You Can Bank(sy) On It

Sorry for not writing yesterday. I wasn’t at work, and that’s where I tend to do these blog things.

 

On Tuesday/Birthday night, I went to Zuma (http://www.zumarestaurant.com) – a fabulously pretentious and overpriced Japanese restaurant in the heart of Kensington in London. (It’s about a 2 minute walk from Harrods) Me, I would have been happy to go somewhere that didn’t make me feel like a complete fraud sitting at the table, but I guess that’s just me, and this feeling was probably a precursor for the late-in-the-evening (and somewhat heated) conversation I had with my step father about lifestyle vs happiness vs money, and how, in all honesty, I really didn’t feel an overwhelming need to be rich to be happy. ‘Maybe’ he countered ‘it’s because we have it’. ‘Perhaps’ I replied ‘but it’s you that have it, I’m rich by proxy, and actually earn fuck all.’

 

We’re a witty, witty bunch ladies and gentleman.

 

Oh yes, and we had an argument in the car on the way there, too.

 

A while back, I went to see a street art exhibition organised by Banksy, a prominent British graffiti artist. (see here: http://www.banksy.co.uk/) Anyway, my sister had remembered about this, so for my birthday, she bought me a coffee table book of Banksy’s work – probably the sort of thing a ‘keeping it real’ artist would hate, but the thought was very much appreciated – and discussion of our opinions on his work inevitably followed.

 

It wasn’t in the book, or at least I hadn’t got to it yet, but I made a reference to the piece of work Banksy did on the walls that Israel put up around the West Bank barrier wall thing, namely this one:

 

 

(and I think there were a few more just like it) It’s a really beautiful, touching piece of work.

 

I mentioned that it was one of my favourite pieces of modern art, being that it drew attention to an abhorrent, ghastly travesty of human behaviour. My father was not amused. We are a Jewish family, and apparently, being Jewish means one should blindly applaud every action that Israel takes against its enemies.

 

Mentioning my disgust at this particular action, I was told not to be so stupid and to explain why. I replied that as people who were systematically persecuted throughout history, and whose country’s formation was a direct result of an aggressor’s human (or lack thereof) behaviour, and whose people have an all too recent memory of what it is like to ghetto-ise a population, Israel should know a lot better than to close off the West Bank, and that it was deliberately divisive, and really not going to help the peace process it that region – not to mention the people within those walls who have grown up being told that they are a displaced population, whose land was taken from them. I’m not entirely sure that ‘their land was taken from them’, but you can bet your ass that’s what Palestinian parents tell their Palestinian children, and, unless you’re blind, you can see their point of view. Maybe it takes a Jewish person to say that without sounding like a racist.

 

Anyway, a long argument followed, and I was nearly – or so it felt – thrown out of the car for suggesting that the country of Israel, it’s army (which I have been in, by the way) and it’s actions are not ‘whiter than white’.

 

We eventually made it to the restaurant intact, ate, had more heated discussion, and made our way home.

 

I think it was at about 10pm that I decided not to go to work Wednesday. Recently, I have been filling my time with a great deal of things – people, activities, and it’s all because I have been trying to avoid my own feelings of guilt and anxiety about not doing the work I should be doing for my degree. Of course, I am completely aware of it, and the more I avoid it, the more I put pressure on myself and the worse I feel about it.

 

I haven’t been taking enough time for myself – not even nearly enough – so I’ll admit it; yesterday, I pulled a ‘sickie’. I figured I could spend the day doing work that mattered, and try and right some wrongs.

 

It didn’t exactly go to plan.

 

I woke up at about 7.30, setting my alarm so I could email my boss to tell them I was ‘sick’. After sending the email, and reading the remaining 3,547 Facebook posts wishing me ‘Happy Birthday’, I got back into bed as it was bloody freezing. Next thing I knew it was 10am – I never sleep that late.

 

I have to admit, I was annoyed with myself for sleeping so late, and still feeling the residual anxiety of not doing my work, and I ended up doing nothing until, in a huff, I left home at 2, got to Central London, tried and failed to do some shopping, and found myself in a Starbucks, drinking tea, and desperately trying to absorb my textbook. I met my friend Alex at 5, who wants me to help with something I won’t talk about here until it actually happens (if it does) and made my way to class, bumping into one of my classmates at a coffee shop. I had actually wanted to read Freud ‘Interpretations Of Dreams’, which I had bought to read for my class in the hope that it would get me in the studying mood, but being English, I didn’t want to be rude when I was invited to join her (we were both eating a sandwich and drinking tea) and say ‘actually, no, I’d just like to left the fuck alone.’ Being English, though we of course recognise that we would never say something like that, we are always concerned that this is the effect of the message conveyed – no matter how politely it is put.

