We believe so often that we know all there is to know about a public figure: a politician, a pop star, a footballers wife. We believe that because their lives are exposed in the pages of glossy magazines around the globe, that we can make an effective judgement.
Sometimes, we admire their lives: like that time you saw Victoria Beckham looking picture perfect in Versace swimwear on her yacht in the South of France and you said “That’s what I want”, and sometimes, we feel their despair, like the time(s) Bertie Ahern stumbled to talk his way out of his financial troubles.
We think that what we see being documented through the media is a reflection of what’s actually going on in their private lives. Many a pop princess has been the envy of a million teenage girls from Brooklyn to Bali to Ballsbridge. Who didn’t want to be Britney in 1999?
So many of us buy into the American Dream: the perfect house, the perfect spouse, the ideal car, the ideal career. But it takes work to achieve any and all of these things, and sometimes, even the most independent of characters need to accept a helping hand.
The late Irish model, Katy French, could never have achieved the rapid success that she enjoyed for a short time had it not been for the initial support of a number of high-profile journalists. Magazine editors who decided that Glenda Gilson was “done” saw French as the next in line. People listen when high-profile journalists speak, and we read when they write. We can only choose to like or dislike the things and people we have been made aware of.
The journalists’ interest in French, though the basis of it could never quite be fathomed, were expressed publicly through the social pages of the Sunday newspapers first of all, filtering through the glossies and trickling on to the tabloids, ultimately ending with a final interview in a Sunday magazine that gave the model a vast push throughout her career, before her untimely death on that fateful day in December 2007.
It did not appear that French and the showbiz journalists of Ireland were real friends, and so it was not a selfless favour on their part, but what did they stand to gain in return from a model who was concerned first and foremost with her career. The chance to be involved romantically with a young attractive woman, some might say. Of course, this was not true of all those who supported French, but it could be suggested that the 24-year-old’s looks and flirtatious personality didn’t hurt her chances.
Being media savvy is a great part of success for potential media darlings: Amy Winehouse has been the darling of the UK media for what seems like an eternity, despite the singer rising to prominence only in recent years with her Back to Black album and its hit singles.
However, once one engages in a relationship with the media, it’s not so easy to exit that relationship that involves so many. Today, to be a star, the looks and talent combination is not enough. A third ingredient is necessary. Some call it luck, some say determination is the key characteristic. A select few agree that it is about “who you know” that determines who will “come to know” you.
French, like Winehouse, appeared to be enjoying life: every hour was happy hour, with glamorous photo shoots by day and cocktails and more in VIP areas of hip bars by night, partying through the early hours with the beautiful people. Infact, there was more to it than that, often left undocumented by the media.
The support French and Winehouse, as well as so many before them, had received by the journalists who embraced them for whatever reasons, was tainted by the negative coverage about them. Perhaps part of the problem comes from within: it seems we are almost conditioned to listen to the negative things people say, whilst we brush off our rave reviews, wondering if they could be truthful.
What about the partners of the stars? French upset her restaurateur fiance Marcus Sweeney at the beginning of her year in the limelight by posing in lingerie on a table at his Dublin city centre restaurant for a certain glossy publication. Sweeney, a self-proclaimed traditionalist, was extremely upset and the couple engaged in an all-too-public war of words through any form of media that would provide a platform: from morning radio to the Sunday papers.
Katy French’s name was made. Everyone was talking, and she was in demand as a model. Who would she have been had it not been for the risk she’d taken? It is difficult to deny that she would be just another blond model on the books of Assets, her agency. Was it worth it, we might ask French if she were here today. Was it worth destroying her relationship for the sake of igniting her career, which would eventually come to a tragic end.
Was it Karma that got Katy? Can anyone have a fast-tracked career as a media darling and continue to enjoy a relationship of the romantic variety that is 100 per cent morally correct?
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Jury is Out
“Is everything OK?”, said the foreign waiter in a tone that mortified me. I wasn’t in the city. I wasn’t in the suburbs either. I was somewhere in between that was so undefined it unsettled me. I was sitting in a wicker chair: fragile and unstable, and ready to break at any given moment.
“Yes, everything’s perfect”, I said, grateful that I could at least convince a perfect stranger it was the truth. Truth was, everything was far from perfect. I was in romantic limbo, the place in a relationship where you realise you can’t go on but neither can you terminate.
I had no clue what I was going to do, but this week like no other, my body had announced to me that I was going to arrive at a decision. Such decisions can be pondered over for weeks, months, even years, but sometimes, in love, there are emergencies of the heart.
