Don't be hating...

Tuesday, 10.35am, The Staff Room

2011-04-27T05:30:00.000-07:00

By Thomas Jaunism

Everyone feigned contentment. She stood in the middle of the room and drowned in voices of people she didn't know. She didn't care about them. She'd had enough of this shit. She thought 'those little fuckers' and she felt bad for swearing in her head. A voice told her it was OK to be 'fucked off'. She should give that cheeky one a smack around the ears.

She remembered how much she loved Antoine. She imagined resting her head on his lap in the sun. Another voice told her to 'snap out out of it'.

She thought of what she would cook for dinner and how she couldn't be bothered cooking tonight, or tomorrow night...and how she couldn't remember the last time she was happy, or if she'd ever been happy.

She tried to recall how she ended up in this room and why she was always pleasant to everyone. She forgot why she smiled at strangers and made small talk with her colleagues.

Her hands were red, cold and frail. She detested her hands. She felt the mole on the left side of her face and hated her parents. She wished she could go home and watch TV dramas with her mother.

She searched for something to look forward to. She saw days turn into years and all of them lonely. She was completely inside herself now. The sadness turned to sobbing and she did nothing to stop the tears.

"How to be a foreign artist in France during the 2010 winter - III" - The online chat edition...

2011-02-15T14:09:00.001-08:00

Thomas: Hey. I've been asked to write a letter for amplifier
Lake: don't they sell our stuff?
Tj: It's there but no one buys it.
L: Should I give up?
Tj: Maybe. Remember what Syd said: “you shouldn't try and be what you can't be”
Or what about trying to sound more like those electronic tunes I see on music blogs.
L: Yeah I love that shit
Tj: are you taking the piss
?
L: No. It seriously makes me feel closer to the future I believed in when I was kid.
I still have a hope for that future.
Tj: You still writing folk/pop tunes?
L: Ostensibly... I just wait for gold to arrive
when it does i'm overwhelmed by the beauty of creation.
You still on that crusade against overwrought prose and banal minimalism?
Tj: Clearly
L: As much as I'm all about electronic 'tricks' and fancy production, I still believe in the power of 'the song' and it's manifestation in 'the sing-along'. We're always going to need songs that sing our stories to a strumable rhythm and a humable tune...
Tj: ok ...
L: As technology begins to permeate every facet of our lives, the way we interact changes. Our personal relationships start and are maintained with digital tools. Interactions with our communities and the world at large are increasingly reliant on new forms of communication. Our lives are spent earning a living, loving each other, and hanging out, in ways that would not have been possible 50 years ago. Thus, as has always been the case, we need songs that draw upon our contemporary lexicon. Songs that soothe pains we have felt. Songs that talk of times we recognise. Songs that sing -not of a future that never came to pass- but of a future we are part of creating.

Cautionary Tale 1

2010-12-19T10:19:00.000-08:00

I felt like a bottle of sweet inspiration to quench a tenacious thirst. They sell some cheap imitation shit at the supermarket two minutes from my house so I tried there. They'd run out -no more for two weeks.

The best stuff is made locally but they only sell it at a shop which takes ages to get to. It was cold and wet so I flagged.

Then I remembered I had some a friend brought round a while ago. I took a sip but it was flat and tasted a bit weird.

So I went without for a week and waited for the weather to clear up. But when a fine day did arrive I wasn't thirsty anymore. I'd started drinking apathy because my flatmate buys it in bulk.

It doesn't give you the same buzz but it's really easy to drink....

What was that thing I was just about to do...?

2010-12-16T07:28:00.000-08:00

Jane is a kind woman of about 65 years. I guess that because today is her 'retirement do'. I bet she's a mother. I'd say she has at least two well brought up children.

I watched her clean up after the afternoon tea with another woman named Monica. Monica's around 45 years and has never had children. She's slightly less well kempt than Jane. I've never seen her knock something over, but she looks clumsy. She must mean well though I never warmed to her.

Ursula brought a cake peppered with capsicum and cheese. I thought 'what an odd combination for something called cake, I must try it'. I was disappointed because it was dry and tasteless.