 

What upsets me most about this class, and the work associated, is that it could not be easier. But such is the pressure I am putting on myself – to succeed, and to be the absolute best – that I have actually pressured myself into a corner, where I am utterly petrified of getting it wrong. Typical pre-process David behaviour. The thing is, this class ends with an essay which is 1500 words. 1500! I could write that in my sleep. (this blog is already 974 words!)

 

The class was great. I have a great teacher, and I seem to be the one asking the most questions, or challenging where I feel appropriate. More importantly, I seem to be ‘getting it’, the only question left is of self-discipline, and facing myself.

 

I need to be taking more time for myself than I am at the moment, that is for sure. The good thing is I am realising this, and doing something about it.

 

This morning, instead of burying my head in my iPod or a newspaper on the tube, I began reading chapter 7 of Freud’s ‘Interpretation of Dreams’.

 

The book, and indeed the wider picture, may prove a harder slog than I initially imagined.

 

Until tomorrow friends, I bid you good day.

 

All my love,

Closed Box

 

It’s My Birthday, My B-B-B-Birthday

 

(damn you Chris, I was going to use this title before you bought me a card, and now you’re going to have to take some shared credit!)

 

Hello all – and welcome to my birthday! Come bask in my reflected glory as I enter into my 29^th year.

 

It’s easy for people to look at landmark dates as an excuse/reason to ‘start over’ – whether it’s with New Year’s resolutions or the like, but for me, the 29^th anniversary of my birth marks a first – the first time I can look forward to entire year with a feeling of excitement about the future.

 

This time last year, I was lost. I had started a job which was another means of ticking along and paying rent, I was living in a house I didn’t want to be in, and living a life I didn’t want to live. I was scared, not my real self, and about to start seeing yet another therapist in an attempt to get one or all of many monkeys off my back.

 

I have much to do in the next 365 days – I have to sort my housing out, despite having no pressure in that regard. I have to find a new job, and, I finally feel as though I am ready to take those tentative but exciting steps into a real relationship, and, as I get towards 30, I can’t help but think about further into the future, about family, and children of my own.

 

But most importantly, this year will be a test of the true will of my authentic self. I have much to tackle and many hurdles to overcome in the next twelve months, and my connection to that which I have learned in the tail end of my 28^th year is something I really hope/want/must maintain.

 

Last night, I was out with my friend Alex for some drinks in my favourite place in the world – The Lock Tavern in Camden Town – and we got to talking about religion, our views on what being Jewish means or doesn’t mean to us, and then, spirituality. Rather than relay it, I’m going to leave you today sounding a little bit preachy – but you know what? It’s my birthday, and my blog. So there!

 

This is, approximately, what I told Alex last night. I hope to feel exactly the same way in 365 days time – if not for a considerable time after that.

 

All my love in the world,

Closed Box the Birthday Boy

 

There exists inside us all a universal truth – an essence of great purity; a life-force which always knows your true desires. The clarity of your connection to this truth is directly responsible for your true happiness, and how close you are to your authentic self.

 

EDIT: I was going to write more, but I’ve decided to leave it there. Rather say too little than too much.

And Black Scrubs, I Wanna Meet Black Scrubs

“Morning’s Here
The Morning is Here
Sunshine is Here
The Sky is Clear
The Morning’s here
Get into Gear
Breakfast is near
The Dark of Night Has Disappeared”

 

Hello everyone! And good morning! As you may or may not be able to tell, I am feeling rather musical today.

 

I. Am. Such. A. Morning. Person. Female population who have had the misfortune to wake up next to me, I pity you, I really do.

 

And I’m in a great fucking mood. Maybe because its my birthday is tomorrow. I have decided that I am going to wear a badge ALL DAY, which means buying myself a birthday card with a badge on it at some point today, which might be the saddest thing EVER, but you know something? I don’t give a fuck.

 

I left this blog on Thursday, so let’s try and recap the weekend, and bring you up to speed in the world of me in the briefest fashion possible.

 

Let’s see… well, I wrote this blog Thursday morning… so… let’s start with Thursday night.

 

For the first time in my life, I am able to tell you all (or anyone else, for that matter) something shocking: I don’t get it.

