remember a few months ago when i raged about the latest odious invasion of the big brother police state? police files on people who have no criminal convictions but are seen as “potential troublemakers” because they show up at “too many” political demonstrations?

well the “spotter cards” have made it into the public domain this week.

the police say:

“This is an appropriate tactic used by police to help them identify people at specific events … who may instigate offences or disorder.”

which, considering that these people have no official offenses, seems to be a conclusion based on nothing more than their imagination.

but call them “domestic extremists” and suddenly it all sounds a little more credible, doesn’t it? certainly well-worth £9 million. never mind it has no legal basis in definition or fact.

so they take your photo at a public and peaceful protest and log it in a giant database. oh, and think those speed cameras are innocuous? they track your car registration too.

the guardian has done a great series featuring interviews with subjects of the “spotter cards” here.

it’s oppression of free speech and free assembly through bully tactics… you might also recognise it as a key hallmark of those harsh dictatorships around the world which we decry. you may think that a facile comparison, but if you’re too intimidated by the police to exercise your right to protest in the first place, isn’t the chilling effect just the same as those who would intimidate and suppress opposition through brute force?

the information commissioners say:

“We do have genuine concerns about the ever increasing amounts of information that law enforcement bodies are retaining. Organisations must only collect people’s personal information for a proper purpose. We will need to talk to Acpo to understand why they consider it is necessary to hold lawful protesters’ details in this way, before considering whether this meets the terms of the Data Protection Act.”[...]“Individuals have the right to request information that is held about them and can challenge organisations about whether, and for how long, the data should be retained.”

he misses the point entirely: trying to use the data protection act to challenge an infringement of basic civil liberties is like trying to put out a forest fire with a waterpistol. and, i would hasten to point out, is only useful if you happen to know you’re on a super-secret database *in the first place*.

a society without the right to peaceful protest and civil disobedience is a society where all our rights hang in the balance. a society without the notion of “innocence before guilt” is a society where the laws and judicial system have lost their footing. without the means for dissent, or the ability to demonstrably demand change from our government, we are all captive – whether we’ve been caught on police camera or not.

updated: you can follow the excellent guardian series on surveillance and civil liberties here.

requiem for dissent – bad religion

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i came home this evening and jonno summoned me to his computer – “come here, i’ve got to show you these!”

he spent his entire lunch hour looking at cats in halloween costumes. (he’s convinced we’re going to get zeke into a pumpkin outfit!)

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i collect music like some people collect stamps or buttons – i love the variety of shapes and colours and patterns. and one of the things i like to collect most is cover songs. i love it when someone brings a fresh or surprising perspective to a song i thought i knew, allowing me to see it in a whole different light. it takes talent to take something familiar and make it seem new again.

here then, are some of my favourite covers, for your enjoyment:

• sympathy for the devil – the rolling stones as covered by jane’s addiction.mick jagger sang the original with swagger and braggadocio. perry farrell sings this with creepy lecherousness.

• i want you – bob dylan as covered by bruce springsteen. bruce gives this song a plaintive edge that bob never allowed it to reveal, in spite of the lyrics.

• hallelujah – leonard cohen as covered by bob dylan. everyone knows the jeff buckley cover of this song which makes people think it’s supposed to be a pretty one, but i like that bob gives the song back some snarl. the “hallelujah” almost sounds deliberately sarcastic. maybe it is.

• i know it’s over – the smiths as covered by jeff buckley. speaking of jeff buckley, the lyrics of this heartbreaking song become extra poignant knowing about his early demise.

• black star – radiohead as covered by gillian welch. i think this is a perfect cover – thom yorke’s cold, nasal alienating vocals turned into something rich and warm and embracing.

• a case of you – joni mitchell as covered by prince. prince manages to turn a sweet introspective folk song into a sexy r&b ballad.

• when doves cry – prince as covered by the be good tanyas. prince’s iconic 80s pop song goes countrified.

• let’s hear it for the boy – deniece williams as covered by doveman. neither of these artists are household names, but if you knew the cheerleader version from the early 80s, you can appreciate the truly different take that doveman puts on it, making it sound sad and reverential, like a funereal hymn.

click below to play them all
MP3 playlist (M3U)

and here’s the feed for downloads in itunes or your other music manager of choice.