I ate quickly and unscrupulously. Then I got a sore mouth because everything was too salty. I'm the young one that no one talks to.

Jack must be older than Jane. He encouraged me to drink more wine so he would feel better about discretely refilling his white plastic cup multiple times. Jack felt the urge to smoke when he saw people switching to coffee. He asked Jane to join him as joke. She laughed. Everyone was in the mood for a chuckle.

Jane and monica started cleaning up. Monica lost interest after she saw that Jane had control of the situation. Jane looked at a paper plate that still had some chips on it. She picked it up, decided against something, and put it back down. She moved a paper towel, decided against something, then turned around and asked the others a question. I forgot what she said because it was of no consequence. She contined cleaning around me as I peeled a mandarin.

I pretended to read my book but secretly watched her tidy. I thought 'You're doing a stunning job Jane, and it's a celebration in your honour'.

"How to be a foreign artist in France during the 2010 winter - Email II"

2010-11-28T10:56:00.001-08:00

thomas jaunism (tjmusicmanagement@gmail.com) Sun, Nov 28, 2010 at 17:15 PM
To: Lake (urbantramper@urbantramper.com)
Subject: Yo!

Hey bro,

Thought I'd give you a summary of my week...

Kate commented on the extraordinary size of the leaves on my street.

I noticed that they'd cleaned the leaves from the yard at my work.

I was nearly hit twice by cars on the way to the organic supermarket near my flat. My anger grew.

I solved the mystery of the open window in my kitchen.

I met a German with a perfect french accent and lost all hope in my ability to speak foreign languages.

I tested a kid on his english. He couldn't speak a word more than hello. “c'est pas mon truc Monsier...” We carried on with the exercise regardless and he told me about his favourite things. He did judo and he loved judo. I couldn't quite grasp what he disliked at first...Then I worked it out and we shared a understanding than was beyond the both of us. “So...What don't you like?”
“ur...the judging... the judgement of people...Me and you... we're the same...”
I wished him good luck for the Judo and basked in a rekindled warmth of what is right and true.

A tragedy occurred down a mine in New Zealand. I watched the Prime Minister make a speech on the internet and was moved to tears.

Regained faith in my aptitude for foreign languages after talking to a woman from the US named Rose.

Love to you and yours...

Thomas

--
***** www.myspace.com/urbantramper *****
*****www.urbantramper.com*****

"How to be a foreign artist in France during the 2010 winter - One side of the dialogue between Thomas Jaunism and Lake"

2010-11-28T10:55:00.000-08:00

thomas jaunism (tjmusicmanagement@gmail.com) Sun, Nov 20, 2010 at 16:06 PM
To: Lake (urbantramper@urbantramper.com)
Subject: How's it?

Hey bro...

Things are pretty sweet here. I'm still working on my new novel. It's a romance between a struggling writer and the girlfriend of the lead singer of the band he manages. It ends badly. I'm also writing short stories for my blog, slowly learning the art of the blog post. It's a great medium.

Good to hear that you're writing some new songs. Send me an Mp3 or two. I've also tried my hand penning a song. It's called “The theme-song of Thomas Jaunism” and is inspired by actual events.

I live close to a river and it's so fucking vast it buzzes me out. I fight an overwhelming urge to join it's flow with every crossing. Yesterday I traversed this river and remembered what an elder told me when I was a teenager. I currently teach some adolescents to earn my keep in France. Their boredom is contagious and their aversion to learning gets me down. Perhaps it was the observation of such indifference that compelled a kind, middle-aged, family woman to remark to my teenage self, “These are the best years of your life you know?”.

As of this year, I've authored four novels and two novelettes. The TK city council have just finished erecting a statue in my honour. I'm currently in talks with a production company that has agreed to air my sit-com based on a dole office in Wellington. I have regular sex and can afford to buy a six-pack of beer whenever I want.

So as I crossed the river I reflected on what that woman had said. I walked toward a Friday night knowing more than I had ever known. Being more experienced and more complete than I've ever been. We veer from the track but still we advance. To paraphrase the RZA, 'we zig and we zag but we always goin' forward...' I recalled my younger self being so depressed at the fact that high school could be the peak of my existence. I remembered believing in a better future.

