Never as tired as when I'm waking up.

You rub your eyes, your head, your nose and realise that you've been wasting all that time asleep, dreaming about something that was never even there.
Regretting something you never did, or wishing something that never even happened hadn't come to an end so soon.
Futility.

The brain's a powerful thing. Sometimes it tricks you into wanting to live in it.

Watch out for that.

Here it comes, the breeze/That'll blow away/All your reason and your sin

Observed Simian on their album 'We are Your Friends', in opening track 'La Breeze'. You'd know it if you heard it, I promise.

But in very much the same vein, something feels breezy in my life. Either something has changed or it is about to. I can't figure out which it is, but there is a definite sense of something being or becoming different. Perhaps it's the time of year; dangerously close to next year, so close that we're almost falling off the edge, into pits of ultimately miserable resolutions, and a feeling that next year will eventually show itself to be exactly the same as this one.

Christmas presents. A minefield; I could spend plenty of time and money on perfect individual presents, but can I afford it? I'm not a bad person, I swear, but sometimes I think it would be easier to buy everyone a Toblerone and have done with it.

On the other hand, it's time to make my Christmas list.

So far:
'Look Who It Is' by Alan Carr
'Irons in the Fire' by Russell Brand
American Apparel vouchers (to avoid guilt when I buy anything in there)
'My Aim Is True' by Elvis Costello, on CD
'Flashbacks of A Fool' on DVD
Quantum of Solace game for PS2
'The Graduate' by Charles Webb

and there's a fortune spent on stuff I don't really need, already.
Happy days, maties. Happy days.

Sq.

Cliched Blog Post.

5 albums you couldn't live without.

1) A Certain Trigger, Maximo Park
2) The Warning, Hot Chip
3) Get Happy!, Elvis Costello and the Attractions
4) Country Life, Roxy Music
5) A Weekend in the City, Bloc Party

and there are a million more... Welcome to the Pleasuredome by Frankie Goes To Hollywood... other Roxy albums... Silent Alarm (it was close) and of course, the pioneering 'Franz Ferdinand'. But those 5 are my 5.

What are yours?

Chiquitita

Your words repeat on you like a bad curry sometimes. I would advise keeping things to yourself to avoid them getting spread about like a sexually transmitted disease.

Especially if there is pragmatic ambuguity; I didn't mean it!

Bye for now.
SQ

Brevity is the soul of wit

Oh god. I wish I could keep it short and sweet! I've spoken before about how I wished I had said less or nothing or something different, so I'll leave you to check that out in the archives, but I'm feeling it again. Maybe it would be best if everyone communicated in little paper notes, so that i could think about what I said before I said it. How much regret would that save?

Well. Anyway, how are you? Yeah? Good, me too.
Everything's a little bit on top of me; namely, university. There is a literally a university crushing me. Well, I have to apply PDQ, ASAP and ... now.
The main problem I had with it was writing my personal statement. I am applying to study English (surprising?) and so assumed that my personal statement will have to be an epic piece of prose which shows just how great I can be. Except it isn't; it doesn't. It just talks about stuff I've read and am reading. It doesn't talk like I talk; it's way more formal, and it doesn't have all the hand gestures and big eyes and emphasis I have. It's not me. I think that maybe universities should employ a new system where prospective students are sent to live with the tutors for a bit so that we can really show them how great we are. I mean... it's never enough, is it? If you don't get a place, it's easy enough to say 'Yeah, but you can't possibly tell just from 47 lines' or even 'Yeah but it was only a 45 minute interview'. I can imagine myself saying those things in a few months. I hope I won't, but it's so unpredictable. Will they want me? Who knows. I want know!

So, here is one instance where words are frightfully important; 4000 characters that can make or break your life. Even 45 minutes of conversation - it can do the same. I just hope I don't go to any interviews and say stupid things which I later spend hours regretting. That really would be a sour taste.

In other news, check out Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip. Great lyrics, especially 'Tommy C' and 'Thou Shalt Always Kill'. The album's called 'Angles' - not Angels as music blogs keep saying.
Some people, eh?
Thanks
Sq.

He'll only bring you souvenirs/It's only gonna end in tears/And he is only the imposter

Sang the glorious Elvis Costello on his classic album 'Get Happy' (listen to it, please, for your own sake).


And so, in the same sort of imposter-based vein, this post is about those people who fool you with words. They can spin you a web of 'golden lies', or even just one little white one, but at the end of the day, the word can be the ultimate in deception.

The things with speech, and more than ever these days, writing, is that we can often only take it on face value. We can almost never know whether it is meant or not; in some ways the meaning behind that word (though undoubtedly loaded with semantics, pragmatics and also body language and tone) is all we are given as insight into the speaker's mind. Am I making sense?

