Day 6: Why I love music

It seems fitting that I should get in from orchestra and have to write a post about why I love music.
Maybe one of these 40 days I will have planned in advance and not be frantically writing at gone 11pm...
Maybe I should revisit a topic a week for 40 weeks once Lent is over, give some of them their due diligence. Might need a break first mind.
I really do though, you know.
Love music.
I know yesterday I was all about the train journeys, but you know trains, they come and go.
My love of music is for life.
It's strange because for years and years I thought I wasn't any good at it (and I still don't, but in case it wasn't abundantly clear already, that's just me) and then I found people I really and truly enjoyed doing it with, and everything sort of fell in to place.
(And if that's not a metaphor fit for any occasion I don't know what is)
Music for me is an escape. That feeling of unity you get playing as an ensemble, that sensation of togetherness that perches, contented and reassuring, on the outer periphery of your consciousness as you play your part in this literal symphony of sound and emotion and humanity.
Admittedly, some rehearsals feel the exact opposite of that. When you're in the midst of a cacophony of distracted brains and tired limbs it can feel the exact opposite of life-affirming, but that's all part of it. That tireless pursuit of the next eureka moment where everything just clicks. (And toots and parps and whatever onomatopoeic word exists for stringed instruments)
Credit where credit is due, this love must be at least in part due to desk partners I have known. Three of my best friends have all started out as desk partners, or at the very least have done their stint, although the fact they have stuck around probably says more about them than it does me. (Tough luck Ed, there's no escape now...)
It's true to say that musicians are a different breed.
I love hearing how people have come to play the instruments they now play, the journey they have been on and where, what and why they have continued playing.
I love that on Monday nights I now congregate in a church in the shadow of St.Paul's cathedral with people that I now see more often than my own parents, who are in my life purely because of a shared love of, and desire to play, music.
I love that on Monday nights you park secondary labels at the door, student, accountant, marketer, architect, and for those few hours we are all simply, musician.
I love listening to music and I love witnessing people with headphones on so overwhelmed by what they're hearing that that joy fights to express itself, feet tapping, fingers drumming, heads nodding, lips mouthing, powerless to resist as the sheer energy of the music forces itself in to physical existence.
I love what music has given me, the people, the places, the experiences, and I love that an appreciation of music of all kinds colours my life.
Because without music, well, it's all just shades of grey. And no-one wants that.

Read More

Day 5: Describe a train journey

Day 5: Describe a train journey

I really love train journeys. I mean, really love them, even that one the day/few days before Christmas (delete as applicable) where the world and their 55 wives stage a mass festive exodus and it's breathing room only as far as the eye can see.

Especially that one.

There is something infinitely lovely about a train journey - that bubble of time and space in constant motion, suspended between place and destination - the very definition of a work in progress.

I like the romance of it all.

I like the scrolling horizon, the constantly shifting landscapes; the way you can divert your gaze for a matter of minutes and be presented with a completely different world the next time you glance out of the window.

I like the quiet solitude afforded with just a pair of headphones and a lack of internet. (Alright, sometimes self-imposed lack of internet)

All of that, and the glorious opportunity for unadulterated, unashamed people-watching, without fear of discovery, for what feels like an almost indulgent amount of time.

I like noticing the routines and rituals people have. (Pull-down table, pen, paper and tickets meticulously laid out; coat off, shoes off, snapchat, twitter, snapchat, tumblr)

Being able to eavesdrop on the briefest sliver of people's day-to-day lives, hearing the meandering conversations of everyone from long-lost lovers and old married couples, to new friends, and soon-to-be-enemies.

Hearing one side of a frantic phone conversation, or being privy to the excited anticipation of the plans, people and possibilities at the end of the train track; feeling all-but part of the mandatory group de-brief in the aftermath of a wild weekend.

It may be more accurate to say I love trains because I love the people that use them, but there are far too many exceptions that prove that rule to render it any kind of gospel.

The last train journey I took I tried some free-writing about life, about where I was heading literally, and where I am headed metaphorically but I also turned my gaze on those around me, as often is the case, with a pen in my hand.

Picture the scene: window seat, quarter to 9 on a Friday night, 1h45 in to a 2 hour train journey.
Writing on trains plays beautifully in to my romantic notions, but in reality, the pull-down table slightly too far away I cut an odd figure hunched over my notebook, resting simultaneously on lap and against window.

