As I slowly but surely get used to my new hometown of sorts, I have already developed some favourite places, an ever increasing list.
Lewes Road, the one closest to mine, is awash with both funeral parlours and twits with guitars. I hate to think of the implications. Could Brighton be the basis for a closed-circuit economy of dead musicians? It's horrible, but they've all got to somewhere, haven't they?
Apart from the obvious main booksellers', this town has tiny bookshops all around. As told before, I massively enjoy hanging around in them, and looking at the other morons without a life hanging around in these bookshops. What do you mean, self-aware?
About being a cyclist in Brighton: it's doable. It certainly is more of a workout than your average bike ride. I have as yet not experienced serious injury or caused any major accidents. Not yet, though. I have not yet found myself on the wrong side of the road. Save that one time on the cycling path though. Nothing happened! I promise! I was silently tutted, I believe, by the man coming at me and missing me by miles. That's how little danger I am on the road. I'm not sure whether that's something to be proud of, or ashamed. At least it so far contradicts the man who drove me and my belongings from the station into town, nearly a month ago (my God! a month already! And I've achieved so... yeah, let's not go into that) who said that if I, a tall man, would cycle in this town, it would just make me a bigger target. I was reminded of Carmageddon, a crap, collision based video game which I hadn't thought about since 1997 (and for good reason; it was crap) and was perturbed by the prospect of ending up as roadkill. Luckily for me, he was totally wrong.
But possibly my favourite place of them all is a tiny fruit and veg shop near the end of London Road. Run by either a habitually telephoning lady or a very, very old man, it's quaint and there's always something weird going on. As if it were a portal into a different world, like the Leaky Cauldron in Harry Potter (come on! You know you love it!). When I was there last, a week ago, I saw a man eating chips and grumbling at the lady who was on the phone, while I tried to pay for oranges. The man looked about 30 and was dressed very well considering the noise he was emitting. He scared me just a bit, even though he was clearly harmless. But you never know. He was either seriously unhinged or an out-of-work performance artist. You never know for certain in this town.
Apart from that, I've bought 4 books today, and I'm very happy with them, thank you. Let me live now!
See you tomorrow! Bye!
Sunday, 24 October 2010
Friday, 22 October 2010
Friday 22nd October 2010 - Caffè Nero (and equivalents) OR: A Life in Bad Coffee
Some hangovers come on the afterbeat. I realised that I still had been drunk for all of yesterday, as I woke up shitting Guinness into the toilet bowel this morning. I heard the fizzing sound as well. If I got the divorce-papers from my bowels' lawyer in the post today, I wouldn't be surprised. But I did feel better afterwards. I then watched iPlayer from 8 till 2.
After that, cheered up considerably, considering the day before, I worked for an hour on my set and felt quite happy about that but felt most pleased with a single joke I came up with in the shower. It helped me get ready to face the world at large once more. I had thought before I fell asleep last night, that this day would be one of those days where I wouldn't leave the house at all today. Luckily I was wrong.
I went into Brighton to write, and I locked my bike against the tiny steel fence around a tree. As I looked to my right, I saw a Big Issue seller. I always feel a sting in my heart when I see them, yet in my ongoing attempt to be a bit more of a bastard I force myself to walk on and pretend not to care. It's patronising to give money to Big Issues salesmen. Plus I bought one from one of them in Edinburgh and it was disappointing. As I was fighting with the lock, I saw an old man coming up to the homeless man. I still had my iPod in, so couldn't hear their conversation. It soon became apparent that the man was very angry at the Big Issue salesman, and was admonishing him for something. I took out my earplugs. Even the people on the bench turned round.
The man, apparently, was angry at the Big Issue seller, saying that he was out of a job for years, having to live off very little. But, the old man said, he got by. He was going (I paraphrase): 'You've got some guts coming here, begging for working people's money! You should be ashamed of yourself!' Just as it looked like things could turn ugly, the old man left, leaving us feeling a bit weird about it all. I finished locking my bike and got up. The Big Issue seller went on trying to sell his paper. Knowing that I had already acknowledged his existence, he asked me if I wanted to buy one; but I, evilly, ignored him. I am a bastard. When walking away, I thought that he might punish me by weeing on my bike, which would be fair enough, to be honest.
