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September 21, 2008
Who thinks that the life that they have shaped, that the person and soul that they are, can be reduced to a pithy two-word slogan? Think of all the things you are, to different people: children, brothers, lovers, friends, vague inphrasesable longings. Can you reduce the essence of what you are to less than seven letters? No? Then WHAT THE FUCK IS THE POINT OF PERSONALISED NUMBER PLATES?
What? What do you want rest of the world? Do you think that the letters "FRM D4DDY" will get you respect from your peers? Is introducing your love of wintersports via "LV2 SKI" entirely necessary? Would an undercover agent for MI5 really introduce himself on the back of a Mercedes SLK as "1 SPY"?
This is a message to all of the license plates which irked me in England, and through the sheer barrage in Canada make me detest them on a new level. Please, everybody that thinks that this is honestly a good idea, kill yourself in the most painful way anticapable. Humans are entirely complex creatures. Imagine the ridiculous amount of despair and panic you feel when asked to present yourself to a large group of people. There are, say, a thousand people in the room, and you have only a hundred words to present yourself forever to this audience. Their entire and everlasting impression of you depends on this unimaginably infinitesimal set of phrases. Would you not scream to the depths of your soul of the impossibility of the feat? Would you not insist on introducing yourself individually to each person on the basis that they might be a worthwhile social pursuit, and a good form of human to talk to? No? Then what the fuck is the point of personalised number plates?
When you introduce yourself as "K9 SUE" or "A1 LEO" you're not at all displaying aspects of your personality. All that every potential pedestrian seeing your inevitably shit car speed past from the pavement will think is "oh, that's the type of person who's life can be summed up in two rather insipid words".
Anyway, the theme for today is insecurities. I was trying to crowbar the previous rant into this topic, but I then realised it was impossible. These are two entirely separate thoughts.
I remember having conversations with Liam (AJ) about the nature of insecurity, and about how he ostensibly didn't have any. I remember repeating often and with vigour that that was impossible -- that every human being that exists must have little niggling doubts about their own abilities. However, when pressed to define an insecurity, I couldn't really think of a way to express it. It's not necessarily a failing, or an inability, it's more deep than that. It's any aspect of you that you feel should be better, for whatever reason, and because you feel it could be better you automatically become uneasy and embarrassed about it whenever it has to be shown. It could be the shape of your ears, or your abysmal poetry, or the way you cringe whenever someone mentions your name; whatever it is we regard it as an imperfection in our own life.
A human being is, as I mentioned in my initial rant, a social construct. We have, as Dennet would have pointed out, Second order desires about the type of person we want to be. In that, we don't want expensive white wine, but we do want to be the type of person that does want expensive white wine. We'd like to be a person who can appreciate good literature, which requires an outside effort. Insecurities are thigs about us that we can't shape, no matter how we'd like to; and the lack of control over our own nature disturbs us.
I suppose my own failings are ample demonstration of this. Working at a sports equipment shop over summer I was constantly quizzed about my feelings on the latest transfer or tactic. There is almost nothing in this world I know less about than premiership football, and certainly nothing I care less about. My own personal inability to join in conversations about most popular sports is no real problem to me, I do not wish to be a person who gets excited by this. I hold no grudges against those who are excited by it, but it's not for me. I'm not that man.
Contrast this with my utter ineptitude with any form of musical instrument, and you have a much better idea of what an insecurity is. I'd love to be able to sing, or play guitar with any actual ability besides four separate power-chords. I can play drums, yes, but not at the same rhythm as any band or music. Watching me on a drum kit is like watching a visual demonstration of chaos theory. Despite all this, I utterly wish I was that guy. The man that can pick up a guitar at a party and play 'blackbird' note perfect, or sing 'La Donna e Mobile' in the shower without sounding like I'm screaming for help.
Now I'm all growed up, at least for the most part, I've become a lot more easy with these insecurities. Whilst I still intensely wish for the genie of musical talent to grant me three melody-based wishes; I can't really see it being a problem in my life if he doesn't. Where I used to see my problems as constricting, I now see them as guiding. I'm never going to be the new Bowie, but that doesn't mean I can't be anything at all.
Where has it guided me you ask? Well as I'm writing a column for the Queen's Journal over here, occasional articles for the Warwick Boar back home and updating this blog with my thoughts in-between every week or so, it becomes pretty clear how my life is shaping out. I'm going to spend a good while certainly sitting here, at my most secure, writing for an audience -- provided there's at least one person out there willing to listen.
