has to do with narrative. No narrative, no gift, that seems to have been my policy for the last eleven years, and unconsciously, I want to continue this line. ('A newspaper subscription!' cries my inner self, but no, I have done that as well) I have googled birthday gifts and frankly, the websites are appalling: you would only buy something on a designated birthday gift website if you're desperate and can't really stand the person, or don't really know them.  This smells like a business opportunity (just saying). 

So narrative: I had an idea whilst serving beer to people who don't buy art. I will make a gigantic box filled with empty promises. HA! Doesn't that sound cool? Also, I want to include one of these pug-cards I saw in Spitalfields Market, the ones that have little legs attached and are filled with helium. Joy of joys, I love completely pointless gifts. 

Reviewing the comedy that is 'Online Job Applications' - a new play by Samuel Beckett

My last post made me think about the arbitrariness of reviews and critiques you read wherever you go. Even if you're not going, but reading the Evening Standard on the tube. Can an opera about a musical survive the critical assessment of the harsh ES critics: I say yes. If they write it pre-release. Which is where my ingenious idea comes in: what we need to do is pitch them ideas and concepts, infiltrate their brains before they have seen a single act, show them ridiculous drawings of costumes, props and sets and make them believe it's the greatest show this planet has ever seen - it's called marketing.

Chris Bracey via Daniel Poole in Redchurch Street

Right, now apart from stating the obvious, another week has passed without progress - in any way. I am contemplating my mother's default way out: getting married. Even in times of great despair, lodged between historical chronics and aspiring lawyers in the library, I would not concede to getting hitched. Unless one of the pre-lawyers obliges. Yes, the bleak days of dissertation writing are descending upon me in their dreariest, most boring outfit. Stats of the past two days: cake, two film rentals, no shower, library, youtube. And that is just the prequel. Wait for the methodology chapter - the most futile chapter in every dissertation where you present, not what is interesting or important, but how you got to the bits of information that you can't write about because you need the word count to write about how you found it out. It drives me crazy. I don't even want to find our anything anymore.
What I am doing now is watching The First Knight on BBC, with Richard Gere and Sean Connery, both of whom have appalling British accents. And having one of the quarter-yearly life admin sessions, where I am going through piles of Excel sheets all labelled 'my life', to find that my accountant abandoned me ages ago. Ok, sooooo, back to BBC.

(The protagonist turns to the audience. She is wearing an old t-shirt; in the background we hear some of the dialogue of The First Knight)

I would want to complain at this point, so I do, unless ITV rolls the credits midway through my speech, or Audi drives their latest steel monster into the frame. On the subject of: job seeking. You should know, dear audience, I LOVE to work. In fact I love working so much, I had to capitalise it. The only problem between me and my love for work at the moment are these awful online applications, awkwardly formatted PDF documents and descriptions over descriptions of coffee-mate positions advertised cunningly as 'assistant' or 'junior so and so'. And it's not even the case that I don't like writing an application, because I like writing about myself. It's the writing part that these generic application forms get wrong. They don't want a cover letter where I can express myself in a clear grammar, with illustrations of my working life - no, they want Twitteresque joke-elaborations of no more than 28 1/2 characters about me, my previous jobs, my aspirations and my references. These applications are processed by a computer tracing keywords and eliminating everybody who writes without using those. It reminds me strongly of my old Biology class, where points where gained if certain words appeared in the text of your answer. Needless to say, I nearly failed the class. I am just not very good at using standardised, formulaic prose to express myself about....myself. So, I probably fail to get a job. Despite one and a half degree, some half decent work experience and a serious need for money.
Every time I start one of the online applications now, I feel like crying, because I know that the same questions will litter the way to the final, relieving sentence: 'Thank you for submitting your application. We will be in touch shortly'. Well, who is we? He? Who is that 'we' who tells me time and time again that they will be in touch with me and really, they never are?

