Muso

Recently Owen has taken to calling me a ‘muso’. He usually says it whilst rolling his eyes and poking me in the flab on my stomach. He soon got wind of the fact that this label annoyed me greatly and started using it all the more. Now he uses it with a glee so infuriating it makes me want to smash his face in. Every time I innocently mention a band I like he says; ‘is that the hip word on muso street?’ or ‘oh really? They’re good are they oh wise muso one?’ or just plain and simple ‘Shut up you fucking muso, I know you like them - there hasn’t been anything else coming out of the stereo for the past seven days.’

My retort (through gritted teeth): 'I am not a fucking muso.'

Reasons I am not a muso:

1. I do not have an Encyclopaedic knowledge of the trainspotting music stuff, my knowledge about record labels, artwork, managers, technical production, famous tours and limited edition singles even of my most favourite bands is slim to none.

2 I do not worship vinyl and proclaim it’s the only true way to hear music. I like my CD’s. Mp3’s are even better, and you don’t have to trudge round obscure shops in Manchester in the pouring rain on a Saturday afternoon to collect and listen to them.

3. I do not masturbate over mint condition 1960’s editions of the NME and Rolling Stone. I don’t in fact, read music magazines full stop; I think they are just big corrupt advertising vehicles mostly full of egotistical and talentless bitter male writers who very rarely have anything interesting to say at all. I read more grassroots zines and weblogs but even then I mostly laugh at all the musos who take it all far too seriously.

4. Some of the bands I like are obscure but I am not attracted to obscurity for its own sake. I do not feel cheated when one of my favourite bands becomes successful- in fact I say ‘good for them’ and keep on liking them, even if they do start having number one hit singles a la the streets and the arctic monkeys. I am quite happy to like a band that is tremendously popular as long as they are good.

5. I am not competitive when it comes to music, live and let live is what I say. I get sick of these musos who get into the whole ‘bragging’ thing:

Muso 1: ‘Dogbeard…yeah…well I saw them back in their peak, in 1992 when they performed an impromptu session on a park bench and then vomited in their guitar.’

Muso 2: ‘Oh really? Well I saw them a year before that in the good old days when they performed a homecoming gig at the tap and spile- and they did a live acoustic version of chickenfeatherblues by the spaghetti heads and then afterwards the lead singer ate the microphone.’

That kind of shit just makes me want to eat my own head, or at least bash their two idiotic ones together until they are unconscious.

6. I would never, ever judge a person or a friendship on their taste in music. My best friend loves Brittany spears and James blunt yet we’ve never had one argument about it. If she wants to listen to horrible cheesy pop that’s her prerogative, but I can keep in perspective that this doesn’t, whatever musos might think, make Marie a superficial or brainless person, she is in fact one of the deepest most complex thinkers I have ever talked with. She just doesn’t get her kicks in the same place I do, that’s all. People who judge people on what they listen to must miss out on so many friendships, I don’t want to let anyone slip through the net.

7. I am not obsessed with mix tapes and compilations. I make the odd one or two but this is a side of muso behaviour that I have never really gotten into.

8. When you ask me what my favourite song of a particular artist is, I am much more likely to say one of their singles rather than some obscure B side on a Japanese limited edition import.

9. I do not sneer when I disagree with someone’s musical opinion.

10. I have fully grasped the concept that music can sometimes just be background noise or something fun to do a silly dance to in the living room or mime with a hairbrush in front of the mirror- I get sick of people who take it all a bit too seriously. Music is there to enjoy and entertain as well as all the deeper stuff.

11. I do not quote lyrics obsessively and fastidiously. In fact, even when I try to remember them, I usually forget. Even when I was playing songs that I had written in a band, I had to write the lyrics down on scraps of paper for when my mind went blank when I was performing.

12. I can stop talking about music. I am not one of these musos who keep on going and going even when everyone else has fallen asleep. I do talk about it quite a lot, but, there are other things in life as well, ya know?

13. I have never been to a festival

14. I have never been to a ‘secret’ gig.

15. I wouldn’t have a clue as to what the top ten albums right now are. Let alone the top ten indie albums.

16. I don’t listen to the radio for the same reasons I don’t read magazines. They are just corporate sponsored music pushers who play the same bands and songs again and again. I don’t want to fill my head with their sycophantic crap.

So, thus proves I am not a fucking muso. Whatever Owen says.

Yes, I love, if not adore my music and it’s true, high fidelity is one of my all time favourite books. I am familiar with quite a lot of musical artists and am pretty picky in my tastes. When I’m not busy living life I may listen to four or five new albums a day. I find it nearly impossible to be in silence and I am surgically attached to my Mp3 player. I do indulge in totally nerdy behaviour like reading biographies of bands/ musicians and downloading their entire back catalogue, listening to each seminal song as I get to that part in the book. Even though I am not even in a band at the moment I am constantly writing down songs and lyrics for the day I have courage to one day start singing again. I quite often start conversations with friends and even strangers: what music are you into at the moment?

It’s not that I don’t admit to being a little bit obsessed with music, you see. But the macho muso culture is something I want no part of. So sure, I say to anyone who’s into their music; come round to my house, chill out and we’ll listen to some tunes. We’ll debate them passionately, laugh, weep, reminisce, hug, shout and sing together. We’ll revel in each others musical tastes, I’m always open to ideas and willing to learn. Say anything you like, anything at all and I won’t judge you. You can even say that Eels are a one trick pony or that Joni Mitchell can’t sing. But if you dare to call me a muso I swear I will not be held responsible for my actions and you might find yourself leaving with several less teeth than when you arrived.

