dumbing down....

for the few of you (i know who you are!) who stumble upon this a few times a year, it's going to be a longer break. I'll keep it up, and I'll write what's really going on...

Meanwhile, a more up to date blog, and I mean that - is up at my website. http://spmaughan.snappages.com the truth where you can also read everything, or the little, I've had published so far. Go and have a look. It's "fun"

Also I'm at the joan of arc discussion board now. The band, not the lady. Perhaps I'll join the later too.

thank you for reading. Come back in a few months, until then look at the other blog and tell your friends - thats my "career" now!

everything is everything.

>Emerging if not triumphant, at least hardly bruised, from a six month hibernation of schoolbooks and essay deadlines. After a 10 year gap, I can report back that not much has changed. The teachers are still exhuasted, the library is still overflowing with, umm, emptiness and a couple making out inbetween copies of the Tempest and Tess of the Ubervilles. The building is still run down, the grey caretaker remains smoking with a couple of teenagers by the bike sheds, what passes for a toilet is overflowing, the cafeteria is unbearablly loud with tragic gossip and trashy magazines, while upstairs, hidden away, a little post graduate journalism course takes place that goes unnoticed not just in the school, but in the wider world.

As noted earlier, I quit a well paid job to be like Adam Sandler in Billy Madison and go back to school. Now, it appears we are in some kind of desperate global economic meldown (we were told to overplay the familar at journalism class), and so a couple of weeks into jobseekers allowance, it looks like I might be at home for a while, cashing in on a few freelance pieces here and there to go towards rent money. It is actually strange to come out of this, umm, let's say self imposed career break(at least that's what I put on my CV!) to find a world without Woolworths, with estate agents closing down each week, no more obscene city bonuses, quiet shopping streets on Saturdays, and my local library seemingly more busy than ever. It's not all bad this recession then. If there were a few more jobs around everytihng would be better than six months ago!

But then again, the sad truth at times like this it's the poorest that are hit hardest. Those on temporary and contracted work are hardest hit. The people with real money continue in their excess. Companies that need to make cuts where it doesn't hurt them directly. One company in America cancelled it's $4000 monthly donation to a Romanian orphan charity. Of course the managers and directors don't take a pay cut. Even the super rich who end up in prision don't seemt too bad off, as Conrad Black said “one feels less of modern irritations of life....” well, quite. Still with yet another American local newspaper going bust, he might soon find he owns no more newspapers left to publish his daily e-mail musings. We can only hope.

Oh well, at least I have a qualification in journalism. Not that it means much. I suppose if nothing else it's taught me that people still learn shorthand in the 21^st century, and that you don't have to be a particularly interesting or intelligenet person to write. Again and again the formula for an article was drilled into us. And I am afraid always at this point I yawned and looked out of the window and watched the horses trot over the horizon. Keith Waterhouse may be a great newspaper columist, but I have no desire to follow his footsteps. I've always being rather drawn to the beat-school of thinking, first thought, best thought. Jack Kerouac said writers are born, not made. It's either something you do when you wake up and simply have no option but to write, regardless of where you are emotionally or financially, and being published or not is irrelevent. You write, spilling orange juice down your t-shirt which you don't even notice until much, much later. Or you wake up, eat a good breakfast before putting on your writing suit and punch the time clock as you enter the office, you do your shift and then go home with your thoughts of that nights tv shows. It goes back to that question being asked since time began, what exactly is art and why is some art good and some art bad. Van Gough died peniless. But we can hardly pretend ever failed artist or unpublished writer is in that category. It just seems odd so much published writing seems so formulaic and whilst gramatically correct, missing in individuality and style.

All questions to ponder now I've finnished the course and with a pack of job cutings to apply for. I've got a few deadlines for a couple of articles, but sadly it's not enough to support a family of 4.

Still, being at home, I get to “hang out” with the kids. With a little boy who is about to turn 3 and his baby brother, only 3 weeks old. And my wife too, here we all are in our little fairytale cottage turcked up in the Sussex countryside. We drink camomile tea and eat shortbrad busuits, comparing supermarkets to see which one has the chepest brocoli this week, before I drive off to attend some interview where I am forced to pretend I am fascinated by the world of wholesale toilet paper for care homes. Oh, what we do for money....

don't forget the free in freelance.