(Curtain. No re-entrance of the protagonist. The audience is violently pushed out of the theatre)

Metro: 29th February 2013

Samuel Beckett, the author of 'Online Job Applications' strikes again. The play is a masterpiece on the confusing nature of the digitalised world of the current employment market and its weaknesses. He manages to highlight the unnatural relationship between employment seeker and computer, and the attentive critic spots technological determinism as a recurring motive and background of the play. The jobseeker, played brilliantly by a job seeking unknown, manages to convey real despair and confusion in the tradition of Beckett's plays. One does recognise elements of 'En Attendant Godot' and 'Molloy' in the character, but it is the first time that Beckett focusses on a female lead in search of an unknown, unreachable goal. The confusing nature of the online system, played by an exquisite Bill Nighy, fills the audience with doubts about their own careers, and it is not by any chance that Beckett included into the stage directions the presence of a psychologist and a motivation trainer. We feel that this is not the last we have seen of the anonymous jobseeker; we hope that Beckett will again use this character in a series of plays or novels, and built up on the confusion we experienced in this first encounter with the jobseeker.
It is an honour to see this play.

(Curtain again, a second one. Enter Beckett, in knickerbockers. He remains silent)

German arachno-musical-operas and lots of boredom

Signs are the new signifiers

It's early March and it's freezing. My nose, fingers and cheek bones are gone already. Gone the Ranulph Fiennes way, soon to be followed by toes, legs and ears. Why is the weather so inconsistent? Why was this Sunday so boring and why on earth can I not find my second Christmas sock?

These are the worries of a middle-class Capitalist. Me. But, today's clutter holds a couple of pearls. Well, let's say well-made costume jewellery. Another completely bored Capitalist from the land of Oz facebooked something about making an opera about the ongoing drama about Spiderman: the Musical. Yay. Because I have neither talent nor education, only a serious passion for puns and lame jokes, I signed up to do the lyrics. In German. Wagner, eat your heart out. I should emphasise, I have no idea what is going on with the musical, I haven't followed the news and I have certainly no interest in Spiderman. In short, I am the man for the job. Woman, woman..... (feminist muttering).

I like semiotic layering - there is nothing as comforting as discovering a second layer of signs after peeling away the first layer with much care and precision. The second, third, fourth etc. layers are for the knowing, you know, dear non existing reader. Knowing is knowing, as George W. Bush might have said, but he didn't, he said something about fooling, which really was just foolish, and he knew. But he didn't know. Knowing goes beyond knowing theoretical crap that fills academic volumes since the invention of the printing press, or rather, since the invention of academic volumes. Knowing now is no longer just knowledge, it is knowing  and knowing how to use the knowledge, where to find it, and what to exclude from our search for knowledge. Take that Victorian toffs and your encyclopaedias. It's knowledge 2.0, where a Twitter status is worth just about as much as the entry for 'screwdriver'. Mind you, it has to be the right status. What I imply is that a lot more intellectual and social weight is accorded to a message less than 140 characters,  airport-tweeted, coffee-break-tweeted, before-descending-to-tube-tweeted or waiting-for-date-tweeted, more or less carefully crafted and then spewed out into the world by the touch of a button. And there it is then, it can be deleted, but it can never be revoked - it exists in cyberspace. Think of an article in the Encyclopaedia Britannica: before it comes into existence, it is checked, double-checked, edited and signed-off and then printed. A tweet only benefits from the Fruit's ghastly spellchecker and autocorrect, which fails to recognise terrible grammar mistakes involving the use of apostrophes. If you can't spare two characters for the benefit of your reader, why bother at all?

Literati should rejoice over Twitter: it is a platform for the essential Haiku, the short, short story and other Hemingway-inspired writings, though mainly about life, not about death. For the witty, Twitter could be the nec plus ultra in their writing career, for the not-so-very-witty, it is yet another platform to display poor punctuation, self-importance and narcissism. Did I mention that I tweet?

Boredom, a subtle change of subject, yet another Sunday spent sitting in the cold, trying to convince people that their taste is NOT universal. I am of course always ready to get the big guns out, hit them frontally with Bourdieu and Hebdige, Panofsky and that other guy, Cowell, but then again, I leave it. As much as my Sundays are devoted to intellectual exchange and Monday's readings, other people's Sundays are devoted to bad fashion and roasts. Those things do not work well together, especially after a couple of pints at the local boozer. If a non-art student then wants you to leave your prejudices behind in favour of a more structural, stylistic or economical view of the world, you get really cross. Yes, I am talking to you, man in the green sweater and woman with the rather heavy perfume. If you don't like what you see, why do you start talking about it in the first place? Both of you, among others, missed the moment to just shut up and keep it to yourselves. Or start writing a blog that nobody will read, or better still, write your comments on a piece of paper and burn it when you're done. Or tweet it, where people have the option of not following you (why would they???).

A little learning is a dangerous thing (Alexander Pope) if formulated in less than 140 characters.