Through a glass, darkly.

5. I undertake the precept to refrain from intoxicants which lead to heedlessness.

My response when I first read this precept was a bitterly muttered, brow knitted ‘fuck that’.

It hasn’t really changed much since then.

This could be the one, the big one. More challenging than the lying and the stealing and the killing and the lusting that I have already quite openly admitted I indulge in. Those, push come to shove, I am prepared to forsake in the name of enlightenment and release from samsara. However, turning my back forever on a glass of Shiraz over a home cooked meal, or a crisp, ice cold bottled larger in the beer garden of my beloved local, I am not. At least not right now, anyway. And yes I know how lame that sounds.

I am not a booze hound but I like a drink. I would say I get fairly sloshed at least once or twice a week. If it was up to me I would drink something most nights. Especially wine, but I love most alcohol from stout to asti to whiskey to just plain run of the mill 3.99 bottles of plonk that are on offer at sainsburies. It’s the taste, yes, but not only that, it’s the intoxication. Definitely the intoxication. I like the numbness that spreads from the tips of your fingers and loosens your muscles and your tongue. I love the feeling of detachedness, I adore the way it makes me want to laugh and laugh and talk and talk and even, scarily, (at least for observers) dance. I am less into the whole vomiting- crying- arguing- depression vibe that sometimes comes along with it. But I, over the years and many bad trips have basically got to the point where I can control my drinking so I hardly ever get bummed out.

The catalogue of strict rules I have created to govern my drinking is quite impressive: I don’t drink when I’m having a bad day. I don’t drink when I’m depressed, or, god forbid, because I’m depressed. I don’t drink when I’m nervous or in a crowd of people I don’t feel comfortable with. I don’t drink in very busy places, I usually only drink with food. I don’t drink alone, unless it has been specifically cleared that I can and even then this is a very rare indulgence. I don’t drink neat spirits and treat spirits full stop with great caution. I don’t drink the day before something important. I don’t ever, ever, drink in the middle of an argument. I don’t drink on antibiotics or painkillers. I don’t mix my drugs; Valium and booze is a big no no. I very rarely mix my drinks, either, I tend to have a wine night or a beer night or whatever; I’ve just found it works better that way. I don’t drink and watch horror films. I don’t drink and listen to sad songs for hours on end. I don’t get sloshed in places I don’t know very well unless I’m with people I trust who do. I do drink a pint of water before I go to sleep. I fetch a bucket to keep by the bed; just in case. I do sleep on my stomach. I usually eat something before unconsciousness hits me. I do sleep straight through. I do set an alarm. I do eat breakfast. I don’t let the hangover wreck the next day, however bad I feel.

Each of these rules (of which I am sure there are many more) has a history and have been devised over many years of mistakes and practice. They may seem strict and not very rebellious, but I don’t mind keeping them, as they in turn keep me safe.

More importantly, they keep me drinking.

The beauty of booze to me in a nutshell is lubrication. I can do without the giggling, without the double vision and the crazy stupid dancing. But the systematic destruction of inhibition glass by glass, the way it turns an awkward group of strangers into a dancing, hugging, swaying rowdy crowd is just magic. Talking as someone who sometimes finds speech very difficult, alcohol has saved the day on many occasions. Even amongst close friends, I find there’s nothing better than the sensation of an alcohol induced revelation; the more shocking the better. The times when you confide, push boundaries, deepen friendships, delve deep into your psyche and your relationship and talk straight from the heart you are proudly wearing on your sleeve. It makes people closer and gets people talking. It kick starts an evening that otherwise may have collapsed from nerves and tension.

I totally know it’s a crutch that I am leaning on here. From a Buddhist point of view this reliance on alcohol is a massive hindrance to my happiness; taking me regularly away from the virtues of seeing true reality, clarity, and awakening. Hopefully I will do without it one day. The long term plan, in my own mind at least, is that I will get so strong in my meditation practice my personality will become properly integrated and I will become so self assured that the very idea of having to pour chemicals down my throat to cope with a night out seems ridiculous. But for now doing without it is beyond the realm of possibility. I have always turned to chemical assistance to avoid reality or at the very least to blur it. Alcohol and intoxicants to me have always been the mental version of taking my glasses off; in drunkenness everything seems that less bit dangerous, less intense as the edges blur and swirl into each other. Inside, the damn inner monologue shuts the hell up for a couple of hours. I usually pass out in a state of happy oblivion. It is bliss. Is that a sad admission?

As I write these words I suddenly hear the imaginary voice of my teacher ringing in my ear. He is as pesky as a gnat sometimes that man!

He sits down beside me, smiles that peaceful smile, adjusts his robes slightly, and speaks:

“Jen, there is a better way to seek bliss than at the bottom of a glass. You know that deep down or you wouldn’t have sought me out in the first place. Stop fighting, stop struggling. Just learn to let go. Through meditation I have taught you a way to still your thoughts and bring you release in a gentle way that will not rot your brain and your liver. Use it.

You know that the peace and confidence you seek can not be bought at an off license, but already lies within you. You know that the heart of this precept deals not with outlawing the odd glass of Chardonnay in the summer sun but eliminating the dependence and desperation you still feel when you are sober and a night of socializing stretches ahead of you.