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i am not a patient person.

in fact, the imprecision of that statement irritates me – i am a *highly impatient* person. i like to joke amongst my friends that i have the patience of a fruit fly. i want results now, dammit – although if i’m honest, i’d prefer them yesterday.

and so back in march, i started to write a post that surprised me – i’d been doing yoga for a whole year. an entire year of at least 3x a week. a full year of practicing a form of quietude and discipline and patience. and i loved it. i know! i could hardly believe it myself. i felt centred and supple. balanced.

and then i got injured. the hip problems that forced me to drop out of my marathon forced me to give up yoga as well. difficult to do pigeon pose when even sitting on the sofa hurt. i did absolutely no exercise for five months, waiting for the deep pain in my hip to ease, even a little. i could practically feel my tendons shortening, my muscles contracting, as day after day i could do nothing to prevent it.

finally last month, i started beginning to work out again. the hip is still not great, but i couldn’t sit still any more. and i started trying to get back into my yoga.

i feel as weak as a newborn baby and i can barely touch my toes, let alone get chin-to-shin in janu sirsasana the way i used to. it’s so frustrating – to have to start all over again. to have to begin the practice of slowly stretching into the poses over time, building my strength back up for holding poses, ground myself through the shaking and wobbles, reconnect with my centre of gravity and stability.

because more than physical strength or flexibility, that’s what yoga is about. taking time to breathe, balance, centre. all the things i’m not naturally good at.

there’s a saying that’s continually repeated throughout classes: wherever you are today is exactly where you need to be. so here’s where i am, re-learning the lessons, reconnecting with my foundations. rediscovering patience.

please be patient with me – wilco

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in what has now become international news, a louisiana justice of the peace denied an interracial couple a marriage license:

“I’m not a racist. I just don’t believe in mixing the races that way,” Bardwell told the Associated Press on Thursday. “I have piles and piles of black friends. They come to my home, I marry them, they use my bathroom. I treat them just like everyone else.”

Bardwell said he asks everyone who calls about marriage if they are a mixed race couple. If they are, he does not marry them, he said.

Bardwell said he has discussed the topic with blacks and whites, along with witnessing some interracial marriages. He came to the conclusion that most of black society does not readily accept offspring of such relationships, and neither does white society, he said.

“There is a problem with both groups accepting a child from such a marriage,” Bardwell said. “I think those children suffer and I won’t help put them through it.”

If he did an interracial marriage for one couple, he must do the same for all, he said.

“I try to treat everyone equally,” he said.

my first husband was (is) black – we were together for nearly 10 years and never faced any real hostility. part of that was living in urban areas where interracial relationships are much more commonly visible. part of that was luck. part of that was probably choosing not to see certain things. but i know, and have always known, this kind of bigotry existed.

everyone is all up in arms. i feel like i should have something to say about this – shock! outrage! condemnation!

the fact is, i feel none of those things. the world is crawling with prejudiced people – we all see them, we just never confront most of them. they keep their voices low, or preface their statements with, “i’m not a racist, but…” they rarely ever get called to account because, let’s face it, who’s up for the challenge of taking on that kind of argument? few people ever say anything in the face of racism – it’s easier to let it slide.

admit it – you’ve sidestepped racism before. i have too. like the pile on the sidewalk, we walk on and pretend it wasn’t there. life is sometimes easier that way.

so no, i’m not surprised that in this day and age, someone sees fit to say the kinds of things this man has said. he’s admitted to blatantly turning down interracial couples many times before – he’s been a justice of the peace for 34 years! how many colleagues knew about his practices or views? how many friends or family?

and who ever called him on it before? no one, that’s who.

so when the aclu calls it “astonishing” that this would happen in 2009, i can’t agree. i’m not astonished in the slightest.

as long as well all continue to turn a blind eye, this kind of thing will continue to happen. that’s just the truth of human nature.

and that doesn’t shock me or enrage me – it just saddens me a little.

until i sidestep, and move on. like it wasn’t even there.