I finally went into Café Nero, and, again, thought for too long about what to buy. Don't know why, to be honest. All coffee is the same there anyway; it's more about having an excuse to sit anywhere for a prolonged period of time. I like Café Nero and similar chains for three reasons. One: People who sit there by themselves don't really want to be there and so get the stuff done that they need to do, such as writing, reading notes or read a book and therefore waste time by going out and living instead of being inside and not doing so. I might be projecting. Two: People who sit there with others are there because they need to talk about serious stuff that they can't in pubs (which are predicated on a shared sense of fun). Three: it's a combined heaven and hell for caffeine-addicts who don't mind being patronised.
This is a bit I wrote when there: why the bum is the Air Con so aggressive? It's giving me pneumonia of the ears! I moved to the right, which unfortunately isn't as hidden as the other spot. It's slightly better on the coldness-front, though. A lady sits down at that place now. Good luck!
In conclusion: I love Caffè Nero for it's not immediately necessary to have a good time there, but ok if you do. It's also socially accepted to just sit down in by yourself and not really do anything else without being a scary stalker.
Which leads to another entry in the category: I SEE DUTCH PEOPLE: just seen two. A grandmother struggling to be nice to her chubby grandson, who only wants chocolate-based crap. She came back with 2 poshly dressed girls. I immediately hated them. By the way, note the innate sense of class warfare in my rhetoric. It's obvious. You can take a child out of Steiner School...
After I came back to my bike, I had a chat with the Big Issue Salesman; which I might tell you about, but not today. Ha! Beat that, Hitchcock! Who's the master of suspense, now?
Bye!
After that, cheered up considerably, considering the day before, I worked for an hour on my set and felt quite happy about that but felt most pleased with a single joke I came up with in the shower. It helped me get ready to face the world at large once more. I had thought before I fell asleep last night, that this day would be one of those days where I wouldn't leave the house at all today. Luckily I was wrong.
I went into Brighton to write, and I locked my bike against the tiny steel fence around a tree. As I looked to my right, I saw a Big Issue seller. I always feel a sting in my heart when I see them, yet in my ongoing attempt to be a bit more of a bastard I force myself to walk on and pretend not to care. It's patronising to give money to Big Issues salesmen. Plus I bought one from one of them in Edinburgh and it was disappointing. As I was fighting with the lock, I saw an old man coming up to the homeless man. I still had my iPod in, so couldn't hear their conversation. It soon became apparent that the man was very angry at the Big Issue salesman, and was admonishing him for something. I took out my earplugs. Even the people on the bench turned round.
The man, apparently, was angry at the Big Issue seller, saying that he was out of a job for years, having to live off very little. But, the old man said, he got by. He was going (I paraphrase): 'You've got some guts coming here, begging for working people's money! You should be ashamed of yourself!' Just as it looked like things could turn ugly, the old man left, leaving us feeling a bit weird about it all. I finished locking my bike and got up. The Big Issue seller went on trying to sell his paper. Knowing that I had already acknowledged his existence, he asked me if I wanted to buy one; but I, evilly, ignored him. I am a bastard. When walking away, I thought that he might punish me by weeing on my bike, which would be fair enough, to be honest.
I finally went into Café Nero, and, again, thought for too long about what to buy. Don't know why, to be honest. All coffee is the same there anyway; it's more about having an excuse to sit anywhere for a prolonged period of time. I like Café Nero and similar chains for three reasons. One: People who sit there by themselves don't really want to be there and so get the stuff done that they need to do, such as writing, reading notes or read a book and therefore waste time by going out and living instead of being inside and not doing so. I might be projecting. Two: People who sit there with others are there because they need to talk about serious stuff that they can't in pubs (which are predicated on a shared sense of fun). Three: it's a combined heaven and hell for caffeine-addicts who don't mind being patronised.
This is a bit I wrote when there: why the bum is the Air Con so aggressive? It's giving me pneumonia of the ears! I moved to the right, which unfortunately isn't as hidden as the other spot. It's slightly better on the coldness-front, though. A lady sits down at that place now. Good luck!
In conclusion: I love Caffè Nero for it's not immediately necessary to have a good time there, but ok if you do. It's also socially accepted to just sit down in by yourself and not really do anything else without being a scary stalker.
