Dangerous games with extreme oscillations

Imagine a plane. It’s World War Two in fact. Image that. It’s a Messeschmidt fighter. Britain is going to lose. A brave and valiant Hurricane pilot has just pushed himself, along with his wooden and metal extension through blinding G force in an intoxicating mix of terror and adrenalin. Light headed, he finally gets behind his opponent; deadly excitement bursts through his chest. He pulls the trigger. A satisfying thunder is unleashed and in a brilliant white burst his dance partner’s tail end ignites. With a thick jet-black plume of smoke he tumbles off in a sickening spin towards the ground. Accelerating towards earth the pilot is able to escape, his head almost rips off as he plunges into fates arms, his empty wreck of world domination screeches through the afternoon sky.

Down below children shout for joy. A heavy guitar chord rings out. Your favourite song plays. This is one those again isn’t it? Yes.

That plane. Nose diving, burning, brilliant and doomed. Ha. Smashing. Double ha. But for heavens sake don’t think for a second that it’s just a plane.

Imagine a small metal ball. As the comical music plays and the neon’s flash out into the void you pull the trigger as hard as you dare. The ball flicks up with full force and enthusiasm to meet its end. It knows its life is temporary so it only hopes for a good show. It braces before every crunching bounce and click of machinery. Lights flash and numbers roll. Paddles flicker. The ball achieves less and less before finally it accepts its fate and slides home. The onlookers keep score. Insert new coin.

Hope is real and joy is with us. Relax. That edge isn’t real.

Chuck said he meant nothing by it but I happen to know that Fight Club was all about fascism. Watch out for that word. It’s on its way back you know. Global Warming innit. Global Warming and Muslims. It’s all economics said Marx. No? Here is how it goes: The environment dies. Prices rise. The rich world panics and slaps tariffs here, there and everywhere. The world begins s l o w l y grinding to a halt. We will all sway. And then wham bam thank you ma’m. Ka-boom! There goes Canary Wharf. An unstoppable plunge to dangerous depths. Much like this one. That’s what will do it. With Brown at the helm, oh Christ. That’s what will bring the intelligent man of middle England back to the suckle. Kilroy forgive me. It will be the thirties all over again. But this time we will have no Nazi to save our grace. Nothing from which to gain perspective.

If the darkness of our deaths can occasionally be split open by the blood-curdling scream of life, surely that lends weight to the Big Bang?

Janet Street Porter attacked blogs for being nothing more than self-indulgent drivel. Bitch. She writes a fucking column.

Never in the field of human conflict has so much crap been written by so few. What must the web think of us? Once upon a time it was all proud and serious, just an interlocking web of military secrets and academic chitchat. But then we got let lose. Poor thing.

I think this calls for a proper introduction.

Self-diagnostic therapy

Oh dear. Doesn’t history have a habit of repeating itself?

I have been here before. I think this is going to be one of those rambling blogs, but I’ll try to keep it under control.

So what’s up then?

Well firstly I can’t see how I’m going to make these deadlines. And this isn’t just ‘eek’ rhetoric its actually real stuff, my last sets of essays at undergrad occurred under exactly the same set of conditions and they were disastrous. I threw away my professors feedback for my dissertation when I had only got a few sentences in. I didn’t care; I knew I had produce something resembling tripe. It’s all happening again.

Secondly someone back home is really getting on my nerves. I think I am just feeling the strain so am open to minor irritations. But I am even angrier with myself for allowing them to get to me. I had this same sort of feeling about someone else once and it almost ruined my first year at uni because just their very name could somehow scramble all my brain connectors and I would be overcome with a sort of low level rage for the rest of the day. It’s not a very productive feeling. But like I say, I have dealt with it before, and I’m sure I’ll deal with it this time.

Thirdly… the future. Or the undiscovered country. Or my life. Whatever I choose to call it, it still haunts my every move. I have such high expectations of myself and I seem to tear myself apart each day as hope and doubt compete in a wasteful war of attrition. Despite the ‘knowing’ smirks on some friend’s faces I didn’t come to do a Masters to hide from making any big decisions about my life. I already know what I want to do, and a Masters is one of them, but it is the plans for my post post grad life which have already been set in motion that are giving me bother, not my lack of them.

Fourthly… well, I seem to be on a role so if I had to nominate a fourth I would say that I have a horrible cold, and even my super duper, extra strength, not legal in the EU drugs are not coming to my aid. And to make things a nice round five I have begun to go over the events of a week ago in my mind and am starting to regret it all. I want a second chance.

So that’s me right now. A nice little package of bunged up misery.

Tomorrow I know I will be a lot more cheerful because I am dressing up as a sailor. So with imminent good news round the corner I should stop feeling sorry for myself and do something useful.

Self-diagnostic therapy complete. And it worked. Ha.

Nineteen Forty

"I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, if nothing is neglected, and if the best arrangements are made, as they are being made, we shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our Island home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessary alone. At any rate, that is what we are going to try to do. That is the resolve of His Majesty's Government-every man of them. That is the will of Parliament and the nation. The British Empire and the French Republic, linked together in their cause and in their need, will defend to the death their native soil, aiding each other like good comrades to the utmost of their strength. Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God's good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old."

