September 2003 Archives

Sitting here - munching roasted peppers, turkey sausages and a portobello mushroom - brought back a memory that I probably haven't recalled since the event that furnished me with it in the first place. In the best of fashions, it is related neither to my dinner, nor anything else that I've done in the last few hours, days or months.

Which is why I get on well with my mind; saltatory thought processes might make me a bit weird to be around, but at least I can keep myself entertained when sat on a chair in a bare room with white walls, piped white-noise and a chilly draft. What, you didn't grow up in one of those?

I am alone, having been walking for about three and a half hours since I last saw a person. By now the path has degraded into the faintest of trails, partly hidden by leaves, obscured sometimes entirely by masses of tangled roots. The air temperature is 37 degrees centigrade; standing pools bring the humidity toward saturation, so that what I feel comes closer to 45.

The trees here are ancient, belonging to one of the oldest known stands of virgin rainforest in the world; their roots are buttresses, so massive that their lignified vasculature forms undulating walls a number of feet taller than I am, and many times as wide. What I like best is how they make me feel; inconsequential, surrounded by venerable, silent giants of immeasurable age. And when you can shout, and cry, and run and dance and scream and be all that you aren't in the world of men, no one to hear you, no one to undermine, none obstructing your desire to feel, you come alive; it never goes away. A time and a place where you can't be anything but yourself.

I know what I miss.

Ho fatto questo per un piccolo progetto sulla storia della città del Vaticano - era molto interessante - per me (!) - così, se avete troppo tempo...

La città del Vaticano è stata riconosciuta ufficialmente per quello che e ora, uno stato papale indipendente all’interno del comune di Roma, l’undici febbraio 1929 (mille novecento ventinove), in conformità alle condizioni dell’accordo che si chiama il ‘Trattato Laterano’.

Prima di questa, la storia degli ‘stati papali’ va molto indietro nel passato - la frase ‘stati papali’ si riferisce a tutto il territorio sopra cui il papa regna. Fino al sesto secolo dopo Cristo (DC), ha incluso la città di Roma e tutti i dintorni. Questo territorio è stato dato formalmente al Papa Stefano III (terzo) da ‘Pepin il Corto’, il re dei Franchi, nel 754 (settecento cinquanta quattro) DC.

Gradualmente, l’area totale del territorio inclusa negli stati papali è aumentato per mezzo dei doni, delle compere e conquiste fino al Cinquecento, quando ha incluso la maggior parte dell’italia Centrale.

Questo territorio è stato ritenuto in gran parte fino al 1797 (mille settecento novanta sette), quando gli esèrciti napoleonici hanno afferato molta terra. Quando il 1801 è arrivato, il papa Pio VII (settimo) aveva riguadagnato un po’del territorio e, nel 1815 (mille ottocento quindici), quasi tutto il territorio è stato ritornato dal congresso di Vienna, ed è stato messo sotto la protezione dell’Austria.

Nel 1870 (mille ottocento setanta), tutta la terra che era inclusa negli stati papali, come Roma, veniva inclusa a ‘un Italia Unita’ dal suo re, Vittorio Emmanuele II, riducendo l’area giurisdizionale del papa al Vaticano, nel centro di Roma.

Qui, per protestare alla occupazione Italiana, ogni papa successivo è diventato un prigioniero volontario avendo rifuitato, nel 1871, la garanzia del governo Italiano nuovo al papa Pio IX (nono) per provvedere un rèddito annuale di 3 250 000 lire e l’uso dei palazzi Vaticani e Laterani come un indennita per la loro perdita di sovranita e territorio.

Ma la Chiesa cattolica ha reclamato la sua necessita per la indipendenza nel suo esercizio della guida spirituale, e non ha accettato il regolamento.

Questo stato d’affari si chiama la ‘questione Romana’

Le negoziazioni tra il governo Italiano e la Santa sede (l’alto nome della città del Vaticano) per decidere il problèma hanno cominciato nel 1926 (mille novecento ventisei) e, nel 1929 (mille novecento ventinove), hanno concordato al ‘Trattato Laterano’ firmato dal primo ministro, Benito Mussolini da parte del re, Emmanuele III (terzo) d’italia, e dal vescovo Pietro Gasparri da parte del papa Pio XI (undicesimo), che era il segretario papale dello stato.

Questi accordi riconoscono la città del vaticano come uno stato, e mantengono che la santa sede ha sovranita completato e indipendente. Il papa a quel puno, impegnava a neutralita in tutti gli affari stranieri e all’astensione dalla mediazione di quest’affari salvo quando invitato esplicitamente da tutti gli interessati.