Which leads to another entry in the category: I SEE DUTCH PEOPLE: just seen two. A grandmother struggling to be nice to her chubby grandson, who only wants chocolate-based crap. She came back with 2 poshly dressed girls. I immediately hated them. By the way, note the innate sense of class warfare in my rhetoric. It's obvious. You can take a child out of Steiner School...
After I came back to my bike, I had a chat with the Big Issue Salesman; which I might tell you about, but not today. Ha! Beat that, Hitchcock! Who's the master of suspense, now?
Bye!
Thursday 21st October 2010 - Good Advice for Morons
I woke up after about 5 hours sleep, not too tired, but not very awake either. I went over the embarrassing things I did last night (which, in retrospect, weren't as insane as I made out to be to myself) and promised myself 400 times to never (ever) drink again. Does this make me an alcoholic or just someone who spends too much time with my self-flagellating inner monologue? Both, probably.
It turned out to be quite an off-day; I read the set text for the course I had, but didn't really engage with other people or amount to anything apart from course work. When I did open my mouth, I usually thought the things I had said where stupid on every level.
Another tip for future exchangers: remember that when you leave the place you're from, you also take yourself with you. You don't change. If you have bad habits at home, you'll still have them when you're abroad. You might be nicer to your hungover self than I am to mine, but we're all flawed, and moving to another country doesn't immediately change you or remove your weaknesses.
I did feel like a div today and fell asleep at eight, missing a friend's performance I had promised to attend. I am abusing this medium to apologise to her. Even though she probably won't read it. I'm sorry!
One funny thing I had failed to mention thus far: on my way back from school, I always cycle on a road where someone has written in chalk: BOD IS A MORON. This never fails to amuse me. Unless there is some horribly violent back story to this quite charming epiphet, which will cause me to still be amused by it, but slightly less overtly than I am now.
It turned out to be quite an off-day; I read the set text for the course I had, but didn't really engage with other people or amount to anything apart from course work. When I did open my mouth, I usually thought the things I had said where stupid on every level.
Another tip for future exchangers: remember that when you leave the place you're from, you also take yourself with you. You don't change. If you have bad habits at home, you'll still have them when you're abroad. You might be nicer to your hungover self than I am to mine, but we're all flawed, and moving to another country doesn't immediately change you or remove your weaknesses.
I did feel like a div today and fell asleep at eight, missing a friend's performance I had promised to attend. I am abusing this medium to apologise to her. Even though she probably won't read it. I'm sorry!
One funny thing I had failed to mention thus far: on my way back from school, I always cycle on a road where someone has written in chalk: BOD IS A MORON. This never fails to amuse me. Unless there is some horribly violent back story to this quite charming epiphet, which will cause me to still be amused by it, but slightly less overtly than I am now.
Wednesday 20th October 2010 - Good Times and Performance Art
After talking about Meyerhold for too long, I had a very enjoyable lecture, after which we (by which I mean me and the rest of the class) set off on a tour of several performance venues in Brighton. This was a very nice ideas, since it meant that I didn't have to go there myself, awkwardly shuffling in, feeling out of place; like a gecko in a brewery. Apart from that: the end of the tour promised free booze. If anything gets students going, it's that (remember that; all companies in the world!).
We walked across town, seeing nice contemporary art works by local artists and snatching free coffees here and there. I very much enjoyed being there with the first-year group of drama students I am only part of for this course. Amongst others, we saw the Brighton Dome, the Basement and Komedia venues and some nice galleries. After this, we reconvened in the Basement for free drinks and talk about stuff. After the one free drink we, cheaply, decided to go on to the pub.
I got massively drunk, this being the first time that I was seriously smashed on British soil since Edinburgh 2009. That doesn't mean I didn't enjoy it. I very much did. But I also made the mistake of forgetting to eat and over-drinking. It's very bad.
My saving grace was that I wasn't the only one getting smashed. We all did, and had a great time. And I got home, still being able to cycle and process words, but not to stand, at half eleven. I was quite happy with having made new friends and spending time with other people and fell asleep not much later.
We walked across town, seeing nice contemporary art works by local artists and snatching free coffees here and there. I very much enjoyed being there with the first-year group of drama students I am only part of for this course. Amongst others, we saw the Brighton Dome, the Basement and Komedia venues and some nice galleries. After this, we reconvened in the Basement for free drinks and talk about stuff. After the one free drink we, cheaply, decided to go on to the pub.