You know where it is to be found; the real deal, not a chemical band aid. Strive for enlightenment in all you do, through that process you will find the peace you so desperately seek. ”

It is then that I realise that the root of this clinging to the bottle is not a love of a harmless beer with my chicken drumsticks at the family BBQ, it is much darker than that; it is my deep yearning for oblivion that I can’t relinquish. This is something that is hard for me to dwell on and is tricky to explain. It is a difficult thing for people to grasp that right now I am extremely happy, leading a fulfilled life with a loving partner and lots of friends and family. I have a very happy life and have no complaints. Yet for as long as I can remember; day in, day out, I have battled deep suicidal urges. Even when I have been incredibly happy I have had the visual image of myself as a dog chasing its own tail, going round and round in circles and a lot of the time I just think ‘enough’. I’ve had enough.

When I discovered Buddhism it was mind-blowing because here was a group of people who had this same image in their heads. Here was a religion that wasn’t demanding I rejoice in the splendor of all God’s glorious creation. Buddha said the first noble truth is that life is suffering. I can relate to those words more than anything. Not in a really miserable eeyore kind of way, I do laugh a lot and go outside and walk with the birds and in the mountains; I do so often enjoy a rich fulfilling life. Not either because I have a hard life. Yes I have a few health problems and I don’t lead the regular life of an average 25 year old. But I have, in many ways, had a very easy, comfortable existence. I was blessed with many talents, a wonderful family and now a fantastic husband. I am not materialistic, I think I have my priorities right in terms of how to be happy. I may be on speaking terms with despair, it is true, but in my life so far I have also experienced genuine joy and love. But it has always been there; even in the happy times this dull voice that says ‘enough’. It is not, actually, me or my life I have a problem with. It is the act of living itself I find so difficult. The process of birth, growth, decay, death. The suffering I see all around. The corrupt society. The miserable people. The madness. The greed. The lies. The disease. The eating, the shitting, the washing, the dressing, the walking, the endless endless talking. Even the laughter, sometimes, when it often rings so hollow. The act of breathing is so difficult, sometimes I just feel like I don’t ever want to take another one. The empty futileness of it all often weighs heavily on my heart.

Anyway, happy thoughts.

But that is why I drink I guess. That’s the root of it. It’s my own way of saying ‘enough’, of hovering for a couple of hours in the exit without actually going the whole hog and jumping off the Ouse bridge. If I didn’t have the release of alcohol then I’m scared where it would end up. Getting trashed is like a valve being released in a pressure cooker, at least sometimes, anyway. Not that I’m trying to paint a bleak picture, its not like I consciously think ‘oh I must get wasted tonight or I’ll kill myself’. It’s not like that at all. But I think the drinking does act as a release of these negative feelings and allow me to take a break from reality for a while, a reality that sometimes I find difficult to exist in.

Fortunately for me Buddha’s four noble truths do not end with the fact that life is suffering. In the rest of the truths and in fact in the whole body of his teachings he details a ‘cure’. It is the fact that Buddhism provides a practical system for finding genuine happiness (and eventually genuine oblivion, I suppose) detailing a way of escaping the cycle of suffering that makes it so appealing to me. I have already learnt so much from its teachings and found so many of them to be sound. I am already, since discovering the Buddhist path, that bit less desperate on a Friday night to get off my face. I am finding my teachers words to be the truth; through my meditation I am more peaceful, more satisfied and most importantly, now I have the goal of nirvana in my life, it makes the notion of suicide seem inferior and unappealing. My steps might be small, like those of an infant, but I am making progress all the time.

So one day maybe I will be writing this not with a vodka lemonade in my hand, as I am so accustomed to but a cup of green tea. Maybe I will take this precept or maybe I won’t. What I would like to live without though is the need to escape. I would like to face reality and myself without the crutch that alcohol gives me. Maybe one day I will actually listen to my wise, wise teacher and seek my release in more constructive ways than drinking. But for now I am drawn to the allure of the booze: Tom Waits is on the radio and Bukowski is in my bookshelf. I realise that for the time being, at least just yet, I’m not quite ready to hop on the wagon and ride into the sunset.

Get Forked

I love rain. When I’m caught in a torrential downpour, I feel so alive. I love it when the heavens open and just let rip. Thunderstorms, the perfect combination of falling rain and deadly electrical forks are beautiful and thrilling. I never quite feel so lucky as when the hair stands up on my arms and I walk through the warm rain with flashes in the sky and deafening crashes of thunder watching the drama of nature unfold all around me. I love the smell in the air, the charge in the atmosphere, the fear in people’s eyes as they all scurry home to their brick boxes where they feel safe and protected. I love not being one of the scurriers, but one who flings her arms out with the sheer joy of it all, dances through puddles and opens my mouth to drink the heavy metallic tasting rain. I get scared, more so than in any horror movie but I somehow love feeling that I could die at any moment, that I am dicing with death. Yes, of course I am reassured by the odds of the situation, but still we’ve all seen the tree split down the middle, we’ve all heard the rumours of the kid who never made it home.

To me a walk in the thunder encapsulates both the sheer miracle of life as well as it’s transient nature; it makes me realise that I am not in charge here, that there are greater forces of work. I understand why humans have always given their head gods the thunderbolts. To see a fork of lightening, and be physically shaken by the many deafening claps of energy is both terrifying and exhilarating. You realise how tiny and fragile your body is, how at the mercy of chance you are every day you are alive. It makes you ask those kind of questions, the wondrous questions that you will probably never answer but are shaped in fascinating and beautiful ways simply by asking. To me, a walk in a thunderstorm is the spiritual equivalent of drinking ten cans of red bull, I come home from one of my long strolls feeling like I am bursting out of my own skin, like I have connected with the essence of energy itself. So, if there is one thing I would recommend for you to do this summer, especially if you have not done it before, go and walk in one of the steaming summer thunderstorms. Go alone, and take your time, but not an umbrella. Sing. Shout. Get somewhere quiet. Go out to nature. If possible, walk near water. There is nothing more spectacular than watching the lightening reflect in the lapping waves of a lake or river. Take my advice; get truly and properly forked up this summer. You will not regret it.

