Does my psyche look big in this?

WARNING: This blog displays potential VPL (Visible Phenomenological Life)

 

 

I'm a big fan of metaphors in the main: handy, visual maps for slippery thoughts and stark concepts. But what if your whole life were a metaphor for what you really want? What if every decision you ever made was made 'as if' you were making it, and was actually just a map for the 'real' neural pathways being stumbled upon by your 'true self'? yes, I have recently started a course in psychotherapy, what of it?

I'd written the first draft of a script and got interested in the story I wanted to tell and the way I wanted to tell it.

Act One, Scene One, Draft One:
 

A storage unit, piled high with boxes and bits of furniture.

A woman walks into the space, she knows this place, it is hers.

Two boxes explode behind her. Confetti flutters to the floor.

The woman watches the confetti fall, raises her face to the audience and begins to speak.
 

Heroine: Ignore them. A couple of titans I locked up year's ago. And now they're pissed.
 

It doesn't take a head doctor to guess what might be going on here, but as I grapple with being as readable (and predictable) as a dog-eared paperback, an exciting new chapter begins... Chapter 30, 'Changing the script'.

Scripts aren't just satisfying thud-makers on an actor's doormat. Turns out 'scripts' are also what psychotherapists term 'an unconscious life plan made in early childhood and based on decisions made in response to external influence and internal vulnerability.' (Christine Lister-Ford). Like, I don't know, becoming an actor to legitimise being a precocious little show off, perhaps. Ergo, my career choice was effectively determined by a three-year old. Which is to say, I'm 30 going on 3. Send help! And a snuggle blanket!

This stuff is the best kind of wisdom: new knowledge you have a familiar fuzzy feeling that you already knew.
 

Of course, I might choose to continue being managed by my infant agent (it has it's benefits) but once you draw back the curtain and acknowledge there's a tiny wizard crouching behind your big head- pulling levers and ruling Oz, it's only polite to strike up a conversation:
 

Me: Err hello. What are you doing here?

Little Wizard: Pressing the buttons for making the show.

Me: What show?

Little Wizard: My show. Silly.

Me: Have you always been here?

Little Wizard: Yeees. DON'T TOUCH THE BUTTONS!

Me: Umm-

Little Wizard: Go and get your own buttons, these are my buttons.

Me: Can we share the buttons?

Little Wizard: [frowns, firmly strokes the top of a shiny red button with her right index finger]

Me: ...

Little Wizard: You can press... that one. [points to a tiny round topped button, worn silver with over use].

Me: What's this one do?

Little Wizard: Makes the big head laugh. [giggles]

Me: [laughs] Can I press it now?

Little Wizard: No dafty, this is serious.
 

Self exposure in my world is supposedly par for the course. Being a performer I am used to the idea of exposing myself- physically, emotionally, intellectually. And yet. We kid ourselves that being an actor, for the most part, means being in control of what people see, in order to make them think or feel something we intend. Now re-read that sentence but substitute the word actor, with the word 'adult', and welcome to my present world.
 

And many of us are used to the idea that no matter what we intend, our performances will be perceived according to whoever's doing the perceiving. Beauty in the eye of the beholder and all that. Or grief, or fury. And sometimes we play one feeling and mean another, because we want to be perceived but also create unease, or allure, or... But other times no matter what we intend people see what they want to see or what they're ready to see or what they expect to see, forever and ever Amen.
 

So what of the stuff that is perceived but not intended? The buttons pressed by little wizards or knarly old witches for that matter, that we don't know are being pressed. Maybe it is because I'm a performer that I find this idea terrifyingly exposing. 'You mean I've been out there with my pants down this whole time? And nobody told me?!' The only thing for it is to unpack some of those exploding boxes, calmly, methodically and gently. Unpack them, catalogue the contents, archive what's no longer relevant, and leave everything else within easy reach. Especially pants.
 

I'm up to the fourth draft of my script (performance script that is, there's no draft for the life script, just one very long performance).

 

[Kathryn enters with a backpack and a bottle of water]
 

Hello. [say something about expectations of this audience before coming onstage, and what she feels now she can see them].

 

Can I start?

 

Is everything ready?

 

Ok.

 

The thing about life scripts is they have predictable endings: according to the games people play in order to fulfil them. I'm hoping the same won't be said of my final draft for the show (whatever number that will be). Mind you, a wise man told me recently 'you haven't written a script, you've written material for development.' Perhaps that's a concept I can apply to my psychotherapy course too - it's not a life script, it's the 30th year of material in development.

I hope I didn't just give away the ending.

 

 

 

 

Some Brand new thoughts. Some good. Some bad.

Before we change the world, we need to change the way we think

I’ve really tried not to say anything about the recent re-branding of a certain verbose celebrity hair-raiser. But I’m sorry, I can’t help it, Brand new revolutionary rhetoric is everywhere and it’s stirring something that makes me feel conflicted, like I might be betraying myself or the sisterhood or something.

