Apparently there was once was a man who said:
“Money, money, money,
I want it.
I will set up a business,
a global institution.
I’ll call it religion
and I shall make myself
a prophet profit.
History as told by the atheist
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Society
On the (b)rink
He who laughed never, but often cried 
on the rink skated not, but did slide
He who had three sleepless nights
came barefoot, fell flat on the ice
Disturbed by this sight, the parents cried “stop him”!
and children laughed as he slid on his bottom
Lethargic and drained yet still he tried
to pull himself up, but deep inside
A force dark and dangerous pulled him down
the other skaters, once gathered around
Now dispersed, went on their merry way
Lovers and friends, skating happily
Every so often, in their way he’d get
on cold ice, he’d break out in sweat
Now he lay in the centre of the rink
not a movement, not a blink
Each child’s giggle, each lovers’ kiss
meant his cries went amiss
He yelled and screamed, repeatedly: “Help”!
As the ice under him alone began to melt
Then one woman who at him once frowned
Drawing by Patsy McArthur- www.patsymcarthur.com
Shed a tear when she heard he drowned
Puzzled she was, drown how could he?
The melted ice was a puddle, not a sea
How would it feel, if ,as a stranger it hurt her?
To lose one loved to an invisible burglar
An unexpected lesson from “straight to airport” romance novels
I was at an airport. I was tired. I was alone. Looking around, my fellow passengers were all in 
groups and couples. I could have forged a conversation with one of them, as I usually do, but I did not want to force politeness out of their souls with my pliers of social desperation.
Never one to let my mind go numb, I had three minutes to decide how to occupy myself for an hour in mid air. Newspaper? No. I’d read it all before- Europe is burning, commentators are still banging on about last summer’s riots; and someone killed someone.
Magazine? No, I wanted to read something, not look at adverts for fashion labels.
So a book it was. Footballer’s autobiography? No. Footballer’s wife’s memoirs ghost written by an illiterate high school drop out? No, didnt wnt SMS txt tlk. Footballer’s pet dog’s memoirs? Slightly more interesting but not quite what I wanted.
6O seconds for boarding! I wanted fiction. Something light, different. I only had a few pounds in my pocket so I headed to the bargain bin. Chick lit novels reduced to 99p. Well, I did need some romance in my life. I stretched out my hand, then pulled back reprimanding myself. Did I want to be laughed at by fellow passengers? No, but who was going to see me? Only strangers. Subscribed to an uninhibited life as I am, I could not let that bother me.
Still, after purchasing it, it felt necessary to rip off the covers, just in case. As lacking in self-consciousness as I am, I did not want to be seen reading a book with: Relationship problems? Life in a mess? Not to worry…Nadia knows best scrawled in pink on the cover.
So I read away and surprisingly I enjoyed it. It was not Dickens, it was not Wilde, but it sufficed, just. However, with each page I turned, the sloppily compiled book printed on cheap paper began falling apart. By the time I reached page 31, the glue of the spine had been unpeeled, catalysed by my violent regard for my own perceived reputation.
Air turbulence kicked in. My nervous, sweaty grip- nurtured by the corner of eye stares the woman to my left was giving my book, with a certain wry smile- gave way to a panicky sudden jerk and up in the air went 439 pages of loosely bound pages. Down at my feet came approximately 400 loose leaves of paper.
So much for tying to be discreet. Now half the passengers on the plane knew what I was reading.
45 minutes remained. What could I do? With nothing to read, I attempted to put those aforementioned pliers to use but the pompous, preened women beside me would have none of it; and she had a point. “That’s what happens when you vandalise books young man; I saw what you did in the shop”, her pointed, raised eyebrows acting as the exclamation marks on the page of her face. With that, she half turned her back on me (EasyJet flights leave little room for manoeuvre).
Lesson learned: trying too hard to be “acceptable” leads to social isolation and embarrassment. Or should that be: men should never read romance novels… in public?
The Mind’s Burka
American actor John Turturro once said self expression was about conveying what was inside of him, 
not what he was inside of. It is often painful to observe the latter part of his invisible distinction: people who have not taken the often excruciating journey of discovering themselves but instead opt for the quick fix of having their identity ready made, like a microwavable dinner. Listen and speak to politicians toeing the irrational party line; dogmatists who want to save your soul; and your manager at work who will earn his bonus by getting you to see the big boss’ vision. More painful however is when we find we observe ourselves expressing not what is in us, but what we are in- an emotional state or a particular social situation that requires certain social conventions. Most painful is when we discover way down the line that expressing what we are in has eradicated what was once in us, rendering us creatively infertile.
