Abeer!: July 2011

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Fact

No one does awkward like I do.

(that and you probably dont know anyone else at this age who does shalwars with sneakers. Nike Womens' Size 9 sneakers. If you get what I mean.)

I now have:

. The soundtrack of Amelie
. The soundtrack of Mulan
. The soundtrack of Harry Potter (upto 7.1)
. The soundtrack of Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium
. The soundtrack of Pocahontas
. The soundtrack of The Lion King
. Adele's discography
. Florence and the Machine's discography
. Anoushka Shankar's discography
. The Very Best of Cat Stevens
. John Mayer's Battle Studies
. London Symphony Orchestra plays Michael Jackson
. Mozart's Masters of a Millenium
. Yael Naim's She Was A Boy

In other news, Ramazan begins in a week.

Dear Maroon 5

If you insist so repeatedly on never leaving your bed, how ever will you clean it?
Bed bugs are a huge source of ill health yknow.

Russell Brand's Tribute to Amy Winehouse

I repost this tribute written for Amy Winehouse, by Rusell Brand that I found here. I am a fan of neither, but words and quotes written by Brand here are far too beautiful to be ignored. Do read this.

When you love someone who suffers from the disease of addiction you await the phone call. There will be a phone call. The sincere hope is that the call will be from the addict themselves, telling you they’ve had enough, that they’re ready to stop, ready to try something new. Of course though, you fear the other call, the sad nocturnal chime from a friend or relative telling you it’s too late, she’s gone.

Frustratingly it’s not a call you can ever make it must be received. It is impossible to intervene.

I’ve known Amy Winehouse for years. When I first met her around Camden she was just some twit in a pink satin jacket shuffling round bars with mutual friends, most of whom were in cool Indie bands or peripheral Camden figures Withnail-ing their way through life on impotent charisma. Carl Barrat told me that “Winehouse” (which I usually called her and got a kick out of cos it’s kind of funny to call a girl by her surname) was a jazz singer, which struck me as a bizarrely anomalous in that crowd. To me with my limited musical knowledge this information placed Amy beyond an invisible boundary of relevance; “Jazz singer? She must be some kind of eccentric” I thought. I chatted to her anyway though, she was after all, a girl, and she was sweet and peculiar but most of all vulnerable.

I was myself at that time barely out of rehab and was thirstily seeking less complicated women so I barely reflected on the now glaringly obvious fact that Winehouse and I shared an affliction, the disease of addiction. All addicts, regardless of the substance or their social status share a consistent and obvious symptom; they’re not quite present when you talk to them. They communicate to you through a barely discernible but un-ignorable veil. Whether a homeless smack head troubling you for 50p for a cup of tea or a coked-up, pinstriped exec foaming off about his “speedboat” there is a toxic aura that prevents connection. They have about them the air of elsewhere, that they’re looking through you to somewhere else they’d rather be. And of course they are. The priority of any addict is to anaesthetise the pain of living to ease the passage of the day with some purchased relief.

From time to time I’d bump into Amy she had good banter so we could chat a bit and have a laugh, she was “a character” but that world was riddled with half cut, doped up chancers, I was one of them, even in early recovery I was kept afloat only by clinging to the bodies of strangers so Winehouse, but for her gentle quirks didn’t especially register.

Then she became massively famous and I was pleased to see her acknowledged but mostly baffled because I’d not experienced her work and this not being the 1950’s I wondered how a “jazz singer” had achieved such cultural prominence. I wasn’t curious enough to do anything so extreme as listen to her music or go to one of her gigs, I was becoming famous myself at the time and that was an all consuming experience. It was only by chance that I attended a Paul Weller gig at the Roundhouse that I ever saw her live.

I arrived late and as I made my way to the audience through the plastic smiles and plastic cups I heard the rolling, wondrous resonance of a female vocal. Entering the space I saw Amy on stage with Weller and his band; and then the awe. The awe that envelops when witnessing a genius. From her oddly dainty presence that voice, a voice that seemed not to come from her but from somewhere beyond even Billie and Ella, from the font of all greatness. A voice that was filled with such power and pain that it was at once entirely human yet laced with the divine. My ears, my mouth, my heart and mind all instantly opened. Winehouse. Winehouse? Winehouse! That twerp, all eyeliner and lager dithering up Chalk Farm Road under a back-combed barnet, the lips that I’d only seen clenching a fishwife fag and dribbling curses now a portal for this holy sound. So now I knew. She wasn’t just some hapless wannabe, yet another pissed up nit who was never gonna make it, nor was she even a ten-a-penny-chanteuse enjoying her fifteen minutes. She was a fucking genius.