I can safely say that adolescence wasn't my best work. And that last Friday night wasn't my best work either. You'll understand this as a songwriter -but we can also apply the logic to our daily lives and our daily selves. We create to find something better, but our previous creations are crucial building blocks for our future. Thus we overcome the problem of disappointment and dissatisfaction, and rejoice in the contentment of progress and its rewards.

We all have our purpose. The masters inspired me to start and the erroneously encouraged inspire me to continue...
On se tien au courant...

TJ

--
***** www.myspace.com/urbantramper *****
*****www.urbantramper.com*****

Another story featuring a supermarket...

2010-11-18T02:52:00.001-08:00

By Thomas Jaunism

I went to the capital of Spain last week to see a man about a horse. Sage Francis performed at the University bar several weeks prior to this. He was unshaven and balding- two things I relate to well. He appeared on the stage with a flag draped over his head and an insouciant swagger. His I-don't-give-a-fuck manner inspired feelings of loathing, unworthiness and jealousy in equal parts. I forgot that I was about to leave due to anxiety and boredom and was instead welcomed into his exultant realm of certitude. He said “this next song is called ---------. And it's Magnificent”, and the sentiment echoed throughout the night.

Madrid was magnificent. The man had lied about the horse so I had time to relax. Each day I made my way to the same small supermarket to buy peach nectar. It was delicious. En route, I always passed the same fast food restaurant whose stoop three men used to drink that extra strong beer one could purchase at the aforementioned store. They seemed to be well content with their haunt and were friendly enough to exclaim a series of words to me as I passed by. But I don't speak Spanish so we didn't get on. There was a gentleman who stood outside the supermarket holding the door open for customers. He had a friendly smile which he used to accompany his softly spoken responses. These consisted of “Hola”or “Buenos dias” and “Gracias” in that order. One would be greeted with a polite 'hola' on entering the building and would receive a gracious 'gracias' after handing the man their surplus coins and continuing their day.

I was going to write about the fact that this dude would be lost if the store installed automatic doors. But I've been overcome with a sinking feeling and what's more I have a peculiar sensation in my stomach. There was a kindness in that man's eyes that one rarely sees near such establishments. I like to think that he has become part of the community and people greet him good humour and lose balance when he's not there. But I'm questioning the morality of adding poetry to poverty.

I saw a collection of short films on some rough neighbourhoods in New York the other day. I thought they were beautifully shot and showed great insight into the people's lives. The directors answered questions afterwards. “So you show us the hardship and all this bad stuff in New York” said one dude, “but what are you doing to help these people?”. I didn't understand their answers as my french is not complete, but they weren't happy and the discomfort weighed heavily on us all...

But this is stuff you already know. All art is shit but some art makes us feel less shit. Because, of course, we need to regard magnificent creations to know that magnificence can be created.

Epilogue

Detachment has prevented me from being injured by sharp attacks on my work and my person and allows me to find beauty in the harshest of truths, but should we dress cold horrors in metaphoric cloaks for the sake of art?

The Gravity of the Grève...

2010-10-24T11:33:00.001-07:00

By Thomas Jaunism

A kind and generous young woman from Paris has lent me her appartment in one of Nantes' party quartiers. I share it with a mouse who lives behind kitchen bench- though we keep to ourselves for the most part. I say to everyone “j'ai mon propre appartement pendant deux semaines”.

I've managed to create two plastic bags of waste in just over a week and I'm not happy about it. Everyone knows I despise waste, but I've been careless and lazy. Today I thought about adding my waste to the piles of other people's waste that are growing throughout the city. The bins have long been filled and now shit's flowing onto the footpaths. It's starting to smell. Some people have taken the initiative to burn the plastic bins. It does minismise the physical size of the problem, but comes short of solving it completely.

