Life of Pi

Life of Pi.

Life of Pi

Before I start this review I have three quite significant confessions.

1. I have not read the book.

2. I have never seen a 3D film and have an unfounded suspicion of new technology.

 

3. I hate sentimentalised or humanised animals in fiction (Disney makes me violent).

So perhaps this was never going to be the film for me. But it wasn’t all bad.

The opening credits role on to a delightful (3D!) montage of animals in a zoo. First impressions of 3D: A bit like walking through a mall/theme park with bright and distracting things uninvitedly jumping out at you.

Also it seems that animals are far more suited to 3D than they are zoos. In a zoo you never get really close to animals (except in the petting zoo,

which doesn’t count), but in a 3D film they come right to your seat, tigers, elephants, hyenas, flying fish. Not only that, but thanks to CGI, zoom, suspended cameras and editing we don’t have to wait around in front of the cages for hours waiting for the sad, indifferent lion to stop being sad and growl at us.

The next 30 minutes proceed to be, in my eyes, the best of the film. After the first sequence 3D takes a backseat and we follow the lives of an affluent, zoo owning family in Ponticerri complete with two little boys who would give the slumdog millionaire kids a run for their cuteness points. A very real and well acted family dynamic is set up – one which is unfortunately soon forgotten. I prepare myself for a challenging – due to aforementioned bias- but thoughtful story which develops characters and relationships through the animals they own.

Thus, although sad to leave the only love interest behind, I am convinced that these relationships will continue to develop once the family set sail for canada.

Unfortunately, minutes into the voyage it all goes a bit titanic and we are left with only our adolescent, multi-faith protagonist and a lifeboat which is also host to the muted (only just) cast of Madagascar. And despite having grown up in a zoo, Pi seems to have no idea how to deal with the animals, even the docile zebra. Instead he retreats to the bow of the boat to ponder his situation.

Before long the Jackal kills the Zebra, then the orang-utan, then a tiger appears and kills the Jackal. We are now stuck on a small boat with 3, rather large, animal corpses (luckily they are yet to invent smell films) and a very hungry, angry and confused Bengal tiger and a slightly characterless teenager.

And so begins the next two hours.

No food or water. Food and water found in hold (duh?). Food and water put on self made raft to protect from tiger. Killer whale jumps. Raft tips. No food or water. Lets fish. Lets not. Storm. Poor tiger (I cried as CGI geniuses made a tiger look sad and sea sick). Suddenly land. A man eating island. Think lemmings.

 need a close up?

Wait, could this all be a hunger and thirst induced figment of the imaginaition??? Oh, there’s Mexico. Tiger leaves without a wave. Inconsiderate bastard. Phew. More characters please.

And then comes the almighty TWIST. Little Pi is asked for a more ‘believable’ story by the authorities. So he gives the same but where the jackal is the ships cook, the zebra the Buddhist sailor, the orang-utan is Pi’s mother and the hungry tiger is our brave protagonist. I see little resemblance in any of these pairings in either character or appearance.

So then we, via unimportant cabbage resembling author man, are asked – which story do we like best?

Hmmmm.

 

Well Pi, to be honest I would probably have preferred the story with real people if you had illustrated it and filled in the details as you have done with the animals for the past 2 hours. Though perhaps not in 3D – Gerard Depardieu aka Cook flying through the theatre with a knife may have been a little disturbing .Humans, I’m sorry to say, usually appear more interesting than animals – even if said animals have sad desperate eyes and are in 3D. That is not to say that people are more interesting than animals full stop. It’s just that at our level of perception, communication and interpretation we just don’t get quite as much out of animal characters as we do human ones. As Pi’s dad (my favourite character, pity he died) said, when we look at animals we only see our own thoughts and emotions reflected back. Perhaps if Pi had been a slightly fuller character, the tiger may have reflected more than just frustration and hunger. The animal/human relationship/doppelganger can be done wonderfully – see Philip Pullmans His Dark Materials.

Pi’s story is promised to make anyone believe in God. Must have missed that bit. I guess it kinda shows how what we believe doesn’t have to bear resemblance to the reality we see. In our imaginations we create reality as we like it. Yeah I agree with that; drunken nights: if I can’t remember it then it didn’t happen.

