The sky is falling

London is a strange place to be at the moment. Recent events have taken our news pages hostage, and amidst perfectly glorious sunshine there is persistent talk of the fatal actions of the fanatically disaffected.

Fatalism abounds - it is as though outrage feels too simple reaction, too predictable, and perhaps therefore somewhat insincere. Instead, the eye of the mind looks inwards, homing in on the core, searching for the inner essence that may explain why our guts are twinging and nothing - not food, drink, sex, dance, art or spectacle - can distract us sufficiently to forget.

My ever-present, ever-crescent anger is maturing - it is stronger, and more focused then ever. At times, I feel impregnable, and at others, I feel dangerous to myself and to my friends. My anger is directed to noone in particular, but I can summon it in an instant, and I think it will be my best weapon when I return to the nowhere place of my old occupation. In geeky terms, I feel like a superhero/villain - where my anger is my special power. Come to think of it, I feel a little like Ben Stiller's "Mr Furious" from Mystery Men - and in many ways, I'm no less absurd or laughable.

All superheroes/villains, no matter what their supposed powers may be, have weaknesses, distinct susceptibilities to pain, physical, emotional or psychological. I have to admit, my anger is fighting with a bit of despair around the mediocrity of my life. It's a sheepish despair, so very aware of the comparative ease within which a Western comfort lives. But it's also a despair that exists because of the powerlessness that comes once the Make Poverty History campaign has climaxed in the Live 8 concerts, and the realisation of how futile is the donation, how little of an impact any of us can make to change things. I used to spend all my spare time trying to do something better, but my days as an activist for human rights, one world, and political justice feel hollow and insignificant. Activism is defeated - I think that we are all morally damned, inescapably so, and this is the essence of our fatalism.

Weary and lost for words...

Forgive me in advance for poor prose.

I tried writing about the London incidents since last Thursday, but failed. There aren't words to describe how I feel about it, and that is not to suggest I am seized by an extremity of feeling. Moral indignation doesn't say it all, apathy is unthinkable as well as unforgiveable and, as the website has stated - I am not afraid. It has emerged that the suicide bombers were home grown - British born - and yet the great multicultural project (of which my immigrant stock is part) has unearthed a horrible failing. We shall see how society responds - I for my part have no idea what is next.

In other news...

Work is a sink, swallowing up my enthusiasm and drive as my boss proceeds to throw away every opportunity for progress that I can unearth. Prospects are bleak again - and avoidably so. It doesn't bear thinking what happens next, although my return to the zone of corporate employment doesn't seem so ugly at present - at least things get done in that part of the world.

I'm weighing up an approach to a girl who works on my floor - fetching she is, but always looks so serious, impassive and inaccessible. It feels as though humour would be stonewalled, and intrigue banished, that any overture would not be shouldered lightly, and any attempt at charm would be burnt whole. It's not that I'm faint hearted or anything, I'm just not sure if I can be bothered to make the effort - or, "lazy makes lonely", as my friend likes to say.

I'm looking forward to my vacation time coming up - out to Bratislava for a huge piss-up stag weekend on the 22nd, and hopefully a week in New York in early August. Time out of this crazy hole, the prospect of wallowing in my long-held fantasies of being an American. Don't ask me why - it's not just a TV dream, I've always just wanted it.

and finally...

I hope everyone out there is getting good sleep. Quality sleep is becoming a theme of my musings these days. I woke up yesterday an hour after my alarm clock gave up a yell, and I felt like lead - nothing wanted to move, each muscle screaming out: "leave me the fuck alone! I'm not done yet! learn to sleep properly, punk-ass bitch!"

More of this, please

Maybe it's true - babies bring youth into the world and adults take on ae with their coming.

I finally got to go see my little nephew over the weekend, a full five days since he emerged into the world. It was good to pick him and talk to him - not that he got any of my messages whispered as he looked and gurgled at me. Holding him, however, makes me feel older. That sounds a little simplistic, but it's how it feels. In a year, he'll be crawling about and I'll be on the cusp of thirty (sigh). I don't mean this in a bad way - getting older doesn't bother me, it just kind of happens so what are you going to do?

He's gorgeous, however. I'm notorious for being a cold hearted bastard when it comes to kids, but when it's so close, you just can't help but fall into ribbons of compassion and, yes, love when you look upon him.