The Wall of Pain.

This excellent blog by my friend Dave got me thinking about what he terms ‘emotional porn’. It’s one of those things that now my eyes are open I have started seeing evidence of it everywhere. Including when I’m least expecting it…

Owen got given some book tokens as a present when he left his last workplace so yesterday we went to Borders to spend them. It was about 6 o clock and eerily quiet which made for some good, if slightly unnerving browsing. Now, I’m not much of a fan of Borders. Not just because it is a huge corporate brand that is pushing the independent bookstores of York out of business, but also because it is often hugely crowded and I tend to find it hard to track down the things I need on the rare occasions I do shop there. It is just too damn big! The vouchers, though, were only redeemable in the Borders franchise, so that’s where we went.

Now we both are guilty of this, but Owen in particular takes hours and hours and hours to spend money. Mostly because we don’t have a lot of it and so when we get some spare we like to be careful that we are spending it wisely. Bear in mind that he has had these vouchers since February and he has been pondering over what to spend them on ever since. It’s actually quite a fun process; that ten pound note that your Nan sends you in the post for your birthday opens up a huge world of possibilities to be deliberated and chewed over during long strolls down the river and lingering coffee breaks. It’s more fun anyway, in our minds, to really give these things some serious thought rather than simply spending it on what ever shiny thing catches your eye- soon to be forgotten about. The Jowen method makes a little go a long way, it makes the anticipation almost as fun as the event and from an ethical and frugal point of view it makes you remember the value of money. It means that whatever you end up with, you know yes I really wanted this. When I have ten pounds to spend, I often think about the implications of the note in my hand; ‘Owen would have to work two whole hours to earn this, so is X really worth that? In five years will I still be valuing this, or at least its memory? I picture Owen’s aching back, his tired eyes and throbbing head, then think ‘Do I need to spend this?’ My antidote to advertising has always been the power of careful thought and a deliberate harnessing of my imagination. But anyway, I am digressing miles from what I was supposed to be talking about. Back to the story…

When Owen finally felt mentally prepared to actually go to the shop and wrestle with the big decision of what to purchase, he warned me when we got there (with that look in his eyes) that it could take ‘some time’. Sigh. So we agreed to meet up an hour later and see how he’d got on. In the meantime I went round the shop. I spent most of my time in philosophy and religion, but also swung by gender studies, erotic fiction, and the cookbook section. In the space of fifty five minutes, I went from Socrates to Jamie Oliver and back again. Then, on my way back to the DVD section to meet O, I noticed the psychology wall. Now, it’s been a while since I last browsed a well stocked psychology section and I have my reasons for that. But something caught my eye. One whole subsection, wall to floor, was covered in a particular kind of book.

You would know the kind if you saw it. They are always white, usually with a blurred picture of a child hunched over looking scared or teary. They have a jagged font and a punchy title. Quite eye catching, really. The craze was started by an autobiography called ‘A Child called It’ and by the looks of it there have now been literally hundreds of spin offs and copycats. I had no idea there was such a market for these hundreds of tales detailing bleak, graphic, horrific abuse. Yet I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. This trend is nothing new. We have always, as a nation, been a bit obsessed by the neglected child. In terms of literary history look at David Copperfield, Oliver Twist or the recent spate of gritty nostalgic biographies inspired by Angela’s Ashes. Even modern day Children’s heroes like Tracey beaker and Harry Potter are renowned for their hard lives and the books don’t skirt around issues of abuse, hardship and neglect. The books I read yesterday, though, take the obsession to another level. I looked at the wall to ceiling display and felt profoundly nauseous. There was something not quite right about all this, not right at all.

I read the back of one of the books. There was one of the most graphic descriptions of child abuse I have ever read. It was a boy having his face pushed in the fire and branded with a poker. Then I read another one, it was a creepy description of a girl about to be raped by her father. I read another; it was the story of a five year old child having their hand smashed with a hammer. I probably read about ten of these dust jackets, each to design to shock and horrify, and… titillate? Surely not. As I read the covers, I became aware of a sort of competitiveness that was going on between the books. There was a definite vying for top dog. Each was trying to be the most shocking, the most horrific, the most stomach turning. I got the distinct impression that the authors and publishers were appealing to a certain audience; the people who were reading these books were enjoying the shock.

When I, as a writer, examined the language, it was written to hook, to thrill, to entice. Of course these are books; commercial entities and the publishers need to sell copies. So there’s got to be some kind of emotional worm dangling as bait. But I think it goes deeper than that. All the while, I was just thinking to myself, this phenomenon is pornographic. Emotionally pornographic. People are getting big kicks out of this shit and not the legendary men in long coats who hide behind school bus shelters but middle aged women who knit jumpers for jumble sales and middle class students who read this stuff on the bus on the way to college. Maybe, I thought, trying to be generous, these books are serving a purpose in educating us about the horrors of child abuse. This is such a taboo that maybe I’m reacting to it in a funny way, maybe I’m seeing it as pornographic when it is just a highly charged emotional subject, one of the highest charged in this society and consequently I’m not being fair. After all, abuse is emotive. Hence the emotional packaging, right? Or maybe the intended readers of these books are the many millions of people who have lived through abuse themselves and reading such graphic descriptions might be, in the long run, cathartic and healing. They might help you to come to terms with the deep wounds and long lasting scars, safe in the knowledge that there are others who have been to hell and back.

