Action Cures Fear

You know that feeling you get sometimes, the feeling when you have so many tasks in front of you, and only a limited amount of time in which to get them done? It's a strange feeling really because, whereas it ought to provoke one into immediate and urgent action so that items can quickly begin to be ticked off the list, it can often induce the onset of lethargy – just the opposite of what is required.

I feel like that today. I am faced with an enormous list of 'things to do', and I know I should begin to assail it with a pressing vigour, but I seem instead to be gripped by a distinct lack of motivation or dynamism. In fact, it's worse than that – I feel absolutely paralyzed with inactivity. It's as if the terrible vastness of the tasks ahead is so overwhelming that it has struck me dumb and turned me to stone. A pillar of salt. In trying to decide which task to face first, it is impossible to decide to do any of them. I'm like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an overburdened schedule. I am frozen in terror.

This is different from mere procrastination. At least with procrastination one can actually pretend to be busy by doing other (non-urgent) jobs in order to put off for longer the getting of the urgent ones done. No, this is quite different – I am in the grip of total inactivity. I am sitting here, just staring into space, and feeling more and more guilty and depressed. Every time I look at the list, I realize that something else needs to be added – yet another job that I have neither the energy nor the inclination to begin.

My great aunt Dolores (the one who was once run over by a lorry yet survived, and who later took up playing the xylophone only to die later by going over Niagara Falls in a barrel) had a favourite saying connected with this: "Action cures fear". It's a deceptively simple expression and so very, very true. When we are frightened by the thought of doing something, the only real cure is to get on and do it. As soon as we take action, the fear is immediately despatched. You see the (perhaps irrational) fear of doing something is often greater than the (nearly always tangible) action of doing it – so the simple solution is just to get on with it. There are no exceptions to the rule too – the maxim works every time. If say, you are frightened of putting your hand into a tank of venomous snakes, then by putting your hand into the tank, you instantly remove the fear. You might, however, be dead – but you will no longer be frightened. It works every time.

So, now that we have that little matter settled, I'm going to pick up my 'To Do' list and just do whichever job appears at the top, no matter how daunting it seems. Now let's see.... oh, it says: "Write Blog".

How strange. How very strange indeed.

Tea With bin Laden

Well, I've been doing a bit more soul-searching this week. Oh, I suppose that sounds terribly self-indulgent (and of course, it is), but I'm sure it's not something that is unique to me only. The plethora of self-help books that weigh down the laudable shelves of Waterstone's is almost an embarrassment to our society, which indicates that many of us engage in lengthy bouts of navel-gazing whenever we can. My problem is that I make high demands of myself, and so therefore I often end up being disappointed with my own efforts. Maybe I should just become someone who never does anything at all, and then I wouldn't get the wolves of guilt snapping at my heels whenever I fail to deliver.

Probably my worst trait is never being able to say 'No', either to other people or to myself. This means that my little timetable (I've mentioned this before) gets so crowded with multifarious tasks and obligations that I am left with little room for manoeuvre whenever things veer off track. I then find myself slipping down a steep slope of shale, feet scudding as if they were clutching at marbles, and before I know it I am clinging hopelessly to a feeble sapling of hope that is just.... about to snap!

That's how I feel right now, anyway. And so that's why I've undertaken yet another bout of introspection in my never-ending search for some peace. Peace? Is that what anyone of us really wants? Of course it is – who would ever want anything else? Well, it seems (from today's news) that Osama bin Laden doesn't. How could anyone applaud death and destruction in the name of progress (apart from George Bush and Tony Blair, that is)? I'd like to sit down for a cup of tea with that man (Osama, that is) and find out what really makes him tick. Oh yes, I do understand that the Israelis are being intractable in their occupation of Palestine, but mirroring that with a similar intractability doesn't seem like a sensible answer to me. It must be far better to sit down with a nice cup of tea (mint, if you insist) and see if there couldn't be a more friendly solution.