Consider for a moment that you are reading this. Your eyes register the shapes of the letters, process them as words and decode the meanings behind them. Enough work done already? No. Not half as much as I'd like. All of the above writing is fuelled by what happened to me today, what I talked about and the music I listened to. In a way, it's the result of a lifetime of experiences; for example, my dad has always liked Elvis Costello, but it wasn't until he purchased and played 'Get Happy' that I really got why he appealed. So there's the story behind that one. Do it for every sentence and you have enough life-story for a trilogy of teen dramas.

Do I mean it? You can't be sure. I could be fabricating a whole (admittedly weak) narrative for you to enjoy (or at least register), but where would either of us derive pleasure from in that situation? I guess it doesn't really matter if it's real or not, in the long run, because the truth is that it exists, in a sort of real enough way.

To cut to the chase, however, to cut right through the fatty outer and get to the artery and the high pressure blood flow, I arrive at the lifetime of "whirling words" (I'm reading Hamlet at college) which people have used to deceive me, and themselves.

We all know those people who delude themselves by talking themselves into or out of something. People who refer to us as best friends or great lovers, but who really never scratched the surface. All I can hope is that I never, or at least rarely, use words to cloak myself in such denial, and that people never use them to create a barrier between me and them.
I love you
I hate you
Let's be friends
It's not you, it's me
I never saw you like that
I loved her once, but not now
Words. Words, words and words. Meanings?
I never loved you at all.

Speak double dutch, to a real double duchess. My favourite lyric.
Sq.

But like laughter after tears/I'll follow you till the end

Said Roxy Music in their 1973 single 'Pyjamarama'.
Oh, but how could Bryan Ferry be so right? A man made so perfect, so beautiful. He just makes sense, doesn't he? And his voice is unbelievably suited to Roxy Music's sound.
I think this; some do not.

Anyway, while I do enjoy waxing lyrical about Roxy lyrics, and recommend them to anyone who hasn't already fallen in love, either with Roxy Music or Bryan himself, I feel that you probably don't want to hear about it; so, I will instead move onto something more interesting (or, in my opinion, much less interesting).

The Credit Crunch. Is it right to capitalise those 'C's? It has been said on many topical panel shows that it sounds like some kind of economy-based cereal, and so I won't claim that as my own joke. We're all being told that it's 'on', and it almost definitely is. I think things are more expensive... But then I don't really look. Call me insular, self obsessed, whatever; i just don't tend to buy bread. Anyway, CDs are still pretty much the same price, so I guess that's ok. Can the credit crunch 'end'? Surely such a phenomenon can only be a permanent state of 'things being more expensive', until everything just evens out, and we get paid more, and then the value of the money changes? Otherwise.. What are we meant to do? Just not have as much stuff? Because I need stuff. Stuff pads out my life, lets me glide through it with ease. It reminds me of when I bought it, or who gave it to me, or who I was with, or how I felt, and it lets me relive moments that would otherwise be forgotten. Food, music, films, BOOKS and electricity are all things that I can't go without/cut down on. So don't make me, O' Credit Crunch. Thanks.
Oh, and Credit Crunch, if you're listening, your name sounds stupid.

Because we are living in a material world
And I am a material girl.

Sq.

I'm sorry.

I'm just really quite dried up words-wise right now.
I'm in a fragile emotional state, and right now all I can think is 'Fuck it, words aren't enough'. But I'm reading some really good books, which I have to recommend.

Firstly, 'The Handmaid's Tale' by Margaret Atwood. Especially if you're a girl. It will make you think. Secondly, I am reading 'Oryx and Crake' by the same author, though it isn't as absorbing as Handmaid's Tale. Thirdly, 'Eats, Shoots and Leaves' by Lynne Truss. You will probably have heard of it, it's about and for people who can't stand the misuse of punctuation. I've only just started it, but it's good so far.

I haven't really got into any music for a while. Just been going over The Charlatans (Albums 'Tellin Stories' and the self titled one) and reliving my early years on the planet. Check it aht, mate.

Finally, it is very nearly my birthday. I am looking forward to it.
Ok, that's about all I can muster. Bye for now.
Sq.

"Words can fall short/Can't see the unseen"

Please forgive me quoting Jack Johnson. I liked him when I was 14, alright?

But his words are the words that explain my current feelings about... words. How often is it we can't 'find the words to say' something or other? Or look back on the words we did use, and wish to God we could go back in time and choose some different ones?

I wonder almost constantly what the result would have been, of conversations where I used 'favourite' instead of 'current'; where I used 'love' instead of 'like', even 'love' instead of 'hate'. What if I had talked about music instead of the time in primary school where someone took all lunch time in the lav? What if I used the word 'lav' instead of 'bog' or 'loo'?