Fiasco in Falmer

This is being written on my way back from an aborted weekend reprieve and the sad demise of what was once a bright hope. What follows is, with my usual sense for melodrama, my attempt to rationalise it.

It would be a lie to claim that Edinburgh was not getting to me. Aside from an intellectual sinking feeling I have also suffered something of an anti-climax on the social front. Edinburgh is the home of four universities and a fifth if you count St Andrews which is an hour north. It has a vibrant student and international culture. Many people say that Edinburgh is more of a ‘continental’ city than most, complete with countless little bars and coffee shops hidden in nooks and crannies around the city centre. This is one of the main reasons I came.

So it is a little disappointing that I have yet to find my way into the pot smoking, beard growing and pretentious philosophising crowd I had hoped would embrace me with welcome arms. Instead reality is all to real for my liking.

Throughout my time here I have been in daily contact with a bright, young and pretty something who I had the fortune to meet during the summer. A chance to see her and visit another part of the country for the weekend, if only to enjoy good company and get my thoughts straight, seemed to good to miss.

Alas, I find myself beating a hasty retreat across the entire length (and width) of the country two days earlier than expected.

This has been a slightly puzzling experience since the person in question was, and still is, perfectly ideal. For the first time every little box on my long and detailed criteria sheet had been ticked. This should have been a demonstration in textbook romance. But it wasn’t. For all the green lights nothing was moving. Something was missing, and that something was that most important of somethings.

Perhaps the very fact I am capable of entertaining such a cold notion as ‘textbook romance’ indicates a deeper problem I need to address, but as I return to the trickiest set of deadlines I have yet faced, that will have to wait for another day.

On October 10th my Blog had its very first birthday.

The Undiscovered Country

I am, as I think I have said before, a creature of hope. I always need it, when I have it I thrive off it and I like to think I am reasonably good at inspiring it within myself and – if given a chance – others.

Without hope I cannot function. I do not enjoy setting about my day knowing that all that I see, all that humanity has achieved, all that erroneous beauty – might soon be lost to the unstoppable forces of nature or that it might soon be torn asunder by the petty interests of men. I find these thoughts incredibly off-putting and not at all conducive to a good working environment. But yet I still have them. And if you any sort of head on your shoulders, so should you.

To counter such apocalyptic daydreams I require hope. And so it is that I enjoy art forms that invoke it.

Which brings me on to my real point. And that is that nothing really comes close to recharging my reserves of optimism than does the world created by Gene Robbenberry - a man from Texas no less. His initial series and the numerous spin offs are all infused with a vision of the future, which, quite frankly makes me giddy with excitement. Just the initial notes of the theme tune are enough (sometimes) to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up - and it was that peculiar phenomenon that actually led to this post. I shall refrain from speculating on the actual philosophies behind the various narratives but it shall suffice to say that what is most inspiring about the whole thing, is that quite simply, it credits us with a future.

A future in which mankind not only survives, but one in which it prospers.

This is why science fiction is so important. It’s not just some hack sub-genre, it is an important artistic expression in its own right and the issues central to it are, I believe, some of the most important issues we, as a society, need to tackle. Arthur C Clarke, the demigod that he is, once said, “politicians should read science fiction, not westerns and detective stories”. Why he believes politicians have a particular weakness for westerns and a detective stories is beside the point, the point is that science fiction, perhaps more so than any other genre, provides us with hope for our collective future. And we couldn’t half do with some of that right now.

It’s sleek, it’s sexy and it’s uplifting. It is a gutting shame that the newest spin off series of Robbenberry’s masterpiece met such a grisly end. With any luck it shall not be the end of the franchise. At least two or three generations have now grown up enthused with Robbenberry’s dream. I think the next two or three generations deserve the same privilege.

According to wikipedia we now only have to wait another 151 years before the United Federation of Planets is founded. Yet I think we can do better than that...

Conceptual blogging

There is a fine line between something that is geeky in a cool way and that which just falls flat on its face with a rather humiliating thud. What I am about to do will fall into the latter category.

In a vain bid to boost my own awareness of the Second World War period I am going to create a separate blog in which I shall post ‘cool’ little snippets and events that I want myself to remember and possibly develop in my own work at a later time. By subjecting this stuff to the illusion of the public spotlight I am hoping I will take more care over it than just a hurried note on a scrap of paper that will doubtlessly be swallowed up by the abyss of my bedroom floor. So this exercise is entirely for my own benefit and there is little need to announce it here. The only benefit may be that it might just implant the distorted idea in my mind that it will increase its ‘hit’ rate and hence the need to ensure what I post is accurate and at least makes sense. I had hoped to use ‘typepad’ to host it but I found you need to pay $5 a month for even the basic service. So it is with regret I turn back to blogspot.