I tried to be fair, I really did.

But none of my theories rang true. The display just seemed more and more horrific the more I looked at it. It stank of profiteering, not healing; it was one flea ridden cash cow right there in the middle of the bookshop. And people were lapping it up. Even at such a quiet time at least four or five people came and picked up one of these books in the time I was browsing. They were not reacting to these stories with solemnity and reflection on the evils of abuse and pedophilia, but responded to them like the soulless commodities they were; flicking through, reading the juicy bits, occasionally raising eyebrows, putting them down again.

Then, as I was turning away, one woman reader tutted to herself and shook her head.

And I just thought; 'that just bloody well sums it up, doesn’t it?' Yes, I accept that people read these books for a variety of reasons, but I believe many buy them to gain themselves a hollow victory. Through reading the hardback highs and lows of some poor bastard’s misfortune they attempt to salvage some posititivity about their own lives. People read these so they can be assured of their own morality and so called happiness. They think ‘Thank god my life is so much better than that. True my daughter may hate me and my husband drinks a bottle of wine a night and we hardly speak to each other. I may hate my life, but God, I never poked his eyes out with a nail gun and even though when my baby girl kept me up for two years straight I wanted to throw her out the window because I was so exhausted, I never did. I’m a good person. I’m a good person. I’m a good person.’

So we fall into the trap that the ruling parties and state apparatus (of which major publishing houses are a part) have set for us. We read, devour (and maybe collect) this emotional pornography rather than facing our own problems or examining the genuine injustices in the world and the systems and attitudes that make abuse such a common place thing in our society. We think poor sod and like the woman in the bookshop we shake our heads and say that’s terrible, maybe rant about it to our friends later. Maybe, in rare cases, we go and give ten quid to the NSPCC. We do this not out of a state of genuine compassion and empathy, but simply to make ourselves feel better, maybe even to make us feel something. After all, as any psychiatrist in the world will tell you; a lot of people go through life feeling emotionally numb and these books which use language so skillfully to drum up deep emotions are almost like drugs to some of us. That is why when I went on Amazon to examine some of these books again, I noticed in the reviews a trend; there are a lot of people out there who are reading a lot of these books. There are people who are ‘into’ the child abuse genre. These people are not sick or depraved; it is much more complex than that. They are just the extreme end of people who are addicted to this widespread emotional pornography and they need help.

As a society we need to learn to face our own genuine emotions, even when they are dark and scary. We need to learn to stop demonizing people and seeing the world in such black and white bipolar terms. Whilst this attitude may temporarily give us an ego boost, the I’m a good person effect, it doesn’t get to the root of the matter and leaves us genuinely unsatisfied. Emotions are deep, complex things. Pornography, by its very nature is surface based and fantastical. That is why emotional pornography is seductive, but ultimately is an empty promise. It never really grapples with the heart of the problem and is designed to always leave you wanting more: the next thrill, the next drama, the next more graphic book. It distorts the deepest truths of human existence and turns deep suffering into a simple commodity, to be sold as fixes to us, the numb dumb masses. We are junkies, plain and simple and as long as we are hooked on this shit, believing the lies, we will never know true compassion, or wisdom. To be happy both as a society and as individuals we need to kick the habit of emotional porn and start to wrestle with the huge complex grey areas of our existence. Human experience is rich in depth and intensity, encompassing a huge rang of emotions. How sad then that most of our focus is on the negative ones, such as sadness, anger, jealousy and endless, endless craving. We must learn to renounce this pornographic quick fix, see it for the trap that it is and settle for the real deal. We must come to terms with our own feelings and not be afraid to express our genuine thoughts. Just as a sexual pornography addict must learn how to enjoy genuine flesh on flesh contact again we also have to learn how to connect. Authentic emotions expressed within connected communities of interdependent people is the way out of this sad situation. Most of all, we must learn to face ourselves; otherwise if we’re not careful our inner lives will be reduced to the emotional equivalent of an unfulfilling and lonely mess in a tissue.

Pants on Fire

4. I undertake the precept to refrain from false speech (lying).

{OK, I admit it. This is the big one. The one I was nervous about facing, the one I’m a bit reluctant to delve into. Not only because I have friends who read this thing and I’d hate for this to affect their trust of me, but because sometimes there are things about yourself that you don’t like to dwell on. But, I decided to write this blog in the spirit of honesty, and on a subject like this it would be irony of ironies that it was now that I shied away from the truth.}

I’ll start by saying this:

I was instantly attracted to my husband for three main reasons.

1) He had long hair, a big brain and a nice, kind face.
2) I could talk to him about anything and felt immediately that I could trust him.
3) He didn’t tolerate my bullshit, and my lies.

Of course, as time went on, the list of ‘things that are great about O’ got larger and larger, but these initial three were the reasons that I went on when I decided to ask him out. In some ways, Owens’ love and devotion to facts, truth and honesty can mean he is a difficult man to talk to and get on with. He is rubbish at sycophantic smalltalk or polite niceties for their own sake. But in those first few days of the relationship, it was the thing I fell head over heals in love with and the thing I knew I needed to be a central guiding influence in my life were I ever to be a happy, well adjusted person again.

Back then, my head was more concerned with fantasy than facts. For many of my teenage years I had been best friends with a pathologically compulsive liar, and some of her behaviour had, over the years, gradually rubbed off on me. Although, unlike my friend, I don’t think my lying ever got to the stage of illness, I was certainly not grounded in reality. I was deeply in love with melodrama, exaggeration, daydreams, fiction. I was not into the hard hitting truth, I was not into mundane existence, as I saw it. Unlike my friend, I would rarely invent things that were totally not true but I was very fond of embellishing things, polishing them, editing them to my favour. I am a perceptive, imaginative woman and was generally pretty good at doing this realistically without getting caught (although like many liars I could have been delusional that I was fooling everyone).