September 15, 2008
I often wonder why I like Canadians so much.
I'm in the international accommodation over here, and it's been an odd presentation of my own bizarre little prejudices to myself. Most of the presentation has to do with it being more or less entirely correct. The man from the Netherlands is a 6 foot 6 blonde giant, and the girl from Japan is a tiny precious porcelain doll that I'm afraid to hug in case I snap her spine. The Australians are constantly drunk, and the New Zealanders are exactly the fucking same as the Australians, no matter what either party claim.
Faced with such selection I often feel giddy with the choice of who I wish to visit on any given night. It's almost like an incredibly cheap form of travel. I get to experience tiny amounts of the culture, based on my choice of which corridor to visit. International students are, invariably, awesome -- and awesome in the original sense of the word. Many have ridiculously interesting and complex stories; such as Steve's detailed account of his worse date ever (she actually obtained his police record and questioned him about it) or Andy's accounts of growing up in post-war Vietnam. Different tones for different occasions, but always shockingly vivid and magnificently told.
I've also found out how much I like Australians. They are always drunk.
It's peculiar, then, that when presented with some of the richest and most rare eggs of society to spend my time with, I frequently elect to spend a night with my frosh group. A group of first year, fresh-blooded Canadian undergrads -- some still 17 -- rosy-cheeked and innocent minded (for the most part). I wonder why?
I suppose more than part of it is the attention whore in me needing to be gawped over like a sureally plumed bird in a zoo, as much as the attempts to copy my accent pains me. Whilst I admit this, however, I do consider myself to have deeper reasons; which fuelled my decision to go to Canada in the first place. Canadians are brilliant. They often read as a selection of some of the best qualities from other countries. The staunch seperatism of Scotland, but without the cloisterism; the openness of America, without the acute stupidity; the grasp of culture of the English, without the stuffiness; the food of France, without anything else at all French.
Actually, that's a lie. They don't have the food of France at all. If you will allow me to digress into a rant (and if you didn't fully expect off-topic rants then you may find you've been reading the wrong blog), Canadian food is Terrible.
It is impossible to eat food without going to a restaurant, and even then - it is sketchy. The Wal-Mart near to my accommodation doesn't even have a fresh fruit and vegetable section. It has an engine parts section. I may buy engine parts. The good news is that they're getting one in 2010. So only two more years of scurvy to go.
Seriously, it is ridiculous trying to get food over here. There is no choice on items when there should be (if you want curry, you'd better really like madras), there is insane choice on items there is no need to be (the breakfast cereal isle spans four time zones), the bread tastes like doughnuts, the doughnuts taste like sugar, the sugar tastes like brain damage, the cheese appears only to have originated from milk in the same sense that communist China originated from Karl Marx (incredibly heavily processed, with all the good bits taken out), the bacon is only sold in packs of fifty and tastes like gammon, the chilli has no taste, the mustard tastes as though someone got mustard seed - then urinated on it - then took the mustard seed out, the salads are big enough to slay an ox and bland enough to be mistaken for packing paper and the bread is truly horrible. I know I mentioned the bread before, but frankly it deserves mentioning twice. I didn't think it was entirely possible to screw up bread on this level. It is bread. There is, however, a way. All of it, bar none, tastes far too sweet. This is alright with peanut butter or nutella, but with cheese or bacon it's just wrong. It's an abomination.
This is my only real problem with Canada. Why can't they do good food? Would God sue them for having a copyright infringement of heaven? Canada is an incredibly pleasant ointment, but with a fly this unbearable you can be forgiven for forming an opinion of the Country as a whole. It is, truly, dreadful.
Anyway, back on the railroad, I like Canadians. I like them disproportionately. It says a lot about them that when I met one in Jersey and told her I was going to Kingston, she gave me the names and addresses of five of her relatives that lived around the area that she fully expected me to stay with. The thing is, I could stay with them. I need only rock up with a suitcase, mention the name, and be escorted into the main bedroom. They're that nice. It also shows a lot of Canadians that I'm willing to use the word 'nice', which is so limpid and insipid that I generally prefer just to leave the sentiment out altogether. The problem is, they are nice. A girl in the street saw me struggling with a duvet and offered me a lift in her car to wherever I was going. She offered me the lift before she knew where I lived. I could have hopped in and said "Azerbaijan", and I've no doubt that she would start driving.
Canada is a brilliant, pleasant environment, which makes me happy in some hypothetical, shiny disney film sense. I feel better for being here. I just really hope they fix their bread. It's hideous.