Journal

I wrote something in a message at work today that I’ve never articulated this way before, but that I completely and utterly believe in. I’ll paraphrase it here to spare you my slap-dash Slack-speak.

My philosophy in life is this: be wildly optimistic or filled with unending fury, but never succumb to mere apathy.

The broader, more pithy version is probably something like: “always choose to feel alive”—to really feel it, I mean. After all, what’s the point otherwise? If you want to have a rich life, choose to feel alive.

This sort of framing applies to many things, and roughly boils down to “if you want the thing, open yourself completely to the thing.”

To write interesting things, have interesting experiences.

To shoot better landscapes, traverse many great lands.

To feel overwhelming love, love overwhelmingly.

Dreams die sooner from indifference than they do from external forces. Love dies sooner from neglect than it does from conflict. If something is important to you, it’s worthy of real feeling.

Optimism, fury, whatever—but never apathy.

I’ve written a few times about the purpose of this daily blog (as recently as yesterday, in fact) and yet I still fall into the trap regularly of sitting down and wondering “what I have to say.” I’ll sit there, sometimes for minutes, wondering what a “good enough” post might look like.

I was flicking through Kevin Kelly’s Excellent Advice for Living whilst sat on the couch this evening, enjoying decades of wit and wisdom reduced to Tweet-length nuggets. It reminded me why I started writing in the first place: to capture small bits of life before they’re lost.

I was reading Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird when I started posting, and she was writing about how—earlier on in her journey—she’d capture little vignettes whilst in the coffee shop on her lunch break. Kelly’s capturing nuggets of wisdom he’s gained over a lifetime. O’Hara captured life during his lunch breaks in Lunch Poems. On and on and on.

Some of my favorite pieces throughout this blog aren’t actually seeds that I see growing into something bigger. They’re just pieces of life, with nowhere specific to go. Maybe they’ll one day combine into something, and maybe they won’t. Maybe they’re just fine as they are.

My second post ever was something overheard on a dog walk. Perhaps my favorite post yet is just 12 words long. I’ve got one-paragraph memories of my grandfather, short notes on the power of walks, and others on what home means to me. It’s these pieces that make me smile, and I intend (and often fail) to write primarily for myself.

I’m going to get back to some more of this. That doesn’t mean I won’t write pieces for others, or that I’ll never write longer pieces. It just means that this blog—this daily blog—is going to focus on the little things that might add up (or not). It’s going to be the place where a “good idea” isn’t necessary. Where a sentence is enough; more than enough.

This post is a rerun. I post occasional reruns as a kindness to myself and to unearth old posts for new readers. You can read about reruns, too.

Today’s rerun is A Place to Plant Seeds. The point of the post was that this blog—or the goal of this blog—isn’t about quality. That is, any one post here isn’t about quality. It just has to exist.

Since I wrote the post, that’s how I’ve continued to think about it. When I read back through the things I’ve published I see them as nice little nuggets of life, but not as some great expression of literary prowess. Now, just as then, I’m perfectly content with that.

I’ll use this rerun as an opportunity to pluck out a couple of pieces that I believe could one day grow into something more, though. Pieces that have a little glimmer of something within them. They only exist, though, because I turned up to write anything at all.

• London
• Glad You Have It
• Wise-Guy in the Fog
• Sound as Sacred
• Places That Call Us

Don’t try to surf, don’t do it.
The less you do, the more you do.
Let’s see you pop up. Pop it up.

I’m 90% sure that this scene from Forgetting Sarah Marshall Starring Jason Segel and Paul Rudd is most of what you need to accomplish things. It’s so common, I think, when facing a new challenge to think e.g.

“I wonder if I could…”

But the space in between wondering and doing is so often just filled with self doubt, procrastination, and comparisons. It feels like a question worth asking, but the answer (of course) only comes from trying.

Which leads me to ask: why wonder if you can do, when you can just… do? People don’t get better at surfing or art or writing or running by wondering and thinking, they get better by doing and failing.

It feels strange for a person who identifies as a “thinking person” to turn your brain off for a moment and just start doing, but almost every time I’ve done it, it’s worked out better than the times I haven’t. The proof was in the pudding, and I could try (and try) again.

Don’t try to surf. Just surf.