I got massively drunk, this being the first time that I was seriously smashed on British soil since Edinburgh 2009. That doesn't mean I didn't enjoy it. I very much did. But I also made the mistake of forgetting to eat and over-drinking. It's very bad.
My saving grace was that I wasn't the only one getting smashed. We all did, and had a great time. And I got home, still being able to cycle and process words, but not to stand, at half eleven. I was quite happy with having made new friends and spending time with other people and fell asleep not much later.
Tuesday 19th October 2010 - A History of Oneself in Some Random Objects
The main reason that it look a little while longer for this daily blog to continue unabated, is because of today. On days I've got seminars, I'm mainly focused on those, so don't really experience life apart from that. So I could write about The Revenger's Tragedy, which I read in its entirety today, my Making Theatre coursework or the presentation on Vsevolod Meyerhold I overprepared for. That was my life today; and little else, to be honest.
I sometimes wonder how I would have survived without the internet. I would have read more, watched more day-time television, possibly played more video games. This last one only really works if I would have been here about fifteen years ago. In the 1970s, I'd have been fucked. Not literally, I mean with ways of wasting my time. But they did have drugs then, and that was all fine in that age, apparently. If it had been the 1920s, I probably wouldn't even be here. Mainly for class-reasons. And because I'd have been a highly inept farm worker (you can't change some things) instead of a student, with a grant and full support by the government (to all government officials reading this blog: I do actually deserve this, I provide services to the arts, free of charge. You can't cut me! I'm like a cultural attaché for Dutch comedy! The highly rare and unmarketable sardonic style that is).
Speaking of me as a farm worker; I'm ridiculously inept at garden-based work. This is annoying, since I spring from a long heritage of farmers, who for at least 450 years have lived in and around the town of Jutphaas which is now the very sexy Nieuwegein (see! I can be ambassador!). Over the years, I've tried helping family members with activities like weeding and harvesting things. It usually ended up with me angry, panting (bad stamina) and hating all multicellular life. Including algae, who are shits. I hate gardening. I used to have dreams about me being sent to some kind of garden in hell, where I had to do weeding until the end of recorded time; with the roses stinging me and the ferns laughing at my ineptness.
Ironically, when I was at Steiner School in the early 2000s, I succeeded in getting my reaping-diploma. I'm now officially qualified to work the scythe. That will come in handy, cause if my artistic plans would fail; my official plan B is being the lord of Doom.
Speaking of Steiner School; reading about Meyerhold made me think about a book-sale I once organised at my school. It went fine, future employers, it was a victory of common sense over a meaningless and chaotic world (i.e. I am Best). Apart from ironic braggadocio (wonderful, wonderful word); in between the stuff we tried to sell, I found an LP with the title: Socialist Songs of Victory, by the Worker's Choir of Amersfoort.
The sleeve amused, scared and fascinated me in equal measure. Never having lived through a period of time where communism was actively working (arguably) in Eastern Europe (disregarding Belarus; which is a scary dictatorship (take that!)) and was therefore close, it was alien to me. This LP of overly earnest songs on it made by people who are now either dead, very embarrassed or very proud about having made it (there seems to be no middle ground with this kind of thing). I never listened to it, but was sufficiently fascinated by it, that I remembered holding this very alien thing in my hand, while reading about an equally earnest Theatre Practitioner. I've also gotten into BBC's A History of the World in a Hundred Objects. Although I doubt whether they'd let me write for the next series.
I sometimes wonder how I would have survived without the internet. I would have read more, watched more day-time television, possibly played more video games. This last one only really works if I would have been here about fifteen years ago. In the 1970s, I'd have been fucked. Not literally, I mean with ways of wasting my time. But they did have drugs then, and that was all fine in that age, apparently. If it had been the 1920s, I probably wouldn't even be here. Mainly for class-reasons. And because I'd have been a highly inept farm worker (you can't change some things) instead of a student, with a grant and full support by the government (to all government officials reading this blog: I do actually deserve this, I provide services to the arts, free of charge. You can't cut me! I'm like a cultural attaché for Dutch comedy! The highly rare and unmarketable sardonic style that is).