As the 2008 sun edges away from the horizon, I still can't quite figure out a year that saw me move country, have 6 completely different jobs (from working with ex-cons in a chocolate factory to the white collar world of private health insurance), and spent a few months in a post graduate journalism course which if nothing else, I suppose taught me that journalism is whatever you want it to be. After being bombarded week after week from special guests, mainly macho "fuck the people, get the story" newspaper tycoons who I thought died out with the Daily Planet, and countless others telling us there simply is no work out there, to move to the middle east where the newspaper business is booming. Magazines are cutting back, and nobody has a copy of Fowler's modern English anymore. Still, freelance will do me just fine.

I suppose everyone today is a journalist. I don't care how many hits a website gets, how often you write on your blog, most of it is as disposable as the internet itself. Sure, Mr Graham from Stratford may very well care to offer us his ill-informed thoughts on the demise of Woolworths, but when he starts telling us about his new years eve plans with Aunty Betty that's the time to switch the off button. And please, that picture of your little dog by the christmas tree with the father christmas beard on. It isin't funny, it's embarrassing your poor poodle. I know I am in the minority and blogs, twitter, and all the rest of it is, rather awkwardly, the celebrated trend of the zeitgeist.

I suppose history books will be written about all this, and perhaps it's modern life itself I have a problem with, daydreaming of a time when all magazines were like the new yorker, and my shorthand skills and proof reading actually meant something rather than a curious smile from the well meaning bus driver ("My gran learnt all that during the war. Didn't know it still existed!")

It's just passed 2 on a glorious winter afternoon in the country. I've just drank my third coffee. I spoke to my fatter who is the Caribbean a few minutes ago on skype. My wife sits here reading, Ezekiel is enjoying his afternoon sleep, and I have a piece to write about my time working in a chocolate factory. Is this freelancing? Yes, I think it will do me just fine.

forget forget me nots.

18 posts in almost three and a half years. I like that. There are too many bloody awful blogs about where people feel their daily life must be absolutlly fascinating to everyone and tell you all about their little trip to aunt Sally's and her wonderful apple pie. (actually that does sound more interesting than a lot of the random posts!)

So, life in the woods wasn't too bad, I got a better job and before long we moved down to east sussex, and found a charming little cottage down a single track lane that is impossible to find. So plenty of space, no cars, and fresh air. the good thing is that unlike Fischerhude sociey is just a short car journey away. Here is Ezekiel on the garden.

I got a job, which paid pretty well and for a moment there, I thought about staying where I am. You get tired of searching, and there I was, taking the bus every morning working for some nameless company that pays two times the amount my last "proper" job paid (bertrams), and you think of all those nice holidays, expensive restaurants, and little weekend trips that this would give you. But in your heart, you're not there. The truth is you don't give a damn about insurance, and at night you dream only of the possibility of words. It's easy to say "money will never determine or rule my life" when you're poor and watching the business men come and go from the trains. Perhaps a life of security isin't too bad after all, why not have another cigar and think of the money and woundn't Fran's eyes light up if you bought her than expensive dress she saw the other day. ahh, it's all bullshit. How long are you going to play a game you cound't care if you won or loss, or what the prize even is. So, that autumn holiday will have to wait. I'm off on Monday to do this jouranlism course. First I better say goodbye to money and it's octopus eyes. Oh well, it will wash up again some other day. It always does somehow.

Franny came back from her week working for a charity in Romania full of inspiration and ideas. It's crazy how bad the situtation still is, and I must admit that put it all in perspective.

and then always in my head is February, when a new little brother or sister arrives for Ezekiel.

MUSIC >>>> joan of arc "boo human" / joan of arc "so much staying alive and lovelessness" / joan of arc "live in Chicago, 1999" / stars "in our bedroom after the war' / leonard cohen "songs from a room" / conor oberst solo /

BOOKS >>>> Ethan Canin short stories / mr and mrs bridge / william faulker poetry.