Or maybe I completely missed the point. In the end Pi seems to say – against his fathers advice – that like religion, you can’t just choose one path through, because everything is far more complex than that.

A really big dalmatian.

After a wonderful day of wondering I sat and watched the people come and go on the ring-bahn. I watched this encounter with a smile, but, understanding few of the actual words exchanged, I have related it as I imagined it may happen in England.

A man and a woman meet on a train. The man has a giant dalmatian with red soggy eyes which lies across the aisle juggling its’ jowls. The woman enters the carriage two stops after the man, though she has been on this train since the morning; up and down four times already half-heartedly selling her magazines.

She gives her speech in a voice resigned to the deaf eyes of commuters and tourists then sits down without checking if anyone is interested. They are not.  She is wearing a dress which feathers out beneath her coat and it flutters attractively as she pats her foot, not impatiently, to the sound of the rails.

She seems at home and now, unburdened of her purpose, she looks around at her fellow passengers as a regular may observe new clientele at a bar.

The dog, which is now at her feet, raises its bigger than human head to look at her across her knees and dribbles.

She laughs unfazed as slobber drips to her shoes.

‘Your dog likes my legs.’ She giggles.

The man, who – despite his shaven head and black attire – is listening to Franz Ferdinand, removes his headphones.

‘Sorry. Is he, bothering you?’ After a pause he adds ‘My dog, I mean.’

‘Nah!’ She laughs, but doesn’t repeat her joke.

‘He’s a big ‘un! Must be a right handful!’ She continues.

‘Aye, you got that right. Lazy as hell as well.’ He is slightly surprised by his rhyme and looks down at the dog, ruffling its short fur.

‘Eat like lion though does he?’ She bends down and wiggles her nose at the beast.

‘Sorry?’ He is momentarily distracted by her twitching nose. ‘Oh, yeah. He could keep Maccy D’s in business with the amount he gets through!’

She laughs again, tilting and shaking her head at the animal.

‘Oh shit.’ He notices the dribble still swaying from the dogs mouth and takes a packet of lavender kleenex from his pocket to dab it away. His eyes dart quickly to her legs then wince back as he notices the unmistakable baubles of canine spit on her shoes. His hand pauses for a minute, drawn to this meeting of  attractive stranger and a saliva he almost sees as his own, then snatches back to stow the kleenex back in his leather pocket.

She watches him, seeing only his affection for his dog. She smiles at the ugly thing. Unnecessarily big, incapable, lazy and probably greedy, but loved.

She looks out of the window for the first time in  years and feels her face glow in the afternoon sun.

Then the train eases itself into the next station and she jumps up, her skirt tickling the dogs brow.

She nods at the man. ‘See ya.’

He smiles back, ‘yeah…’

His eyes flicker to her magazines. They both look down and her face glows again as she weaves into the next carriage.

The man pats his dog roughly and watches the city go by for three stops before replacing Franz Ferdinand to his not so deaf ears.

‘

And then 2 weeks went by…

Been a bad blogger.

Mother said I shouldn’t blog about other people’s children especially when I am being paid to teach them. But seeing as other people’s children constitute 90% of the hilarity and interest of my life these days, this rather limits me.

The problem with this cyber diary silliness is that once you start you feel that if you don’t continue your life will only ever exist as one page, one static insignificant point in internet history. It’s not even like a one hit wonder (even if it were a  ‘hit’) becuase they give no promise of continuation. It’s like a tour which finishes after the introductory talk, all you get is safety advice, bad jokes and a the feeling that it’s not gonna be like what it looked in the pictures. Anyway, all I mean is that I have felt guilty ever since I started this that I have not continued. You may even say I have felt under fair amount of (word)press-ure to reblog. SO here goes. For my concience and ye who humour me.

Following mothers advice I shall limit my Kindergarten spiel to one rather mortifying event which includes no Kiddies and reflects only my own humiliation.

After about 5 minutes of living, working and breathing Kindergarten air I had contracted 101 diseases and bugs. Needless to say I had a constant runny nose and a tickle in my throat. At lunch I thought it wise to nip to the pharmacy and buy some vitamin C tablets to protect me from this barrage of foreign antibodies.

