End of an era

So tonight is the closing party of legendary London club The End. I first went eight years ago, eyes gleaming, a naive young thing, head and heart full of dreams of being a music journalist. Well, I was doing work experience at my favourite magazine in the world ever. I wasn’t new to clubs, I was all about them in fact. My defining thought before setting off to university four years previous had been I want to go dancing. That was all that mattered. Being on a dancefloor, swallowed up by the music, in a blur of light, heat and sound. I knew who I was when I was dancing. It was the only time my body did what I wanted it to. I had complete command. It was all so exciting, so new, so right. Wherever I was, and my friends and I travelled far and wide to dance to the DJs we loved, on that floor it was about me and the music. 

And then we came to London. (A brief aside: before you live in London, it lives in you. It’s always there, on the fringe of your existence, somewhere in the corner of your eye. It’s more than a city, it’s an idea, an ideal, an aim. And no wonder, it’s built with 8 million hopes and dreams, both dashed and realised.) Life in London was different.  It was both scary and seductive. Unlike my warm and cosy northern city, it had harder edges. London is Industry. London is Media. London is Money. And it made the people harder. Eyes wouldn’t meet, lips would purse, faces saying they’d seen it all before. Apparently it was cool to look bored.

But not at The End. The End was different. The End was music you’d never heard before. The End was people who smiled. The End was dancing and dancing and dancing. And as London became home, it’s cold facade breaking down to reveal ordinary people all chipping away at their dreams, The End became home too. I have had so amazing nights on her dancefloors, jumping up and down, full of music and love, catching eyes and smiles that are full of the same. It’s more than escapism, it’s more than a good time, it’s more than a Saturday night on the town. Being together, dancing together, enjoying music together is a celebration of who we are as individuals, as a community and as human beings. So tonight I will be celebrating one last time at The End, with people and music I love, and I can promise you it will be one special send-off.

Body talk

This wonderful interview got me thinking that there’s something incredibly liberating about giving voice to the bodily taboos and hang ups we all share. I mean, for goodness sake, we all have bodies and yet we waft through life – noses in the air – denying the very flesh that envelopes us. We devote time, energy and resources to taming our wild bodies – covering, shaving, colouring and even slicing away at our nakedness. It’s a constant battle we’re never going to win. So why do we do it? Our bodies are a grimy everyday reminder of our mortality. By trimming, tweaking and trussing we twist the truth for a little while, creating a moment of self-perceived polished perfection. But soon the stubble breaks the porcelain surface and we’re back down to reality, staring our future in the bloodshot eye. 

Flip the coin though, and we could start having fun. We’re not artefacts that must be preserved. No, we don’t live forever so we should celebrate that which gives us the freedom to feel and taste and smell and touch and hear: our body.

Same old, same old

Life is never predictable? Bollocks. Sometimes it’s so predictable it hurts. Different person, same old lines. Bitterness pricks at me, a stone in my shoe that I’m unable to shake. I don’t want to be like this but sometimes it just gets…tired.

Bus ride

Buses are emotional places. Unlike the Tube, where the close proximity of human flesh leaves no room for flighty feelings, only base disgust at the bodily: sweat, snot and spittle. 
Buses have a sense of purpose, a gentle tumble of transition, a knowing sense of time and place. Travel in real time, no same-same-same delay of tunnels and signal failure. 
Last month on the bus, I sat next to someone and it felt like you next to me. Your thigh against mine, a pressure, a comfort, a knowing-you-were-there, a safeness in the shared space. And then they got up and I ached. Ached for you.

Love

The hardest thing in the world is watching someone you love struggle. Not being able to make it all better leaves you short of breath, the pressure on your heart creating bubbles of panic. Frustration cuts and helplessness burns. All you can do is leave hands and ears open. But is it enough?

NYC electricity

I finally understand why people walk around in t-shirts with ‘I heart New York’ on them. I went, I saw and I heart New York, too. The scale, the heat, the napkins with everything. Such a mad old mish-mash of people. In the most exciting and invigorating sense. It was thrilling simply walking around. I loved the art on the subway, the iced coffee, the smiley old man at the bar playing bingo (‘Oh him? That’s Taylor Mead’), the top dollar sushi at bargain basement prices, the brown stones in Brooklyn. And discovering that Americans call clubbing ‘dance parties’. Or is that just New Yorkers? Or just hip young New Yorkers with their tongues firmly in cheek? Either way, I heart it.

Hurt

Music can heal. Or, at least, spark the process. 

Going to extremes

Extreme is exciting, balanced is boring. Discuss.

It’s a lot easier to get enthusiastic about an exaggerated state than a placebo. That’s true for extremes at either end of the scale and it’s all to do with the pleasure principle. Take food for example – there’s pleasure in indulging in an extra slice of chocolate cake but there’s also pleasure to be derived from depriving yourself. A different kind of pleasure admittedly but pleasure all the same. Excess it all it’s forms – be it sexual, chemical, whatever – casts a pleasure spell. But pleasure, as we know, is fleeting. Denial, on the other hand, breeds that perverse brand of pleasure that springs from (whisper it) smug self-righteousness. Excess/denial, denial/excess – two sides of the same coin to yo-yo between. There hanging between them is the middle ground. No flirty frills decorating the wide, grey expanse that is moderation. Instead just a never-ending sea of calm, eerily free of dips and swells. Of course, with moderation comes depth and layers – a chance to observe and absorb, free from the magnetic, destructive pull of living in extremes. Pleasure is superseded by satisfaction in the world of balance and moderation. All well and good. Just not quite as exciting…

Maybe

Maybe you were just looking for a distraction
Maybe I was too
But I got more than I bargained for
When I met you

One drunken kiss
One beautiful evening
One perfect gift
One too many excuses
One thing on my mind

Four months on and I still think you’ll call…

Word play

What I love about reading is what I love about writing too. The ability to give shape and substance to something as slippery as a feeling – to record those passing thoughts that might normally get lost in the swamp of everyday living. The disparate bunch of writers I love have one thing in common – amidst tales of other lives in other places there hide moments of stinging recognition. Those things you half-think, or don’t fully realise are passing through your head, right there on the page. Someone else’s honesty enabling you to own your own feelings. That’s the power of good writing – name it and it’s yours. Instead of being ruled by an intangible tangle of emotions, you’re the one calling the shots. A feeling flying round your head can only be grasped at. A word on a page can be picked up, it’s weight tested in your hand before you decide to embrace or reject it.