I had been a very honest child, and I think I am fairly honest by nature, but during my teenage years I somehow lost the spirit of telling the truth. At the end of the day, it was just more interesting, more exciting to say you had drank ten pints than two, told your teacher to fuck off rather than ‘yes sir’, to say you had kissed five boys, rather than none. I’m not saying I had a serious problem, and I know that many teenagers do the same thing. It’s just that for me, I have always prized honesty so highly in my life, my family and other friends are very honest people, in fact most of the people I have been close to over the years have had painfully honest, self aware streaks. Yet I developed an unhealthy habit of deviating from the truth and each time I did so, I got a bit further away from myself. After a few years of this, it got to the stage where realised I would need serious help in breaking the habit and finding my way back.

Then Owen came along. We met on the first day of university and from the word go he would just call me on my bullshit. He stamped it out as soon as he saw it, whenever he recognised it. He both encouraged and praised the times when I was honest and chastised my deceitfulness with great force. He was acutely perceptive at telling the difference. He shaped me; he was both firm and plain speaking in his demands; ‘if you want to be with me, if you want this relationship to go the distance then you are going to have to put love of truth, rather than excitement and drama, at the centre of your world. I just can’t be with someone who has it any other way.’ I am not used to ultimatums and God, it sent shivers down my spine (the good kind). It made me sit up and listen.

He claimed, and stands by this claim to this day, that despite what I might think, I am actually ten times more interesting when I’m sweating it out and wrestling with the truth of a matter than when I’m off in fantasy land. He said that he loved me more when I was just being myself and hanging out with him; even when life was humdrum, rest assured he didn’t find me boring in any way. That to seek truth and love honesty might not always be the easiest path, but was always the right, more fulfilling way. That my own personal truths when I discovered them would be more thought provoking and impressive than any half cooked exaggeration or tall tale I could come up with.

That was pretty much the nicest, most inspiring vote of confidence that anyone has ever said to me and I took his words on board. I did this, not because of his ultimatum, although by then I wanted to be his lifelong partner more than anything I have ever wanted, but because I recognised that following his guidance would make me a better, happier person. Because more than anything I was terrified of winding up like my friend, who was getting more delusional by the day. I would speak to her on the phone and she didn’t even know who she was anymore, and her lies had escalated to the extent that she was claiming ridiculous and scary things: that she was giving blowjobs to serial killers in prison, had a heroin addict stalker and was working for the government as a spy. It sounds strange to say this now, but Owen’s upfront truthfulness was the antidote to what could have been seriously dangerous territory. It was like the lighthouse beacon warning me off the rocks, a guiding light to save me from the course I was set on. His integrity was to me back then the most important and challenging thing I had ever witnessed, and to this day, it is the thing I treasure and value most about my husband.

His plan to make an ‘honest woman’ out of me has (mostly) been successful, and despite the odd setback I continue to grow in truthfulness and integrity everyday, but the path hasn’t always been easy. I still fall into old ways sometimes. I find myself saying the silliest of things, like the bus fare was four pounds instead of three pounds fifty. Or saying I’ve done things when I haven’t. It’s stupid, petty, and basically a bad habit that I am still working on.

Like I say, I very rarely out and out lie these days but one of the remaining problems I have with false speech revolves around the way I handle my health. As I’ve mentioned in previous blogs, I have suffered mental health problems for years and until very recently I’ve dealt with them, basically, by lying my ass off. “I’m fine” was my mantra, chanted to everyone I met in the street, to my friends, to my family… even to Owen. Unless I was drunk and banging my head against a wall, or so depressed I could hardly breathe, I would basically try and put on a smiley front. I think a lot of people who know me think of me as a ‘happy depressive’ and that, my friends, is because I lie. I’m not saying I always succeed in convincing people. But I always try. This ‘coping’ method that I would halfheartedly defend (who wants to hear all my fucked up twisted thoughts? I’ll have no friends left) was exposed for the sham it really was last year.

When I attempted suicide in October, ten minutes previously I had been on the phone to my own father, saying the same hollow phrase; ‘I’m fine’. My head was in pieces, I was literally tearing my hair out, but I simultaneously laughed at all his jokes and the conversation was light-hearted and normal. We talked about the Sheffield Wednesday scores, what I was having for lunch and the relative merits of crackerbread over ricecakes. Then I put the phone down and emptied the contents of my lithium bottle down my throat. That, right there, is the danger of false speech. That is because when you are not honest about your feelings, when you lie, when you do the whole bottling/ stiffupperlip/ braveface/ bullshit, it always ends up badly. Maybe not always as dramatically as that, but always badly. After that incident my relationships with those closest to me were damaged hugely, as none of them really knew anymore whether what I was saying was anywhere near the truth. It is only now, months later, that the wounds are even starting to heal and I think in the case of my father the trust between us has been damaged almost irreparably. I should have just faced the truth, and confided in those around me; the many friends and family who love me dearly rather than relying on my acting skills and my lies in a vain attempt to cover up the truth. Painful as it is to admit you’re not coping, it is more painful to die of liver failure, surely?