The Other Party, I was sure, was confused about why I needed, right now, to make a change. I was confused too, but sometimes, you just have to trust your gut feeling. Sometimes, your mind cannot rationalise a decision.
They say that in lifetime you have just two great loves. How do you define a great love, I had to wonder. Is it a love that feels comfortable and safe, or is it a love that grips you, insists that you take part, and makes you feel every feeling you’d never before experienced, both positive and negative. If it was the latter, I guessed that I was in the midst of experiencing the Great Love of the 21st Century.
Ten minutes later, my coffee arrived. It was 8:30am and in this part of town, no-one was sitting-in. I should be grateful that I have the time to ponder my life in such depth, I decided.
“Sometimes you just need a break, right?”, I questioned of my 19-going-on-30 friend Lora some hours later, waiting for our beers to arrive. “Sweetheart, you are a single man in a relationship. It’s not fair to anyone”, she announced, swinging her Prada, so enormous it could have been luggage, I believed.
I was at risk of becoming fatally dissatisfied through ignorance of the situation and yet, acknowledging it would create deep unhappiness for the Other Party. It was true: the ball was in my court, and for once, I had no idea what to do with it. Maybe Lora was right, maybe I was out of the game already in my own mind, and so there was no decision to make.
And then I wondered, had I consulted too many opinions on the subject? Had I become so acutely aware of the opinions of others that I had completely lost the ability to acknowledge my own? Would my relationship make or break on the basis of a survey?
It is a terrible thing to find yourself in a position where other peoples feelings will dictate your actions. It is a sign of weakness, I told myself. Maybe, it was goodness at one point, but not anymore. I had been worn down. Those who exercise goodness and a Mr Nice Guy attitude too liberally will be taken advantage of by some characters that crop up in life, and the fault is their own.
In friendships it happens all the time, but at least in friendships the Sex Haze doesn’t exist. You can make a logical decision and usually it’s “Bye-bye Polly” without a parting kiss. With relationships of the romantic variety, it’s more complicated.
It’s a great thing to be Mr Nice Guy when you’re telling your sweetheart that you know no-one in the world that is greater than them, and you mean it too. It’s not such a great thing however, when you find yourself trapped and feeling like you’re being suffocated by an 800-count Egyptian cotton duvet cover.
You are trapped because by leaving--there are several comic exit lines to do this--you are causing potentially harmful damage to the Other Party. By staying, you are causing potentially harmful damage to yourself. It’s all sort of, “I love you sweetheart, but I love me more”.
Three days, two clubs and one party later, I decided that you can listen to the defendant, and you can listen to your friends--the jury you rely on to produce a rational and impartial verdict--but at the end of the day, you are the best judge of your own fate. “The jury is out”, I said aloud, “but times-a-ticking”.
“Yes, everything’s perfect”, I said, grateful that I could at least convince a perfect stranger it was the truth. Truth was, everything was far from perfect. I was in romantic limbo, the place in a relationship where you realise you can’t go on but neither can you terminate.
I had no clue what I was going to do, but this week like no other, my body had announced to me that I was going to arrive at a decision. Such decisions can be pondered over for weeks, months, even years, but sometimes, in love, there are emergencies of the heart.
The Other Party, I was sure, was confused about why I needed, right now, to make a change. I was confused too, but sometimes, you just have to trust your gut feeling. Sometimes, your mind cannot rationalise a decision.
They say that in lifetime you have just two great loves. How do you define a great love, I had to wonder. Is it a love that feels comfortable and safe, or is it a love that grips you, insists that you take part, and makes you feel every feeling you’d never before experienced, both positive and negative. If it was the latter, I guessed that I was in the midst of experiencing the Great Love of the 21st Century.
Ten minutes later, my coffee arrived. It was 8:30am and in this part of town, no-one was sitting-in. I should be grateful that I have the time to ponder my life in such depth, I decided.
“Sometimes you just need a break, right?”, I questioned of my 19-going-on-30 friend Lora some hours later, waiting for our beers to arrive. “Sweetheart, you are a single man in a relationship. It’s not fair to anyone”, she announced, swinging her Prada, so enormous it could have been luggage, I believed.
I was at risk of becoming fatally dissatisfied through ignorance of the situation and yet, acknowledging it would create deep unhappiness for the Other Party. It was true: the ball was in my court, and for once, I had no idea what to do with it. Maybe Lora was right, maybe I was out of the game already in my own mind, and so there was no decision to make.
