Things I Have Learnt Whilst On A Bicycle.
by catbagan
- How to ride a bicycle.
- If your feet don’t touch the peddles, wooden blocks will do.
- Lamp-posts are not friendly if you approach them too quickly.
- Never get your trouser leg caught in the wheel whilst going down a hill.
- It is virtually impossible to look good in a helmet.
- Going down hills is fun.
- Going down hills as fast as possible is the closest feeling to snowboarding without the snow or the board.
- Primary school children are totally lacking in spatial awareness.
Changes, plotting & planning.
It has, my friends, been far too long.
I’ve contemplated updating quite frequently, but obviously never quite followed through. If I’m entirely honest, I still don’t have any specific point to this update, but I’m hoping to find myself along the way. As a starting point, let me tell you what has changed: I’ve moved from Scotland back to my parents’ house for the Summer. My volunteering plans are not exactly… well… going to plan, so I’ve got tons of time on my hands. I went to visit my dad in Kent & tripped over to London; I’ve finished reading my first book for my dissertation reading; I’ve even joined a gym!
But, more importantly, I’m on the verge of making some incredibly important , life-changing decisions.
It feels like I’ve always had the idea in the back of my mind that I would move to London at some point, but now it’s more of a plan than a dream. I’ve visited London twice in the last six months & just like the millions of other people that visit the city every year, I’ve become a little bit enamoured with it. For me, as an art history student, it is filled with delights that could consume entire weeks if you had the time. There is so much art collected in one place it’s easy to become overwhelmed and exhausted by trying to see it all in quick succession. Oh, but for the luxury of living there! Can you imagine? It would be glorious. There’s also the fact that it’s a city, a big, proper, real place with shops that sell interesting things and people with interesting lives. For the last three years I’ve lived in a suffocatingly small town. Comprised of four main streets, only three of which have shops on, it gets old fast. Also, because it is such a popular tourist destination & the university is the third best in the country, it attracts a certain type of well-to-do student that seems to allow for the ridiculous inflation of prices. Subsequently, routines are extraordinarily easy to fall in to & exceedingly hard to break free of. Now, I’m not naive enough to believe that without strength of will the same routine laziness can’t happen in a big city like London, but the possibility for excitement and change is a lot more obvious.
Thus, I’m moving.
I graduate from St Andrews in June 2012 with a degree in Art History & I’m moving to London. My best friend has also agreed to come with me which is an excellent feeling. We both want to continue studying & we both want to go to London. We’ve also both decided to do our MA courses part time, making it two years overall, in order to work inbetween to pay for tuition & rent etc. Now, it’s still a year away, but it’s becoming more of a solid plan & I’m starting to get excited. & the idea of having my own flat, a proper one, is incredibly exciting for me.
Now all I need to do is figure out which MA course I want to do. Oh, & of course, get a place.
Alive!
I know, I haven’t been around for a very long time. I keep intending to write things, but then forgetting. Ah, such is life. I will write something substantial (in terms of length, not necessarily in content) soon, but for now I just wanted to share these eBay links.
I have recently discovered three things:
- I own too much stuff & my room is not big enough to contain it all.
- I have no money.
- Education is sucking me dry & will continue to do so for the foreseeable future.
So, naturally, this means I have to SELL ALL OF MY THINGS. Well, I’m starting small & hoping that some success will spur me to being more ruthless in my purging & eBay listings. Speaking of which, here are my current ones.
Tsega Dress, SIZE: M/L
eBay link.
New Look Blouse, SIZE: UK 12
eBay link.
Teddy Thompson at the Masque: a piece of what you need.
Let me put this plainly: I love Teddy Thompson. Since the very first time I heard his voice, I knew it would be a wonderful affair. At first it was just the sound of his voice that hooked me, I’ve read so many reviewers and critics describe it as “rich,” but that seems a little simplistic for me. Something about Teddy Thompson’s voice has the ability to surround you entirely. You don’t just listen to it; you enjoy it in a private way, like a touch that gives you goosebumps or a shower almost too hot to stand. This was my way in, and as I got used to the heat, I realised the way it all fit together. Sure there was the voice, decadent and strong: but the words, the sounds, the twisting melodies and storytelling lyrics.