So, taking this precept is of vital importance to me, in fact I would take it tomorrow. I have already made gigantic strides in this area, and I work hard every day to become a more truthful person. I would say, out of all the precepts, this is the one that makes the most sense, speaks to me most powerfully and is ethically not much of a dilemma. I have learnt the hard way that lying is damaging, that your own false speech hurts both yourself and those around you. The ones you love the most are always at the epicentre. I have witnessed that those who tell lies, even white lies, lose the trust of those around them and this eventually brings them great pain; the loss of a friendship, or even a partner. Lies are corrosive and manipulative by nature, and even when they are well intentioned often do more harm than good in the long run. Personally, I am proud to say that I am more truthful than I have ever been, but I seriously have to learn to tell the truth about the shit that’s going on in my head, my mental state. I have to stop trying to protect those around me by telling cushioning lies and be open about my feelings and my thoughts. I guess you could even say my life depends on it.

In the beginning....

On one of the websites I’ve been reading this week the question has been raised; ‘when did you first realise you were a feminist or interested in feminist issues?’ My thoughts were too long to post, so I thought it would make a good blog. Here then, is my response to that:

One of the most seminal moments of my childhood came a few days before my seventh birthday. My parents sat me down and told me that, no, however much I nagged, this year (or any year) they weren’t prepared to buy me a sex change so I could be ‘the same’ as my brother and my best friend James. Neither were they, they insisted, prepared to call the depoll office (like I had researched) and change their daughters’ lovely and feminine hand picked name to ‘Jamie’. They were very nice about it, very reasonable. They suggested that I could have a very trendy Walkman instead, or even, (holy grail of holy grails) a tent. But a sex change? Out of the question. Anyway, why did I get these silly notions in my head? I was a girl, their little girl, and I had to get used to it. They loved me just the way I was. It was the way God had made me. Now go and play football with your brother.

It was all fairly harmless really. I don’t identify as a ‘man trapped in a woman’s body,’ or anything like that, I never desperately wanted a penis for it’s own sake or hated my physical appearance. My militant rejection of my gender was something, (as predicted by mum and dad) that I did eventually grow out of. I am not talking to you now harboring secret longings to be called Gerard with a beer gut and a big bushy beard. I am glad my parents reacted the way they did and didn’t hall me off to a psychiatrist or God forbid, the plastic surgery clinic I wanted.

But I understand gender confusion, I really do. This sex change notion was not a silly week long whim, it was part of my long term struggle to accept the fact that I was female. From being a toddler to about the age of puberty at 13 I was a diehard tomboy, complete with short hair, grazed knees and a firm anti dolls, dresses, makeup, fashion, boy bands, ponies, ballet and shopping policy (that mostly continues to this day). I refused to take part in girlie things at school; poured scorn on the daisy chain and skipping brigade and hung around mainly with the boys. I cried for days when they refused to let me, as a girl, into cub scouts with all my male friends (a policy that has rightfully been rectified). My childhood, when I wasn’t obsessively reading, consisted of endless hours of war games, cowboys and Indians, kung Fu fighting, football, water fights, den building, cops and robbers, etc. I just couldn’t identify with sitting and looking pretty or brushing your hair for fun (in fact, brushing your hair was stupid full stop). Playing ‘house’ or ‘mummies and daddies’ was equally pointless, I had a perfectly good house and a mummy and daddy. Come to think of it, they were both pretty boring. My idea of a good time was dissecting a dead frog in the road with the scalpel from my microscope set. Or playing a penalty shoot out with my two brothers until the sun went down and we all went inside to have a burger eating competition.

I was very strong willed, and wouldn’t do anything that compromised my ‘tomboy’ label, even if it meant putting up with bullying and abuse at school. Even if it meant I spent a lot of time feeling confused and alone. Aged nine I went as far as putting in a formal complaint to the school office against one of the dinnerladies who told me I was unladylike and had to wear a t shirt when playing football- it wouldn’t do to have me topless like all the boys in the summer heat. I said (in my terribly precocious manner) that it was discrimination against tomboys, and I didn’t tell her what to wear so she should ‘stuff off’. I think my punishment was being forbidden to play football for a week, topless or not. No one ever sides with the kids.

At the age of about eleven, I started to deduce that my problems with being a girl were not to do with myself. My issue was not my relationship to my newly discovered clitoris, my widening hips, budding breasts, or even my personality. Essentially it was with other people. This was a major epiphany that brought massive relief. It wasn’t, therefore, disgust at what I was but at what society expected me to be. It was (although I didn’t think of it in this precise terminology) the gender role I was so naturally horrified by, the heavy expectations put on little girls to be a certain way, to like certain things, to be quiet and pretty and demure. I don’t know whether it was nature or nurture that made me this way, but I certainly am not quiet, demure or even very pretty. As a child I was boisterous, opinionated, intelligent and passionate and didn’t see why I should strive to be someone I wasn’t just because it was the done thing. Yes, I realised, it was people’s attitudes that needed to alter, not me. A sex change was not the answer. Feminism, even though I’d never heard of it back then, certainly was.

I always instinctively identified with the suffragettes and women’s libbers I had heard about in history but I didn’t know a lot about them. I certainly didn’t know that there was a contemporary movement. Then, when I was twelve or thirteen I made the wonderful discovery that was the Independent on Sunday. From my weekly cover to cover readathons, I soon got a basic handle on this controversial movement called feminism. I found, through the printed words of feminist journalists and writers that I was far from the only one who had wrestled with gender issues; I wasn’t the first who had rebelled. I studied hard and learnt important words that tripped off my tongue like bullets; patriarchy, oppression, liberation, sisterhood. As I learnt about the issues involved and the historic depth of female suffering I sometimes sat under my favourite tree in the back garden and cried at the unfairness of it all. On other days I sometimes laughed out loud from the sheer joy of having found kindred spirits; even if I was still a freak at school, there was a sisterhood of women out there, who, like me, wouldn’t be put in a box and told to shut up. They were inspirational, radical, empowering, a godsend to my troubled mind. I don’t even really remember most of their names now even though I would keep cuttings of their articles in a special box under my bed and read them with utmost devotion. Although they are forgotten to me now, the point is that these women existed; I was not alone. I might have been the only girl at my school with short hair and a Sheffield Wednesday obsession, but there had been others before me who broke the mold.