There is a certain glory in these mounting dumps. The French Government is introducing new laws around superannuation including raising the age of retirement from 60 to 62. The majority of the French people are against the reforms and there have been weekly demonstrations for a while now. I attended rallies in Toulouse and here in Nantes, joining the hundreds of thousands of people who walked the streets in good spirits. The lycéens (high school kids) have been blocking the entrances to the schools and often lead the demonstrations. For the last couple of Tuesdays there's been no trains and the kids at my collège (junior high school) have been told to stay home due to industrial action. Hundreds of service stations have run out of gasoline as strikers block the refineries. And rubbish collectors are doing their bit by not collecting the rubbish.

It warms my heart to see 16-19 year old kids marching the streets and giving the middle finger to a Government they didn't vote for. Regardless of what these protests achieve, the importance of les jeunes involvement cannot be understated. To be surrounded by hundreds of your peers as your actions lead to the disruption of an institution you are forced to attend is to know the power of collective disent.

I've become enamoured by the waste piles too. It is such a visual reminder of the importance of a functioning community. Normally we just throw our crap in the bin under kitchen sink, then when that's full we take it outside. Then it's taken care of by the people in the hi-vis vests. But what if they don't come? What if the people don't unblock the drain? What if the train drivers don't drive the trains? What if the teachers don't teach the kids? What if they all decide to join together in saying “Actually, we play an imprtant role in this society and we'd like to be fairly renumerated for that...”

Superannuation is a grave problem throughout the world as our people live longer and have less children. I don't know the economics of the problem well enough to say whether it's possible to keep the age at 60 in France. It may seem like a sweet deal as New Zealand's retirement age is 65 and Australia is rising their's to 67- though the way France's pensions are calculated is entirely different. I'm not interested in exploring the numbers here. I just want to highlight the magnificence of uniting in solidarity for a common goal.

I leave this apartment for Paris on Tuesday, the usual day of action. Though the bill has been passed by the upper house, the unions are not giving in. I'm playing a song at Lake's solo gig on Wednesday. It'd suck to miss the show but I'll try and be like the French and treat all disruptions with a fascinating amount of good humour. But first I have to clean up and take out the rubbish...
and bid farewell to my discrete, easy-going room-mate...

A memory from Liverpool St...

2010-10-13T06:34:00.000-07:00

I was in a generic 'city' or 'express' supermarket in London.... I shouldn't have been there, but I was on tour with the band and they travel cheap.

Supermarkets are always cold and I hate that. I like the bright lights and the abundance of shiny food, but the pre-made sandwich displays in the first corridor irk me.

I'd just rounded the first corner when I noticed green slimy water on the floor near the vegetables. An employee of Indian descent was discussing the problem with a West Indian colleague when the owner arrived.
“What the hell is this?”
He was a white Englishman in his late thirties, a big man, slightly overweight.
“Could someone tell me why no one is cleaning this up?”
He was balding, but well kempt. He wore a casual suit that clearly emanated his superior status...
“Um, I was...we were just....”
The employees rushed to the floor in an attempt to placate the fury of their boss. The owner was not not about to let them get away with this shit. He could do it better himself. They were fucking useless and, though his skills were not in cleaning, even he could do a better job. He grabbed a mop from one of the workers and started hastily mopping the leak.
“Could someone tell me why I'm mopping the floor in my own bloody store?”

I looked at Ben and said “Yeah bro, that's mad.... What kind of chump would clean his own store...?

High speed trains...

2010-09-24T16:18:00.000-07:00

I saw a castle from the window of a train where I sat alone.
Built for royalty and sold to the rich.
I recall the south and it's safety.
The unquestioning love of family.
I don't want dogs on public transport.
Dogs should run free on working farms in the Central Hawkes Bay.
I should be meaning to visit my grandparents and listening to my lover's latest fears.
The dog is barking...
The fucking dog is barking on the train.

Paris...

2010-09-17T14:48:00.000-07:00

I'm staying in the 18th Arrondissement. On Rue ---------. I think most people on the street are from the Ivory Coast, but that's an uneducated guess. The motor vehicles and tense conversations can be heard constantly from my 4th floor apartment. Signs are draped from the balconies opposite. They say "Non. Non... Non a la Prostitution...64-65". The women sell a small purple vegetable, not unlike an eggplant, from their trolleys on the footpath. The men deal in counterfeit watches and belts. "la police est proche!" a women warns under her breath. The market recedes and people casually gather around cardboard boxes. The police pass and the boxes are once again adorned with sparkling goods from far away places. There is a steady flow of water on the asphalt, day and night.

