Posts Tagged ‘Ayn Rand’

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ain’t it funny.

September 22, 2009

Following on from yesterday’s blog, just a quick update: Mike and I have a new recruit to Smoker’s Circle: Emma.  Lo and behold, Emma is the woman who sings in the soul covers band, and one of the people who took most interest in my musical prowess.  So I feel relieved that she likes a bit of nicotine every now and then too!  And perhaps I’m not being as judged as I thought, haha.

Ain’t it funny how little things get resolved?  Already today I learned the way to the cash machine and back; I have consolidated some friendships from yesterday; I feel a little more on top of what we are expected to do.  I keep wondering what I will do when I run into H from the Perfume Shop (it is bound to happen; we work and study in the same block).  I will not shout, I will not rant, I will not ask her how could she stand by and let them make me a scapegoat for everything that has gone wrong in their shop since I’ve been gone.  I did nothing wrong, and if they were talking about me in September when I left in June, then in a backhanded way, that’s a compliment to me and shows just how much of an impact I made on them.  I don’t want to let any of them know that their backstabbing made an impact on me.

So what I’m gonna do is this: I am going to smile and her, and say hello, and greet her like a friend.  She will never really be a close friend of mine again, and I will never trust her.  But I did what I needed to do, which was get out of that shop and get a better job and start improving my life.  And they did what they needed to do, which was blame me for things I never did, bitch about me despite the fact that I was the one they would come to with all their problems, and pretend to be nice to my face all the while.  That’s what they need to do to stay in the workplace, and that’s fine.  I don’t want to be there anymore, and I have no control over what they do there.  That’s their choice, and I have moved on.  In a way, H had the right idea: like Ayn Rand’s theory of Objectivism, “You should never do anything for me”.  The girls at the Perfume Shop never did anything for me – they put themselves first and once I was gone, they blamed me for everything in order to ease their consciences and facilitate their working life, I guess.  I had the wrong idea, because the whole time I was working there, I never put myself first nearly enough: “I should never have done anything for them”. I would call in every week or speak on the phone; I would listen to H crying and worrying about her uni course and assignments; I would advise them what to do if the shutter wouldn’t come down or the shop was evacuated for two hours; I would cover up H’s counting mistakes on stocktakes, and just recount them myself without saying a word to our manager. And I will never do anything for any of them again.  So H and I may be friendly towards one another – I’ll be civil and nice enough towards her.  But I will never do anything for her again.  Because just as they are all about them, now it’s time for me to be all about me.  I have better friends to whom I prefer to devote my time, and in whom I can trust more.  When H finally gains the courage to leave the Perfume Shop, I wonder what they will say about her?

I will make it a point never to find out.

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secrets and lies.

July 8, 2009

Last Saturday I was sat in Starbucks reading my book, and a woman (maybe 5-10 years older than me?) asked if she could sit in the seat opposite me (because I had claimed the comfy chairs hehe).  I said “yes” and she sat herself down, with 2 piles of books.  There must have been 8 altogether, and between pages of my own book, I surreptitiously looked at what she was reading.  I don’t know if she was a book reviewer for some newspaper or magazine (I was tempted to ask, but I already sparked up a conversation in the very same cafe the previous week, with a guy who was reading Ayn Rand and piqued my curiosity) but she would take one book, leaf through the first few pages, jot something down on a pink piece of paper, then put the book down and repeat the process with the next one.  Anyways, I noticed that the titles of these books (from the pink, floral covers and bouncy fonts, I’m guessing chick-lit) had a running theme: they involved the word “secret”, or otherwise “private diary of someone-or-other”.  And it got me thinking about something that I have noticed for a while now…

In the music world, a couple of years ago there was a running theme of the idea of confessions.  Madonna had Confessions On A Dance Floor and her Confessions Tour.  Usher had his mega-successful Confessions album and accompanying single.  Lindsay Lohan had a stellar but underappreciated album called A Little More Personal (Raw), which is the most mature and heartbreaking (and thus depressing – you have been warned! but I thoroughly recommend picking up the album) exploration of disillusionment with love, fame and her father in particular. The lead-off single from that collection was “Confessions Of A Broken Heart (Daughter To Father)”, and had an uncomfortable video which all too closely reflects the parental rows of my childhood.  Anyways, the theme of confessions and having secrets and wanting to reveal all of that through your music or your art or whatever form of self-expression is your forte was kinda slapping me around the face during that period, and I even wrote my own album called Secrets, which was the first one that I completed (Quiet Storm is due to be my third).  Ironic that for somebody interested in the idea of secrets, I’d like nothing more than to be a legitimately famous person…

I was, and still am, intrigued by the facet of human nature not to keep secrets (that seems pretty natural to me; privacy is a luxury and being able to keep something for yourself makes that extremely special, whatever it may be), but to want to reveal them and confess.  I think that the Catholic idea of confessing your sins in the booth to the priest is a good one in practice, and has some sense because a sin is something that can weigh heavily on your conscience, though I doubt whether anonymity was really preserved because the priest would blatantly know 99% of the voices in his booth.  What makes less sense to me is the culture of the self-exposé, where you reveal more about yourself to get people to be more interested in you and feel closer to you.  Obviously that is the logic behind the idea, but how much of yourself are you willing to give away before you draw the line?  In programmes such as Big Brother, the contestants willingly surrender all privacy in pursuit of 15 minutes of fame, except in its 9th series, barely anyone watches because we’ve seen it all before.  And because we’ve seen it all before, the tasks that the housemates have to do now are beyond ridiculous, e.g. two of them changing their names by deed poll to Dogface and Halfwit.  It lacks class, and this may be the root of my issue with revealing too much of yourself – it just looks desperate.

There is a need the majority of human beings have, I believe, to draw others closer to them.  But I don’t know, in the media-obsessed climate of today (which is a climate I have been brought up in and totally subscribe to, because that is natural to me), where the line is drawn because I don’t need to see pictures of Britney Spears’ vagina to believe that she has one; I don’t need to know absolutely everything about Michael Jackson’s funeral and what may or may not have been the cause of his death to make me a fan or a supporter of him (I always preferred Janet and that hasn’t changed).  Our curiosity has becoming something crass and invasive, and the media and paparazzi feed it to us so that every time we become a little less shocked and a little more blasé, thus causing them to try and go one step further to keep us interested.  Before the Michael Jackson memorial (which I didn’t watch) started yesterday evening, a newsreader said more than once “The show is about to start”.  To me (and my mother), this was pretty sick – it’s not a show, it’s a funeral.  Mariah Carey was in the trending topics on Twitter not because of her new single, but because she sang at the memorial and her voice may or may not have cracked (I thought she sounded fine) and her dress was not fitting for a funeral (it was black, it was floor-length, her breasts were covered and her hair covered her shoulders – she looked totally appropriate).  For an industry I have always wanted to be a part of, I am now finally wondering whether I really want to subject myself to that much scrutiny and take part in such tasteless events in order to “make it” – maybe I am really happier just making my music and sharing it with friends who care to listen.  Maybe not… there will always be that dream.  We’ll see…

But back to the sentiment of “It’s not a show, it’s a funeral.” …Or is it?  Is everything for show these days?  I don’t know what is real and what is fake, and we blur the lines in the realm of the rich and famous, but increasingly more so in our own personal lives.  Who are we, what do we have to keep to ourselves that keeps us human, and how much do we give away to the public domain?  And once we give it away, can we ever reclaim it for ourselves and get it back?