 

I do not get my ‘Biological Basis of Behaviour’ class in the slightest. But that’s ok. Once, (yes, once you sniggering lot at the back) I was plagued with a sort of insecure arrogance that would (a) never let me admit this, or (b) pretend I knew anyway, but these days, I’m pretty ok with not being the smartest guy in the room. Or attempting to be so. Though I did manage to get up at the front of the class and draw a diagram – raising some wholesome laughs in the process. So all is not lost.

 

Oh, and I had that dream where I am being chased again. I’m not sure I like that one so much.

 

I had decided to take the Friday off work, so I could play ‘good son’ and look after my mother, who had a hysterectomy on Wednesday.

 

hys·ter·ec·to·my      /ˌhɪs təˈrɛk tə mi/ Pronunciation Key – [his-tuh-rek-tuh-mee]

excision of the uterus.

 

Being a fairly a-typical Jewish mother, my mother is fairly moan-y at the best of times. (read: all the time) But as a patient, she’s truly a complete nightmare. First, it began with my seeming inability to make coffee to the exact colour and consistency she desired. Then, after going to 3 different supermarkets to get all the various groceries she wanted, none of it was right. Despite never eating – and never planning to – smoked salmon, and never even as much as looking at it in the fridge, I was supposed to instinctively know what brand, consistency and cut it was she wanted. I didn’t. And then there was ‘milkgate’ – whereby I notice there’s no milk, buy the milk, and am then branded ‘stupid’ for daring to buy a rather large one (there’s 10 decorators in the house as well as my mother and I right now) that she couldn’t carry.

 

For the entirety of Friday, my mother managed to act like a complete 5 year old – including an unintentionally very funny conversation that something like:

 

Mother (shouting): David! I’m starving! I haven’t eaten all day. (except breakfast and lunch that is, mother dear)

Me: Ok, well tell me what you want, and I’ll make it, buy it, order it.

Mother: (who quite literally crossed her arms and pouted) I don’t know.

 

I was extraordinarily happy when she told me she was finally going to bed – I went to see my wonderful friend from Yorkshire, Helen, and then, for some reason, decided to go shopping on my way home, buying a birthday card, a gift bad and some shampoo and conditioner. Because IT’S MY BIRTHDAY TOMORROW and being that I’m getting old, I need to start looking after my hair before it all falls out – because that happens, apparently.

 

A quick haircut (and my first birthday card, hurrah!) was the first port of call Saturday morning, followed by some quick nursing, and my best friend’s daughter’s first birthday party. I bought some baby Ugg Boots, and a baby DKNY scarf, because I’m a nice guy, and I love that kid.

 

I stayed at the party for about an hour before heading home to more running around for a slightly less moody mother. I was (quite literally) forced into watching ‘X Factor’ – am I the only one who thinks it’s just a glorified karaoke show? – Though some of them are very good, in fairness – and the accompanying results show, having given up my Saturday night as well as my Friday to play doctor. My father, in a rather ingenious move, had managed to get to Paris for the weekend for a ‘very important’ food fair.

 

Many, many moons ago – if I can be lunar for just a moment – I worked in a little place called The Ice Bar, (http://www.belowzerolondon.com/icebar/index.html) a bar kept at sub-zero temperatures (-6 if memory serves) and where everything is made of ice – the bar, the glasses, and, occasionally my penis, such was the cold. Anyway, all these years ago, 4 American girls came into the bar, and we made friends. They were students in London for a couple of months, I got them (very) drunk for free, and we’d go out to London’s finest and not so finest clubs and bars. It was a real wretch to say goodbye to them all.

 

Fast forward to today, and I am still in contact with them all – through Facebook or whatever. A couple of weeks ago, one of the girls contacted me to tell me a friend of hers was coming to London for a couple of weeks, and would I mind showing her around? ‘Of course,’ I answered. ‘It’d be a pleasure.’

And so, yesterday, that’s just what I did.

 

In my Facebook conversations with Anna, I had given her the two pieces of essential advice all visitors to London should be armed with:

 

1. The only public bathrooms you should EVER use are in Trafalgar Square
2. Instead of spending days on foot in London looking at things, take the open top bus tour, and get it out of the way in two hours.

 

Fortunately, she had followed both of these, so I didn’t need to worry about wandering around The Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, or any of that other nonsense.