Il cattolicismo diveniva la religione nazionale d’italia e un grossa somma di soldi fu pagato alla santa sede per mettere fine all disputa.

Il Trattato Laterano veniva soppiantato da un accordo nuovo nel 1984 (mille novecento ottanta quattro). Come ho detto - interessante!

Living out of a college house means that I do an awful lot of my indoor activities in my own room, at my desk, in front of my computer, and, since I share with a number of people who seem to have been house trained by coprophile gibbons, this usually includes - run in, hold breath, cook, breathe once, clean up, get out - eating my meals.

Which sees me sitting in my room this morning, at my desk, in front of my computer, eating my secret, guaranteed-flat-stomach brekkie of beef sausages (x4) and a sweet pepper, mushroom and burned cheddar, two-egg omelette; scrummilicious. It's gorgeously sunny outside, not a cloud to be seen, and it's past 0900. I have myself a day off; the power supply to our Institute is being upgraded today, so we are all, on pain of death, to keep away.

Such hardship as this is a terrific blow to my routine; I got up at 0630 for a swim, and since I didn't have to be anywhere, anytime, I was able to do lengths from the opening of the pool, through the pre-work rush of people, and on until it was once again quiet. And now a leisurely breakfast of animal protein, three litres worth of fat, and some really tasty peppers to boot.

The weekend was pretty enjoyable too; I caught up with said let-me-crash-my-car-today friend, who happened to bring along a mate who I've not seen since 2001. We had a great time catching up, and reminiscing over our crazy school moments now long since past.

This third chap, who we call "Parky", was always pretty masculine, overt but genuine, and slightly loopy a character back then. He would, on rare occasions, go through phases of flirting outrageously with me just to see how uncomfortable he could make me feel. He fared pretty well. The most famous occasion came whilst I was leaning against a cupboard, one day, chatting to a friend in his room. Enter Parky, who brings talk around to girls, and eventually, to guys.

"What kind of guy do you tend to go for?" he asks. I reply vaguely, expressing a lack of preference for particular types. He steps in front of me and rests one hand on the cupboard to my left, making suggestions of what hot guys he thinks I might be into, during which time he brings up his other hand to rest of the cupboard on the other side of me.

Hello, I appear to be trapped. The spectator giggles.

Wearing a cheeky smile, he then steps right up; pressed against me, his face about three inches from mine, he asks whether he does it for me. At which point I am thinking "Oh, MyLORD!". We go all sexy and hold eyes for a few seconds, and then both collapse in hysterics. I'm glad that didn't happen often as he'd have killed me through hormone imbalance.

Most of my longterm friends are straight blokes like this - which of course makes more sense when you bear in mind that I went to a boy-only borstal - and none of them would give a flying monkey's whether I was attracted to men or wildlife. I never used to take this for granted, which is a failing on my part perhaps, as they've never shown me anything other than warmth, trust and dependability, but I'm grateful all the same, whether or not I should be.

Sunday was hot as hell. To go blading in Hyde Park was the only thing to do, and I made the novel discovery that it feels even better without your shirt on. I will miss the summer; with the passing of the recent equinox, it is officially Autumn.

I often find myself wondering just how the Democratic party would have dealt with the situations we've faced over the last few years; the United States is a little cursed in that both major political parties are right wing, the aforementioned somewhat less so than the Republicans perhaps, but very conservative nonetheless by most Old World standards.

I love America dearly, but with a government that takes every possible opportunity to make enemies of the planet, I can only look at my passport and feel a measure of disappointment. The optimist inside urges me to look toward better days, but what I feel deep down, is that the walls have long since begun to crack; there's so much distrust, adolescent passion and sheer hatred, whether masked in politics or readily apparent, boiling around me that I feel foolish in my own optimism; what can they do but come crashing down?

Right now would be as appropriate a time as any for some good old deus ex...

Greetings to Phil's mum, who is on holiday in Hurricane central. According to the National Hurricane Centre, Isabel was centred over Emporia, VA, at 0300 EST, and will be passing over you at some time in the mid-morning - you can click on the image for a detailed map. I hope that you are all comfortably warm and dry in the basement.

As Tony Blair obstinately continues to stand behind his decision to follow the US into a premature attack on Iraq, and citing, gallingly, those of us who walked in the anti-war protest as a vocal minority, it is interesting to note that the Labour Party has lost one of its most dependable constituencies to the Liberal Democrats. Though the party has other reasons for its loss of support, they have done little to gain the confidence of a significant proportion of the voting public. As a Labour supporter, I find this sad, but not at all surprising. For much of this year, I have deliberated voting elsewhere in order to demonstrate my dissatisfaction; perhaps I shall.