I like the day better.
I got mugged in the night and that got me down a little.

"Tu as une cigarette mec?"...
"um...Je ne comprends pas"
"Vas-y!...une cigarette.."
"um.. Je ne..."
Then he offered his hand up for some sort of handshake. I was just returning from a 5 hour train ride and, because it was cheaper, I travelled first class. They gave us wine and terrible food - I indulged.
I took his hand and he started doing some peculiar dance with me. His leg was between my legs and he was sort of grinding me.
I was very calm as he did this. I observed him and noted that he was strange... that this dance he was doing was rather unconventional.
Yet I allowed him to continue.

"Qu'est-ce que tu fait?" - An older guy seemed concerned.
I now noticed that there was about four other guys around. Varying levels of siftiness. The dude that asked the question seemed alright. The faces of the others told me that something was fucked up.
The dancer let me go and I promptly headed for the train. I got on and saw one of the siftier characters sitting at the the end of the carriage. It was like that moment in some American CIA film where the protagonist suddenly realises he's being watched. Hitherto innocent bystanders become undercover agents (His whole life ends up being a complex facade, he doesn't know who to trust, etc...).

That's when I freaked out a bit. 'What the fuck?' Then I checked my pocket and my wallet was gone. I had a fair amount of cash left in it from the tour - and all that other shit people keep in wallets. I showed no emotion as I realised this. I only cared about the sifter at the other end of the carriage. It was still three stops till my station.

This all happened at Gare de l'Est. I feel safe on Rue --------- but I'm still a bit sketch about Gare de l'Est.... and the night.

I rarely leave the neighbourhood. I slept a few days at another apartment up the road, but I'm back opposite the anti-prostitution signs now. I pass my days studying french and reading a hit novel about yoga, and a treatise on the Proust's life.

Today I climbed Montmartre and read about meditation and love in the sun. It's Friday today and I leave for Nantes on Monday.

Whoops...(Chapter 2, The sleep centre chronicles)

2009-10-08T14:10:00.000-07:00

5 of us were in the taxi...I smiled about something I remembered, this kept me at ease in the silence. The girl with the kind face who sat next to me asked when I was going to Ireland. Her voice calmed me and I decided she was my favourite. The girl with the Coronation Street voice was good too, and the strong one was there. Ramal.

Talk of travels subsided as questions were answered. Now I looked to the shabby, generic houses and over sized roads for diversion. I noticed a hedge, a poorly kept hedge. The memory of my two-week-old antics came flooding back to me...

* * *

Lost on route to the clinic, a compelling urge to shit gripped me. I staggered through outer suburban mediocrity hoping for some sort of sign that said 'you could shit here'. Achingly desperate, I saw a bush up to my chest. You could see the house it surrounded, but I quickly calculated that I could crouch in a gap and not be seen. I completed the offering, sighing with the pleasure of relieving myself from the dirty waste that was so eager to leave. Serendipity provided me with newspaper, and luck saw that my shoes and pants stayed clear. I left it all there for some kid to find and be haunted by its mysterious origin and odour. No one saw me.

I strolled out of the improvised cubicle and found my way to the appointment. I washed off with soap what I couldn't remove with leaves and made myself known to the nurse. "Hi, my name's Thomas...I'm here for the sleep trial."

* * *
I looked at the four ladies. No one was talking and I was grinning again now. We passed the exact spot that saved me. I couldn't help wanting to say 'I shat there. Over in those bushes. It was was quite lucky actually. I wonder if it's still there..?' And as I smiled at those nice women, staring out the window, that's what I was thinking...

'I wonder if it's still there?'

Ramal (Chapter 1, The sleep centre chronicles)

2009-10-08T13:54:00.000-07:00

She was one of those radiant, strong women. She talked of strength, she oozed empowerment, she did jujitsu and she wouldn't take no shit from no one.