 

We met in Leicester Square, and began by taking a walk down Regent Street and Oxford Street, and having tea in St Christopher’s Place, (http://www.stchristophersplace.com/) one of those secret/not so secret places in London, which manages to be less than a minutes walk from Oxford Street, but is nowhere near as busy. Originally, my plan was to see The Wallace Collection (http://www.wallacecollection.org/) but the weather was far too nice for that sort of thing, so we decided to go to Covent Garden instead, going via Oxford Street, New Bond Street, Piccadilly Circus, and the Diwalli festival at Trafalgar Square. We had a quick walk around Covent Garden, tried to see the Royal Opera House (it was closed) and settled for lunch in the square, where I answered what seemed to be 1,467,463 questions about where to go and what to see. Luckily, I’m full of useless information.

 

Anna decided she wanted to go to the Design Museum (where I am going for a Halloween ball: http://www.designmuseum.org/design-overtime) which was in South London, and being that I had promised to be back home by about 5 to check my mother was still functioning, we walked back to Leicester Square, and got on our respective Underground trains, just in time for me to get home and watch my team lose at football again.

 

And then, last night, It was out with my friend Dionne for some drinks in Camden Town, before retiring early and finally getting some rest.

 

And that, as they say, is that. A long weekend indeed, but much fun as always.

 

I shall leave you for today with wishes of love and happiness, and speak to you all tomorrow, when I will no longer be able to select ‘age: 28’ on the running machine.

 

Lots of love,

Closed Box

A Muppet, And A Felt Thing With Orange Hair

Good morning readers! Isn’t that an uncanny picture?

 

Well… wasn’t yesterday a cheery, blogtastic day? Hope I’ve still got some readers, and you’ve not jumped off a bridge!

 

Yesterday was one hell of a slog, though. I was shattered, and, after doing nothing all day, I was treated with a three hour meeting which ran from 2-5pm. There followed a gap of 2 hours – just enough time to get half my sandwich down myself – and then my 2 hr class on the Foundations Of Modern Psychology. More on this in a bit. I finally got home around 10, ended up talking to my friend Alex for an hour, and somehow the world conspired to get me to bed at just gone 12.

 

Somehow, I am functioning this morning. And functioning rather well; in a chipper mood and with a smile on my face. Perhaps it is because I have the day off tomorrow. Perhaps I had that dream with the broken photocopier at Liz Hurley’s house, and I’m the repair man. Hmmm…

 

I am a little… unsettled by last night’s class. It’s a little… close to home.

 

On my Hoffman Process (have I mentioned I’ve been on a process? Oh, every day, you say?) there were a certain number of ways we are taught of compartmentalising our minds – into emotional, intellectual and spiritual selves, all housed in our body. They call this the Quadrinity. I don’t believe I am crossing any lines by disclosing this, but perhaps some of my Hoffman-au fait readers can let me know. That’s as much information about it you’ll ever get out of me about it, anyway. (nb – most of that is pretty publicly available)

 

Yesterday’s lesson was totally consumed with Freudian theory and his models of the mind – how it is split between the ego, the superego, and the id. Parallel number 1.  Freud talks of conflicts between the three, the compromises one must reach, the stages of fixations, and the subsequent source of anxieties, and the magic words, patterns.

 

The course itself is monumentally interesting and engaging, but every so often, I hear a word that makes me snap back into consciousness, and my mind goes ‘oh shit’, and I have a memory recall of Florence House.

 

Tonight is another class – Biological Basis of Behaviour – which is one I struggle with rather badly. It’s very scientific in basis, and of the many thing I am, a scientist I ain’t. In many ways, though, these classes are very good for me – it’s not often I don’t ‘get’ something right away.

 

The weekend begins right after class this week, as I have taken Friday off work to make sure my mother is ok after her operation. Saturday is the 1^st birthday party of my best friend’s daughter Ariella – does ANYONE know what you buy a 1 year old?!?!?!? – and then Sunday, I have the pleasure of showing someone around London.

 

Years ago, I worked in a bar in Central London, and I met 4 American girls, one of whom I ended up going out with for a while. They were here for a couple of months, and I loved them all dearly. We’re all Facebook friends, and I got a message from one of them, Lauren, that her friend was coming to London for a couple of weeks for work, and I should show her around. And this is what I shall be doing. I have dinner planned with my friend Dionne on Sunday night, and then that’s my lot.

 

And of course, I know you haven’t forgotten that its my birthday on Tuesday.

 

I SAID – IT’S MY BIRTHDAY ON TUESDAY!

 

It’s important to be subtle.

 

So, until next Monday (don’t forget – the day before my birthday) I hope you all have wonderful, stupendous, exhilarating weekends.

 

All my love,

Closed Box

Say What You Mean, Mean What You Say

Morning all

 

Sadly, you’ve already missed a bit today – I was all too ready to write a blog called ‘What The Fuck?’ in which I detailed my total confusion over a situation, but I’m not going to do that now. Not everything can go in this thing, after all.

