Remember?

but of course! How could I forget some of the happiest times in my life? These people/events made me who I am, and I am so grateful for it.

Today I am thinking about...

My old flat in Edinburgh, on Marchmont crescent, with the charity shop & the co-op at the end of the street. We lived there, four of us girls.

One of my flatmates was a Spanish girl named Natalia. One night I was going out to a club night (DJ Rob da Bank @ Cabaret Voltaire, via Trouble).

I was stuck for something to wear and went to Natalia and asked if I could borrow a short skirt. She pulled out a black skirt and handed it to me. I held it up against myself and exclaimed 'Natalia! This is REALLY short!' She shrugged and said 'You asked me for a short skirt...!'

It was indeed a very short skirt. I'm not sure I've ever worn anything so short ever again. Good times. (For anyone living in Edinburgh, I do heartily recommend Trouble events. Keep an eye out for Ratty B - my favourite MC.)

Once upon a time...

[Angela, Kim & Victoria @ the 1st EUSDS Swing Ball, 23rd May, 2004, Edinburgh]

In Edinburgh? Good, in that case I recommend...

The Interminable Suicide of Gregory Church
by Daniel Kitson.

'Gregory had fifty seven letters to write. He'd never written that many letters, not in one go. In fact, he'd never written a single letter and it was taking significantly longer than he'd anticipated. He'd started, full of optimism, curiously enough, at 9 am and now here he was 8 hours later half way through letter twenty four. He glanced at his watch and then at the noose hanging over his head.

Gregory sighed.

Had he known how long suicide letters take, he thought, he wouldn't have cancelled the milk for the morning.

A story of death postponed by life.'

... I've always liked stories, particularly a certain type of story. Stories like those from my childhood copy of The Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm, or One Thousand and One Nights and the Chinese folk-tales in my 12 volume hardback edition of Chinese folk-tales for children. At some point though these stories gave way to novels (one of the earliest novels I read and loved was Jean-Christophe by Romain Rolland, can you believe it?), but I really never stopped liking stories of the other variety. It's difficult to define just what's so different between a novel and what I consider to be a 'story' and really, the boundaries are ill-defined, but I know a 'story' when I see one.

Daniel Kitson is undoubtedly a fine story-teller and I was mildly surprised when I saw him for the first time recently in Regents Park, performing the first in a series of three Stories for the Starlit Sky. I had been told that he's a stand-up comedian and I expected something of a cross between male-confession, airing of dirty laundry, whacky sound effects that some humans seem to be able to accomplish with the aid of a microphone, maybe political commentary (if I'm lucky) and maybe self-pity or out-right whinging (if I'm unlucky). Instead I was treated to a story about love. Yes, that's right, a love story.

Does that sound horribly naive and/or passe to you? But since when did love go out of fashion? (around the same time that SEX came into fashion? surely not).

The story I heard that night in Regents Park was a story of bittersweet unrequited love - that and many secret passions and acts of love - of the grand variety (Taj Mahal) and of the lesser, more mundane variety (watching a lover as he/she sleeps). Whatever the kind of love or acts of love, however, it was Kitson's ability to bring out the extraordinariness of ordinary lives through his particular brand of enthusiasm, extremely rapid speech, and the combination of resignation, amusement, and exasperation in his narration that made this story stay with me for a long time. Oh, and the fact that it was simply a GOOD story, the kind that makes no beans about being clever or complicated or post-modern or any of that crap but simply stands out for being a well-constructed, neatly-polished, and expertly-delivered story.

So I was particularly interested in seeing him again in the Edinburgh Fringe since I didn't have tickets to the remainder of his three Stories in London. I managed to book four tickets for The Interminable Suicide and I went there with Richard, Iain and Danuta. I'm happy to report that we all walked away chattering happily about how much we had enjoyed the show. So, if you happen to be around right now, go for it, get yourself a ticket.

I hope that some time in the near future Kitson will consider releasing his material in the form of video/audio recording or better yet, as a collection of stories in book format. I know it sounds really 4th grade to say that I learned something from a story but honest to God I feel like I did. It's very rare for me (the big-head pretentious pseudo-intellectual that I am) to go away from a night's entertainment now feeling like I've really gotten something out of it that I can take away with me and keep warm with, but this happened on both occasions when I've seen Kitson. And you know, recently some friends of mine, for various reasons, have been going through difficult times. I often think that hearing these stories would do them good and sometimes I draw a little bit of comparison by telling them a part of the story and it seems to cheer them up. But of course my personal rendition is woefully inadequate and I wish I could buy my friends copies of Kitson stories as Christmas present instead.