Don't all rush at once boys.

Please find below a verbatim retelling of some of the resulting contents of my notebook...

"As a side note, I wonder if my writing in a notebook makes people feel nervous, in that same way as when you catch someone holding their phone in such a way that convinces you they couldn't possibly just be swiping through shuffle, or Tinder. Then again, maybe other people aren't as paranoid as I am. Or are they?
The guy who has just sat down next to me is scribbling through some sort of hideously complex-looking mathematical equation. We are tandem scribblers.
I guess he has the right to feel a bit paranoid that I might be writing about him.
Because I am.
There is however also part of me paranoid that he will read over my shoulder, or glance in the reflection of the window I'm sitting against. Maybe life is just a series of differing levels of paranoia. (Insert pithy remark about the unexamined life here)
If this were any kind of rom-com worth its salt, "Maths man" would have been reading over my shoulder this whole time. I would have noticed, and coyly, knowingly, written something appreciative or playfully dismissive about his appearance/demeanor/right earlobe that would prompt an audible reaction or some kind of leaned-in, witty-but-charged retort.
In reality however, such is my contorted position, I couldn't even tell you what he looks like, save for the fact that in the very outer limits of my field of vision he appears to be wearing some kind of leather-esque jacket.
In short, we will soon be wed.
Expect your invitations in the post."

Ooh look, Newport."

Read More

Day 4: Forgiveness

Forgiveness, culpability, remorse.
Ultimately, forgiveness is a positive thing. Its precursor bitterness, however, is the kind of thing that festers. That clenched fist of hurt and anger that rests uneasily somewhere between your ribcage and your belly button, like the drop of fresh ink on parchment, silently bleeds, staining all but the air around it.
The thing I have always struggled with is forgiving people who then use that forgiveness as permission to keep acting in such a way that necessitates you having to keep on forgiving them. The bastards.
How is it possible to reconcile the personal need to let go of the ways in which we've been wronged, with that act of self-preservation, the protecting of yourself from the actions of others? Is it possible?
Maybe that's just life: you give people the tools to hurt you, and then hope they won't.
Where is that balance though, between forgiveness and forgetting? Must you choose to forget certain details in order to forgive? It is surely a skill, that ability to live with the knowledge of how you have been hurt, so exactly, systematically stripping it of its venom, slowly choking it of the oxygen of any kind of feeling towards it and simply sitting with the fact of its existence.
Sometimes, it becomes necessary to forgive ourselves.
We put pressure on ourselves, expect of ourselves and hold ourselves to standards we would never dream of imposing on anyone else, and while to a certain extent these things can be harnessed for good, for betterment, at some point we must simply give ourselves a break. At one time or another I have reached a point at which I have had to forgive myself for my own misplaced forgiveness of others. (A bit meta that one, but go with it.)
It hurts, and then it stops, and then it gets better.
Forgiveness is the catalyst of forward motion, of recovery, and closure.
Without forgiveness we resign ourselves to a life unrelentingly certain that people aren't inherently actually-kind-of-alright given half a chance.
That's not a world I want to live in.
Believe the best in people, and sometimes, just sometimes, they will surprise you.
If they don't?
Well, fuck 'em.

Read More

Day 3: Dreams vs. Reality

Day 3: Dreams vs. Reality

It's 7 minutes past 10, and I'm sat in a bar in Brixton, yet to pen today's post. I want to do justice to the topics so kindly contributed by everyone, but in all honesty I posted the challenge on a whim, expecting to quietly be able to take down the status, barren of suggestions, within about half an hour of spontaneously releasing it upon the world and was more-than-pleasantly surprised when the comments filled up with wonderful, beautiful suggestions.
Today's topic is dreams vs. reality, but in reality, I have been unable to properly prepare for today's post and as is my way, I really want to be able to do each subject justice.
Clearly in a dream scenario I would be the kind of person who was organised enough to be able to prepare stuff in advance, and schedule, plan and prioritise my way through this admittedly self-imposed challenge.
In reality, I am sat in the pub panicking about the fact I've not written anything as my phone battery dies, and genuinely foregoing actual, human interaction in pursuit of just finding some words.
This is not what I intended this challenge to be, but I think the very real, very present feeling that I need to be writing is a good thing, and while this stream of consciousness isn't going to be the most scintillating thing to read, I am still writing, I am still making good on my promise, and I am still going to come back and do this topic justice at some point in the very near future.
So please, enjoy your Friday nights, as I am about to continue doing, and rest assured that in reality, it's ok to be human.