If there's one really stupid thing that the US has done in recent news, I'd have to choose the government's decision to veto the UN resolution denouncing Israel's decision to remove Arafat. Whether or not he is popular with the negotiating parties, this license to kill a Muslim leader will only serve to legitimise attacks on US and other Western interests abroad by those who have already chosen to commit them. I don't like that humanitarian aid workers and troops alike should continue to be ambushed and killed, as is now reported daily, but this is really stabbing the peace efforts in the back, and putting our people at even greater risk. Bravo.

Today I began a general-distribution work email with the following:

Greetings all,
I've had the particular pleasure of discovering some misplaced foetal tissue in the leftmost -80 C freezer on the 4th floor. The contents of the clip-lock bag would appear, on close inspection, to consist of brain matter.

Now you understand why I love working where I do. For a plant-science department, you do find some funny things in the longterm storage facilities.

As it turns out, the piece of brain came from a sheep. Better when fried with onions.

This morning saw my sleepy person at the public pool, bright and early, where a great swim was had. There was, however, minor drama when I paused for a breather to chat with a girlfriend of mine who was there too. An older gentleman splooshed up to me and accused me of not getting out of the way before turning to swim back down the length of the pool (a circular lane system is in operation during busy periods).

I would have entertained his accusation had it not been an impossibility; I had been swimming two lanes over and meandered through rope and flesh to 'Hello' my friend, so I told him lightly "that might have been the case were I actually swimming in this lane," at which he looked around and pointed at the next nearest young person, "well then, it must have been him!"

Said young person - having only just entered the pool himself - was far less patient than I am, and told him where to take himself with his false accusations, and berated him again for accusing me in the first place - thanks, kind stranger who set off every gaydar I operate. Mild swearing match ensues, which I watch silently with more than a little delight, before a guard comes over to make sure that everything is alright. Continue swimming, that be that. Sigh, little old men can be awfully interesting; I hope I'm a lively character too when I'm pushing for retirement.

On a different front, I discovered that one of my dearest friends was in a serious car accident up in Scotland last week... "I went round a corner, avoiding something in the road, and on glancing in the mirrors to see what it was, I clipped the verge... it basically pulled me off the road, and I went head-on into a tree. The airbags went off and all, before I landed in a ten foot ditch on my side. I crawled out and managed to call my parents; someone who drove past called the police and an ambulance; I was taken to Aberdeen for x-rays as they thought I might have broken my neck."

Sigh. I've had enough of my list being added to without losing someone I really care about. Given, he is alive, and though he's not in a particularly good way, I am immeasurably relieved that his 'coming close' was not quite close enough.

This is the straight friend I confided in about my sexuality, during my early teens, when a tough situation had driven me unexpectedly into a really dark place, the one who, when I broke down, put his arm about my shoulder and made sure I knew that everything would be okay. He was perhaps the first friend that I knew I'd love forever; I'll be damned before I have to see him go.

Last week's murder of Swedish Foreign Minister, Anna Lindh, in a sad event that has seen a significant outpouring of grief, has resulted in a fair amount of online chatter about how we value each human life on rather relative terms; being devasted when a famous person dies, but only expressing a fleeting sorrow toward the passing of people we just didn't know.

I found myself feeling that same dread when I saw the headline "Williams Sister Shot Dead" on the BBC this evening, only to feel relief when I investigated and found that it was neither Venus, nor Serena that was involved. That sensational title has since been altered, and the fact remains that their family has lost a loved one under awful circumstances. Whereas their pain is undoubtedly profound, the sadness that I might have felt is diminished, much as I regret their loss.

I realise that the psychology behind this mentality is very well documented, but it feels no less crummy to have to acknowledge this capriciousness in whom we're each willing to mourn for.

I wonder whether stumbling forth into the open after work on a Friday will ever feel anything other than a release. Admittedly, there are professions that I could genuinely see myself enjoying - running a tropical nursery, travel writing, botany and forest research - but that is not my present, and where I stand now, the passion just isn't great enough for me to want to be there, day in, day out.

Well, a year and a half to go, roughly; it has been great, and very interesting, but next time I undertake a Ph.D., it will have to be rather less molecular, and rather more substantial. I was offered the perfect job recently, in Sri Lanka, but it won't be mine because this is something I am determined to finish.