Sometimes, even simpler than that, I wish I'd said nothing, instead of something, or vice versa. I wish I'd said more, or less, or everything I felt.

But I didn't, and I don't, and I never will. And it isn't my regret that defines the way I come across; it's the words that you heard, or read. I mean, you didn't leave thinking 'What she really wanted to say was...'; you left thinking 'When she said that, it was a bit weird/really uncomfortable/the end of my world/unspeakably stupid of her...'

So, maybe, if you read these, and something I said to you once upon a time wasn't what you wanted, or what you expected, then maybe I was thinking about it saying whatever it was that you wanted, and decided against it, or only thought of it later. And if you ever really wanted to say anything to me, anything at all, feel free. Nobody enjoys that regret, and, at the end of the day, and the end of the week, and the end of the year, you tend to realise there was no real reason not to say it apart from the immediate fallout. So go on. I won't laugh.

I mean, come on, they're only words.
Sq.

Hurdling the Language Barrier

So, I have returned.

Last night, I flew in from Italy, back to the chilly evenings and cloudy afternoons of England. My holiday was lovely, thanks, and also rather enlightening on the subject of different languages.

You see, before going to Italy, I had never spoken any more Italian than 'Grazzi' (Sp?), and wasn't really sure how I was going to get along. In France, it was different; a 5 year course of French-speaking pills had given me enough grounding to get by, but in Italy, I was stone-cold English. However, this week I spoke far more Italian than I spoke French (in France).

I think what it's really down to is the people. In France (and this is not to their detriment, England is undoubtedly the same in many cases) you feel that if you aren't speaking perfect French, they're having a good laugh at you. I think maybe it's because they don't smile so much... they seem a little dry sometimes. In Italy, however, they are much more welcoming, and encourage an effort to speak their language. During my brief time there, we visited mutual relatives (even though that isn't technically a thing) who were native Italians, and despite the obvious Berlin-wall of a language barrier, we got along pretty much 'just fine'.

Now, this may have been helped by the fact that Italian schools teach English. In fact, this does seem to be a trend running through pretty much all of the world. Some would say it's better that way, but I personally feel, when I see a sign in English, or have a shop assistant switch to English because i so obviously 'sound' (or 'look') English, that I have failed or am being something of an awkward customer.

Anyway, as far as words go, it was a pretty damn good experience. I can now say a few basic things in the language, and am eager to learn more so I can go back and have a good conversation with everyone there.

Is it good to be back in England? I don't know. I cast my eyes out of the skylight and it's a never-changing grey, varied only by the large rain droplets clinging to the pane.
Home sweet home. I've missed you.

SQ. x

I'll do GRAFFITI/If you sing to me in French

Of course, the title recalls a well-known(?) lyric from my previously proclaimed saviours Maximo Park.

Thanks to a prompt from a great friend of mine, I remembered something which I had thought about a lot during my recent time in France. You see, there are many little things that make France different to England. There are a lot of big things, too, like the fact they have all different words, and don't sell proper granary bread or decent Tea. But anyway, there are small things that, when you arrive, you just can't quite put your finger on. Over the days I stayed there, some of these things became more obvious, and one of the most striking was the amount of Graffiti to be seen; it literally was everywhere. From derelict buildings to underground car parks to just general... walls.

This Graffiti didn't make me feel threatened; it didn't give the impression that the country was shabby or poorly run, and it didn't prompt anything but a positive reaction.

You see, these spray-canned designs, like the cave-art I studied in year 8, gave me much more of an impression of what France really is than any of the fishing ports or ice-cream parlours I visited. It was the residue of a youth allowed to, without censorship, express their opposition to everything and anything; from (perhaps) Jean-Paul's affair with Marie 'le poulet', to the ennui of teenage life.

Fast-forward to back home, and the clinical white-painted walls do give the impression of a neatly controlled, almost sterile environment. Yes, so I live in a small town, rather than a large city where Graffiti might be more commonly found, but just down the road was a pretty average wall, much improved by a Banksy-alike, boarded up to prevent further damage, as had occured to an original, authentic Banksy design previously in the same place (which was subsequently and heart-breakingly washed over, leaving an almost sinister ghost of a real work of art- imagine someone chucking white spirit at Picasso's 'Guernica'). While the board has now been removed, that ghost still remains; however, there is no trace of Graffiti on the rest of the blank walls around here, perhaps as sinister as the ghost in its non-existence, as stark a reminder of the oppressed youth and our apathy as the French reminders of rebellion.

So, as the guillotine of 'keep britain tidy' severs our anarchic and revolutionary necks, I leave you, not with a plea to go and spray your name over all the bins in your town, but to consider what it is that the French do better than us; I know that it isn't tea or granary bread, but it might well be freedom, bohemian expression and, above all, ice cream. Mine had mini macaroons in it, for God's sake.