And now I hear that haggis is back on the menu for the Americans. Apparently, haggis hasn't been allowed to darken the doors of the USA for almost twenty years (the dreaded BSE, of course), but now we hear that the ban has been lifted. Hurrah! say the haggis exporters of Scotland. Yeuch! say the poor residents of America. Well, I would say yeuch! because I've never seen the point of haggis – my parents always used to bring one back for us from their annual holiday in Scotland and we invariably fed it to the dog... Haggis is revolting stuff – dry, stodgy and tasteless (well no, not exactly tasteless, because it tastes like shit) and as difficult to swallow as a house brick. By the time you read this, gentle reader, it will be Burns' Night and you will no doubt be cajoled at your various dinner parties and celebrations to engage in the wolfing down of this diabolical foodstuff. My message to you is therefore this: Do not succumb to such popularist indulgence when your palate could end up being as offended as Osma bin Laden presumably is by the existence of love. You have been warned.

Now, back to my timetable.... where was I?

The Buzz Of Life

Notwithstanding the dreadful hangover I had this morning, and the fact that I discovered that I was coughing blood (where did that come from?), I've had a useful and productive day. However, the problem about having a productive day, is that it inspires in me the desire for a reward. No harm in that, you might think – but the difficulty comes in deciding exactly what that reward should be. I am tempted, of course, to go to the pub – well, to the Broadway at least – but this would be to invite again the danger of getting drunk. This is what happened to me last night, apparently. We'd had a long and tiring meeting about this stage-writing festival that I'm helping to organize (http://www.triliteral.co.uk/ – come on people, if you want to see your play on the stage, get writing!), and so when we were finished, I thought there would be no harm in indulging in a bit of the old sauce, early-doors style. What harm could just one drink do?

How wrong I was. One drink led to another and before I could say "I'm going home!" I had somehow lost the ability to think rationally, and so when the stray cat came scratching at my door later, I let him in. Doh!

I don't know which dustbins or back-alleys he's been rooting around in recently because I haven't seen him for a few weeks, but he seemed exceptionally dehydrated. Luckily, I'd recently purchased an additional supply of milk because his thirst seemed unquenchable. I was a little concerned that he might forget (as he sometimes does) how to use the litter tray, but thankfully he was on his best behaviour last night and I need not have worried. However, what does worry me slightly is the rather too comfortable way in which he settled himself down, and his exuberant purring left me feeling strangely uneasy. I felt sure that he was plotting something, and am beginning to wonder if he's planning to return soon, this time for an extended stay perhaps? Hmm, maybe I should move.

Stray cat or no, I think I should move anyway. I've been here too long really – I only came for six months and now I've been here for more than three years. What a waste of money! I pay a huge amount in rent and for the same amount in mortgage repayments (with interest rates as low as they are), I could be buying a palace of my own. The reason for this apparent stupidity is simply that I am inherently lazy about such matters. I'm just so comfortable here, and so close to all the amenities and watering-holes that I enjoy making use off – moving anywhere else seems inconceivable. So, perhaps I should offer to buy my current abode? My landlord lives in America and apparently this apartment is, what his mother described with such a charming lack of tact, his 'pension'. This might suggest that he would be unwilling to sell because presumably, he'd then have to look for another little investment, and he probably can't be arsed. That's the trouble with such people – they're inherently lazy about such matters.

Oh, that's me too isn't it? Lazy. Right, although I feel quite pleased with my productivity today, I think I can only really congratulate myself when I've done something concrete about moving out. The day when I do that will be a genuinely productive day. Well, at least I've made a decision about it, and I now quite feel like purring myself. However, no saucer of milk for me – I'm off down the pub!

Tootle pip, dear reader.

Here's Hoping!

Today's advice (in my 'feel good' calendar) is to "Think good thoughts; speak good words; and take good actions." This all sounds reasonable enough, and sensible advice, of course. The outcome (according to the calendar) is that these three steps will "bring more to me than I can ever imagine". Ooh, this is exciting stuff. If I stick to the rules, then presumably I'll get everything I want. A lottery win, perhaps? The perfect lover? My latest novel accepted by the best publisher in the land? I can't wait for these luxuriant riches to come rolling in, and I can only presume that this will begin to happen today.

Oh, hold on a minute - there's a slight snag with this. Let me look at the advice again. Think good thoughts; speak good words; and take good actions. Right, let's deal with the first one. I suppose the first task is to identify what good thoughts actually are. I somehow suspect that harbouring evil thoughts about the dreadful people whom one encounters in shopping malls is not a good start. But you know the sort of people I mean – the types who stop suddenly just as they step off the top of the escalator. Those who stand in narrow doorways having a chat with each other, or who walk very slowly - five abreast – right in front of you when you're in a real hurry. Then there's the fat woman who plonks herself in front of the very display you want to scrutinise, obscuring your view, and who refuses to make up her mind about whether she should select an item, or move on. And don't get me started on the foul-mouthed youths and youth-ettes who distribute their shabby litter with such indiscriminate carelessness all over the place.