An hour later and back on the premises I am found – by three worried mothers – squatting on the bathroom floor attempting to see into into the tiny mirror and trying desperately to wash what appears to be cocaine from my nose and from the sink.  Looking up at my audience I begin to laugh inanely at their expressions of concern and bewilderment and explain – ‘Oh – haha – you see, I’m on MEDICATION’ (I accentuate the last word as if it explains everything, in doing so realising that it is really not the appropriate word and if they didn’t think I was on drugs before they most certainly will now. My tendency to garble the English language in awkward situations remains – it seems – as strong as ever.)

I then back out ,muttering ‘Powder yes, haha like SNOW! Mmm cold yes? So COLD! Tablets you see, EXPLODED!! haha.’ and dabbing at my white powder encrusted face with a handful of wet wipes. I then follow the trail of what is in fact crushed dissolvable vitamin c tablets (this does not mean you can dissolve them in your mouth, a very important and not necessarily obvious point, one I shall certainly be writing to the vitamin c men about) along the corridor and back to the cloakroom where I had attempted the hasty consumption of vitamin c tablets which resulted in the cocaine volcano in my mouth and nose. Sighed and smiled. At least I hadn’t tried to smoke the stuff?

Ok too much said already on that front. I like the kinders and usually they like me.

Right, so now it’s Sunday. Today I visited the nearby flohmarkt at Rathaus Schoneberg where I bought:

White leather sheepskin lined boots: 8€ 

Thick wool arran jumper: 8€

Wool gloves: 3€

Leather trousers (ironically of course): 1€

I nearly bought a very lovely but very huge mohair cape for 90€ but luckily thought better of it.

The market was full of junk and probably quite a few fleas (especially on the 1€ tables) but there were quite a few bits and bobs stalls brimming with oddities and mismatched pieces of History which I look forward to rummaging through on a warmer day. (It is still -8 here which is comparatively warm but still not quite mild enough to amble.)

Laden with my spoils in old assorted carrier bags I stumbled into the first open establishment selling coffee to warm my blue fingerkuppen. It turned out to be a nice little kebab shop where I ordered:

1 kaffee: 80 cts

and, much to the owners -and my own – surprise, half a chicken, on its own: 1.50€

I felt awfully I don’t know – German? Eastern? Poor?? Dickhead? Cold? – sitting at a little creaking table in the corner with a black turkish coffee warming my fingerless gloved hands and dressed in new (but old) wool and fur. Could this be it? My own bohemia?

But then. Oh shit. The four year old turkish girl at the next table asks for nutella with her kebab, ruining my timeless moment of rustic citylife. Or maybe she just gets it better than I do? Maybe she’s the real bohemian, the real alternative here. I can’t believe I have been outquirked by a 4 year old girl in a mickey mouse jacket.

Mental note: order nutella with my next currywurst and watch awed eyes widen behind thick rimmed glasses. Ironic FOOD!? How did we not think of that?? 

On seeing the dish in question in the flesh (and in the nutella) I hasten to add that I sincerely hope ironic eating – at least of the nutella+kebab variety – does not catch on. If anyone had wondered how to make a doner kebab look less appetising well here is your answer. (I had no camera but I’m sure you can use your imagination.)

Oh my GOTT, on a completely different but slightly related note which I can’t believe I neglected to mention before: In Germany,you can get Milka philadelphia!??  That’s like halfway to a cheesecake… in your sandwich. Wow. In fact this discovery nearly prompted me yo do a best/worst things i’ve found blog. But now it’s kinda defunct as chocoloate philly was definitely the highlight.

Ok, so what else have I done? LOADS. Speed through my first 2 weeks?

Walking east then north then east again then back west. Nearly spending all money in COLOURS KREUZBERG pay per kilo vintage ship on coats and dresses. Settle for (real!?) fur purple scarflet for 3€ found in an off road antique shop which was a brilliant purchase and has since slept soundly upon my clavicle.

Take arty photos of nothings.

Marvel at the sense and the shape of Berlin and its skylines and its groundlines which run along like a family of centuries. Follow the pavements stopping only for coffee or a quick look up.