Speaking of me as a farm worker; I'm ridiculously inept at garden-based work. This is annoying, since I spring from a long heritage of farmers, who for at least 450 years have lived in and around the town of Jutphaas which is now the very sexy Nieuwegein (see! I can be ambassador!). Over the years, I've tried helping family members with activities like weeding and harvesting things. It usually ended up with me angry, panting (bad stamina) and hating all multicellular life. Including algae, who are shits. I hate gardening. I used to have dreams about me being sent to some kind of garden in hell, where I had to do weeding until the end of recorded time; with the roses stinging me and the ferns laughing at my ineptness.
Ironically, when I was at Steiner School in the early 2000s, I succeeded in getting my reaping-diploma. I'm now officially qualified to work the scythe. That will come in handy, cause if my artistic plans would fail; my official plan B is being the lord of Doom.
Speaking of Steiner School; reading about Meyerhold made me think about a book-sale I once organised at my school. It went fine, future employers, it was a victory of common sense over a meaningless and chaotic world (i.e. I am Best). Apart from ironic braggadocio (wonderful, wonderful word); in between the stuff we tried to sell, I found an LP with the title: Socialist Songs of Victory, by the Worker's Choir of Amersfoort.
The sleeve amused, scared and fascinated me in equal measure. Never having lived through a period of time where communism was actively working (arguably) in Eastern Europe (disregarding Belarus; which is a scary dictatorship (take that!)) and was therefore close, it was alien to me. This LP of overly earnest songs on it made by people who are now either dead, very embarrassed or very proud about having made it (there seems to be no middle ground with this kind of thing). I never listened to it, but was sufficiently fascinated by it, that I remembered holding this very alien thing in my hand, while reading about an equally earnest Theatre Practitioner. I've also gotten into BBC's A History of the World in a Hundred Objects. Although I doubt whether they'd let me write for the next series.
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
Monday 18th October 2010: A Non-Angry Blog (for once)
Can it be? A blog that isn't angry or miserable in any way? Yes it can. And today will be that day. Tomorrow: back on the misery-river (sly Tom Waits reference there, for anyone who cares, which is no-one).
Today I finally succeeded in seeing some comedy, in a basement near the seafront. I was there far too early (as per usual) so I went to the pebble-based beach to look at the ocean and just enjoy it. The last vestige of Steiner School education is an unnatural attraction to large natural objects and the ability to enjoy these on a metaphysical level. I'm ashamed of it but I do. Maybe I'll grow out of it one day. So as I was standing there, for nigh on ten minutes, I let my mind wander; as I saw the waves crashing down, rumbling loudly very quickly after one another. The tide was going out. I felt into my pocket and found a clove of garlic. Now, if I were five years younger, I'd say that was a sign. For something or other. Not sure what. For me, most superstitions need an incongruous amount of research. I forgot to throw it in the sea though, and walked back.
As I walked back from the surf, I looked at one of those outbuildings from the Boulevard onto the beach. It was in the same neo-classical style as the bulk of Brighton's seafront, but after a seriously rare unforced double-take, I saw it was a gym. An actual gym, near the sea. Pretty cool, yes. And it made me laugh, because it was so unexpected.
I did get there on time (a bit early even, still), checked the lock on my bike a second time and went in. It was busy, and I wondered whether I would be unlucky again, like last time. Fortunately I wasn't. The gig was in a basement, very dark, so I even I could hide in a corner, in that lovely Gollum-esque way that I have. I didn't, and grabbed a chair right in the middle of the path to the toilets from the bar, as it turned out. To counter that, I moved slightly forward, so everyone had to pass behind me.
I did enjoy myself though. I hadn't been in a comedy club since the Fringe, and always enjoy the slightly clandestine nature of it. There's something terribly sweet about 50 people packing themselves into a basement to laugh at one of their number on a slightly raised step. I remembered why I came to this country, to do this. This is the best thing in the world. Well, no, DOING comedy is the best thing in the world. But Zoe Lyons and Sean Walsh weren't far off.
More happy next time! Bye!
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When wondering if he would be able to actually attend the night's gig (see his indelible track record), Jorik was wondering what to write about for that day's blog. Then, as he went into a supermarket, he saw a small boy with the stupidest haircut he had ever seen. A spider's web, on the back of the boy's head (who can't have been older than about 9) and an actual spider on the front, in the spider-man style.