I’m not a gig reviewer. I should say that now before I go any further. I’m terrible at remembering set lists or details, but I am good with reactions and feelings. Because I don’t need to be objective for any sort of publication, I don’t intend to be. I went to this gig because of an intense love of the music being played, for me to come away & try and be impartial seems foolish. I have never been to a gig that I hated, because I have never been to a gig for someone I didn’t love. But I will give the basic facts, if I remember them.
First up were TJ & Hughes, who were okay but not remarkable so they only get this sentence. Then, as he worded it himself, “the meat in your musical sandwich, in every possible way,” David Ford (above) appeared. Although when I say “appeared” I really mean “captured the attention of every single person in the crowd within two seconds before even opening his mouth.” I had intended to listen to him before the show but… well… I just hadn’t. He started with this song (spotify link), which is just great but pales in comparison to seeing it live. It was a brutal and perfect beginning to his set. Yet, as wonderful as he was & how much I have subsequently listened to him on spotify – I still had my eyes on the prize. The prize being Teddy Thompson of course, in case you couldn’t see where that was going.
When the Bella tour was announced, I bought my ticket right away. I pleaded for other people to come with me but no one responded. I would have liked someone to come with me in the hopes they’d have the same reaction to him, but in the end I’m glad I went alone. Despite being in a room full of people, not knowing a single other soul made it just as personal as the first time I heard him sing. Granted, I had a fucking fantastic spot at the front which probably helped, but as soon as he started playing I didn’t care about the sticky floor or the guy behind me shouting Arcade Fire lyrics in between artists. Being so close felt a little weird at first, as though I was taking liberties with his territory. I didn’t know where to look: his face? his hands on the guitar? his excellent shoes? another member of the band? In the end I just took pictures & sang along where I could. Occasionally I caught his eye & thought to myself: “that man is Teddy Thompson. He has just seen me mouthing the words to his song. Fuck.”
Teddy himself was charming. I think because I love his music so much I had elevated him beyond being a normal person into Musician. I have seen and read interviews that prove he is, as they say, just like the rest of us – but they all say that. They all say the exact same things. No interviewer ever seems to want to ask a question that hasn’t already been answered. Oh, Teddy, how does it feel being the son of “folk-legends”? Oh, Teddy, your music is so brutally honest and personal, how much of that is really you? Oh, Teddy, what is Rufus Wainwright like? Oh, fuck off. You’ve read one interview, you’ve read them all and you’re no closer to debunking the myth of Musician. But then there he was, in all his impeccably dressed and stylishly scruffy gl0ry. His new single Looking For A Girl was the Radio 2 Record of the Week – which according to him was because it was “a slow week anyway.” There was a definite sense of pride, but perhaps slight embarrassment - just enough to make it endearing.
For me, there were two stand out moments in Teddy’s show. First, Separate Ways. It was quite late in the set list & it’s a song I’ve heard a thousand times – beautiful by all means, but not my favourite. Yet, there was a moment about half way through the chorus where I was hit with an overwhelming emotional reaction. Not because of the lyrics, despite being heartbreaking and wonderfully expressive – but it was instead for Teddy & his music. All of a sudden I thought that at that moment in time, there is nowhere else I’d rather be than listening to Teddy Thompson play. Play live. From that moment, listening to him through my headphones will never be the same again. Second, hilariously, was the rendition of Super Trouper, which provoked a completely alternate reaction.
As soon as I realised what was happening, I couldn’t stop laughing. The band looked like they were having an excellent time, playing around doing silly dances on stage, Teddy smiling & laughing which totally undid his trademark sternness. I was also laughing because I’ve never really listened to/liked ABBA, but there I was singing all the words. I didn’t look behind me but everyone else was singing along too, probably with a smile like I was. Quite a lot of Teddy’s music is quite solemn, either lyrically or musically & more commonly both. It felt to me like there was something out of character with Super Trouper, but it was a breakaway I thoroughly enjoyed. I put down my camera & just went along with it, although if my friends could have seen me singing ABBA they probably looked at me like I was crazy. Let’s just keep that part a secret between you, me & Teddy Thompson.