And then I wondered, had I consulted too many opinions on the subject? Had I become so acutely aware of the opinions of others that I had completely lost the ability to acknowledge my own? Would my relationship make or break on the basis of a survey?
It is a terrible thing to find yourself in a position where other peoples feelings will dictate your actions. It is a sign of weakness, I told myself. Maybe, it was goodness at one point, but not anymore. I had been worn down. Those who exercise goodness and a Mr Nice Guy attitude too liberally will be taken advantage of by some characters that crop up in life, and the fault is their own.
In friendships it happens all the time, but at least in friendships the Sex Haze doesn’t exist. You can make a logical decision and usually it’s “Bye-bye Polly” without a parting kiss. With relationships of the romantic variety, it’s more complicated.
It’s a great thing to be Mr Nice Guy when you’re telling your sweetheart that you know no-one in the world that is greater than them, and you mean it too. It’s not such a great thing however, when you find yourself trapped and feeling like you’re being suffocated by an 800-count Egyptian cotton duvet cover.
You are trapped because by leaving--there are several comic exit lines to do this--you are causing potentially harmful damage to the Other Party. By staying, you are causing potentially harmful damage to yourself. It’s all sort of, “I love you sweetheart, but I love me more”.
Three days, two clubs and one party later, I decided that you can listen to the defendant, and you can listen to your friends--the jury you rely on to produce a rational and impartial verdict--but at the end of the day, you are the best judge of your own fate. “The jury is out”, I said aloud, “but times-a-ticking”.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Say No to Joint Savings
“You have to be a cynic to be a journalist”. So said George Hook, in his raspy tone, during a talk to a group of journalism and public relations students in Dublin last week.
The reaction was mixed, to the talk itself, and more specifically to his comments. However, as we walked the daily walk down a tree-lined Leinster Road, a haven in an otherwise out of town ghetto, my friend Miriam; a journalist in progress, brought the subject of marriage to the table, for she was on her way to make a wedding purchase, for the requirement of her sister, not herself. And there we found ourselves, cynics in the making, speaking with negative expression as old Hook had insisted was necessary.
“I want to own [property] before marriage”, I announced, matter-of-factly. “Oh my goodness”, shrieked Miriam, usually calm and collected. “That is exactly how I feel. It’s like, no, I do not want a joint account", she added, aware that neither of us owned the desire to trade in our Volvos for Skodas as the divorce papers presented themselves. Of course, neither of us own Volvos now, but we shared the opinion that when we do, it’s til death do us part.
Call me pessimistic, or call me safe, but I would rather sit on that side of the verge. Maybe it’s something to do with working towards an artistic profession, whereby money doesn’t come easy, that I’m particularly fond of the idea of keeping hold of it when it eventually makes its way into my account.
I don’t want to spend many a year slaving at a middle market newspaper to enable me to afford a three-bed-semi to find myself suddenly in a bedsit when we have a severe disagreement over how many television sets should be in the house and suddenly realise it wasn’t meant to be after all.
Because in New Ireland, it comes down to the specifics in a relationship. And when the going gets tough, we’re all too familiar that there are few households on the commuter belt willing to stay together “for the kids”. No, sir, it’s bye-bye, Parochial Ireland.
They say pre-nuptials are unromantic, but as successful businessman and “face” of the music industry Simon Cowell told the Sunday Independent last weekend, “if I go into a relationship with an artist, we have a 100-page contract covering every eventuality, whereas with marriage you go into it with no contract, with laws that date back hundreds of years”.
One might expect, that a person like myself, who is as fond of little luxuries in life as much as the next potential media darling, to be perfectly satisfied to marry into a family that could offer to me the financial security, the kind that is so rarely available to artists of any kind. This is not my story, though. I choose not the easy ride, but that of eventual rewards.
And if there are luxuries in ten years time, at least I will know they are deserved. And if Miriam catches the bouquet at her sister’s eventual wedding, she can only hope and pray (or just hope, religion doesn’t exist in New Ireland) that the gent in question is willing to wait until the war-correspondent-to-be is stable in a Dublin 6 Pile of Bricks, enabling her to say an eventual “I do”. Except, of course, to a joint savings account at the AIB.
The reaction was mixed, to the talk itself, and more specifically to his comments. However, as we walked the daily walk down a tree-lined Leinster Road, a haven in an otherwise out of town ghetto, my friend Miriam; a journalist in progress, brought the subject of marriage to the table, for she was on her way to make a wedding purchase, for the requirement of her sister, not herself. And there we found ourselves, cynics in the making, speaking with negative expression as old Hook had insisted was necessary.