Now, a couple of questions need to be asked. Why would anyone have their own head as a way of advertising an already overexposed cartoon character (who, I must admit, was my favourite superhero as a child too and always will be). How could his mother agree with that plan? But most importantly: Spider's don't even have hair! They're arachnids (not insects, you idiot!)! Strictly speaking, only mammals have hair, and spiders (along with some caterpillars) have hairlike protrusions from their bodies but not actual hair. So this vain and self-regarding combination of hair and Spiders was incongruous and erroneous. There. And after he said that to the child, he was arrested and spent the rest of my life in prison.
Still angry, eh? No worries, better luck next time.
Today I finally succeeded in seeing some comedy, in a basement near the seafront. I was there far too early (as per usual) so I went to the pebble-based beach to look at the ocean and just enjoy it. The last vestige of Steiner School education is an unnatural attraction to large natural objects and the ability to enjoy these on a metaphysical level. I'm ashamed of it but I do. Maybe I'll grow out of it one day. So as I was standing there, for nigh on ten minutes, I let my mind wander; as I saw the waves crashing down, rumbling loudly very quickly after one another. The tide was going out. I felt into my pocket and found a clove of garlic. Now, if I were five years younger, I'd say that was a sign. For something or other. Not sure what. For me, most superstitions need an incongruous amount of research. I forgot to throw it in the sea though, and walked back.
As I walked back from the surf, I looked at one of those outbuildings from the Boulevard onto the beach. It was in the same neo-classical style as the bulk of Brighton's seafront, but after a seriously rare unforced double-take, I saw it was a gym. An actual gym, near the sea. Pretty cool, yes. And it made me laugh, because it was so unexpected.
I did get there on time (a bit early even, still), checked the lock on my bike a second time and went in. It was busy, and I wondered whether I would be unlucky again, like last time. Fortunately I wasn't. The gig was in a basement, very dark, so I even I could hide in a corner, in that lovely Gollum-esque way that I have. I didn't, and grabbed a chair right in the middle of the path to the toilets from the bar, as it turned out. To counter that, I moved slightly forward, so everyone had to pass behind me.
I did enjoy myself though. I hadn't been in a comedy club since the Fringe, and always enjoy the slightly clandestine nature of it. There's something terribly sweet about 50 people packing themselves into a basement to laugh at one of their number on a slightly raised step. I remembered why I came to this country, to do this. This is the best thing in the world. Well, no, DOING comedy is the best thing in the world. But Zoe Lyons and Sean Walsh weren't far off.
More happy next time! Bye!
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When wondering if he would be able to actually attend the night's gig (see his indelible track record), Jorik was wondering what to write about for that day's blog. Then, as he went into a supermarket, he saw a small boy with the stupidest haircut he had ever seen. A spider's web, on the back of the boy's head (who can't have been older than about 9) and an actual spider on the front, in the spider-man style.
Now, a couple of questions need to be asked. Why would anyone have their own head as a way of advertising an already overexposed cartoon character (who, I must admit, was my favourite superhero as a child too and always will be). How could his mother agree with that plan? But most importantly: Spider's don't even have hair! They're arachnids (not insects, you idiot!)! Strictly speaking, only mammals have hair, and spiders (along with some caterpillars) have hairlike protrusions from their bodies but not actual hair. So this vain and self-regarding combination of hair and Spiders was incongruous and erroneous. There. And after he said that to the child, he was arrested and spent the rest of my life in prison.
Still angry, eh? No worries, better luck next time.
Monday, 18 October 2010
Sunday 17th October: Libraries part one
As I needed to do some work on a project, I went, as I did yesterday, to the library on the campus after finishing my blog (and, granted, some iPlayer). It always seems to be easier to actually get work done while you're out of the house, even though I'm still carrying the main problem (a laptop) with me. I really enjoy working in this library, partly because it reminds me of the library I used to frequent as a child which was decorated in the same style (i.e. wood, brick and brownish grey carpets. I'm a master of description as you can see...). I like libraries as a whole, and if everything goes wrong, I might end up working in one someday. Although I never excelled at the being quiet-bit. I mainly like them for the same reasons everyone else likes them: because all other people are quiet. They're a great way of pretending to be around people in the outside world while actually being very anti-social. Plus, again, you get some work done.