It's 0840, and I've just showered. I'm ensconced in a dressing gown and somewhere on the way to getting ready to head into London with Phil. We've a dinner party to head to at QUOD's Red Room, Haymarket, come the evening, followed possibly by pyrotechnics at the Jubilee Gardens, lunch with my bestest gal (mum) and my favourite gay 'uncles' in the mid-afternoon, and somewhere before that I was hoping to head into Camden market to rummage. So I'm on the way to being tardy, but I'm not going to rush; there was enough of that during the week. Here's to a gentle weekend.

On my way out to a house warming this evening, I noticed an envelope addressed to me on the entrance hall table. Postmark: Gray's Inn Road; a moment of reckoning. I opened the envelope feeling vaguely like I do when reading acceptance/rejection letters. Before I'd even read past my name, I'd made out the words 'delighted' and 'happy' - in my experience, people aren't typically "delighted and happy" to reject applicants, though I could see that working nicely on my planet - so it was with hope that I read on.

Indeed, it would seem that I now have a conditional place in the Flora London Marathon on April 18th 2004! Happy, happy, joy, joy!. What I have to do now is raise crazy-money through charitable sponsors, a daunting but not impossible task which I'll have to begin soon if I am to hit my target. I am over the Moon!

Now, just to keep fit until I can train on my right leg again; the schedule is there and waiting, the stamina comes in buckets, but what really needs doing is to build the kind of endurance that only women in labour can appreciate. Positive advice is very welcome!

Today has been one of those days in which I've found myself absent-mindedly looking toward my watch in the vain hope that I'll suddenly find myself at the Weekend. Until half way through the afternoon, I even had it in mind that it might still be Wednesday, which, of course, it most certainly isn't.

And while my brain falls to pieces, I note a distinct chill in the air, which bodes well for the lovers of Autumn; it is, by all accounts, one of the most atmospheric seasons, beautiful in its rush toward austerity. Especially so in a place such as this, which looks its best in the softer lights that subtend the blinding rays of summer.

Nonetheless, I'm not entirely ready for chills just yet, and have partaken in a pagan ritual to bring about at least a few more days of sunshine. I'll know by tomorrow whether that works or not; all I need is a little extra cheer this weekend, and then I'll be set to slog through six months of the cold, soul-crushing, joint-killing, perpetual rainy-night that is the British Winter.

It is better for outdoor sports though - a personal preference - and that makes me happy.

The Scottish executive is shortly due to announce the stance it will be taking on gay marriage - before the situational deaf start beating themselves and pulling out their hair, the term actually refers, in this case, to partnership rights and next-of-kin status - north of the border.

Apparently there are three routes they can take; ignore the issue entirely, which unlikely to be the case; make changes to Scots law, which would probably be the best thing, whether or not it works in favour of gay people; allow Westminster to legislate on behalf of the entire Kingdom.

The latter would pretty much be a guarantee, as that is the direction that legislation is taking in the capital; my reason for favouring the second option is that the Scots are in a good position to demonstrate again the autonomy that they have been arguing towards since time began (1707), itself a great issue. They have, in the past, also demonstrated a great maturity in coming to decisions that govern minority issues fairly, something England has had difficulty trusting them with; I have some faith and hope that they can pull this off independently of England, preferably in our favour.

Just back from the naked-Greek arena* and my legs feel like jelly; the last trip to a qualified physio left me with the knowledge that I must not run for at least six weeks in order for my injury to heal; aggravate it now and I could cause permanent scarring which, in turn, might mean an operation. This is no biggie in terms of fitness, as I can cycle lightly, swim and do leg exercises - plenty this morning, hence the jelly - in the gym, but part of me died at the news, as running is one of my all-time favourite releases, and really keeps the stress, lethargy and excess energies at bay.

Yesterday saw a couple of us fishing on the River Cam; the weather was perfect for it, though we were somewhat underdressed, but the fish really didn't agree. Even the angling competition that was going on downstream looked depressing. Today is all sunshine and warmth, so we're trying again, in a different, more secluded location. Fingers crossed that someone will catch at least one fish. Most of my friends don't enjoy fishing - it's boring/it's not "very gay" - but if you like reading or chatting, and doing something therapeutic at the same time, then this is an ideal sport.

And hey, remember the singing bowls? I got up at 0500 this morning to see to an auction on eBay that I had been watching, and got this beauty for £22.00 from Nepal. She's 7" across, weighs 685 grams (that's 1 lb 8.2 oz), is way older than I am by a couple of sums, and is worth £80 on the Western market. God bless the internet - if only children were so easy to acquire.