“I want to own [property] before marriage”, I announced, matter-of-factly. “Oh my goodness”, shrieked Miriam, usually calm and collected. “That is exactly how I feel. It’s like, no, I do not want a joint account", she added, aware that neither of us owned the desire to trade in our Volvos for Skodas as the divorce papers presented themselves. Of course, neither of us own Volvos now, but we shared the opinion that when we do, it’s til death do us part.
Call me pessimistic, or call me safe, but I would rather sit on that side of the verge. Maybe it’s something to do with working towards an artistic profession, whereby money doesn’t come easy, that I’m particularly fond of the idea of keeping hold of it when it eventually makes its way into my account.
I don’t want to spend many a year slaving at a middle market newspaper to enable me to afford a three-bed-semi to find myself suddenly in a bedsit when we have a severe disagreement over how many television sets should be in the house and suddenly realise it wasn’t meant to be after all.
Because in New Ireland, it comes down to the specifics in a relationship. And when the going gets tough, we’re all too familiar that there are few households on the commuter belt willing to stay together “for the kids”. No, sir, it’s bye-bye, Parochial Ireland.
They say pre-nuptials are unromantic, but as successful businessman and “face” of the music industry Simon Cowell told the Sunday Independent last weekend, “if I go into a relationship with an artist, we have a 100-page contract covering every eventuality, whereas with marriage you go into it with no contract, with laws that date back hundreds of years”.
One might expect, that a person like myself, who is as fond of little luxuries in life as much as the next potential media darling, to be perfectly satisfied to marry into a family that could offer to me the financial security, the kind that is so rarely available to artists of any kind. This is not my story, though. I choose not the easy ride, but that of eventual rewards.
And if there are luxuries in ten years time, at least I will know they are deserved. And if Miriam catches the bouquet at her sister’s eventual wedding, she can only hope and pray (or just hope, religion doesn’t exist in New Ireland) that the gent in question is willing to wait until the war-correspondent-to-be is stable in a Dublin 6 Pile of Bricks, enabling her to say an eventual “I do”. Except, of course, to a joint savings account at the AIB.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Good Conversation With Strangers
Recently, after more than two and a half years in a relationship, the lid was lifted on the box that had safely contained me for the duration.
I was pursued, by a relative stranger, who knew no more of me than my choice of clothing (7 jeans and a tee), and my choice of drink for the evening (vodka-tonic). And yet a distinctive interest existed, even after being informed by my present best friend, of my relationship status being a resounding “involved”.
What does it mean then, when a well-educated, fine-mannered individual, with evidently no malice intended, makes a bid for your heart, I had to wonder. “Let’s go someplace else”. “I can’t”, I whispered, “I have a situation”, I added, in my best ventriloquist’s impression, trying to avoid looking conspicuous to my shared company: my life partner in waiting.
Not “No. I’m in a relationship. A happily-ever-after relationship with bells on”. That would have been the ideal. But I knew there and then that the situation I had found myself in all of a sudden was far from ideal. Making matters worse, I was at the end of my vodka-tonic.
My best friend present did his very best in communicating messages, of a very polite manner I might add, between the two of us that night, in the dim-lit art-deco room, which was proving to be a venue for controversy as well as cocktails in these winter months.
I realised, I wanted to talk with the relative stranger. And in some ways, that was ok, but talking with a view to touching was not, and that needed to be known by the alternate party, I felt. Of course, my judgement was impaired by alcohol, and I decided that the best thing was to reveal my phone number on demand, before disappearing into the frosty air of South William Street. Conversations followed.
Articulate, I-could-really-bloody-get-to-know-you conversations. But by no means were they about relationships. They were about the music world, the book world, Irish culture, family, food, sports, the stock market. They were the conversations you can have only on those rare and wonderful first dates, when they are in fact not dates at all.
Now the conversations have ended (my choice), and I have once again closed the lid on my box. I am aware of the fact that no-one has been harmed by my actions, yet there is an underlying sense that I have scratched the paintwork of my relationship. It’s that same feeling I got when I scratched my Italian leather Prada wallet for the first time back in 2005. Perfection, or the illusion of it, has been snatched away.
My friends tell me I’m crazy, and the fact that I stopped at conversations makes me a saint of sorts. I’m no saint, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to hear your innocence proclaimed by your peers. Myself, I tend to believe that it has been a good thing.