 

I spent yesterday, as I do almost every day, not working, and being generally unproductive.

 

I don’t feel good about this. It reflects badly upon me, my character and my attitude. But it’s really not my fault.

 

Where I work, a number of roles are particularly technical, and being that what I do is largely administrative, and I am totally untrained in any other aspect of the business, I am totally unable to help anyone. So, while people around me are scuttling about and generally swamped with work, I’m playing on Facebook or writing a blog, and there’s very little I can do about it. Obviously I am capable of doing a whole lot more, but with the agency of government I am working for closing in April, no-one is going to jump through any hoops to try and train me.

 

Being that I have very little to do, and Neil would kill me if these blogs aren’t up by 11am, I spend quite a lot of time organising other things, and having a good old think, normally disguised as me ‘writing’ (I write for a living) and closing myself in an office – sometimes mine, sometimes one with a TV and a vending machine so I can down cups of tea.

 

On the Hoffman Process, certainly during the last couple of days, there are prison-like conversations about what you’re going to do ‘on the outside’ – how your life is going to be in a month, a year – and what your ‘vision’ is; of yourself and what you hope your future life will become.

 

I had grand ideas. (Of course, I still do) I was going to live by the sea, (despite actually not really liking being IN the sea) I wasn’t going to own a television, my house was all going to be on one floor, with giant windows that act like disappearing walls, sliding to the side and letting in the sea air. My life would be filled by silence and the sound of the wind; I would read old books I bought in second hand books stores about great patriots and intellects, and I would cycle. Everywhere. There were other things I thought about – being married (hooray, a stable relationship!) or having children (hooray, righting the wrongs of MY father!) but as much as they make up part of the vision, they’re variables, and much harder to conceptualise. I wouldn’t want to envisage an ideal wife or child, for I would be worried that every time I should meet a perfectly lovely woman, she wouldn’t match this fantasy I had constructed.

 

I left Florence House resolving to do a whole lot of very stupid shit in my first month. I was going to shout something, very loudly, once a day. It could be joyous, (I did, more than once, scream in my car at the top of my voice in true ‘Braveheart’ style ‘FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEDOM!’) stupid, or anything that gave me release. I was going to meditate, something I did in fact do, and I was going to buy myself some children’s toys I had always wanted – one, ‘Mr Freeze’, which sadly is no longer made, and two, ‘Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots’, which that wonderful man Graeme bought me.

 

In many respects, I grew up without a father. My real father, who was essentially no more than a sperm donor, didn’t teach me a thing, except, in hindsight, how not to be a father. My step-father, for all his wonderful qualities, and no matter how much I love him now, wasn’t there for me the way a father should be in those formative years. I don’t blame him, it’s not his fault, and I’m not angry. Our relationship could conservatively be described as ‘fraught’.

 

And so yesterday, I was thinking about that, and it dawned on me that despite being relatively intelligent, (despite my persistently appalling grammar) there are a great many things I can’t do, having missed out on those father-son moments – things like changing a tyre, or re-wiring a plug, putting up a shelf, how often you should check the oil in your car… those sorts of things.

 

And then I made another resolution. I’m going to learn. And maybe write a book about it, or, depending on if my creaky old super-8 works, load the videos to You Tube, and then post them here. That might be fun.

 

After work, I did a little shopping, and met with Patricia, a friend from my course, for a little light conversation and tea. I got dragged (willingly, I should add) to some all-natural market/café, where I downed a banana and berry smoothie, which was actually almost tolerable, a tea, and a home-made lemon cake pastry thing. Patricia, meanwhile, ate a protein bar which looked like a square slab of plasticine with nuts in it. We ate, we talked, we got pissed off waiting for them to bring us some water so we just took some out of the fridge.

 

I got home to find my room covered in plastic sheeting – its being decorated – and to be honest I wasn’t in a good mood. I have to draw this blog entry to a close now, but essentially, I ended up eating dinner with my friend Natalie at 10pm, and getting home around 1am. So yeah, I’m pretty tired.

 

So until tomorrow, when I am hopefully in a far superior mood to the tired, slightly annoyed stupor you find me in this morn,

 

My love to you all

Closed Box.

 

PS – If you’ve still got time to do some more reading, I nigh-on INSIST you read this: Charlie Brooker’s latest blog entry in ‘The Guardian’ – if I could write this well… well… my blog would be a lot more interesting.