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the other day i turned around, and september was gone. i’d missed it completely, like a ship passing in the night.

this kind of thing keeps sneaking up on me – the elusive, mercurial nature of the hoursdaysweeks slipping past my consciousness, through my fingers. it’s beginning to feel worrisome – stop! i’m missing stuff! give me my day back!

i am more preoccupied than usual, this is true. i’ve been given something of a promotion at my job, and the unending mountain of things to do which just continues to grow has kept me busy for every working moment for the past few weeks. i come home and collapse in a heap on the couch, with barely enough energy to wield the remote control.

and it’s full autumn now. the advancing bookends of dark, chilly mornings and dark, early evenings tend to close in on the day, compacting it, making the hours feel shorter. rising in darkness, returning in darkness makes it seem like the cycle is speeding up on itself. wait, wasn’t it just dark a few hours ago? what happened to the intervening daylight?

in truth, i fritter hours away. i spend mindless time watching, surfing and tweeting with nothing to show for it. the days fly by indistinguishable from one another in cookie-cutter repetition. no grand projects to work on, nothing new to aim at. and so i kill the restlessness with numbness, an electronic novocaine.

i read an article the other day about a woman who set out to read a book a day for a year. that would once have seemed like a dream project to me, and yet my first thought was, “where would i find the time?”

i am wasteful, wanton with my minutes. i am too lazy to corral them into some semblance of activity or productivity. the modern daydreamer trades in links and bytes.

because compared to many, i have nothing *but* time. no kids, no obligations, i only sleep 5-6 hours a night. even with 10 hours a day for work and travel, that leaves me with 8 hours a day during the week, and (with a lie in) 16 hours on the weekend. that’s 72 free hours a week. or 3,744 hours a year. i have 13,478,400 seconds at my disposal.

so where the hell did september go?

these days – nico

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being an expat really tests your loyalties.

so you think you’re a baseball fan? have you spent hundreds of dollars just to be able to watch your team play… not in person, mind, or even on television, but on a tiny window of the internet? have you ever turned down social engagements, and risked alienating countrymen who don’t understand american sports, to sit at home hunched over the computer urging your team on from thousands of miles away? after a big game, have you ever experienced the unique loneliness of having *absolutely no one* to share your joy or despair with? have you ever come home from a long day at work, gone to bed ridiculously early, then woken up at 2am to spend 3 hours in the dark breathlessly watching your team win or lose, only to then try to catch one last precious hour of sleep before the alarm goes off in the morning, drag yourself through the day, and repeat that routine for the next several weeks?

until you have, you can’t really appreciate the unique hell that is the life of an expat sports fan – particularly during the playoffs. i’ve done this routine for a few seasons now – i have the redbull, i have the jersey – but somehow it never gets easier.

my beloved red sox are facing off against the los angeles angels of anaheim (otherwise known as the “we-can’t-figure-out-where-we-want-to-be-from angels”) in the american league division series. unfortunately they’re already down 2-0 in the best of five series, so have a big challenge ahead.

in other words, they *need* my support. punking out because i’m “too tired” is not an option.

but at 2am, peeling my lids open with my fingers, yawning so hard my eyes water, and trying to stay quiet so as not to disturb those sleeping next to me… it’s either a test of faith, or a measure of stupidity. when every fibre of your being is crying out desperately for sleep, you have to wonder: just how much do i love this team anyway?

lucky for me, the answer is “a helluva lot”. cause there’s no other reason behind the irrational hell that i put myself through this time of the year. and of course, better to be in the playoffs than not!

at least, that’s what i tell myself at two in the morning.

strictly game – harlem shakes

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it’s national poetry day.

i am ashamed to admit that poetry, once as essential to my being as drawing breath, has faded amongst the familiar dusty “hobbies” that take time and attention and commitment, that sit on a shelf in the dim background like so much unnoticed wallpaper.

i used to write poetry ceaselessly. i used to write urgently, with the need to fill the page and spillover, writing only to *let the words out* as they demanded to be, tumbling over each other in their rush to make themselves known, claim their space.

these days i rarely do. the truth of it is, writing is easy, it’s -necessary- when your insides are all stirred up.

it’s hard to write about contentment.

that’s not a bad thing.

but it feels there is a part of me missing – some numb and disused limb that has atrophied. i miss the way words made me well up, the way they could light up my nerves and explode my heart. that’s fucking power. i miss it.

and so in that vein, i would like to offer you a little something i’ve written… but i don’t know if i’m brave enough for that. i find my stuff hopelessly derivative and gooey – i read it now and it makes me cringe a little.

so instead: one of my all time favourites (though not british, i’m afraid). perfect in its simplicity, simple in its perfection, it resounds within me like a clanging echo, banging around in my chest, which thumps a loud “yes” in reply.