Red buses, telephone boxes, cobbled streets and London brick. Narrow Streets, narrower alleys, tutting loud when they won’t walk quick. Stand on the right please PLEASE coming through, don’t mind me and I won’t mind you. Let us off please, out the way, this isn’t the New-YORK-Bloody-Subway. London Fields, cheap barbecue, bottle of wine and a pizza, too. Lovely coffee, proper flat white, only the good stuff none of that shite. Columbia Road on a SUNDAY, mate, hate the crowds but I do love cake. EIGHT minute wait for the Central Line, I haven’t got the fucking time. Whilst I’m here though, pop to Boots, or maybe a cup of some overpriced fruit. Hop on my bike from Clapton to Shoreditch, forever running LATE so I’d better bloody move it. Sun is coming out and everybody’s happy, best time of year and the best place TO be. Where did you say you’re having your ceremony? Oh, that thing, just the BARBICAN Conservatory. This fucking city will always have my heart, not really for the place but ‘cause it’s where we got our start.

I’ve fallen in love with the writing of Max Porter recently, so I—of course—scoured the internet for anything and everything Max-Porter-related that I could find. The first result that wasn’t simply a link to a Max Porter book? This write-up about Shy in the New Yorker.

Great piece, go read it (yada yada yada) but there was one bit in particular that stood out. In the third paragraph, the author comments on Max’s (or really, the protagonist Shy’s) use of a certain 4-letter word, and attempts a (brave) translation into US-English.

When a politician visits Last Chance for a photo op, wiping his fingers after every handshake with the students, Shy asks the M.P. when he became “such a c*nt.” “C*nt” is the new “phony,” I noted, grateful to update my files.

I—a British human—can promise you that no one has ever (really, never) meant phony when they use that word, and it made me wonder: is there actually a direct translation of the British meaning into other languages and cultures? I have decided, for now, that there is not.

The funny thing is, I’ve heard the word used in a positive way significantly more than I’ve seen it used in a negative way. I think that’s unique? It’s certainly never (to my knowledge) used in a positive way in the U.S., where I live now. It’s almost unspeakable here.

That, of course, is totally fine. It means something different here. It carries meaning and weight that it simply doesn’t in the U.K.—even writing about it feels weird. Publishing this will be weird. Language is strange, as is the way it morphs as it travels around.

It’s Olivia Colman’s favorite word. It features proudly in The Roses. It was maybe half of the first 200-or-so words in the opening of Romesh Ranganathan’s U.S. comedy tour. It’s roughly 75% of the words that leave Danny Dyer’s mouth, who calls it “a term of endearment.”

Language and culture can be so subtle, and sometimes it’s simply impossible to communicate what something means, and what it’s meant (or hasn’t meant) your whole life. This is, admittedly, a weird one to index on, but I’ll thank (blame?) Max Porter for bringing it up.

I’ve found myself in a few conversations lately talking about the idea of maintenance. I’ll write a few related posts, but will start with a weird one: the daily noticing and maintenance (or lack thereof) of simply… life.

Returning home from not-home.

Ah, weeds to pull. Promised I’d do them. Did do them but didn’t treat them, so they’re back. Promised to do them again. Haven’t done them yet. Will do them. Those ones there are a pain in the ass.

Let’s just go inside for now.

Ah, key doesn’t turn. Pull door towards me. It’s swollen or warped from what, wet weather? Earthquakes? We’ve got both of those here. First one for a season, second all the time, unfortunately.

Thump, thump, thump.

I have to give the door a bang at the top where it’s catching. Eventually it pops open with a little too much force. We’ve had someone out to fix it. Twice. We’ll just get them out again I guess.

Right, finally inside now.

The dog comes running up, whole body wiggling. I give her a hug, stroke her head, notice (again) the end of her collar flapping around. Barely reaches the loop, keeps popping out over and over.

Thwack, thwack, thwack.

The dog shakes as if she’s just returned from the ocean. The loose end of the collar makes the sound of a whip, albeit a small one. I should try to fix it somehow, or (probably) get someone else to.

Hang on, Wednesday, bin night.

Collapse the cardboard boxes from earlier (and yesterday, and the other day). Collect the contents of the smaller bins and add to the bigger bin. Take it all outside, in the right bins, drag to the curb.

Swing, clunk! Cupboard door.

Ah, forgot about that screw. Getting a fresh bin bag, screw popped out of the hinge. Too short, needs a longer one. Down to the basement I go, I guess. Found one, tried it, seems to work. For now.

Thump, squeak, crash, clang.

Back down to the basement to put the screwdriver back. The stair is wonky. Door is squeaky and doesn’t shut well. The tool bag needs a good organizing. Fix it, oil it, sort it, get someone out. Or not.

For better or worse, life is mostly about maintenance. Of the car, the boiler, the doors. Of health, of home, of relationships. Of calm, of peace, of perspective. Of everything that’s important. All of it.

First day of nursery.

Thrashing around in mom’s (dad’s?) arms, didn’t want to go, didn’t seem reasonable at all. My sister’s here? Traitor. Wasn’t for me.

Thwack.