I’m not sure if I was more excited about the new songs or the old ones. The old songs give you a sense of ownership: yes, I love this song. Yes, I know which album this is from. I wish he’d done this one instead of that one. But then the new material is teasing and thrilling. The album isn’t out until next week but here I am listening to Delilah. That duet with Jessie was wonderful, I can’t wait to hear it recorded. For me, hearing songs from Bella live has confirmed that I am going to love it. The first thing I said after leaving the gig was that listening to him on my iPod was never going to be the same again. Live music has qualities you can’t experience in mp3 form, and now I can remember those qualities when listening to the new album. I’ll probably always believe that live music is better, maybe it’s the inherently fleeting nature of it because once that song has finished you will never hear it exactly like that again. But for those songs I had never heard before that day, that is how I will always remember them. I can love and love and love them on my iTunes, I can keep the album on repeat until each rise and fall in melody and voice has gnawed its way into my brain, but they’ll never quite be the same as the first time I heard them. When I was stood a metre away from the man with the guitar.
I will be seeing Teddy Thompson live at every possible opportunity offered to me in the future. There is absolutely zero doubt about that.
You can see the rest of my pictures on my flickr.
You can listen to Teddy’s new album Bella on Spotify.
Home is where your friends are
When I wrote my last entry & was making decisive plans to improve my life, I must admit, I hadn’t entirely managed to convince myself that I would be able to do it. Something changed that week, I don’t know what, but it put me in the best mood. Good moods are fine & dandy, but they’re usually fleeting – this one stuck around for a good 4 weeks or so. This week it started to fade a little, but the absolutely splendid weekend that I have just had has restored all of my good cheer. So let me tell you about it.
On Saturday, I went to see my friend Lauren. Lauren & I have been friends since we were about 5, & considering I’m 21 & she’s 22 I would say that’s a pretty darn solid effort. Because she lives in Manchester & I spend most of my time up in Scotland, I don’t get to see her very often but we always make time for a catch up whenever I’m home. This catch up was well overdue as we figured out we hadn’t seen each other since April 2010, & as it’s now January 2011, you can see where the problem lay. The good thing with Lauren, & all of my friends I’ve known that long, is that you can go without seeing them for months at a time but fall easily back into your friendship when you see them again. So, I arrived in Manchester, armed with my camera & Lauren & I went for tea at her favourite tea place. Sitting outside enjoying my tea mocha (what!?) in the fresh winter chill, this beardy fella strolled along & joined our table. This was Paul, one of Lauren’s friends from University & a lovely gent that has kept me entertained via tumblr & twitter for the last few months. We supped up & hit the road.
The three of us, armed with our various cameras, strolled around Manchester for a solid 3 hours. We followed the Rochdale canal out as far as we dared, getting progressively colder & further away from the city centre as we went. We clambered over lochs, huddled through tunnels, threw stones & frozen patches of water & saw some geese. Paul tried to teach Lauren about canals.
As you can see, it was a beautiful day. We circled old buildings & wandered through streets that looked so perfect I’m almost certain that they weren’t real. Now, the thing is… all we really did was walk. Walking doesn’t really appeal to most people, unless they’re hikers or ramblers or such like (which I certainly am not), but simply walking around the outskirts of the the city was the simplest & richest pleasure. The thing is about Lauren & Paul, is that they are photographers. Thing is about me, that I am a photographer. There is a different atmosphere, a different joy, when taking photographs with, or of, other photographers. You can enthuse about patterns and lighting and silhouettes & they won’t think you’re crazy or pretentious. They’ll see the same beauty in the old run down red brick buildings as you do. They don’t mind you snapping their picture when they’re looking the other way. A simple walk can turn into an adventure. I’m beginning to think that Saturday spoiled me, because at university, there are no people who would join me on days like these, & those people that would are too far away too much of the time.
We stopped for a drink & to warm up before seeking out the highest of heights we could find. We walked to the top of a multi-storey car park to take pictures. This is something you can’t do in St Andrews, what with the highest building in the town being the one remaining crumbling wall of the old cathedral. Despite being at that height, though, my favourite pictures from up there are the ones within the boundaries of the building. (Over-fence picture is at the top of this post.)