I have been allowed to see my market value, I have been able to value my relationship for all that it is--many things that I took for granted, I am able to be thankful for--instead of all that it is not, and I have been able to value myself, which I believe, in some ways, was the true reason behind the sending of the Relative Stranger.
It has been said that we all need in our lives, to be validated by others. Maybe, every once in a while, when our worlds become polluted by negativity, it’s true. Maybe, we all just want good conversation with strangers.
I was pursued, by a relative stranger, who knew no more of me than my choice of clothing (7 jeans and a tee), and my choice of drink for the evening (vodka-tonic). And yet a distinctive interest existed, even after being informed by my present best friend, of my relationship status being a resounding “involved”.
What does it mean then, when a well-educated, fine-mannered individual, with evidently no malice intended, makes a bid for your heart, I had to wonder. “Let’s go someplace else”. “I can’t”, I whispered, “I have a situation”, I added, in my best ventriloquist’s impression, trying to avoid looking conspicuous to my shared company: my life partner in waiting.
Not “No. I’m in a relationship. A happily-ever-after relationship with bells on”. That would have been the ideal. But I knew there and then that the situation I had found myself in all of a sudden was far from ideal. Making matters worse, I was at the end of my vodka-tonic.
My best friend present did his very best in communicating messages, of a very polite manner I might add, between the two of us that night, in the dim-lit art-deco room, which was proving to be a venue for controversy as well as cocktails in these winter months.
I realised, I wanted to talk with the relative stranger. And in some ways, that was ok, but talking with a view to touching was not, and that needed to be known by the alternate party, I felt. Of course, my judgement was impaired by alcohol, and I decided that the best thing was to reveal my phone number on demand, before disappearing into the frosty air of South William Street. Conversations followed.
Articulate, I-could-really-bloody-get-to-know-you conversations. But by no means were they about relationships. They were about the music world, the book world, Irish culture, family, food, sports, the stock market. They were the conversations you can have only on those rare and wonderful first dates, when they are in fact not dates at all.
Now the conversations have ended (my choice), and I have once again closed the lid on my box. I am aware of the fact that no-one has been harmed by my actions, yet there is an underlying sense that I have scratched the paintwork of my relationship. It’s that same feeling I got when I scratched my Italian leather Prada wallet for the first time back in 2005. Perfection, or the illusion of it, has been snatched away.
My friends tell me I’m crazy, and the fact that I stopped at conversations makes me a saint of sorts. I’m no saint, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to hear your innocence proclaimed by your peers. Myself, I tend to believe that it has been a good thing.
I have been allowed to see my market value, I have been able to value my relationship for all that it is--many things that I took for granted, I am able to be thankful for--instead of all that it is not, and I have been able to value myself, which I believe, in some ways, was the true reason behind the sending of the Relative Stranger.
It has been said that we all need in our lives, to be validated by others. Maybe, every once in a while, when our worlds become polluted by negativity, it’s true. Maybe, we all just want good conversation with strangers.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Change of Character
Have you ever taken a long hard look at yourself and realised in one profound moment that you are not at all who you thought that you were?
I enjoyed (and I use the term loosely) this hilarious moment of clarity recently. There I was, not in the mirror, but at a bus stop, deprived of background music in my ears and with only the sound of the morning traffic to accompany my thoughts.
This weekend, and come to think of it, quite a few before it, had been, what I was choosing to refer to as “out of character” to friends of old and new, when speaking of the those 48 hours that had once again become an exciting part of life.
I was without doubt a shy child, but had become not so much rebellious as innovative in my early teenage years. I was sure of what it was that I stood for, but at the same time did not promote what it was that I stood for in the public arena, at that time, school. I just revelled in private at the fact--or rather the personal opinion--that I was my own person and not part of a flock, even if that did mean being shunned by the mainstream. I was laughing on the inside, perhaps prematurely.
My early teens had given way to a sort of tunnel-vision, overly-ambitious creature that understood rules, accepted them, and then decided those that one would follow, and those that one would break. Was I trying to be controversial? No, there was nothing to be gained in this. Was I just a narcissist? It’s possible, but there was definitely more to it than that.
It was at this point that I decided my beliefs and my values. It was at this point also, that I validated my ambitions and decided to simply go about them. It was at this point that I was sure I knew everything there was to know about myself. I realise today that it was just the beginning of life becoming an adult. I had become acutely aware of desire and also of pain. There I sat on my bedroom floor thinking of what might be, in the short and in the long-term, whilst listening to Dido’s No Angel, the “soundtrack to my life”.