Shallow fool that I am I now regarded her in a different light, the light that blazed down from heaven when she sang. That lit her up now and a new phase in our friendship began. She came on a few of my TV and radio shows, I still saw her about but now attended to her with a little more interest. Publicly though, Amy increasingly became defined by her addiction. Our media though is more interested in tragedy than talent, so the ink began to defect from praising her gift to chronicling her downfall. The destructive personal relationships, the blood soaked ballet slippers, the aborted shows, that youtube madness with the baby mice. In the public perception this ephemeral tittle-tattle replaced her timeless talent. This and her manner in our occasional meetings brought home to me the severity of her condition. Addiction is a serious disease; it will end with jail, mental institutions or death. I was 27 years old when through the friendship and help of Chip Somers of the treatment centre, Focus12 I found recovery, through Focus I was introduced to support fellowships for alcoholics and drug addicts which are very easy to find and open to anybody with a desire to stop drinking and without which I would not be alive.

Now Amy Winehouse is dead, like many others whose unnecessary deaths have been retrospectively romanticised, at 27 years old. Whether this tragedy was preventable or not is now irrelevant. It is not preventable today. We have lost a beautiful and talented woman to this disease. Not all addicts have Amy’s incredible talent. Or Kurt’s or Jimi’s or Janis’s, some people just get the affliction. All we can do is adapt the way we view this condition, not as a crime or a romantic affectation but as a disease that will kill. We need to review the way society treats addicts, not as criminals but as sick people in need of care. We need to look at the way our government funds rehabilitation. It is cheaper to rehabilitate an addict than to send them to prison, so criminalisation doesn’t even make economic sense. Not all of us know someone with the incredible talent that Amy had but we all know drunks and junkies and they all need help and the help is out there. All they have to do is pick up the phone and make the call. Or not. Either way, there will be a phone call.

Monday, July 25, 2011

Abeer Appropriates!

. I havent written one of these in a long long while. Hence this post.

. One of the first and foremost things I need to stress is that I have reached a decision. I will now practise this line on every one I know. Whenever someone tells me that they like someone, or think someone is cute or yada di yada, I will respond with, 'Yeah sure, but can s/he paint with all the colours of the wind?'

. I am also going to try my level best to use the following two words in conversation as much as I can- groovy and pervasive.

'Hey Abeer, did you see that new movie?'

'Yeah man it was so groovy'.

I, ladies and gentlement, am bringing groovy back.

'HOMG did you see the headlines yesterday? So pervasive man, seriously'.

'What is happening to society? Everything has become so pervasive, honestly'.

. I sound terribly cool now, dont I?

. This post has also occurred for one other reason. I start tomorrow, the first day of my last semester ever in Monash. Never again will I go to Monash, never again can I claim to be a full-time student here. Soon though I am sure this pre-dated nostalgic is about to evaporate faster than condensed milk at the bottom of a glass of teh tarik the moment the workload goes nuts, I wish to remember this time because this is it. I've been lucky enough to drag on my studies for a year more than most students (even though at times last semester it felt more of a bane than luck) and had the chance of gaining an incredible support system that have all but pulled me out of what would otherwise have been a total fatal end. No, this isnt suicidal and is probably not even about what you think. I think I'm trying to be poetic here about Honours, but clearly its not coming across as so. And no, at no point did I think of giving up Honours. Lets just forget it. I murdered what I was trying to say.

To get back to the point that I was trying to make, its my last semester here ever. This is the end. And honestly, I'm quite upset about it. I know this statement will undergo plastic surgery and come out as 'man, I cannot wait for uni to be over' very soon, but for the time being, I am in mourning in what is to be (in the mother of all cliché statements) the end of an era.

. Click here. This is the link to the face of an extremely happy person. He is, by popular opinion, 'the coolest monk ever'. I have never met this man nor seen him in person, but he pretty much made everyone's day who saw him. We met him in Saigon and his philosophy on life (+ the fact that he loved posing for pictures) was quite a thing to be party of. I wish I were there that day. I really wish I were. The thought right beneath that picture is Fei's, who was Head Photographer for the trip (and takes some excellent photos). I love that thought.

. This post comes also at a time of reflection. One year this time last year, was the worst start to a semester ever. I could barely function with the scale of news that I'd received on a Monday evening much like tonight. I clearly remember going to bed crying. The next day, it was like life had been robbed out of uni. Almost everyone who knew was wearing black, but I decided to do the colourful thing and wear one of my more colourful outfits. I realised that I never did manage to thank the people at the time who were also grieving, and some who were there for support. For being there for me, if only on the other end of the phone line or with a hug, thank you for what you did. I sincerely appreciate it.