But libraries are more than a way for me to get work done, they're refuges, places of quiet in confusing big cities. When I was in Edinburgh the last two years, I liked to go to the library on the South Bridge (correct me if I'm wrong, but the one just off the Royal Mile) and just walk around and browse. It's the only way to get away from overly aggressive mime-artists and expressionist modern dancers in the street.
Libraries are also the last bastions of those quixotics trying to make sense of the world by dividing it up and naming things. Yes, genres. Every book in the library has its place, it's there for a reason. It knows why it is there. But only larger libraries can afford to place specific genres on say, a specific floor. Every smaller one has to compromise. In Edinburgh for instance, the left side of the building was devoted to Travel, History and Politics, signified by a small plaque. One can understand this system, for these three tend to overlap.
It can also go awry; in the same library, another bookcase was called: Bibliography, Cookery, Militaria. Why? Who on earth would write a book combining the three of those? Only if Jamie Oliver went to war against Gordon Ramsay in an all-out, book-based melee of kitchen knives and swear words. Luckily for us, that day might never come.
It can get worse though. In a small library in Holland, I saw on one and the same shelf: Thriller, Biography and Horses.
Since when is Horses a literary genre? Can it be taught? Do people write books with Horse-based notions and conventions in mind to try and subvert Horse-based books in a Post-Horse way? Can you write about anything else than the Pony Express? What about My Little Pony? Is that Horse-based literature or Science-Horse? If so much literature has been written about horses, isn't it unfair that they themselves never have the chance to read it? We must do something about the representation of horses in literature!
Ok, that's enough now.
And what about zebras?
Shut up.
In the end, I had a great time at the library, and I will go there again someday, probably.
I'm bored now. Bye!
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Today, Jorik also fell asleep over a (really very good) documentary on Chopin on iPlayer. It features a smug young pianist (who's actually 34 and an ex-city boy, so not young at all!), a great Russo-Welsh singer and lots of French people speaking English not very well. And he loved it to bits. But it was also very late. So he finished it the next morning before breakfast. It reminded him of tiny picture books his Suzuki Piano teacher used to have that told the story of great composers in a patronising way with beautiful watercoloured pictures. Nice!
But libraries are more than a way for me to get work done, they're refuges, places of quiet in confusing big cities. When I was in Edinburgh the last two years, I liked to go to the library on the South Bridge (correct me if I'm wrong, but the one just off the Royal Mile) and just walk around and browse. It's the only way to get away from overly aggressive mime-artists and expressionist modern dancers in the street.
Libraries are also the last bastions of those quixotics trying to make sense of the world by dividing it up and naming things. Yes, genres. Every book in the library has its place, it's there for a reason. It knows why it is there. But only larger libraries can afford to place specific genres on say, a specific floor. Every smaller one has to compromise. In Edinburgh for instance, the left side of the building was devoted to Travel, History and Politics, signified by a small plaque. One can understand this system, for these three tend to overlap.
It can also go awry; in the same library, another bookcase was called: Bibliography, Cookery, Militaria. Why? Who on earth would write a book combining the three of those? Only if Jamie Oliver went to war against Gordon Ramsay in an all-out, book-based melee of kitchen knives and swear words. Luckily for us, that day might never come.
It can get worse though. In a small library in Holland, I saw on one and the same shelf: Thriller, Biography and Horses.
Since when is Horses a literary genre? Can it be taught? Do people write books with Horse-based notions and conventions in mind to try and subvert Horse-based books in a Post-Horse way? Can you write about anything else than the Pony Express? What about My Little Pony? Is that Horse-based literature or Science-Horse? If so much literature has been written about horses, isn't it unfair that they themselves never have the chance to read it? We must do something about the representation of horses in literature!
Ok, that's enough now.
And what about zebras?
Shut up.
In the end, I had a great time at the library, and I will go there again someday, probably.
I'm bored now. Bye!
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Today, Jorik also fell asleep over a (really very good) documentary on Chopin on iPlayer. It features a smug young pianist (who's actually 34 and an ex-city boy, so not young at all!), a great Russo-Welsh singer and lots of French people speaking English not very well. And he loved it to bits. But it was also very late. So he finished it the next morning before breakfast. It reminded him of tiny picture books his Suzuki Piano teacher used to have that told the story of great composers in a patronising way with beautiful watercoloured pictures. Nice!
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