Relationships with family and friends, and those that I was surrounded by in life, were passionate on both ends of the scale. This is still the case, at the age of 21, now officially an adult. I have met more people in the real world that I can relate to than was feasible within the constraints of school and a local suburban community. Relationships now too, had become easier and still more difficult than before.
Those that encouraged growth as a person, who made me feel optimistic and who made me think, were easy. They made me realise that I was right a few years ago when I had privately held the belief that there were other similar-minded individuals in the county that I would connect with, and not simply have surface conversations with.
Then there were the relationships that made me feel once again, slightly as if I could privately commentate on life, hold beliefs and thoughts, and yet not truly share them due to the knowledge that they would be met with one of two things: deemed outlandish, somewhat eccentric, or worse again, discarded without feeling.
But it didn’t matter. There would always be double-edged swords in life. And there would always be toxins, that was my belief at least. What really mattered was that here, in November, I was not behaving out of character, I was developing it.
The things that I thought I would never do--positive and negative--I was doing. And I was loving every minute of it.
There I sat on my bedroom floor thinking about what had been, in the near and distant past, whilst listening to Dido’s No Angel. A friend who I had known the first time I’d heard the record in my teens and still know today recently told me that I had changed. Maybe she was right. Maybe she had seen it before I was able to see it myself.
I enjoyed (and I use the term loosely) this hilarious moment of clarity recently. There I was, not in the mirror, but at a bus stop, deprived of background music in my ears and with only the sound of the morning traffic to accompany my thoughts.
This weekend, and come to think of it, quite a few before it, had been, what I was choosing to refer to as “out of character” to friends of old and new, when speaking of the those 48 hours that had once again become an exciting part of life.
I was without doubt a shy child, but had become not so much rebellious as innovative in my early teenage years. I was sure of what it was that I stood for, but at the same time did not promote what it was that I stood for in the public arena, at that time, school. I just revelled in private at the fact--or rather the personal opinion--that I was my own person and not part of a flock, even if that did mean being shunned by the mainstream. I was laughing on the inside, perhaps prematurely.
My early teens had given way to a sort of tunnel-vision, overly-ambitious creature that understood rules, accepted them, and then decided those that one would follow, and those that one would break. Was I trying to be controversial? No, there was nothing to be gained in this. Was I just a narcissist? It’s possible, but there was definitely more to it than that.
It was at this point that I decided my beliefs and my values. It was at this point also, that I validated my ambitions and decided to simply go about them. It was at this point that I was sure I knew everything there was to know about myself. I realise today that it was just the beginning of life becoming an adult. I had become acutely aware of desire and also of pain. There I sat on my bedroom floor thinking of what might be, in the short and in the long-term, whilst listening to Dido’s No Angel, the “soundtrack to my life”.
Relationships with family and friends, and those that I was surrounded by in life, were passionate on both ends of the scale. This is still the case, at the age of 21, now officially an adult. I have met more people in the real world that I can relate to than was feasible within the constraints of school and a local suburban community. Relationships now too, had become easier and still more difficult than before.
Those that encouraged growth as a person, who made me feel optimistic and who made me think, were easy. They made me realise that I was right a few years ago when I had privately held the belief that there were other similar-minded individuals in the county that I would connect with, and not simply have surface conversations with.
Then there were the relationships that made me feel once again, slightly as if I could privately commentate on life, hold beliefs and thoughts, and yet not truly share them due to the knowledge that they would be met with one of two things: deemed outlandish, somewhat eccentric, or worse again, discarded without feeling.
But it didn’t matter. There would always be double-edged swords in life. And there would always be toxins, that was my belief at least. What really mattered was that here, in November, I was not behaving out of character, I was developing it.
The things that I thought I would never do--positive and negative--I was doing. And I was loving every minute of it.
There I sat on my bedroom floor thinking about what had been, in the near and distant past, whilst listening to Dido’s No Angel. A friend who I had known the first time I’d heard the record in my teens and still know today recently told me that I had changed. Maybe she was right. Maybe she had seen it before I was able to see it myself.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Textual Assault
Why do we have to live in a society where our every move is broken down, scrutinized, and decided upon as being acceptable or unacceptable?
I’ve chosen to advocate this concept, you might say, like the unacknowledged choice to become popular and endorse popular kids rules and regulations, and so I deserve everything I get, right? We’re not kids anymore though, and really, shouldn’t we have moved on by now?