As it got dark, we got cold & our stomachs got hungry, we began to make our way back to Lauren’s flat where her boyfriend Sam was in the process of cooking a delicious dinner. Our path took us through a very bright, very festive China town – & some of my favourite pictures of the day. It seems to me that there is a much to be said through pictures of photographers doing their thing as there is through the photographs we take. I love these pictures of Lauren & Paul, the casual camera holding, the squinting, looking up & searching for things you want to shoot. My favourite is the one with Lauren in the foreground. She’s practically ready to take her picture, she’s all lined up & focussed out of frame, & yet in the back ground you can see Paul about to take the same path. Crossing the same road, looking in the same direction – like two different stages of the process but bound to reveal two very different outcomes. Three, if you count my picture.
We finally got back to the flat; Sam slaving away in the kitchen complete with apron. The next few hours were some of the simplest pleasures that I don’t get to experience very often. Beautiful food, red wine, conversation. Hours of talking about absolutely everything. Personally, getting progressively more drunk & red-faced with food, wine & warmth. There’s something about sitting around a dinner table with friends that I find incredibly satisfying. Especially when that sitting and that conversation beautifully rounds off a superb and revitalizing day. So I suppose ignoring all of the details of my day, the primary thought is this: good friends make a good mood.
Too much information
My parents bought me Stephen Fry’s new autobiography for Christmas. Excellent parents are excellent & know me well. I’m currently only half way through, but when putting the book down for the night earlier this week, something happened. Not quite an epiphany or anything quite so grand, but something nonetheless. I realised that I have been a resident of a half-way house for the last 2-3 years and I’m only just starting to break out of it. Now I know this may sound a bit crazy, to be honest, it sounds a bit crazy to me while I’m writing & this stuff happens in my head, but stick with me.
I left college and moved to Canada when I was 18. All on my own. So proud of myself. Within two weeks I had two job offers, a place to live, a bank account, a mobile phone and had had a brief and ridiculous whirlwind romance (although I use the word “romance” lightly.) I changed my plans, I moved away from Vancouver & went to Banff. I lived and worked in a hostel, learned to snowboard, partied the hardest I ever have & probably ever will. I worked on 4 hours sleep, climbed through windows, shared cigarettes with strangers on the street. I met the most amazing people who, for at least those four months, were the most remarkable friends. Back to Vancouver, back to my old job, back to my old flat – walking those streets like I’d lived there all my life. One of my favourite memories is of standing at the bus stop in the rain after a long day of work. One bus came past and it flashed its destination followed by “Merry Christmas” bracketed by two Christmas trees. Another bus came past declaring its target and was followed with “Go Canucks Go.” I smiled to myself and a stranger covered me with their umbrella.
Now, this version of me seems like it never really existed, despite it being only 3 years ago. I was adventurous and excited and happy just to be somewhere that I loved. I didn’t care that all I did was work and go home. Folding clothes and sleeping on couches. Speaking to people I loved at home always made me smile, but it was an extra added bonus. Maybe it was the novelty of being somewhere else, of being in another country, but what happened to me at University crushed that theory.
I don’t remember feeling excited about starting university at all. Perhaps I felt too world-weary already by the age of 19 to believe that a 4 year change of scenery was worth any great amount of attention. What’s more worrying, is that I don’t really remember much about my first two years at university. It has nothing to do with alcohol either – just nothing remarkable happened. Sure there are hilarious anecdotes that come up in conversation from time to time, but nothing of the sensational tales I hear from so many graduates. This is what had struck me from Stephen’s book. Despite being painfully riddled with so many insecurities, far more than myself, he managed to thoroughly submerge himself in everything grand about the life his university had to offer – a university very similar to my own. Now, that’s not to say I want to join Blind Mirth (the university’s student comedy club) or audition for the thousands of plays that seem to pop up every year – but I would like that excitement. Spending time with people drinking coffee and wine, discussing music and art, getting into ridiculous japes and scrapes – it may all seem like a university cliché, but isn’t that part of the point? What right do I, at 21 years old, have to be so cynical and dismissive of the happenings around me? What right do I, at 21 years old, have to sit around feeling sorry for myself? This is the way it has been up to now, and this is what has to change.