Come across a gallery opening for Erich Rauschenbach. Listen to his speech, understand 3 words, clap and nod all the same. Look at the pictures for 10 minutes smiling and nodding then exit though the back door untouched by the art but exhilirated by my ability to drift through it.

Dinner and wine with friends which is delicious and civilised in German and English. Bar in Wedding. Very drunk Indian man who thinks he’s a millionaire and desperately buys everyone drinks to prove it. Keeps asking for champagne – stupid question as this is Berlin Hipster territory – only bubbles here are ironic speech bubbles screen printed onto  your tote bags. End up at a club in mitte where we dance dance dance till 5 or 6.

Walk walk walk this way that way u-bahn s-bahn kaffee pretzel. More snow. Freeze a little getting lost among the nausea of the holocaust and its memorial.

Then my first working week. Getting rather fond of the S1.

A quick trip to Wannsee after work one day is very lovely despite the cold and the huge ghostly villas which block the icy surface from our path.

Friday brings a private tour round the Reichstag which is wonderful in the snow beside the frozen spree. So vast an expanse of meeting rooms and security checks and tunnels, so many tunnels… seem to contradict the significant openness of Norman Foster‘s dome. Where are the decisions made? What are the decisions?Politics seems evermore to be an endless goose chase down miles and miles dim tunnels which cross but never connect, laid out by miners in the dark.

Then for a cocktail in Schoneberg, a bleeding finger, a smokey bar, an even smokier bar in Neukolln and a rejection from Berghain.

A perfect Saturday of hungover shopping and giggling with girls. I finally buy a big warm duvet coat and then it’s time for music, pizza, red wine and a couple of Isreali’s.

Another bar and then a private party which we are led to by some friends from the train. Dancing, talking, a strange coincidence, a blur.

Wake up to more snow. A plan, a turkish bakery for stale provisions, a train a frozen lake, a perfect day. The most beautifully tree trimmed pane of calm. Spread with fresh creamy snow and scattered with black peppercorn marbles which actually look more like burnt matchsticks as they skate and stroll in the rare busyness of this space.

 

We join them – unfortunately not on skates – and make our way across the frozen depths. Ice hockey, excited dogs,children and sweethearts pulled upon wooden sleighs, yelps and laughter as all skid on black ice, black and white or colour?

A much needed gluwein  from a real Haus am See and waiter who looks like Jim Carey’s German doppelganger.

There was more but that’s enough for today.

Tag 2

After some Kaffee und einen Apfel I found my way across the western suburbs to my first interview.

Leaving the S Bahn at Botanischer Garten I rushed(already running a little late) through pretty and sleepy residential allees, the delicately crafted windows of the art nouveau apartment blocks  squinting as the morning sun woke up their reflections and brightened their shadowy faces.

The interview was for a job as a Kindergarten teacher. It was – as I had found out just as I was leaving – to be in German. I had consequently spent the S Bahn journey reading my dictionary, but it was a rather quick journey so I only got as far as abfurhmittel (laxative) and I hoped I wouldn’t have to resort to this latest piece  of vocabulary.

The Kindergarten was a simple one storey building which sat among a green, tree scattered play ground. On this beautifully frosty morning the wooden train, nestled between towering oaks, looked as if it could have rolled in from the snaking railway which the playground backed on to. And I was rather tempted to climb into the carriage and wish for Na?rnia.

I was welcomed by a prim but smiley and unintimidating lady who led me to the office. After a bit of stunted German they kindly agreed to do the interview in English. Phew, no need for laxative chat, at least not in German. At first they asked about my experience with children. I enthusiastically glorified babysitting and spoke passionately about the intriguing, fascinating and touching existence of infants.

They then took me to meet the infants. This scared the shit out of me as the aforesaid fascination etc.. is largely theoretical, and in truth I often have no clue what to do with kleine kinder.

The school separates its little ones into age groups. Mice,  bunnies, dinosaurs and dragons. ( I think there is another stage of fantastical or rodent branded childhood – or perhaps both combined, Jigglypuffs? – but I have forgotten it). I wondered if the children went through a process of mascuclation (opposite of emasculation?) in turning from a mouse to a bunny to a dinosaur to a dragon. I also hoped my fear of personified animals was not going to be an issue.