When is it that we’re allowed to stop playing silly games and start to favor clever adult life? We’re in our twenties. This is our prime. This is our prime and we know it. We have chosen to carry on like Californian Valley kids, despite the fact that this--Dublin--is not the real Orange County. It’s not even close.
There may be faux Valley-girl accents and fake bake, and there may be upper crust surfer dude slurs and slang, but the fact of the matter is, this is as close to resemblance as we’re getting to our buffed-up Aberzombies across the Atlantic.
Dating is complicated, not dating even more so. So is it any wonder we’ve been sent into a frenzy, trying to get things in order by deciding on what can be done in the dating world, and what cannot. The first impression is important, of course, but so too is the second.
Let’s be hypothetical. We’ve exchanged phone numbers. “Digits”, in Valley-speak. There has been text-based communication. “Which college do you go to?” is either a polite--although surely it’s unlikely politeness exists within these circles--“I’m not that interested in you as a potential lover” or maybe, one would hope, it is just another way of determining your status before any further action is taken. They say 30-something's want a HIV-test and an ATM receipt before they agree on a second date, maybe 20’s somethings just need to know the educational institution you attend.
So what happens then, when there is a drop off in text conversation? Is it socially acceptable for he or she at the would-be receiving end to text twice in a row? Is it as Valley guys would say, “liable of landing you in a court room for Textual Assault”?
Surely not! What if, you’ve already opened the deal with a kiss or three? This defines the shared human relationship as “kissing”, Valley-talk for the phase where you are not quite “seeing” someone, nor are you friends.
The nerds--I mean, smart kids--always did say that they would be winners one day. The popular kids laughed in their faces. And maybe they were right. Maybe they’ve paired off, lost the puppy fat, and are today laugh-snorting into their Star Trek lunch boxes at the expense of the petty preppies.
For it is the preppies that established this dating code, and have failed to update the rulebook. Playing by the rules of a school kid in your twenties just isn’t going to fly. At least it isn’t my belief that this can be the foundation of a serious relationship.
So unless there’s a textbook-type out there willing to have you--if only for research purposes--you’re looking at 30-40 years of hardcore game-play.
I’ve chosen to advocate this concept, you might say, like the unacknowledged choice to become popular and endorse popular kids rules and regulations, and so I deserve everything I get, right? We’re not kids anymore though, and really, shouldn’t we have moved on by now?
When is it that we’re allowed to stop playing silly games and start to favor clever adult life? We’re in our twenties. This is our prime. This is our prime and we know it. We have chosen to carry on like Californian Valley kids, despite the fact that this--Dublin--is not the real Orange County. It’s not even close.
There may be faux Valley-girl accents and fake bake, and there may be upper crust surfer dude slurs and slang, but the fact of the matter is, this is as close to resemblance as we’re getting to our buffed-up Aberzombies across the Atlantic.
Dating is complicated, not dating even more so. So is it any wonder we’ve been sent into a frenzy, trying to get things in order by deciding on what can be done in the dating world, and what cannot. The first impression is important, of course, but so too is the second.
Let’s be hypothetical. We’ve exchanged phone numbers. “Digits”, in Valley-speak. There has been text-based communication. “Which college do you go to?” is either a polite--although surely it’s unlikely politeness exists within these circles--“I’m not that interested in you as a potential lover” or maybe, one would hope, it is just another way of determining your status before any further action is taken. They say 30-something's want a HIV-test and an ATM receipt before they agree on a second date, maybe 20’s somethings just need to know the educational institution you attend.
So what happens then, when there is a drop off in text conversation? Is it socially acceptable for he or she at the would-be receiving end to text twice in a row? Is it as Valley guys would say, “liable of landing you in a court room for Textual Assault”?
Surely not! What if, you’ve already opened the deal with a kiss or three? This defines the shared human relationship as “kissing”, Valley-talk for the phase where you are not quite “seeing” someone, nor are you friends.
The nerds--I mean, smart kids--always did say that they would be winners one day. The popular kids laughed in their faces. And maybe they were right. Maybe they’ve paired off, lost the puppy fat, and are today laugh-snorting into their Star Trek lunch boxes at the expense of the petty preppies.
For it is the preppies that established this dating code, and have failed to update the rulebook. Playing by the rules of a school kid in your twenties just isn’t going to fly. At least it isn’t my belief that this can be the foundation of a serious relationship.
So unless there’s a textbook-type out there willing to have you--if only for research purposes--you’re looking at 30-40 years of hardcore game-play.