He was right, what he said about social injustice and the disenfranchisement of anyone outside of the spam-head political classes. That’s all true, and the way he said it, it has a charm: the multisyllabic clackety clack of that Essex jaw, has a certain je ne sais pourquoi vous utilisez tous ces grands mots quand un ‘bonmot’ ferait le travail, mais vous aller, Monsieur. Is he casually sexist? Yes. And what follows is not an apologist ‘but I like him anyway’ whine, so if it feels that way please stick with it, until it doesn’t.

We don’t get to pick our heroes. They choose themselves first, and thrust themselves into greatness (with all of their inadequacies) by being brave or arrogant enough to stick their coiffed heads above the parapet.

Am I surprised and appalled that a man of the media said something sexist as a flippant joke? You’re having a laugh aren’t you? Sexism is endemic in our culture; it is simply part of the fabric of life: like tea drinking, and oppression of the poor. Spend ten minutes on the @EverydaySexism feed if you need further convincing. Do I think that’s ok? Of. Course. Not.

But, we’ve got to stop reducing everything to a Hollywood binary of goodies or baddies, or we’re never going to get anywhere. It’s pretty tricky to march on the opposition when you’ve shot yourself in the foot, twice.

People do good things, and people do bad things, most of us dabble in both. Welcome to the complexity of human endeavor. We need to get used to this so we don’t throw out the baby with the bathwater – or the revolution with the personal transgressions. It is possible for someone to do something great, like, found Wikileaks, and also be accused of forcing non-consensual sex. Does that make him any less heroic for taking the risks he did to expose one of the world’s superpowers? No, I don’t think it does. Does it also make him (if the accusations are proven) an abusive shit? I think so, yes, but for some people it just makes him a ‘player’. And come the revolution, it’s that mentality I want up against the wall.

Russell Brand demeans women with cheap gags because he can, because he is rewarded for doing so. Contract after contract, column inch after column inch, because our culture thinks it’s ok for women to be objectified. So who is he, a mere dandy, to oppose time held tradition? Except that’s what he was on Newsnight to do, right? Oppose the order of things? That’s what his guest editorship is about, surely? A call to arms, a time for change, enough is enough…

Russell, babe, I couldn’t agree more.

1 in 3 women will be raped in her lifetime. 85,000 women reported rape in the UK last year. The rapists I know of have never been reported on. Oh, we all know rapists. Let’s get used to that idea as well. If 1 in 5 women (aged 16 - 59) in the UK have reported experiencing some form of sexual violence since the age of 16 it follows that there are enough abusers to go round. Like I said, fabric of society, like the banks and honest coppers on every corner.

So I suppose what I’m saying is this. If we’re going to have a revolution, can we start again on an equal playing field?

And in the meantime let’s drop the ‘oh well, that would’ve been nice but he’s not perfect (despite the self-styled Messiah complex) we best ignore everything he says’. Make like magpies people, take the shiny-shiny and leave the congealing old shit for the likes of UKIP to feather their nests with. Reward the good behavior: yes Russell, social change: good idea.

And educate on the bad stuff: because of an attractive woman Russell? That wasn’t very funny, call yourself a comedian? In fact, come to think of it chevalier, it’s pretty fucking ironic – there you are, doing your best schpiel on oppression of the powerless and you’ve kicked the whole thing off with a joke to the detriment of – HANG ON A MINUTE. Could that be the pungent tang of irony I detect? Sharp on the nose, but a complex floral bouquet wafting about in the background. Could you have been playing up to your own well-documented relationship with sex, and the expected perception of you – to ‘make like capitalism’ and absorb the expected criticism before it becomes a real threat. Huh. To answer the inevitable question ‘what are you, Clown, doing speaking of serious things?’ before they’d even asked it. Ok, that might be a bit funny, clever, even. I note the BBC saw fit to caption him ‘Russell Brand – Comedian’ and not ‘Russell Brand – Guest Editor of the New Statesmen’ when that was the capacity within which he was being interviewed.

Am I giving him too much credit? Very probably.

Does it matter? If we’re going to have a revolution, we need symbols, icons, something to attach the ideas to - and here we have a presumptuous court jester reeled out to speak of kings and things on a national platform. Someone who stands on the outside of the current system – he doesn’t even vote – but looks in from under his coxcomb and allows the rest of us to see the madness in our method.

This is not altogether fool, my lord.

(Assume) the position has been filled

I’m by no means the first to observe that job-seeking is a full time job.

And if the Torybullies continue to get their way – it won’t even have the benefit of being something you can do from home.

 

I’m lucky in my repeated returns to unemployment, for one, I chose it. In a naïve flush of ‘it’ll all be alright really’ I gleefully guffawed at Withnail until I was laughing on the other side of my face. Oh the folly of youth. More meaningfully, I have the support of my family who have put me up in between acting jobs and continue to put up with me while I decide to entirely overhaul my life. Again. But what of the queues at jobcentres? Dutifully showing up to show willing, only to be met by paper-pushers doing everything they can to stop you signing on. Questions like ‘why can’t you borrow money from your parents?’ ‘if you live with your partner, why can’t you live off him?’ (This actually happened to someone I know, it took her a full afternoon to travel all the way back to the supposed 21^st century). ‘Here, have a zero-hours contract’. Job’s a good’un. ‘Oh look, unemployment figures are down’. Jesus wept. Nothing to do with Torybullies needing to massage unemployment figures before the big bad Bank of England will budge on interest rates. Blame (Mr) Canada ey Georgie Porky Pies?