Did I mention how much I like stories?

Go away, I don't like you.

I know myself well enough to know when I'm in a mood. I used to get seriously depressed, and at one point contemplated suicide. I say contemplated because I don't think that it was in me, really - but that's the crazy thing about depression. It makes me think what would otherwise be unthinkable to me, because depression is made up of all those things that really aren't me. Do you know what I mean? It feels like going to a party with the wrong dress on - something that really isn't my style. Well, depression really isn't my style either, but it's not like a dress I could just slip off. (God, the thought of having to wear the wrong dress to a party is itself pretty depressing).

Rather than a dress, my depression and negativity always manifests itself as a person in my head - the person I emphatically don't want to be - my non-self. This person has the ability to interpret everything in a negative light. If I text a friend and they don't get back to me, it's not because my friend is in a meeting or cycling down the street, but because my friend actually hates me. If I have just finished having coffee with someone, and am cycling away, this person in my head begins to analyse everything that was said (and more importantly, unsaid) - and tries to make me believe that the entire event was a disaster, that I have fucked everything up in a fundamental way (and that my friend hates me). The theme which begins to emerge is: everyone hates me.

I could go into speculations about why such is the case, i.e. why I sometimes get depressed, and why my depression chooses to manifest itself in this form - but to be honest I'm not actually very interested in that at this particular moment.

Thing is, tonight I had dinner with two of my very good friends. We cooked together, ate a hearty meal, drank wine, and laughed a lot. But when I left them this person came on stage and tried to ruin it all. I then met up with another friend and enjoyed myself just fine. But, by the time that I was half way home my non-self was once again carrying on and on in her own negative downward-spiral, and I was sick of it.

So I decided to acknowledge her existence. Hello, my non-self. Let's get something straight here: my friends don't hate me. You hate me. Go away. I don't like you. I am not the person you want me to be, and I will never be the person you want me to be. So you can fuck right off.

Taking a step back I realize that the situation is the same whether I choose to read it positively or negatively. Stray to far in either direction and there is a problem. However, if I were to err, I would rather be unfailingly positive rather than unfailingly negative - and really, the choice is mine.

This reminds me of my first year of undergraduate studies in Edinburgh, when I hit the lowest point that I have ever been in my life. I remember being unhappy, and getting drunk, and therefore becoming even more unhappy. I remember waking up in bed one night, in that uncomfortable stage between drunk and hung-over, and stumbling into my kitchen to find my flatmate speaking to an upstairs neighbour, in the middle of the night. I remember them asking me if I was ok. I remember breaking down in front of them, standing in front of the kitchen sink trying to fill my glass of water. I remember them taking me and putting me back into bed. I remember lying there crying uncontrollably as they tried to comfort me.

I remember listening to my non-self, and believing the nasty things she says. I remember being so frustrated at all the bad things in my head that I fantasized about taking a drill to my temple and finally having the satisfaction of spilling it all out. I remember deciding that I won't commit suicide because it can only have 3 possible outcomes (I die and there is an afterlife, in which case I'd probably be fucked because most religions don't condone suicide; I die and there is no afterlife, which I'd be ok with; and, I don't manage to kill myself and end up being a nuisance to everyone who has to find me, take me to the hospital, and look after me etc.), 2 of which are undesirable (options 1 and 3), thus making it a bad investment in time and energy. I remember staring out at the street lights in the night, in the rain, with my forehead against the cold glass of the window, and feeling despair well up inside me and tears pouring down my cheeks.

I don't want to go back there.

Do you know Walt Whitman's Song of Myself? In some of my lowest moments I used to read a passage of it over and over because it seemed to speak to me.

Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and
city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss
or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,
the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with
linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.