OTHER THINGS >>>>> rain, fruit picking, badgers foxes, deer, horses, don't run out of the pip squeaks!

birth of a salesman (not quite)

Well, everything falls apart and falls into place at the same time. I now have the lowest paid job I have ever taken in my life which is a 10 hour weekly car commute, and I am living back at my mums house in the forest in England because the thousands of pounds we took to Germany is all gone. The only glimmer of a brighter future right now is the fact I got accepted into a rather selective prestigious post grad Journalism intense course in Brighton. I took my published articles, did a two hour exam, and did the interview where the guy asked me what I wanted to do in 10 years and for a moment my heart skipped at the possibilities - because in 1998 my life was unrecognisable to me now. I instead said something about running my own book and music magazine and somehow a few days later a letter arrived to say I was accepted and thank God I wrote those articles for book dealer magazine or I wouldn’t have even got invited to the interview in the first place.

But wait, I haven’t even mentioned really why we are back in England. I suppose the losing thousands of pounds kind of gave it away. Well, no socially it was the most intense fun filled time I have had since Uni. Economically it sucked. Ezekiel loved living in the countryside rushing to the horses every day, but Fran and I sensed the loneliness and hopelessness of it all so I drove back with a friend of mine for a few days to look for jobs and spend cosy evenings in the country pubs talking about love over countless real ale beers.

Fran and Ezekiel flew over a week later, and here we are. The job I have is selling childrens books and suffice to say I fucking hate it. I know the people I talk to are going to be ripped off and tied down to some ridiculous complicated book scheme where its virtually impossible to quit and I don’t even want to telephone them and really if it wasn’t for Brighton and the necessity of getting at least 5000 bucks in till August I really wouldn’t bother.

Free Money.

Actually it all does kind of work out, because Germany was such an intense learning time and I can hardly deny the times drinking wine with friends or even going out for dinner with Fran’s parents were nothing short of beautiful, and perhaps because I had nothing I felt the love of Jesus roll into my heart and speak to me in psalms and poems. That sounds a little bit crazy, but I suppose you had to be there to understand.

Back to the present. Life in the woods is ok. I feel sorry for my society wife, who so loves to be surrounded by people and friends, but it isn’t too bad. Slowly things are starting to come into focus after the whirlwind rushed us into near blindness and you know what? I am pretty sure everything is going to be alright, forever.

BOOKS >>> I absolutely loved George Gissing “The Odd Women” / Keith Green “A cry in the wilderness” / “The bill from my father” by ? (true story about a fucked up father/son relationship)

MUSIC >>> My favourite cd for ages is Stars “in our bedroom after the war” / various cds from Norwich library (nothing amazing) / The Jazz radio station’s last few weeks

OTHER THINGS >>> Family outings (to local castles, small country towns like Ely, lakes, rivers, the 2 mile walk to the village, etc), birthdays again, American politics, and the culture show tv show!

when society is a long way away

So, we are now living in a little farming/artist community called Fischerhude in Germany. It’s very beautiful here, a fairytale like self sufficient village with old farm buildings, lots of cobbled streets and picturesque countryside. It isn’t city living anymore for us. Pity nobody speaks English.

So here, Ezekiel has never been more happy rushing around, stroking the neighbours horse, shouting “Duck duck!” every time we cross the little bridge, playing with the thousands of acorns, going on the garden swing. I could go on. I, also, love it here. But the quietness of the nature I still have to get use to, when you spend everyday in a city and you can go and buy a pint of milk anytime you like, or spend your afternoons in coffee shops and reading papers in coffee shops with crowds of people. Here, you get up and walk with your son to the little shop, waiting as he jumps in puddles, saying hello to the odd passer by, feeling like it could be 1807 as you see no car in sight only farmers going about their daily work. You arrive at the little shop and buy a couple of stamps to send off…and here it comes…job applications.

I guess we are naïve, but we didn’t imagine we would struggle again. I thought that was all over, those grey days of worrying how you are going to pay the electricity bill (and when its 1 degrees at 12pm and only October you need to pay it!). I assumed, somewhat foolishly, that some job would just fall into my hands and I could spend the rest of the time writing, or drinking a glass of wine playing chess, or whatever.