Oops, I seem to have fallen at the first hurdle. These don't seem very much like "good" thoughts at all. Okay, so forget about the shoppers – let's start thinking about fields of kittens instead. Well, I doubt if that will work – thinking about fields of kittens is nice, but it's not necessarily good. No, I need to think about more honourable things such as forgiveness and compassion; love and harmony.

So what about speaking good words? This could be rather difficult really, because my plan for today is not to speak to anyone. No, no, don't misunderstand me – I'm not going to ignore people in the streets or anything like that. No, I was rather hoping to have a day all to myself so that I can attend to the many chores I have on the 'to do' list. These chores are crouched in the long, dark grasses, just waiting to pounce and tear my procrastination to shreds. So, I was not expecting to encounter anyone today, ensconced behind closed doors as I am, and therefore I do not expect to be speaking any words to anyone – neither good nor bad. But perhaps I am speaking to you, gentle reader, in this blog? If this is so, then let me just say to you now: I love you all! There, that should do it.

Now, what was the third piece of advice? Oh yes, take good actions. Hmm, well, there aren't any flies to kill (the recent snow seems to have killed those buggers off), so I'm fairly safe on that score. But am I correct in thinking that lighting another cigarette, or pouring another glass of Rioja, are bad actions? Oh dear – maybe I should get on with mopping the floor, and then take a visit to the gym. Those must be good actions, surely? Right then, that's what I shall do, just as soon as I've finished writing this. I'll also switch off my lights to save the environment, and make an on-line donation to the Haiti Rescue Fund. I might even wrap up some presents to send to my daughters. And do some meditation – why not?

Ooh, this is all good, and I think it's going to work. I shall be spending that lottery win very soon, and before you know it, I'll be taking my perfect lover along to the book-signing sessions for my latest novel. How simple this all is. But wait – don't I first have to buy a lottery ticket; become a perfect lover myself; and actually write that latest novel? There seems to be a flaw in this cunning plan.

Hmm, maybe tomorrow's calendar advice will tell me how I'm supposed to do all that. Damn it! Is nothing as straightforward as it seems....?

What's Wrong With a Bit of Fun?

Right – now I expect that I'm going to make myself a laughing stock within the filmic community, but I don't care. Last night I went to see the film 'Nine' without having read anything about it (I didn't even read the poster). I went because my friend had suggested it, and I'm usually up for anything she suggests because I have very catholic tastes where such things are concerned. So, before I settled down in the comfortable, cosy seats and the penumbral darkness of the Paul Smith screenroom at Nottingham's Broadway Cinema, I had no expectations in respect of what the film was about, or what effect it would have on me.

The very last thing I was expecting to be watching was a musical, but I loved every minute of it! In terms of the frequency of the musical numbers that eagerly push themselves into the straight acting scenes, the film is made in the old tradition – but it is also surreal, introspective, dream-like, sad, funny and totally, totally bonkers. It was absolutely, unashamedly High Camp – the costumes, sets and montage are all lavish to the extreme, and the photography is glorious! Who cares about the somewhat cheesy acting (it does seem ridiculous to have the mainly English-speaking cast speaking their lines in English but using Italian and French accents), and who cares that some of the lyrics to the songs are at times a bit tacky and banal? Only a film snob (and there are plenty of those) would deny that 'Nine' does its job in excellent fashion – its job is to poke fun at itself; to lift the spirits of the audience; to smother us in luxurious, dripping colour and to marinate us in an oily, creamy drenching of rich and luxurious music.