Merci beaucoup,
Sq.

Do the D.A.N.C.E.

If I'm going to write a blog in honesty, it has to have a ribbon of silky-smooth music running through it. Not literally (or not yet, anyway), but at least in its subject matter.

Today, reading 'The New Review' in the The Independent On Sunday, I felt myself concurring with many of the views expressed. Namely these:

"Scouting for Girls are like the sound of Satan's
scrotum emptying. They're abysmal." - John Niven

"You can't grow up on a diet of The Pigeon
Detectives and think you could topple the Government one day. If we end up with 20 years of Tory government, it'll be the Pigeon Detectives' fault"
- Andrew Collins

And who can argue with either statement? The article itself was debating the decline of indie into what has been dubbed "mortgage indie", an infinitely more profitable and less exciting version of the original genre.

This is something people have been banging on about for a while now, and I thought it was just a load of hype until I really thought about it. I fell in love with indie through the art-indie-pop group Maximo Park, way back in the good old years of 2002ish. Before that I had groped around with the likes of Franz Ferdinand (who I still maintain are pioneers of soft-dancey-pop-indie) and my parents' Manic Street Preachers and The Charlatans CDs. Maximo Park led me to purchase an issue of NME adorned with a photo of Paul Smith, lead singer of my band of the moment. From that day forward I was what is now known as an 'NME Reader'. Lately my interest has dwindled; I put this down to two things.

1. The ridiculous price of £2.20 for a weekly magazine, which doesn't even has the volume of content it did when it was a lower price.
2. My growing interest in dance music.

It came to a point where music like Dirty Pretty Things (a past favourite band) and Razorlight (NEVER a favourite band - inevitably, quite the opposite) came to sound like they had a hole in them. There was something missing, and it was synths. And a good beat.

I don't really dance a lot. I love it when I do, but my inability to get into clubs (although nearly vanquished) prevents me from doing so on a regular basis. So the source of my foray into the likes of Justice, Soulwax and 2manyDJs, Metronomy and Battles cannot come from my 'happy feet' (Also, see that I like good dance music, not Freemasons, and Ultrabeat, a.k.a rubbish).

I think there's just something in a squelching synth, in a laser and a strong bassline, that completes a song. It feels whole and round, like every possible area in the spectrum of noise has been successfully covered.

In relation to indie, some of the emerging dance acts appear to have flashes of that indie ethos that Scouting for Girls, The Hoosiers and The View lack. Dead Kids, my band-of-the-moment are out there, unbeknown to many music lovers, putting on sincere and riotous rock-and-roll shows. Their genre? Electro punk. It would be difficult (nay, impossible) to class them as 'indie' in the current sense; and yet they have that integrity, that politically-minded drive to stop us being 'dead kids' that echoes the punk roots of indie; Joe Strummer, even to Damon Albarn and Blur.

Enough music, I leave you with this:
I was watching Foyle's war last night, for the first time properly. It was ok, a bit boring and cliched in places, but it brought this to my mind:

"Foyle's war and other stories"

It wasn't just Foyle's War;
It was the war of that boy
Out of Goodnight Mister Tom
And James McAvoy in Atonement, too.

COPYRIGHT 2008
There's another verse somewhere in my mind, it just wont coagulate into a proper one yet. I'll leave it to mellow.

Thanks for reading.
Sq.

Ok, now let's get down to it.

Here at SQUARE WORDS, I intend to present you with lots of wordy stuff.

Now, the format already necessitates the ol' lexis.
You can't have a Blog without words.
But I can go further than that. Deviation from prose is where it's at - and to get us started, here is some verse.

What's the difference between PROSE and VERSE, I hear you scream;

Well: PROSE is like this. What you're reading. But VERSE is like a poem. It has a capital letter at the beginning of each line.

Consider me invaluable to your brain.

Now, here is my original offering to you. It is inspired by the very current affair of that Golf thing on the TV right now. One of the blokes, Greg someone, looks just like Paul Hogan, star of Crocodile Dundee (coincidentally, the sequel, the aptly named 'Crocodile Dundee 2' is showing on E4 RIGHT NOW).

Anyway, while I was passively watching 'the Golf', I was struck by a bolt of inspiration. Enjoy.

"The Golf Music"

The golf music off the telly
Always propells me,
Toward a silent reverie.

Its plinky-plonky easy listening,
And Out-of-focus shots
Of leaves glistening,
Lead my eye
Out of the window
Into the sky.

COPYRIGHT, 2008.

Sq.

Mandatory 'Let's Get Going' Post

Hello, and welcome to my Blog, SQUARE WORDS.

I like words.

I am a bit square.

Thus, my words are square.

You'll know what I mean in a post or two -
but will I?

Sq.