Accidentally kicked the teacher who got close enough to see what the trouble was about. Stopped thrashing, felt bad, what now then? On her knee apparently. Big smiles, nice words, not so bad. I guess.

Fast forward.

No playground until a clean plate. Vegetables left (gross), so I’ll never get out there. Lunch lady heading over, friend or foe? Latter. Big smiles, nice words, not so bad. Stays with me the whole time, real friend.

Playground, finally.

Sister is here (I bloody knew it). We’re invited to a party! Friends my own age? Friend comes over, just sister, not me. I’m not invited. No smiles, mean words, feels bad. Lunch lady better friend.

First day of reception.

Grey trousers, white shirt, striped tie, black shoes (zip-up). Yellow book bag, no friends, very nervous. Where is lunch lady?

Class dismissed, but laces first. I don’t know why. Velcro next, so laces smarter kids? I have neither. Black shoes, zip-up. Sitting quietly, waiting my turn. Finally teacher looks up, notices me.

“I called laces and velcro.”

“I have zips.”

Not sure if zips smart, but probably not. Next time, zips first, so zips smart? Probably not. Feels bad maybe. Extra-not-smart maybe.

Never mind.

Made friends, played on playground, Tom seems nice, likes my jacket. Class okay, drawers in desks, Tim likes to kick mine into my tummy. Tell someone? Probably not, don’t cause a fuss.

Year one now.

Don’t remember much. Chicken pox, maybe mine? Note sure, but think so. Other kids don’t like it, were mean. Was I other kids?

School play. Too shy, but maybe I’ll have a role. They need trees, I’ll be tree. Brown foam tube, but need green arms. Cub scouts? Yes Miss. Good, turn jumper inside out. Brown foam tube, green jumper.

Swoooooosh.

Part of tree is sway when witch blows icy air. Make sound like wind through leaves. Sway, not too much, just enough. Think I’m doing okay, maybe good tree. Play finished, back in classroom, giddy.

School lunches, not everyone gets? Pineapple juice, first time, love it a lot. Green plastic knife but also spoon? Ah, for kiwi. Cut kiwi, scoop, taste, do not like at all. Swap for yoghurt, Petits Filous.

Year two next.

Mrs Webb, or Webber? Or Miss, or Ms.

Not sure, but like her. Big smiles, nice words, not so bad at all. Play games, make art, bring in things for show & tell. First time playing with scissors. A girl cuts her hair, another her finger. Wonder why.

Time to paint each other. I paint Jack. Jack paints me. At home dad tripped on carpet I’d rolled up, parrot cage tumbled, hit head (mine), Steri-Strip on forehead. Jack paints it, don’t like that. Tell him? Probably not, don’t cause a fuss. Just a painting, Jack is friend.

Hide and seek, George counting, Jack pushes, George hurt. First time seeing friend hurt friend, don’t like it, will never hurt friend.

Paper planes, Joe best at making, everyone makes. Planes on playground, planes all over field, planes everywhere, teachers not happy. Plane time over, back in classroom, giddy, bit worried.

I finally got around to starting Shy by Max porter, and by page three I had to pause so I could revel in the moment where you just know.

This is going to be a great fucking story.

You know—you really do—when you’ve got a great story in your hands. You feel it; you sense it. Your mind and your body are just intuitively aware that this thing is going to change you.

Isn’t that a great feeling?

I love that feeling.

A rare feeling.

Great stories move you. They make you smile and sigh and gasp and cry and burst out laughing on the 55 bus from Clapton to Shoreditch (or the subway From Utica to Clinton-Washington, the BART from Rockridge to Montgomery). They make you feel things.

Sometimes a single word can do it: “fuckinell.”

A misspelt word spelled exactly right.

A word that takes you back.

I live in California where no one says it that way, but I was born in England where everyone does. Fuckinell, I was right there.

I had to stop reading to write because it made me want to write, which all of the best stories do. Now I’m going back to read.

To read the rest of the story.

A great fucking story.

The occasional (let’s say) strand of hair on my head didn’t used to feel wiry as it passed between my fingers, but now it does.

My (one) leg didn’t used to cramp in the middle of the night leaving me hopping around the bedroom, but now it does.

The skin around my eyes didn’t used to crease quite so deeply when I smiled just the smallest of smiles, but now it does.

The occasional eyebrow hair didn’t used to grow much longer than the others (seemingly unchecked), but now it does.

My neck didn’t use to hurt for days (plural) if I forgot to take the big pillow off the bed before falling asleep, but now it does.

The time didn’t use to pass me by quite so quickly—or at least feel like it was passing by so quickly—but now it does.

I didn’t used to used to appreciate time, self and health nearly enough—nor many other things, honestly—but now I do.