So I followed Frau Kindergarten to our first stop, die mause. She opened the door and ushered me into a bright open room decorated with charming scribbles and minuscule furniture which both charmed and terrified me. And there were die mause. Seated around kleines table in kleines chairs they looked like a scene from a huggies summit. As I uttered an apologetic ‘Hallo!’ – mit awkward grin – I was met with a mixture of utter disinterest and confused disdain. I turned to my interviewer to find her and the class teacher beaming at me expectantly. Feeling like the fraud the kids obviously saw me as I edged towards them, crouching like a morris dancer to match their shin level faces.

‘Hallo!’ I tried again.

Open mouthed silence.

‘I am Eleanor’ . Pronounced in some kind of Caribbean accent.

‘What is your name?’  I ask, looking round for some sympathetic little mouse. Then realising the confusingness of this undirected question, I point to the nearest child – a little blonde boy in a green sweater.

‘What is your name?’  I repeat, almost aggresively. Then, without pausing to hope for an answer, I continue –

‘Your jumper – green! Me – I love green!Mmm. Yes green – is good for me – you too?’ All of this pronounced in some horrible accentual love child of eastern European and Indian. He looks at me like the crazy person I am, then quickly turns back to his plastic pieces of colour. Feeling the eyes of the other giants in the room on me, I turn to green jumpers neighbour – a curly haired girl.

‘Hallo!’

She giggles. Definitely an improvement.

‘You curly. I curly.’ I point to our respective manes.

She giggles.

‘Hair!’ I shout, as if just discovering the secret to eternal life.

She stops giggling. Her face crumples and I watch on in horror as she gets ready to wail. But, by some mad touch of god, she does not. Deciding i’m worth neither her tears not attention she turns back to her fun puzzle.

Frau senses it is time to go and I am led, gratefully,  out of the mice cage.

I make pointless and bizarre comments about the building as I follow her, so as not to discuss my (lack of) interaction with my potential class.

‘This is such a nice building!’ It is not – we are walking through a very low ceilinged windowless corridor.

‘Wow. Children make such brilliant artists don’t they!’ http://www.thebestpageintheuniverse.net/c.cgi?u=irule Nuff said.

She shows me the toilets.

‘Wow! Koool. Very important!’ What, toilets? Fair point, but do I need to tell her?

As her hand goes for the door to the bunnies my stomach lurches and I see 101 rather than flopsy looming over me.

Here goes.

‘HALLO!’ Oh god.

‘I AM ELEANOR!’ Somehow my voice has got still louder and has taken on a rather nasty shrillness.

I get as far as ‘WHAT IS -‘  before a little boy runs off screaming to hide behind a bean bag.

I seek comfort in a child who has managed to improve upon his centimetres by scaling a pile of cushions.

‘You’re a mountaineer!’ I say, quite calmly and interestedly really. But he obviously has no idea what I’m talking about.

So I try and mime it. I look like a monkey playing drums.

He looks shocked and nearly falls off his peak and I quickly retreat out of the danger zone, still repeating ‘Mountain’ in a new accent every time – as if this may help the poor boys comprehension.

The rest of the ordeal continues much the same.

I also meet the cook. She is ladelling Jamie Oliver‘s worst nightmare onto some hospital trolleys.

‘This is our cook.’ Frau explains helpfully.

‘Hallo!’ (This seems to have become something of a nervous tick.)

Silence.

‘Are you good?’

She looks at me as if I have just spat in her broth,then turns back to churn it.

Frau steps in.

‘The children are very  excited by the cook.’ Oh..

‘Especially on Thursday when they must spend some time here in the kitchen with her. We always hear many noises and shriekings!’ Well squeakings…

Anyway. Quick jump to the end. Frau said (almost genuinely!?) that she would love to give me the job. But that it is a problem that I don’t speak German. (After today’s performance I felt that this was the least of my worries!)

She explained that I would need to communicate with the parents and other staff in German. I said I understood completely, getting ready to leave. Then she said she wanted to offer me a trial.