With the continuing exciting growth of social media, corporate PR companies continue to sell in stories to mainstream media about how their clients (Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn) are symbols of 21st century freedom of expression. Those same companies then tell their other clients to curtail what they say on such sites, requiring employees to embrace the latter part of Turturro’s distinction. At best you will find the laughable disclaimer “all views are my own” on their profiles. A symbol of identity crisis brought on by lack of self expression.
But social media brings to mind the important question: when, if ever, should we censor our self-expression? After all, is self-expression not the bowel of the human mind, filtering out the psychological excrement and leaving behind what is necessary? Through it we come to know who we are not. We disassociate ourselves from things we expressed in the past when we were taking infantile steps on our path toward self-discovery. By discovering who we are not we come closer to who we are.
So what does that mean when we read people’s uncensored blogs? where they post up their stream of consciousness for us to swim in; the unhindered publications of their innermost thoughts (disturbing or otherwise) where we can learn things about them (and life) that we wouldn’t be able to through conventional coffee shop conversations. (This as opposed to mundane blogs that people publish to increase their chances of getting a new job, showing they have “expertise” in a certain field: again, the latter half of Turturro’s distinction).
It means we should accept that what such a blogger may post on a Monday may not be what they believe on Friday. A blog for such people is a record of their intellectual development and yes at times it may be painful or even disturbing to read. But why should they publish such stuff? Why not keep it scribbled in a personal diary? Because intellectual development is difficult in solitude. It requires conversation, argument and debate and that is why such blogs have a comment box. So why not join discussion groups or debating societies? Because even there you find people unknowingly embracing the latter half of Turturro’s distinction.
If you want to self-censor your blog because you are worried about what people may think of you, perhaps you shouldn’t blog at all. The intention to self censor might be self-protection, but the consequence could be much self damage. Then again, what is the point of censoring oneself from censoring oneself? We should be free to say what we want just as we should be free to say nothing at all…or use silly disclaimers.
How should artists introduce themselves?
Ever the pertinent question to our purpose in life is that of how we define ourselves. Typical responses include a combination of factors but one usually dominates a person’s perspective on life such as sexuality, ethnicity, social class or religious subscription. In addition to this, a crucial ingredient for definition of oneself is one’s job. Linked to social class, this can allow those who have not relegated the ego to its proper place in human psychology to either boost their self esteem or be crushed under social stigma.
In 2009, at what then seemed like the peak of a freak financial storm, I sat trembling on a packed rush hour underground train in Glasgow. Coming toward the end of a turbulent Philosophy course with no clear career navigation, the anxiety of having to work full time doing something I hated, or worse, be unemployed, seemed my only two prospects. Sensing my fear as I flicked through a post-graduation careers guide, the endearing Glaswegian next to me offered his advice: “Look wee mannie, dinae worry boot it. A job’s a job, if ye dee it well”. Now, thanks to Frankie Boyle and Billy Connolly, Glaswegians are not known for their pleasant wisdom. However a cessation of stereotyping is in order. This kind hearted stranger rolled off his tongue more efficiently and concisely what Martin Luther King Jr must have spent hours trying to crystallize into the following: “If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, ‘here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well’ ”. Needless to say the guy next to me was not a neurological surgeon but a toilet cleaner.
A job is indeed a job and one should have more to offer the world than simply their 9 to 5. But, what if you don’t have a 9 to 5? What if you have a 24/7 365 that occupies your every heartbeat and breath? Yes, what if you are “an artist”? When asked that crucial question, “what do you do”? at a friend’s wedding ceremony, a party or by a stranger on the bus, what on earth are you supposed to say?! The false (and irrelevant) construct of pretension aside, something does not seem right about saying, “I’m an artist” or “I’m a writer”, especially when you are still at the bottom rung on the ladder of attainment making your definite way up. It seems “artist” is a title that one should be given by others, like an OBE. In this case, it feels as if it should be society, social commentators that do the honours. It is a strange thing to describe yourself as something which is a) not objectively defined and b) cannot really be proven (until fifty years after your lonely death) and c) isolates you from the dull accountants, bankers and lawyers you inevitably bump into. Unfortunately these guys are ever present in my confused, narrow social circle. Thus, introducing myself as “an artist” is akin to introducing myself as an asshole.
I live and I learn…not to socialise… ever.