Read More

Day 2: Make-up

Day 2: Make-up

Make-up hack for literally anyone:
1. Wear some
2. Don't
3. Re-evaluate options 1-2 as often as you see fit

For something I wear every time I leave the house, the topic of make-up leaves me oddly bereft of writing inspiration.

Make-up is one of those strange things that somehow manages to unite, polarise and alienate different sections of the population all in one go.

As a potential wearer of make-up you can expect to be chastised for wearing too much, too little, none, or simply any at all, on any given day of the week. I mean, I love make-up, but it's pretty hard to ignore the fact that the whole culture of beauty comes with its own problematic implications. (I mean seriously, can't we just have nice things? Just once?)

I wear make-up every day, but is it a choice? It's certainly a habit, part of my routine, and has been since my early teens, but unlike putting the orange juice back in the fridge, it's not something I would ever forget to do.

There is a certain version of myself that I prefer to display. It is not my "optimum" state of being, nor does it make me in any way better as a person, but inhabiting it increases my confidence and allows me to achieve, create and generally get shit done on a day to day basis.

I've learned that I have much more to offer the world than any kind of perfected face, (would have been a long-old wait) but if colouring my face and shading in my eyebrows in some small way makes me feel capable of making that call, asking that important question or even just showing up, then who are you to deny someone, anyone, that? Hell, who are you to stop anyone doing anything it takes to make themselves happy? (Ok no, not anything. Common sense please, and just, be nice to each other)

For all its institutionalised ills, day or night, make-up is a fast-track way to present to the world the face of your choosing, even if you choose not to cover a single inch of it in anything at all.
Alright, maybe not always fast-track. Apologies to anyone who has ever had to wait around for me to finish mine. Probably most of you.

But seriously, for a billion-dollar industry that ultimately trades in insecurities you never even knew you had, it sure is a lot of fun.

I pity anyone who has never felt that particular satisfaction of achieving that perfect sweep of liquid eyeliner. First time. On both eyes. In the same, deliberate style.

You know the one.

I can count on precisely one finger the number of times it has actually happened, but it. was. glorious.

Make-up is a skill, a skill that lots of people acquire over years and years of trial, error and practice, and while it's perhaps not a marketable one for your average human, anything that encourages you to take that time for yourself and focus your attention on making yourself feel good, is alright by me.

Read More

Day 1: My Nose.

My name is Abi, and I am a writer who doesn't write.
In an effort to remedy this, an arbitrary period of time that lends itself to a self-imposed writing challenge.
Lent: 40 days; 40 topics suggested by friends.

Day 1: My Nose.

I pierced my nose.

I paid a guy in a shop to shove some metal through my nose and then rang my mother to inform her, who promptly hung up on me.

After she had calmed down, and feeling had returned to the fingers of the friend who had been the catalyst to the stabbing (don't even try and deny it) the sense of accomplishment took over and I relished the feeling of having done something so completely and utterly for myself.

Looking back, I can still feel the rush; that rush of just doing something, this thing that I had been agonising over doing for so damn long. Looking back, I don't think I've done anything quite like it since, which I guess is equal parts sad, and also paving the way for things even more exciting.

However, my delay in bullet-biting adventures has not been through lack of trying.

I have always needed that push, that little reassurance that this thing is The Right Thing, but in this quest for absolute certainty I find myself forced in to this frustrating stalemate of inaction where the only person I have to rally against is, well, myself.

It's not just body modification that causes me to stutter; this internal doubt seems to bleed silently in to pretty much every decision, right down to the seemingly frivolous. It's hard work.

Of course, we're all a little unsure, a little uncertain (aren't we!?)

Guys?

All jokes aside, as was already patently obvious to everyone else, we all have to learn to be our own push.

I'm getting better, in increments, and that little push itself is better than no push at all.

I've acknowledged, but not accepted, the fact that for every reason why, I can often be relied upon to find 25 reasons why not, but on a good day?

On a good day, I get my nose pierced.

Read More

Front Page News

What better time than a sunny bank holiday Monday to start a new notebook? So that's exactly what I did.

Read More