So, it seems I shall return to the farmyard next week. Lord have mercy.

I had another interview and spent some time writing in a wonderfully smokey gay bar but now it is late and this city owes me some sleep.

‘

Tag 1

I accidentally made my first day a page not a post.

Here it is: https://nellyfa.wordpress.com/online-in-berlin/

Wheelchair art with Sam. Day two.

The next day we attempted the Saatchi gallery, and the tube. It is debatable which was more trying.

After scaling Holloway road we arrived at the station. I knew there was a lift and so  – foolishly –  assumed it would be ‘wheelchair friendly’. It was not. The lift led to a passage which led to two flights of stairs. Luckily there was a kind man in dark glasses and a smart-ish suit to help us down the steps. There was an incident in the lift with a blind man.

On the tube I forgot my brakes and rolled around for a bit before settling down against the backrest, blocking the aisle.

Sam, from below - on the tube - he always seems a little too tall for public transport.

Me, from above.

 

After wandering around Chelsea for a while we arrived at the Saatchi gallery which is hidden behind gates and upmarket brunch bars serving fat free pizzas and Emma Thompson lookalikes. We were welcomed by a disabled entrance and a smiling guard.

The Art:

Unlike the Tate (and most galleries) the Saatchi gallery does not choose to enlighten its visitors with blurbs explaining each piece of art. In the absence of this pretentious – but amusing – bullshit, I have decided to annotate a few pieces myself.

The first few rooms were immemorable and unphotographable – the best exhibit was some rocks with little crosses on the top which were rather pleasing from my eye -level.  Up the lift and to the right I was confronted with some mud made bango players with pink poleystyrene arms and hats.

At first I was unimpressed.

And then I thought fuck it and started to dance. The muddy foam static existence of the dancers seemed to emphasize the immobility of all players in the game of life. In my disabled state I was particularly moved by the inability of such passionate forms to - well - move.

The view from the dance floor.

This was the highlight of the next room. An exploration of immediate satisfaction combining two children’s kit toys.

magic crystals: £3.49, pop up church: £8.99, modern art: Priceless.

 

Then we went upstairs and found some truly thought provoking stuff.

Fig 1. An arrow of plaster cast babies, wrapped up and slumbering, with knives protruding where their insy winsy toes should have been:

They resembled maggots with fingernails. A comment on abortion perhaps?

Fig 2. Boots and silly hats linked only by guns and stereos which each murmured very bad beats into the room.

This piece resembles society's heartless attitude to violence and connotes the commodification of war, which leaves humanity out of the equation.

Fig 3. Bodiless burka’s made of colourful cigarette cards (or some such thing) displaying male idols.

Revealing the contrast between the colourless, anonymous and generally ghostlike lives of women and those of the men idolised.

Fig 4. A blown up black and white photograph of a boy reading.

Sam looks closely to see if this art is in fact a giant photo, it is. Black and white dots are all we need to show and learn.

Fig 5. Another bodiless burka, this time made of banana skins and what look like plastercine fingers.

Hmm, I can't think of any more bullshit for burka art. Maybe the banana skins signify the way something natural becomes oppressive and the fingers are pointing almost arbitrarily like the confused blame directed towards both women and muslims.

Fig 6. The final piece. Fluorescent lights arranged into the milky way. The stripey strobe effect was produced unintentionally by my camera phone.

I really can't think what the artist meant to give the viewer with this piece except a headache, which succeeded, perhaps that's all contemplating the edge of our comprehension can ever do? Any way, enough was enough, time to leave.

We made our way down to the ground floor where a disabled toilet was advertised. Unfortunately, despite the helpful wheelchair sign stuck upon the door, the wheelchair in question would not fit through said door. I ended up leaving my wheelchair with a very friendly spanish toilet assistant whilst I hopped inside to relieve myself.  It seems the Saatchi gallery has used up all of its space filling rooms which hold one piece of ‘Art’ (often so small I was left looking at the light switch before a helpful assistant led me to the pile of bricks in the corner) with vacuous air and is thus left to economize when it comes to adding a few inches to the disabled toilet. Pity.