I might also use it as another opportunity to expand the Benjamin Nakizo ‘brand name’, which has the added bonus of further dissociating myself from this kudos deadweight.

It is a sad day when your online avatar, unable to face the virtual world, develops one of its own.

http://nakizo31.blogspot.com

Anorgasmia

Masters degrees are harder than bachelor’s degrees. This is not something I had anticipated. Foolish as it sounds, I simply hadn’t given it any thought. I have spent god knows how many years in education and I have dealt with each incremental increase with relative ease and success. This time it’s different.

I can honestly say that for the very first time my quiet confidence in my intellectual ability has been shaken lose of its foundations and is now quietly floating around the web searching for an inspiration that never seems to come. The web is a horrible place. I am addicted to information. Over the years I think my brain has been saturated in news and statistics to the extent that now when I try to actually put the thing to use all I can squeeze out is a jumble of incoherent and irrelevant anecdotes.

I am the youngest person I have met that is doing their masters. I am one of only a small handful of English people. I find myself persistently unable to uphold a conversation on academic subjects. Everyone I meet incessantly refers to authors, ideas and theories of which I have not got a clue. It appears World War Two, and indeed the world, is infinitely more complex than I had previously believed.

On top of all this it seems that Americans, of all people, are typically the most travelled, informed and academically aware students. That is not how things are supposed to be, how dare they refuse to live up to their stereotype. That is not what Arkansas taught me to expect. Perhaps it’s the extra year they spend graduating or perhaps it is merely the front that their education system, heavy on famous authors and dates, provides them with.

More likely is that these people are genuinely the elite. I have never seen more students from Oxford, Cambridge, Yale and Berkley in such a small space before. I have never been overly proud of the word ‘Essex’ but now it is almost unbearable to hear myself say it.

In order to survive at this level I am going to have to work excessively hard. Not only do I have to know the specific weekly topic inside out before class but I also need to get myself up to speed on the academic and historical world as a whole, both inside and outside my chosen period of study.

But as they say, and when I say they I mean me, hardship is simply an opportunity. And now that for the first time I have lost that quiet arrogance I actually feel a lot better about things. No longer do I have to partake in the unspoken competition that occurs between friends and colleagues, for I simply fail to qualify for that race. An inner calm has descended. I feel at ease with the world.

Right now there is just me, eleven months, and a global library of people, books and sacrifice. A save point? Quite possibly.

p.s. I love that poster.

The Conservatives

I don’t know what to make of all this - David Cameron, Oliver Letwin and George Osborne - the new, ‘liberal conservatives’. Not compassionate conservatives or neo-conservatives, but liberal conservatives. People have cried ‘all style and no substance’ but the next election is still two years away, what good would policies be now? Cameron is right to keep his cards close to his chest.

I want to like Cameron because I don’t like Brown. I think the chancellor will betray the New Labour program and I don’t like Reid much either because I think he will taint the project with his authoritarian streak. What is needed is a rejuvenated Conservative party, one that does change, that does adapt, that does hold true to core British values. William Hague, still the strongest speaker the party has, used his speech to set out in vivid detail how past conservative leaders have been willing to face internal opposition and change to make their parties relevant. I think his right and I think Britain and the world needs a strong Conservative party. The centre ground is where elections are won, Cameron can see that, and so can his regime – but his party still seems nervous and uncomfortable with leaving the comfort zone of Daily Mail politics.

They need to be bold and aggressive and brave. Cameron needs to be bold and aggressive and brave. They don’t need to scrap New Labour, they need to streamline it, and take it to its inevitable conclusion - A progressive and flexible welfare economy.

All these things have to be done; yet I am not sure Cameron has the strength of conviction - or the strength of delivery - to do these things. He would, perhaps unfortunately, make an excellent ‘Minister without Portfolio’ where his marketing talents could work behind the scenes to smooth the election campaign. But his not a public relations advisor, he is the party leader. He is walking in the footsteps of the heavyweights of history. He is entering the same league as Churchill and Thatcher. Yet he seems to be far too smooth for his own good, almost smooth to the point of indifference. If people are to take him seriously he has to change this, he has to dig deep and find his reserves of leadership and passion.

Through some cringe worthy marketing gimmicks he now has the publics attention, he must go on to show them what he is made of. In Blair, Labour had a leader who could drag his party, and the public, kicking and screaming into the future. Now Cameron must do the same for the Conservatives.

Teleological inspiration

I am a creature of fiction, a pawn in other people’s games. I, as an independent and thinking entity do not exist. I bounce around from one product of hope to another; my outer moral and intellectual fibres are simply an imprint of my last collision while my inner soul tracks the aggregate of my life.

Am I unique in this position of utter hopelessness or is my condition endemic throughout mankind? Does scientific and artistic output mould the valley through which human endeavour is channelled?

I am simply one part in the avalanche of history. Those worthy of recognition will claw their way out of this torrent and onto the banks of influence. From this vantage point above every day affairs they will combine their proven persistence with their newly acquired foresight and set about reshaping the valley in their own image.