Keeping Things Whole
by Mark Strand

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body’s been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

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i want my grandfather to die.

i want my grandfather to die, because i know if he were aware of the state he’s now in, he would want to be dead. he who owned a gun and would nonchalantly talk about using it against himself, can no longer manage a steak knife. he who took such pride in his perfect posture and thick black hair, has crumpled in on himself. he who piloted the plane that was my very earliest memory, and prized his freedom above all else, is locked behind safety doors. he who spent his life as a chemical engineer, can no longer tie his shoes. he who never wanted to be a burden on his family, is legally incompetent of mind and infirm of body. those essential things that made him the man he was so proud to be, have been torn away from him – and if he could have, he would have gone down fighting tooth and nail to go out with them. he is no longer aware of who he once was – but who he once was would rather die, than be who he is now.

i want my grandfather to die because at this present moment, he is happy. because i know that the path which lies ahead only becomes more distressing and debilitating. because i know there is no kind or peaceful ending for this cruel disease, there are no mercies. for right now, he is happy in his simple way. singing music, eating food, retelling times half-remembered, relaxing into a soft touch. but i know full well, that this will not last – there is future fear and sickness that i only wish he could be spared. he is happy because he knows none of this.

i want my grandfather to die because it’s killing my mother. it’s killing me to watch my mother lose her father in a thousand tiny moments, eroded memory by cherished memory, dignity by precious dignity. it’s killing me to see her try to be strong as he grows ever frailer. it’s killing me to watch her try to hold on to a ghost. it’s killing me to watch her watch him vanish in front of her eyes. it’s killing me to watch her see herself one day in his shoes.

i want my grandfather to die because the reasons i have for wanting him to live are so selfish, so cowardly. it’s me who is worried about grief and the avoidance of pain. it’s me who can’t bear the sadness that he no longer remembers me. it’s me who is too weak to watch him shuffle off for a diaper change, to watch him eat his meals with his fingers, to watch him become more childlike each time i visit. it’s me who can’t stand it when i feel his papery hand in mine, when i tuck his thinning hair behind his ears, when i tell him i love him and he says “i love you” back, not knowing who i am. it’s me who is too scared of a time when he can’t say it back. i want my grandfather to die because i cannot cope with the process of losing him. the steady, irreversible loss that wears away at my heart.

i don’t want my grandfather to die – but he is dying. i don’t want my grandfather to die. but my grandfather – strong, fiercely independent, pilot, engineer, devoted husband, proud father – is long gone.

shelter for my soul – bernard fanning

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and so, i hear you clamouring, how was the vacation?

let’s play a little game, shall we? guess how many pictures i took with my camera? now, given that for most of my holidays, i come back with anywhere from 300 – 400 photos to sort through and edit, and given that i was in sun-soaked turkey for a week, you’d probably expect somewhere in that neighbourhood, right?

three. i took three photos with my camera. despite dutifully lugging it everywhere in hopes of capturing some bucolic holiday shots, i might as well not have brought it along at all.

(now, i didn’t let this whole experience go undocumented – oh no. i did take a whole dozen pictures with my iphone. i’ll share some of them below, with apologies for the quality).

i preface my moaning by saying that i’m *not* a high maintenance kinda girl. those of you who know me in person will attest to that. i really feel i need to mention that disclaimer.

i’d signed on to this holiday completely sight unseen. my good friend Tracey asked if i wanted to join herself, another acquaintance of ours, and two friends of the acquaintance (whom i hadn’t met), on an “all-inclusive” package holiday to turkey. given my druthers, package holidays are not generally my preference, but i’d been on two before and enjoyed myself. sun, food and alcohol are really what all-inclusives are all about, and so, i said ’sure’ without even thinking twice about it. the hotel was supposedly 5-star, but i also knew to take that rating with a huge grain of salt. i just wanted some sun and a few umbrella drinks.