I was, by the age of about fourteen, a committed feminist. Discovering the movement was such a relief to me, I have always been proud to identify with it and its history, even the bits that are troubling or difficult. I believe wholeheartedly in Feminism’s essential truths and I devour any information relating to it with great interest and urgency. As a writer, I have always written about feminist issues (and sometimes struggled with them at great length). I have tried to contribute to the movement in any way I can; encouraging other women to see both the wonderful things we have achieved and the massive mountain we still have to climb. Feminism, for me, was an instinctual thing. I have such a strong sense of equality, diversity and fair play, and such a healthy sense of rebellion that I could never see the world in any other way. For me, it wasn’t like I had a feminist epiphany where I read Germaine Greer and my life turned around. It was more like I would read feminists and think, ‘yeah, I think that too’. Discovering the feminist movement was like a homecoming, it gave me a supportive, nurturing space to put down roots so I could grow proudly into myself, my female self, and gradually out of Jamie.

Face Value

I have one thing to say today and one thing only. If I ever get to such an advanced state of delusion and paranoia that I actually invest twenty pounds or more of my hard earned cash in a pot of anti wrinkle cream (or age reversal moisturing products as they’re tactfully labeled to avoid the W word.) If that occurs, then you, dearest readers of this blog, have my express permission to shoot me. I think if I ever sink to such a moral and intellectual low, even if I am starting to have a face like an elephants behind, then I will be so far gone and so far removed from sanity that the only kind thing to do would be to put me out of my misery.

Seriously though, I was waiting for a phone call this lunchtime and eased the hanging around by watching some daytime TV. This is something I have an explicit policy not to do, but hell, I was feeling rebellious and bored and thought ‘fuck it’. In hindsight, I wish I had thought ‘read Shakespeare’ or ‘listen to the new Grinderman album’ (which is excellent by the way) or even ‘go for a shit’ but no, instead I thought “let’s watch ‘This Morning.’ That will kill a few minutes.” Anyway, I didn’t even get as far as watching Fern Whatsherface and Suited Man because when I switched on it was the adverts. In one break there were about three commercials for anti aging products, each more stupid than the last. By the time I turned the TV off five minutes later I had lost faith in humanity. Not middle aged women; in some ways they’re the people I blame the least. They’re just the victims of this stupid manipulative, pseudo scientific, anti integrity, paranoia feeding and hate spreading propaganda. As express targets of this highly charged emotional headfuckery, I feel that sort of diminishes their responsibility to see through it. But why are we, as sons and daughters and friends of these women not attempting to point out the whole stupidity of the ridiculous scientific claims the adverts make, why are we not telling them the truth? Why do we buy them these products for Christmas even when we personally think they are nonsense? At the risk of sounding weird why do I, when I go home to stay for weekends, always sneakily have a sniff of my mum’s moisturiser that she keeps on the bathroom shelf and feel comforted? Hell, why are we not complimenting their wrinkles, they’re only folded bits of skin after all?

I have been thinking about these questions, and whilst things like career advancement, fashion and social pressures answer some of the questions, the answer that cuts right to the heart of the matter is expressed in the following equation

Age + wrinkles= imminent death.

Most people are terrified of death. Most people are also terrified of their wives, their girlfriends, their friends or their mothers dying. We love them, we need them. Wrinkles are a very visable sign of the aging process and therefore transform the hidden taboo of death into an surface marker of decay that nobody can ignore. We generally recoil at things that are taboo. Including wrinkles. What an anti wrinkle cream offers, in a not so subtle way, is a magic potion, complete with a modern scientific formula, that promises to prolong life and maybe even elude death. It’s very, very seductive and cuts right to the core of our psyches. So even if we suspect it might be nonsense we all play ball. Hence the multi billion pound industry. Hence ‘Oil of Olay’ being the number one Christmas present for mums. After all, it’s morbid to dwell on death. Much better to pretend aging and death isn’t happening, and now you have a secret weapon to help you. Much better to act like an ostrich than face the fact that life is, as my meditation teacher jokes, a ‘100% terminal sexually transmitted disease’. There ain’t no potion that’s going to help cure it, let alone a face cream based on ‘Aloe Vera and micronutrients from crushed pearls’.

WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE. YOUR LOVED ONES ARE GOING TO DIE.

YOU ARE GOING TO DIE.

The Buddha said,

‘Contemplate death like your turban is on fire’

I doubt wiser words have ever been said. As a culture we need face our own mortality. We hide signs of aging with creams and under layers of botox, foundation and makeup. Then, as the ‘disease’ progresses we commit atrocities like locking those 'suffering' from its advanced stages in virtual prisons letting them rot unseen and unheard. Rather than doing this, we should listen to the dying man, talk to the old woman, prepare ourselves for what, one day we will all have to go through. If we did it with great urgency rather than telling ourselves we’re Peter Pans, then maybe we would have a more peaceful death and a less delusional life. One thing I can tell you for sure, this Christmas my mother isn’t getting her usual Boots moisturiser wrapped under the tree. And one of these days, when I’m feeling brave enough, she’s going to get a compliment on her wrinkles.