The film has a surprisingly extravagant fairy dusting of star actors. Daniel Day-Lewis, Penelope Crúz, Dame Judi Dench, Nicole Kidman, the delightfully elfin Marion Cotillard, and the fabulously exotic Sophia Loren. Producer and Director Rob Marshall managed to persuade all of them to send themselves up in the most audacious and high-camp style and in my view, this is part of the film's charm. 'Nine' is a story about a middle-aged Italian film director suffering a mid-life crisis (of his own making) that is threatening to suffocate his artisitic creativity. The character is so closely based on Fellini that they may as well have named him Federico; and the film is more than just tipping its hat at Fellini's own style – a chaotic mixture of fantasy and baroque. But the film is more than just that – it pokes fun at itself too, and at the Italian filmgoers' fascination with bestowing a mythical status on the industry's luminaries. The critics apparently hated it, and I can quite understand why. As a fairly straightforward adaptation of a Broadway musical, this film will make critics nervous because they don't like the 'theatre' parodying the great medium of celluloid, and also they don't like films that don't take themselves too seriously. And god forbid - 'straight' actors actually singing? Outrageous and totally unacceptable! Why the critics seem to have ignored the fairly obvious sub-text and the underlying angst of the film is a mystery (perhaps it is too much pastiche? I don't know).

Well anyway, it cheered me up when I needed it, and sometimes that is exactly what entertainment is meant to do, isn't it? So, if you want cheering up too – go and see it. But don't go with your Barry Norman or Jonathan Ross hats on, because that won't work.

Did You Hear About The Snow?

It is extraordinary just how fascinated everyone in the media seems to be with the severe weather we are currently experiencing. Article after article on the BBC (which is our local broadcasting station in this country) is being presented to us, all focusing on a different aspect of the unusual conditions. Obviously, the heart of the reporting is on the crippled transport system – we are nothing if not a nation permanently on the move – but I am also impressed with the diversity of other angles from which our intrepid journalists approach the rising drama.

We have items about winter weather payments being made to pensioners – not deemed adequate enough to prevent them from freezing in their beds; we have tragic reports of people falling through the ice in country parks and dying (why do people do that?); there are accounts from businesses small and large about how trade is being affected by the snow; jolly tales of children tobogganing down local hills; pleas from the leaders of teaching unions that the public shouldn't see the closure of schools as just an excuse for their members to take a day off work (?); and now – even how to prevent children from getting 'cabin fever' due to an extended stay away from school! The huge number of different ways in which we can examine our current arctic plight is truly remarkable, yet truly self-indulgent.

I think that the news people should ignore the whole thing and leave us in peace. Instead, they could show us pictures of fields of kittens, or of Delia Smith cooking a summer pudding, or reports on the iniquities of the baboon trade, or even images of foreign wars. These would help us to take our minds off the weather. I suspect that we're going to grind to a halt very soon anyway, so it is imminent that the situation will no longer be news. I'm just wondering how many more times I will hear the phrase: "Gritters have been working round the clock". In my view, gritters should be working round the streets, not the blooming clock. It all sounds a bit like fiddling while Rome burns, if you ask me.

What I want to know is this: If the transport system closes down completely, how in hell am I going to get away for my skiing holiday? I haven't seen anything on the news about that!

My next missive is going to be about some of this country's writings that have changed the course of history. In the meantime, for anyone considering banning an Islamic march through the town of Wootton Bassett, I give you these words of Rudyard Kipling:

And still when Mob or Monarch lays
Too rude a hand on English ways,
The whisper wakes, the shudder plays,
Across the reeds at Runnymede.
And Thames, that knows the mood of kings,
And crowds and priests and suchlike things,
Rolls deep and dreadful as he brings
Their warning down from Runnymede!

Tootle pip, old loves!

Time Lies Wanking On The Floor...

One thing that you young people don't appreciate about we old people, is how much 'time' shrinks as the years go by. Time, as you will know, is relative (or doesn't actually exist at all – in fact, if everyone in the world voted to remove all clocks and all calendars so that nobody was conscious of the ticking over into a new day, new month, new year or new decade then time would, in effect, stand still), but nowhere is that relativity more evident than in old age. It's all quite logical. For someone who is twenty, one calendar year represents 5% of his entire experience and consciousness; for someone who is sixty-five (for example), that same calendar year represents only 1.5% of his total awareness. Therefore, it seems much shorter.

I know for a fact that there isn't enough time available to me. There is just so much to do these days, and try as I might to keep on top of things, I always seem to be running around chasing my tail and yet never seem to be catching it. Today (despite not being able to locate my 'list of things to do' for some reason) I know that there is too much to fit into the oh, so short hours of wakefulness. In theory, I don't even have enough time to write this blog, but I feel that I have neglected you for too long, dear reader, and so write it I must. I suppose the consolation for this ever-rising terror of panic is that almost everything I need to do is enjoyable. Of course, there are black spots of duties, and chores I face with a certain amount of ennui (such as applying for jobs, or cleaning the kitchen, or queuing at the Post Office) but in the main, the tasks I wish to see completed fill me with pleasure and delight.