 

And breathe. Sorry, but today has been a particularly long day of thankless form filling, cover letters and ooh lovely, another form. Not helped by the recruitment automaton who saw fit to reject one of my applications no less than ten minutes after I had submitted it.

> Dear

> Thank you for your application for the position of Copywriter (ref: xxxxxxxx) advertised on http://www.xxxxxxxx. Unfortunately in this instance your application has not been successful. Please keep visiting http://www.xxxxxx where new jobs are posted every day, and good luck with future applications.

>

> Yours sincerely

> 

Unfortunately in this instance? Instance being the operative word, hinny. Perhaps it was because I had put ‘why is a raven like a writing desk?’ in the ‘any other questions’ section. But it was for a copywriting job, and we’ll never know whether the person who wrote that job specification would have cracked a curiously feline smile, because computer said no.

Dear Roborecruitment*

Many thanks for your email. I would appreciate any feedback you may have on my application in this instance.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Best wishes,

Kathryn

*real names have been replaced to protect robot identities.

Nothing yet, I’m sure she’s just drafting her measured and bespoke response…

 

So, thank Hera for the hero of Wednesday:
 

Hi Kathryn,

Thanks for getting in touch but I'm afraid that we've just filled the vacancy we had for "hell raiser" (although she's on probation at the minute and, between you and me, is looking a bit ropy in the role. Not ever bringing any milk into the office does not constitute hell raising in my eyes - it's just annoying).

I did enjoy reading your blog over my cup of tea and sandwich, though. That job interview that kicks it all off sounds a bit mad.

Really sorry that I can't be more help on the jobs front at XXX; it's a struggle as it is to keep our few staff here in pop and crisps.

Good luck with it all (hope that doesn't sound too glib).

HERO OF WEDNESDAY.

Huzzah! There is hope for me and mankind and also just me on my own, yet. Get behind me Officeangels, you harbingers of doom, in the name of all things holy I defy your endless opportunities to sell my soul and join exciting global yawnfest. (It wasn’t Officeangels but their name is more useful for the harbinger of doom analogy – not that the automaton at ‘Recruitment R Us’ would appreciate that).

Ah well, whilst the muse has me, I’ve written this sonnet for the RSC casting department. What do you think?

This actor’s eyes are nowt like Stevenson’s-

Callow was more well-read than she well-read

If Judy be thy mark her quest is done

If Atwell’s diary’s clear, my suit is dead.

You have seen English roses, pale and white

So will not rush to pander at my cheek,

But in my verse there may be some delight?

If nothing else it proves I am not meek.

You have not heard me speak, and I won’t lie

And say my dulcet tones bring all folk round

Of course, you’ve seen famed idols launched on high-

I grant, thus far, I tread boards on the ground.

And yet, by Rylance, give me chance to share

That stage some have left, pursued by a bear.

Too much?

Standstill

“I’m so exposed that I’ve hidden myself” – Kate Tempest

Anchor me down to set me free- 

I’m spiraling out of control 

and on to the dole and I’ve got

to keep moving but I want to

be still. Still I keep on keeping

on, putting one foot in front of

the other, pink suitcase in tow 

brimming with everything I know 

of home and – home is just

a foreign word not often heard 

on this interminable fucking road. 

Nine long months from pillar to post 

passing through train stations like -

somebody’s ghost of a lover

or mother, a phantom of what

could be but never what is -

because I don’t stay long enough

to make it stick. 

There’s only room for one if you're 

your whole world in a nutshell. 

No pegs, or cornerstones, just a

wheel-able, durable hard shell 

and five-year warrantee. 

One day I might just fly away

if I haven’t already.  

I crave being still - to take my fill 

of a single view for a few

hours at a time, to standstill 

until tendrils grow from my feet 

and dig down into soil clay stone, 

to turn off my phone and sink

into earth for a bit of peace

and quiet. Not to die just-

to be rooted (to the spot).

I can’t go in for this third culture shit, 

No you can’t have your cake and eat it. 

It’s called no man’s land for a reason, 

and where you’re from and what you stand for 

shouldn’t change with the seasons, or the time zone. 

We all start somewhere, who you are

isn’t up for grabs, so hold on

tight. Once upon a time I peered

into a lover's looking glass 

and saw myself reflected there: 

mirror mirror on the wall- I

am who you say, so don't let me

fall. I got broken and he moved

on to the next one. 

Now I tread more carefully, 

crunching through the snow 

so white of powdered glass.

Somebody stop me- 

Anchor me fast to set me free.

Don’t hold me down, 

but hold me to you, 

hold me tight 

or I’ll slip through you 

and probably get caught in a very tall tree, 

skirts billowing over my head in a feeble 

parody of a parachute. 

Just hold me close 

and make me real, 

let me feel 

my breath bounce 

off your cheek, nose, chin - 

open your eyes 

let me see in. 

Let me gaze in through the window, 

my nose pressed against the pane, 

to remember what home looks like, 

'fore I hit the road again.