Monday, October 22, 2007
The Hours of Desire
It was a Sunday morning and I was walking along Grafton Street. The weather was cold. Wet and cold. There was a frost air that I considered confirmation that October had arrived.
There were many matters to be attended to. There was the college assignment, there was the research. There was the fact that I had not been to the gym or played sports of any kind in many months, and was hiding a few inches of winter weight under my three-quarter length black coat, soaked.
There were the credit card bills that would not be paid in full this month. There was the day that lay ahead, nine hours of work that were at best irrelevant. There were the words that had to be told to Significant Other. The dreaded words.
“I can’t see you tonight”.
And that was the worst part. I could deal with the rain and the sodden coat and the irrelevance of the work and the bills that would not be paid. It was the words. As the days go by, I find myself saying “next week will be better”, like an over-booked socialite. What happens in life, I had to wonder, when it is required of you to fulfil a number of different roles which are both demanding and important in some capacities.
Do you focus on being wonderful at work? Paying intricate attention to detail despite the fact that your salary is something even you sneer at? Do you pretend that it will all take care of itself and take in a double vodka Martini with your urban friends? Or do you believe that indeed the meaning of life is love and nestle with Significant Other and forget about the world, as those acknowledging it continue to run with scissors.
You have to think about it. But you also have to understand that there will be an end point for thinking and a beginning for deciding.
But it’s decisions that many of us in 20-something Dublin find ourselves incapable of making. We know what it is that we want. We want to be able to fund our social lives. And so we work. We want “guys nights out”, and we don’t want to have to explain it. We want to go on dinner dates, and to the theatre and to wonderful concerts and on mini-breaks to New York and Milan. We want to be educated and to take in the finest books and the broadest quality of music. We so badly want it all, and that is that.
And it was this that made me realise. I had made a decision. I had decided not to decide just yet. I would have a hamper-style life containing a little bit of everything that I loved and liked. And at some point I would decide to endorse one or two or three of the contained items, and to put the others aside. But for now, want was enough. The want alone, the desire. The desire to have it all and to maintain it all so beautifully and with elegance and poise was what made life “just fantastic” on a wet morning on Grafton Street.
There were the hours ahead. Of work. There were the hours ahead. Of explanation. There were the hours ahead. Of saying the words that one did not want at all to say. The were the hours ahead. Of desire. And it was this that allowed me to smile.
There were many matters to be attended to. There was the college assignment, there was the research. There was the fact that I had not been to the gym or played sports of any kind in many months, and was hiding a few inches of winter weight under my three-quarter length black coat, soaked.
There were the credit card bills that would not be paid in full this month. There was the day that lay ahead, nine hours of work that were at best irrelevant. There were the words that had to be told to Significant Other. The dreaded words.
“I can’t see you tonight”.
And that was the worst part. I could deal with the rain and the sodden coat and the irrelevance of the work and the bills that would not be paid. It was the words. As the days go by, I find myself saying “next week will be better”, like an over-booked socialite. What happens in life, I had to wonder, when it is required of you to fulfil a number of different roles which are both demanding and important in some capacities.
Do you focus on being wonderful at work? Paying intricate attention to detail despite the fact that your salary is something even you sneer at? Do you pretend that it will all take care of itself and take in a double vodka Martini with your urban friends? Or do you believe that indeed the meaning of life is love and nestle with Significant Other and forget about the world, as those acknowledging it continue to run with scissors.
You have to think about it. But you also have to understand that there will be an end point for thinking and a beginning for deciding.
But it’s decisions that many of us in 20-something Dublin find ourselves incapable of making. We know what it is that we want. We want to be able to fund our social lives. And so we work. We want “guys nights out”, and we don’t want to have to explain it. We want to go on dinner dates, and to the theatre and to wonderful concerts and on mini-breaks to New York and Milan. We want to be educated and to take in the finest books and the broadest quality of music. We so badly want it all, and that is that.
And it was this that made me realise. I had made a decision. I had decided not to decide just yet. I would have a hamper-style life containing a little bit of everything that I loved and liked. And at some point I would decide to endorse one or two or three of the contained items, and to put the others aside. But for now, want was enough. The want alone, the desire. The desire to have it all and to maintain it all so beautifully and with elegance and poise was what made life “just fantastic” on a wet morning on Grafton Street.
There were the hours ahead. Of work. There were the hours ahead. Of explanation. There were the hours ahead. Of saying the words that one did not want at all to say. The were the hours ahead. Of desire. And it was this that allowed me to smile.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