"They think you're fragile...But I will take them out!"

She resigned from her job as it didn't fit in with her '5 year plan'. Ramal had a 5 year plan and was sticking to it, I could feel the power...the resolve.

In a sterile medical research centre lounge, clouded by sedatives, I could have gone a hug from Ramal...A hug from a strong South African women with a brown belt in Jujitsu. That would've been real nice.

Historical accounts:

2008-07-06T08:19:00.000-07:00

************5th floor- near Margaret's desk***************

Channa: We won?

Margaret: Yeah...Alingi made a tacking error,

Channa:....

Margaret: yeah...Alingi made a tacking error and Team New Zealand capitalised.

***********Meanwhile: on the 11th floor**************

"Ah...excuse me...Janet."

"Yes Siaan, How are you?", Janet articulated her words carefully and politely to Siaan.

"Well... I've found..ah...this book and I can't seem to find a place for it...um..It looks like"

"may I have a look?"

"Oh...that's interesting I wonder where...where it's from", her words trailed off as she entered deep contemplation...

James' first coffee for the day was kicking in and he was on route to the mens', but...'what's going on here?', he thought, as he saw what could be a situation to join.

He sidled up close, looking interested, confused and helpful.

"oh, hi James"

"what's going on???"

"Oh...Siaan found this...", she wouldn't let go of the book just yet. Instead she held it for James to view.

"Oh yeah....", James was clearly on to something here, he was so excited by his opportunity for contribution that Margaret and Siaan could feel it -and anticipation arrived...

"mmm..."..."yeah this looks like some sci fi book...yeah...I know this...I think I've seen the movie"

"Oh I wonder how it ended up here" said Margaret, "Can you maybe ask around to see who's it is Siaan?"

********************Meanwhile: in the elevator on route to the 12th floor*****************

I've pushed my trolley into a lift with some dude who's got this feeble, thin, long, brylcreemed and stylised fringe. Another dude is associated with him by floor and present vicinity- he looks at the papers ostentatiously, so as to start something.

"oh yip....we're on the way."

"yeah but can they do it again?"

Ding. They split as they go to their respective ends of the floor, but the fringe hasn't finished yet...

"Yeah...well Alingi have a better boat, great design...", his voice trails as the doors close. I sigh. Then I wack my head against the wall. Then check out the article. '1 each....I reckon we can do it. Alingi have the better boat, but we've got great sailers'

Terry

2008-06-15T08:01:00.000-07:00

ding! - the elevator arrives at level 2. I push my old-school, clunky, newspaper-filled trolley on, Terry follows with his white, streamlined, filing trolley. I am envious and apprehensive- Terry is always up for some banter. He looks at me...Here it comes...

"Another one gone aye?"
'rhetorical question?', I ponder and say nothing.
"they're getting just as busy as the weeks, these days..."
"yeah", with forced chuckle...
"Yeah, the weekends are almost as busy as the bloody weeks.."
[silence]-it's a 12 floor journey.

He looks at my paper tray and something catches his attention...
"That's an interesting one...there must have been something dodgy goin on with them...for the juror to do that..."
I'm lost, I don't know what he's talking about..."I haven't heard about that".

Terry doesn't care to explain...We've reached the 12th floor and he heads to the south entrance- I go north. He continues talking about the jury case to himself as he turns his back on me.

I like Terry, he combs his hair nice... He looks like he could have been in the war in his younger days- though I heard he was a fireman.

Jimmy!

2008-06-14T09:31:00.000-07:00

Beep.Then short delay, then the mechanical slide of a door...All signs of excitement in the document deliver area…

This time it's Jimmy, "JIMMY!!", we shout, as the NZ courier's courier arrives. He has grey hair and wears the black & white insignia of his company. He walks at great speed, intently focused on the in-tray on John's desk. He acknowledges our greeting with an indecipherable reply- couriers do everything fast- and then makes some remark on how it's nearly Friday... or was it about the weather?
Jimmy could be Irish. I often ponder this possibility after he's gone, or before he's come, or while he's here...