so we arrived, and the hotel looked a bit tacky – strange constellations of fairy lights hanging from the ceiling, balloons and crepe-paper streamers as decor, fake plants, all a bit motel 6-ish. which, you know, is not a big deal. it was a cheap holiday, and i didn’t have terribly high expectations to begin with. the room was fine – i had to change rooms after the first night because being located next to the stairwell was too noisy, but that was fine too.

here’s me on day one – all excited about a week of pure relaxation ahead.

we check in, settle, head down to check the pool (it’s still really early). the pool is appealing, although unheated. there are plastic sunloungers abounding, and we strip down for some spf-30 roasting action. bake-turn-bake-turn. it’s soon breakfast time and there’s a giant buffet of good food (including the bizarrely faux-pink turkish sausages which have that red-dye you sometimes see in bologna). for drinks, however, there is automated a sad little automated coffee vending machine (blech!), and Tang. several varieties of Tang, being paddle-stirred in large slurpee-style dispensers.

now, if you were a child of the 70s in America like me, you’ll remember Tang as the powdered imitation orange flavoured breakfast drink of the astronauts. in the 80s, however, Tang fell out of favour and largely disappeared from the shelves.

ladies and gentlemen, i am here to tell you that Tang is alive and well, and being served in cheap turkish resorts in place of real juice.

and this was the first harbinger of doom. because really, can you not provide real juice at an “all-inclusive” resort? i hasten to add real juice *was* in fact offered – fresh squeezed orange juice, for just an additional 2 turkish lira, or roughly £1. i kid you not.

so we had lots of Tang, because Tang was what was on offer the entire week – unless you went to the “bar” and asked for some flat generic coke or lemonade or orange soda, served in an airplane-sized plastic cup, half full of ice. there were a few large cups floating around the hotel, and we took to holding on to them when we were lucky enough to stumble across one. which is, in and of itself, pretty sad – we were hoarding plastic cups.

so we headed back to the pool, where we are surrounded by 99.9% brits. fine, okay. there are several copies of the daily mail paper spotted, and books like “ant and dec’s bio”. there is lots and lots of smoking going on – probably 90% of the adults and many of the children (*maybe* 14 years old at a stretch?) are smoking. it wasn’t terribly pleasant to be constantly surrounded by smoke, and see cigarette butts littered everywhere. but hey, it’s turkey, right? everyone smokes here, not a huge deal.

the whole pool area is nice enough. here’s a picture – the building across the street is another “resort”.

the music in the pool area starts up. it’s a strange mix of s club 7/take that/tom jones (as to be expected), lady ga ga’s “poker face” (maybe 50 times in the week?), too fucking much michael jackson, some oldies (for the senior set), and lots (lots!) of the black-eyed peas “boom boom pow”. if you care to, you can have a listen here, but the lyrics go a little something like:

That digital spit
Next level visual shit
I got that boom boom pow
How the beat bang, boom boom pow

I like that boom boom pow
Them chickens jackin’ my style
They try copy my swagger
I’m on that next shit now

I’m so 3008
You so 2000 and late
I got that boom, boom, boom
That future boom, boom, boom
Let me get it now
…

I’m a beast when you turn me on
Into the future cybertron
Harder, faster, better, stronger
Sexy ladies extra longer

‘Cause we got the beat that bounce
We got the beat that pound
We got the beat that 808
That the boom, boom in your town

so that was fun.

after lunch, we got a little thirsty. as part of the “all-inclusive” there is free beer and wine, and free vodka drinks – at least, until 11pm, when, as it turns out, drinks are £5. i wish i could say that the drinks were even palatable – it’s not like i’m some kind of snob! – but truly, they weren’t. the beer was watery, the wine was practically vinegar, and the vodka drinks… well on does get tired of tiny thimblefuls of cheap vodka and orange soda (again, no juice!). after day two, i just gave up.

and so it turns out that the only thing worse than a tacky, rundown, boring holiday is a *dry* tacky, rundown, boring holiday.