My arthritis means that I have become increasingly aware of the importance of my youth. I have no idea what the ravages of time are going to bestow upon me (I intend to seek medical knowledge on this soon), so why should I throw away the chance that I have now? I suppose this sounds a lot like a new year’s resolution, & I suppose in a way it is, but there’s nothing wrong with the progression of time giving you a kick up the arse. Academically I’m doing well at the moment, and whilst I’d like to increase my going out : staying in ratio (especially if meeting new people is involved), I highly doubt I’m going to become one of those university partiers. I save those rare bursts of stereotypical behaviour for visiting Lauren in Manchester. Although we wear dresses & heels to 60s themed club nights, not jeans & a t-shirt to the student union.
So what’s going to change for me, then? Me. Guffaw, I know, but it’s not as glib as it sounds. I’ve always thought of myself as an artistic, intellectual type – even through my stint at this half-way house, I’ve still believed it. Truth of the matter is, though, that I’ve not read a book for pleasure all the way through since… and I’ve only ever displayed a talent for… and the last original idea I had was… – you get the picture. So having read so much of Stephen’s book so quickly made me realise that actually, if what I’m reading is good and well written, I do enjoy it. And I realised that when I had been researching an essay earlier that day, I had been properly engaging with the author and the text. Suddenly I want to read everything. My room is piled high with old books on just about everything, most of them unread, but now I’m making lists of what to read next. Compiling bullet points of films that I’m sure I’m supposed to have seen and actively seeking them out. This last few days I feel like I’ve become less sedentary, I’ve stopped waiting for things to come to me. Got a bit of my fire back, so to speak. And then, there’s my photography, although “photography” should be taken with a pinch of salt.
I’ve somehow always managed to surround myself with artistic people. My friends that I am closest to are those I associate with artistic things. Lauren’s new 365 photography project is wonderful already, less than a week in. Sophie’s off at Chelsea probably doing something excellent conceptual with audio/visual art. Louise still dabbles in design in between filling her head full of film and literary theory. Paul is still a writer and probably always will be & I’ve been “sharpening my editorial claws” on some of his short stories. James has stepped away from his 17 year old self’s zombie film & is on his way to creating something befitting the title of “cinema.” So I must fit in there somewhere, right? People that I love and know me best all have creative talents and passions based on art. I can’t be the odd one out, surely? So that’s my new year’s resolution – to know my camera. Stop taking snapshots and relying on basic framing and photoshop editing and give it a proper go. I have a beautiful camera and a sturdy tripod, I should be off hanging upside down from the pier or something. Good news is, I have a project in mind – something to focus my thoughts and stop me from just wandering around my tiny town taking photographs of the same old things. It’s not going to start for another 3 weeks yet and it doesn’t have a revolutionary bone in its body, but it’s a start.
Maybe I’ve gotten lost here and tangled my meaning up in waffling prose, but it comes down to this: less internet, less sitting, less frowning, fewer idiots, more photographs, more books, more people, more adventures, more love.
I Can Feel It In My Bones
What I am about to write about, I don’t tend to go into details with in discussion. I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently however and figured that this provides the best place for me to talk about it – & put it with some pictures.
In November 2008 I was taken ill. Very ill. It started off with just a few aches & pains – but everyone gets aches & pains so you don’t even think twice about them. I found it difficult to walk because my calf muscles felt tight – but that had to be because of fencing training. My legs hurt so much that I didn’t go to my classes on Monday, or Tuesday. I assumed it would go away. Then one night I couldn’t sleep. I was so warm I couldn’t lie underneath my duvet, but I was so tired I just wanted to sleep. I tried to do both by sleeping propped up against the wall. In the end, at about 1:30am, I heard someone go into the kitchen. I pulled myself off of the bed and managed to open my door just as my flatmate Hayley came out of the kitchen with a cup of tea. I was in tears & she took me to the hospital.