The burden of responsibility - if it can so be called - is slightly tipped out of balance with assignments I need to finish in respect of the Triliteral Festival (see link on left, or click here), but this is such delicious fun that I hardly care. It means that I perhaps give undue preference to these jobs than I ought to, given that there are other pressing matters in hand. Yesterday was particularly typical – there is a Leaning Tower of Pisa's worth of ironing to be done, waiting in my airing cupboard, but who would choose to do that in preference to being interviewed live on BBC Radio? One of my colleagues on Triliteral (Daniel Hallam) and I were invited to talk about the festival live on air yesterday, and it was huge fun. I've never done radio before – although I have done TV – and it was a fascinating experience. I hate the sound of my voice (ha! I can hear many of my friends scoffing at that particular claim!), but there is nothing I seem able to do to change it, so I just had to focus on what I wanted to say about the festival. The producer gave us a CD of the interview so I had an opportunity afterwards to listen to myself – and although, as in all such cases, there were lots of holes in the content of what I said, the interview seemed to convey enough of the right information. So, I am now a radio star.

Anyway, enough of this. I need to make a quick decision: Do I give up all other pleasures in life (the ones that get in the way of productivity – drink, sex, procrastination, going to the gym etc.) and devote myself entirely to work? Or do I try to juggle my balls as I've always done? There's no easy way of deciding this. I know one thing – that the ever-shrinking telescopic madness of time is battling against me. The fight is exhausting, and the irony is that the older one gets (and therefore that the battle becomes more fierce), the harder that fight becomes. But oh, it's all such fun!

A Definition of Madness

You know that popular definition of insanity? The one where it says that "insanity" is doing the same thing over and over again, but still expecting different results each time? Well, I am insane then.

Take, for example, my propensity for whisky. Every time I get the bottle out of the cupboard, I tell myself that I will be having "just the one", and that I'll be satisfied with that. Do I really, honestly expect then, that this time my resolve will hold? Am I really, honestly surprised when the resolve that I supposedly harboured in my mind suddenly flies right out of the cracked window as if it were a fluttering whisper of grey ember from the fire? When I reach for another whisky?

And smoking – each night as I wake at the uncurling hour of 3:30 a.m. and find myself coughing as if I were a pair of sagging, leather bellows, I vow never to have another cigarette as long as my wretched life continues. Then, after a few more dark hours of self-hate, I wake up and leave my bed and immediately after breakfast, I reach for that pack of Marlboro Lights and spark up once more.

But it isn't just the debauchery that repeats itself. It's also the lethargy. Is it really feasible to believe that if I get up each day and do nothing, that something – anything – will change? Yet (foolishly) this is what I believe – that each new day will somehow miraculously transform my life into a glittering trinket-box of wonder without ever needing to do anything about it myself. This is, of course, madness.

I mean, every time I let that wretched stray cat into my apartment I always (again, foolishly) imagine that he'll behave himself; that he'll use the litter tray instead of the curtains; that only one saucer of milk will be enough; that he'll curl up in the swirls of my caring arms and purr contentedly, dreaming of the exorbitant luxuries of a feline world. But instead, he disappoints me – nay, deafens me with his relentless and illogical miaowing; breaks me with his ever-demanding cries for more milk; soils me when he soils my environment. When will my shrivelled, feeble brain ever learn from its mistakes?

So, now it is January 1st. Is this a time for resolutions? No, of course not! Should I make a corset-bound pledge to cease repeating the errors of my pathetic habits? No, it isn't possible! We are not only in a New Year, we are in a New Decade (although the purists will tell you that this doesn't happen until 01/01/11) and as such, we are meant to stocktake the leaking, rotting barrels of our previous resolutions and plan for changes that will convert our sad bladders of life's hopes into something touchable and real. Ha! There's absolutely no chance of that happening.

For how many times have I vowed never to spend another evening shepherding in the rosy fingers of a new year, and yet (because of the habitual delinquency and drunkenness) I still find myself dismally heralding the genesis of the ticking clock, which is only a madman's invention anyway? This, I did again last night.

Happy New Year.