it only went downhill from there. the activities were minigolf (putting into a wooden box) and boules, facilitate by crazed activity staff who ran around shouting at the guest, haranguing them to join. the cafeteria tablecloths became soiled and weren’t changed (yet strangely people dressed to the nines in glitter and stilettos for dinner!?!) the glasses were frequently dirty. the towel stand was only open on alternate days? (thus negating the point of the towel card – having to drag beach towels back and forth every day.) in the evenings there was no entertainment – we played cards until bedtime like a bunch of oaps. the incessant music went on until well past 2am. the other guests were loud, crass and generally rude. we nicknamed one family the Clampetts, if that’s any indication. after two days on holiday, i actually started to feel rather depressed – was everyone else having a great time besides me? was i just being a big old snob? i began tweeting my observations (at 50p a text), simply because i couldn’t keep them to myself.

on day three, then, i jumped at the idea of going on a walk to the local beach with tracey. as we walked out of the gates of what i had begun in my mind to call “the compound”, it felt like a huge weight dropping from my shoulders – freedom!! we walked a few hundred yards to the beachfront, only to find… dirt. it was a little smudge of dirt crowded with sunloungers stacked nearly on top of each other. i made some tentatively snarky comment about at least being outside the “resort”, she and i looked at each other and just started laughing. relief flooded over me and i said, “oh thank god! i thought i was the only one who thought it was horrible!” and to my utter thankfulness she said, laughing, “oh it’s *hideous*!!” i nearly knocked her over hugging her – all this time i’d had to hold in my disappointment, worried about hurting the feelings of our other companions who all seemed to be enjoying themselves. finally i had an ally! things were looking up.

here was the beach. it almost looked pretty… from a distance you can’t even see the trash!

from that point on, we made a concerted effort to spend as much time as possible getting outside the walls of the “resort”. we trekked into the town of Altinkum – a shitty little strip of cafes serving up “full english breakfast”, “footy on the big screen”, “x-factor tonite!”. we went on a party boat – broiling in the day long sun, choked by chain smokers. we had dinner and went in search of a bar that wasn’t blaring karaoke or “amarillo”. we got tipsy on real beer and wifi access.

(as a side note: when i arrived, i asked the staff if they had wifi access, which they said they did – they only needed a mac address, which i happily provided. the it manager then told me it “doesn’t work for iphones”. ummmm, huh?! but whatever – being trapped at the hotel with no connectivity only exacerbated my feeling of isolation.)

our other three companions? never ventured outside the hotel. for the entire week, they were perfectly content with horrible drinks, shabby surroundings, and chavvy holidayers. we tried to encourage them, but they declined every time. all i can say is thank god for tracey, because she made the rest of the week bearable, and at times, even fun. we enjoyed ourselves in spite of our surroundings, and not because of them.

i perversely wish i hadn’t taken any pictures at all, because i’ve been told i actually made it look rather attractive, when in reality it was dingy and depressing. nevertheless, here’s my week in pictures:

the poker. we played for a cocktail and i won and ordered a piña colada. that was a tactical error because (without any juice at the hotel) my colada had no piña.

the day we first escaped from the compound. that’s relief tinged with hysteria you see on my face.

some lovely flowers at the dirt “beach”. too bad they were surrounded by a pile of rubbish.

tracey dives off the party boat. there was no shade, only a few sunloungers (which we possessively claimed in order to avoid sitting on a bench the whole day!)

we ventured to the bar across the street for one night. real cocktails!!

this gentleman was sunning himself while wearing a half shirt, a thong, and tube socks. standing up, it was not a pretty picture.

some classy ladies out for a night on the town (i.e. drunkenly singing “amarillo” at the top of their lungs). i can see why a night out in altinkum is something you’d dress up for!

one of our nights out, enjoying a turkish coffee.

the airport waiting for our flight home. i refused to pay £5 for a slice of pizza.

so to sum up: the resort was awful, altinkum was a shithole, and the most redeeming features about the whole week were the weather and clinging desperately to my sanity via tracey. it took me a week to write this blog post, in part, because i think i’ve been trying to block the whole thing out – i now know why they have those “holiday from hell” programmes. (other people have reviewed the resort here)

this is hell – elvis costello

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