They weren’t helpful. They sent me home with painkillers that I couldn’t swallow because my throat was swollen. I lay in my room panicking for a few days, it was my mum’s birthday & I didn’t want to worry her. I called her to wish her happy birthday but she knew instantly that something was wrong. Some sobbing and apologies later, my parents came to pick me up and bring me home. I somehow managed to complete an essay which my mum helped me hand in. They drove 10 hours return to bring me home again.
To the doctors. To the hospital. “Take an overnight bag, just in case.” A month. A whole month.
I lay in that hospital bed for more days than I care to remember. It’s strange thinking about it now, time dragged on so unmercifully when I was there, but now it seems no more than a few hours. Because nothing happened. Nothing changed. I would curse the old women with their coughing and their loud machines and ravings that kept me awake during the night. I lived, lived for the evening visits when my mum would leave work an hour early to come and sit with me. Sometimes other people would come too, but mum was there every night. My dad even drove up from London, bringing my little brother with me who refused to see me if “she’s got tubes up her nose.”
I’m thinking about this a lot because this time two years ago I was in that hospital bed. No one knew what was wrong with me. I had blood taken every day, I took so many tablets I don’t actually know what some of them were for. They knew that there was something wrong with my heart but that was a symptom. I had a fever of 104, I couldn’t even tell if I was hot or cold so they took away my blankets & gave me an electric fan. Until one day, the attractive young doctor who’d been on my team came over looking quite smug. They’d put me on steroids so that I wasn’t in pain so I was in an okay mood.
I think, he said, I think I’ve figured out what’s wrong with you.
Turns out, he’d googled it.
Adult Onset Still’s Disease.
Still’s disease is one type of juvenile rheumatoid arthritis (JRA) and is also known as systemic-onset JRA. By “systemic” it is meant that along with joint inflammation it typically begins with symptoms and signs of systemic (body wide) illness, such as high fevers, gland swelling, and internal organ involvement.
At 19 I was diagnosed with rare form of Rheumatoid Arthritis.
I still don’t know much about it, if I’m honest. The problem with my condition is that it is incredibly rare and there is no actual test for it. Any diagnosis is done through a process of elimination. I think I’m going to go to see my specialist soon, see what she can tell me about deterioration. See, my fingers have been having a hard time of it lately. Although possibly due to the cold, they’re stiff and uresponsive and sometimes painful. At 21 years old I’m having nightmares of having the hands of an old lady by the time I’m 30.
& what about photography? I’m only just learning. My photoshop editing I’ve been doing since I was 11. Will I still be able to press the shutter or click my mouse? Problem is, right now, I don’t actually know the answer to any of these questions. The worst part is – sometimes I think I could have stopped this. One of the main symptoms is a salmon-coloured rash. I’d been getting that for months, but it disappeared as quickly as it came so I never really thought about it. It usually happened when I’d been drinking so I assumed it had something to do with that. Maybe if I had gone to a doctor when it first happened this could have all been avoided. But then, I was in Canada. I’d only been home 2 and a half months before I was taken into hospital.
At the moment though it is not thoughts of the deterioration of my hands that bothers me the most.
When I was discharged from hospital (they kindly let me out for Christmas but then I had to go back), I went to my GP for a check up. My mum, unusually, intervened, and asked about depression. She had apparently noticed that I had not been of sorts, which I hadn’t even noticed myself. Turns out, people that have spent an extended period of time in hospitals get “hospital” or “post-hospital” depression of sorts. It saps the life out of you. But the problem lies now that whenever I get sick, I snap back to it. Being ill, even just the flu, makes me panicky and nervous. This all started in the first place with aches, pains and a sore throat. People think I’m overreacting but it’s hard to explain what it does to me. Like most people, when I’m ill I want my mum. Problem is, she’s at the other end of the island so if I tell her I’m ill she worries. I know I’m not being irrational, then, because she has the same reaction & she is the strongest, most level-headed woman I know.
I try to just get on with it. I try not to think about it. But sometimes, sometimes you just can’t ignore it.
What causes Still’s? The ISF say: There have been a number of schools of thought. One is that Still’s disease is due to infection with a microbe. Another concept is that Still’s disease is a hypersensitive or autoimmune disorder. In truth, the cause of Still’s disease is still not known.