* the gym

Maudlin as it might be, I spent a good couple of minutes looking at the final meal requests of Texas prisoners formerly on Death Row. I suppose that the State sees the last meal as a means of showing a degree of compassion toward the sentenced, and whether or not they deserve it is not something I'd care to debate, but it does seem rather crude that every last ounce of privacy is denied these people.

Whether or not their rights to privacy are reneged on committing the crimes of which they are accused is quite obviously beside the point. And yet I find this interesting. Bizarre, the things that catch ones interest.

Today was beautiful; I ended up reading in the botanic gardens for three hours, which is how every working day should be spent. However, I do take issue to this whole guilt thing; it's terrible and should be cancelled.

One of the things I miss from home is the many eclectic and atmospheric markets, hemmed in from above with string and tarp, or acres of corrugated iron, and invariably crammed with everything under the sun.

From fruits and vegetables-most-curious, as tasty as they are unusual, to the "authentic" designer labels, DVDs and software at super-knockdown prices, there's something for everyone. There are invariably items of local or religious interest, and it's often possible to discover something unusual when you rummage, but somewhere along the way I managed to completely miss a whole group entirely; I mean what the hell is a singing bowl?

I came across a couple of these in a little Tibetan shop in, of all places, Covent Garden, where I was offered one of these things to "try". Okay! Er, how? Apparently my lack of cognition was expected; it turns out that these bowls, traditionally made of seven different metals to represent the major planets of the solar system, are narrowly used in meditation to achieve a state of relaxation.

Making a wine glass 'sing' - and sometimes shatter - is something many of us have tried at least once. The premise is the same here; rub the stick along the outer edge of the bowl, and in seconds the quiet scratch of wood on metal takes on an edge, and as you fall into a more natural motion (at which my accomplice becomes unable to stop with the innuendo), the bowl starts to vibrate at a frequency very much its own, resonating so heavily that the sound it makes is surprisingly loud. And you can really feel it in your chest and fingers; heck, the whole shop stopped to peer at what I was doing.

I'm not particularly into the spiritual, much as it interests me, but I was surprised by how much I enjoyed this simple ritual; and it was dead calming. It makes some sense that it should affect how we feel; science has demonstrated time and time again that we respond strongly to sounds, especially deep bass tones, probably an artefact of our nine months in a watery place. If I was into meditation, I'd certainly get one of these. Intriguing.

A new angle on sticky rice.

Just a note, seeing that I've had a couple of confused messages through my inbox, to say that if you meet with strangeness on accessing this page (Apache Server SSL/TTL notices and the like) that all is normal.

My hosts are migrating to a more powerful set of servers, and this has meant updating my nameserver details; in summary, the site is being moved to new servers, the nameserver address of the site is being updated, and since these two processes are not interdependent, some minor interruptions are inevitable. Since your day does not centre around being able to "access me" freely, it shouldn't bother anyone unduly.

I seem to have missed out a couple of days of worthy inanity for a number of reasons, notably being absent, having read three fiction novels in the last week and a half at the expense of life, having plenty of work to do both at work and at home, and a minor need to avoid stringing full sentences, with which I've been having some trouble recently.

I was caught, rather spectacularly, in the massive blackout that brought London to her knees last Thursday. Scariness. Actually, not at all; it lasted less than an hour, and only affected a band across the Southern parts of the city. It did, however, mean that my fifteen minute ride from Vauxhall Station to Wimbledon took almost two hours as a result of the considerable delays brought upon the overground train services. Heavy rain, no taxis, and too far to walk. Groovy.

I would have granted the occasion the full brunt of my considerable apathy were it not for the fact that I had an appointment with a physiotherapist. Which I missed. Not so groovy. Hey, groovy is such a dated word - old enough for me never to have used it before.

Heck, this was a day for bad-jokes-by-God; even before reaching Vauxhall, a passenger pulled the emergency cord on the Victoria Line, bringing the Underground train to a halt for five minutes at a station, Oxford Circus, perhaps. Then on we went until just after Pimlico where, as we travelled under the Thames, the train made some crazy banging noises and jolted to a stop (cue the power cut), and then started to lunge forward in hopeful little spurts of reserve power driven optimism until we finally lurched into Vauxhall.

The station lights are extinguished, alarm bells are sounding, and the eerie glow of reserve lighting brings everything on the platform into soft relief. We are told that we will not be able to alight at this station, at which point the doors open anyway and we all pile off. Walk up the lifeless escalator, enter the mainline station, learn that no-one is going anywhere fast because there's no power.

No power? How is it that some of the trains are still moving? That all the lights in the tower blocks nearby continue to bless the immediate scene with their benign, cheery glow?

We're dismal at power failures, people.