It made me want to be that distanced, calm observer of my own life, amused, complacent, compassionate, idle, unitary, who could listen to the voice of my non-self and know that the theme 'everyone hates me' is merely the real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love. I wanted to believe that these things - my depression, my past, the world around me, are not the Me myself. I wanted to believe that there is someone inside me who is inalienably Me - who has the integrity to stand unaffected by uncontrollable external factors, feelings of guilt, bouts of doubt, and even moments of elation. I know that you will have read Song of Myself differently - and I confess that I know next to nothing about Walt Whitman - but this is how it made sense to me at the time (and now).

So it seems that things will be ok.

There are things that money can't buy...

People sometimes ask me whether I enjoy living in Taipei or Edinburgh more. It is of course a slightly unfair comparison, since I have far more friends in Edinburgh, having lived here for 4 years of my adult life, and only 1 in Taipei. Either way I have worked out a simple formula to explain what the major difference is between Edinburgh and Taipei, at least for me.

In Edinburgh, the good points are the things which money can't buy: good air quality, good amount of green space, good healthy life style, etc. For everything that one has to spend money on, Edinburgh is not so great. Expensive, and you'd never really get too much bang for your buck.

In Taipei, the good point is that I always feel like I'm getting my money's worth. Because I was working, I could afford to eat out, take taxis, buy a stupid amount of shoes and clothes, and have fresh flowers at home when I feel like it. The real difference is not that I am employed in Taipei a student in Edinburgh, but the fact that one simplest gets a bigger bang for one's buck in Taipei - things are cheap closer to the manufacturing heartland of the world, I guess.

However, in Taipei, those things which I consider to be public property, such as good air or green space, are horrendously thin on the ground (comparatively). This is frustrating as it's not something I can do anything about as an individual - and moreover, not something I can simply buy.

Of course there are some things which don't stand up to much comparison. In Edinburgh people piss all over the fucking town. Yes, I mean that. If you walk around town and detect a foul odour of piss, it's not cats - it's the drunks. But then again, this town has charity shops, which are always worth a good rummage and can turn up some cheap & cheerful surprise bargains.

Over all though, considering my consumption tendencies, my conscience rests easier in Edinburgh. I get my food from the East Coast Organics farm delivered to me in the form of an ecobox once a week (highly recommended if you live within delivery range). I buy the rest from independent organic shops such as The New Leaf and Real Foods (expensive, but comprehensive). I cycle or walk absolutely everywhere (the number of times I have been in a car in Edinburgh can almost be counted on one hand - if you happen to be a mutant with 20 odd fingers on one hand). But most importantly, I don't consume a huge amount of new, mass produced, environment destroying goods. Instead, most of my material desires are satisfied by way of vintage shops or charity shops - all second hand.

So yeah, it's nice to be back here where I feel like the natural lifestyle I adopt brings me closer to being the person I want to be. Where I am not continually and sorely tempted by cheap mass produce consumer goods, and not likely to consume too much processed foods or fast snacks which are high in sodium and MSG.

But... I do miss the temptations.

Back in Action

It's August in Edinburgh and things feel like they've not moved in 4 years.

Case and point(s):

1. The freaks are back on the street, and still working the same lines, chillin in the same places, and shootin the same shit.
2. I am back at my usual spot of the Edinburgh University Library, using my same old account (which should have by now, a year after my graduation, expired), and working on the same old thing.
3. Still waking up next to Toph in the same bed.
4. Jamie is still working at Alien Rock.
   

The grass is lush and green, the tents up are in the George Square Gardens, and the Royal Mile takes about an hour to walk down. Undoubtedly chippie prices will have risen accordingly. There are some things which don't change, and to tell the truth, I don't mind at all.

Things which have changed:

1. What the hell is this monstrosity in the middle of the meadows? Who needs a fucking "artisan" bakery? What do they sell? Limited edition signed loaves? Why have so many Starbucks sprung up like fungus after spring rain? How many lattes can one city really consume?
2. Why have the old shops I could afford to shop at gone out of business to be replaced by "artisan" bakeries? I hear people talking about how bad the economy is - but that obviously only affects selected individuals!
3. Barney no longer works at Alien Rock. The place will never be the same. I can't even do 6A+ comfortably on a slab any more. The shame! The shame!
4. There are a lot of unfamiliar faces on the swing scene - and they are using the horror of all horrors, Facebook.

Some pictures will help to contextualize everything... but that must wait till after I have done some work (yes, I come to the library, and the first thing I do is update my blog).