Its funny. Here, so many friends come by, always some invitation to a little get together, or to visit someone in another city. My social life hasn’t been this great since my Rock Hill college days, but then you look at the pennies as you want to order another beer and you remember in England how there was always money for whatever. I didn’t come to Germany to work in a factory, but right now I don’t have a choice about it. But then, such magical evenings when the stars are so bright, and it’s so dark outside with the fresh air, our little boy so happily asleep with his little teddy bear, and you live in such a lovely village, only 30 minutes drive from Bremen (a big city), that it’s the kind of place you have been dreaming about for many, many years.

So, that’s where I am right now. Yes, we have only been here 3 weeks, and life sparkles with overwhelming brightness to be in Fischerhude, but I hope we can “afford” to stay here. The cultural differences are also more strong that I thought.

>>>> “Man, woman, and child” by ???? , British Army Radio (hmm, German radio is very bad unless you like Phil Collins and Tina Turner!), long long long nature walks, coffee on the porch at 11pm under bright stars, 3 weeks without internet, tv, telephone, clock, bored by BBC world service radio (I guess I am not as cultural as I thought), starting to miss being able to drink tea in a café.

Two weeks paid vacation, I need another one.

A few weeks left, and then I’m leaving England. We’re going to live in an old farmhouse down a little track, 10-minute walk from a small village in Germany. http://www.fischerhude.net It’s my secret, because it’s the kind of place I’ve always dreamed of, especially now with my little boy and wife, it’s sort of so appealing to me it’s unreal. The truth is society has always bored me. Not people, but this kind of atmosphere of shoppers and drinkers, consumerism buy me no buy me please. Some duck woman staring at me with dollar eyes from the gossip magazines, constant traffic in the city. We’re taking our books and records, our armchairs and our candles. A game of chess. Cluedo. Computer. What else do we need? I’m going to buy eggs from the farmer next door, grow my own cabbage in the garden. Oh and then we’re going to go out and drive 35 minutes to Bremen to see the cold war kids. I’m going to get New Yorker magazine and under the radar delivered. I like this contrast in things.

I think I’m writing a wish list. I better stop.

Next week I have a disciplinary hearing where I work for taking too many sick days. It’ so pointless really, but that’s big business for you. (The crazy thing is I really was sick! That’s the craziest thing!). Then I’ve got a wedding. I’m best man, so what do I say? Don’t chew on the asparagus boy, put your arm around her and everything will be all right, forever. Happily ever after. Just don’t ask what happens after happily ever after.

And then last night Bryan Ferry - somehow still cool - at the Diana concert. If you watch that stuff you actually start missing Princess Di, a woman I never cared about, but the charity work. It’s thrown in your face and you start to like her. The boys too. William and Harry. They seem like they could be my friends. Everyone’s singing along to Elton crooning away at the piano as the fireworks go, and damn it, you almost wish you were there. Just almost. The clips of Status Quo give it away.

Some nutcase tries to plant a bomb, it seems such useless pathetic attempts, and so stoo-ped! What else in the news? Bush is a loony playing golf, Tony Blair’s a showman, and Gordon Brown seems cool because he isn’t. Other world leaders? Putin’s a nutcase. Merkel…well, we’ll find out.
Through all this I imagine my little farmhouse, and all is calm. Did I mention there’s a sandpit and swing there too? Oh, and a dishwasher. Wow! That’s life when you’re 30. A fucking dishwasher excites you.

Still, 4 weeks to go. Tomorrow I’m off to Starbucks to read gossip magazines to depress me so I’m excited when Fran and Ezekiel come back from art club. Pah, perhaps I’ll really miss these big chain shops and reading about Paris Hilton finding God at prison. Perhaps I’ll miss being at work and listening to everyone talk about last night’s TV non stop like crickets. But somehow I doubt it.

See you in Germany. Bis bald!

Others >>>> Fran’s strawberry jam, beach trips with friends, summer rain, driving, Hoverton gardens, Timmy the dog, sonic youth days, happiness is all the rage, George Gissing “the odd woman”, Mark Kozelek, slowly translating German articles (necessary I geuss!), crosswords on envelopes, kill rock stars, the lone ranger, blackberry cup cakes, sunrise with Ezekiel at 5am, Gil Scot Heron peace out.