After a brief trip to the shop – where I bought a pencil and Sam a Moleskine – we were free and as I rolled down the disabled ramp I have never been so impressed by the beauty of business, of more than one object in my field of vision.

To celebrate, we had lunch, visited a friend and then headed to the Thames to look at Battersea Power station and appreciate real design.

In Battersea Park we had some wine.

One must blow on the wine.

We sat and contemplated the world.

Sam felt rather streetwise sitting on the railings.

We looked at our respective feet.

Sam had been polishing his shoes the night before, so they were really rather shiny.

Broken leg. Bone(shattered), flesh, bandage, fibre glass, tights(wool) and wheelchair.

A wasp tried to join us.

Sam lost his calm and contemplative composure for a second or two.

Then the sun went down and we headed back across the bridge.

And that was the end of our day.

There were other events including policemen and pavements but this is all I have time for tonight.

Art by wheelchair with able bodied Sam. Day one.

One Monday, a few weeks ago, there was a knock at the door and Sam arrived.

The door, which was opened by Sam.

He put me in a wheelchair and rescued me from my seclusion.

Sam, perhaps regretting his endeavor, on the 43 bus.

Me, in my chair, on the bus.

The people on the bus were very friendly and smiled sympathetically as Sam wheeled me into the designated area.

We got off the bus and visited Marks and Spencer for some lunch and a bottle of wine for later. Then had a lot of fun crossing the millenium bridge and arrived at the Tate Modern.

Sam looks at the art.

I have more fun wheeling than looking at the art.

We are critical of the art.

After speeding through rooms filled with ceramic sunflower seeds and canvases which inspire nothing but headaches we got the first lift up to the bar.

Sam waits to order our overpriced sustenance.

As I waited for Sam I noticed some bird poo on the window and amused myself by making it drift, like a straggly jellyfish, over London.

Heading for St Pauls, it's tentacles dangle dangerously close to the spires.

As I look closer, it seems to become caught in the architecture, leaving a smear down the dome.Shot down, it heads for a watery grave in the Thames.

Sam returns with glasses so big you can hardly see the dribble of wine they hold.  We drink and talk about art and I forget all about the jellyfish.

It had started to rain.

There is more to say – about the wheelchair breaking in the toilet door, requiring the help of three aussie builders to fix it and about our sprint along south bank through the rain – but there are no accompanying pictures for these stories and I am tired of words today.

We got the bus back, wet and tired, but god was it good to get out!

Tired on the bus.

Moody moody.

In psychiatric wards they use creative writing to help the patients express their emotions. One exercise they give is to imagine your mood as an animal. As my current situation somewhat resembles – to me at least – such a ward, I thought i’d give it a go.

The gorilla waits for his mid morning banana. He knows he could go and get it for himself but he doesn’t; he sits where he’s sat since the day he arrived at the zoo. To pass the time before the keeper arrives with his banana he picks at the dirt with his clipped fingernails. He sieves the earth for rocks which he throws, lamely, at a post at the other end of his enclosure. As he does this he stares ahead.  Ten meters in front of him is the northern edge of his captivity and it is marked by a long glass wall stretched round the internal section of his cage. In the early mornings, when the sun peeks through the bars, he is observed by his own reflection rather than visitors. Then in the evenings, when the lights go on inside, his audience are lit up like gawping iguanas. At these times he turns to the left to face the outside; watching the clouds change colour – but not lightness, the clouds are always dark. During the day his eyes slump on the television screen in the ‘gorilla room’ which flicks through photos of his ‘life in the wild’ and arbitrary facts about his ‘endangered habitat’.  He watches this for no more reason than it is familiar and it seems to justify – to the others at least – his current state of extinction. When his banana arrives he eats it in one, and waits for the next.

oh.

So I did a little research, and it turns out these sites already stole my idea:

http://www.allmusic.com/   This is all genre categorised and doesn’t seem to have a rating option or any infor on individual tracks.

http://www.umdmusic.com/ This looks like it was made by an 8 year old on word art.

http://www.onlinemusicdatabase.com/ This has no pictures. The background colour is not very nice at all.

It seems that although the idea already exists, there is definite room for improvement. The market lacks a songs rating database.

If only I really liked music.