Random

On A Day Like This

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I'm starting to settle into my new routine for the year.

6am - Wake Up - Begin Writing

7am - Shower - Get Dressed

8am - Walk To Work

9am - Start Work

12pm - Lunch - Catch Up On E-Mails, Facebook Messages, etc.

1pm - Work.

5:30pm - Gym.

7pm - Walk Home

8pm - Carry On Working On To-Do List

10-11pm - Look At Goals And Create New To-Do List

I wish I had more time to work on my own stuff, but I gotta pay the bills, and that's what the job's for. I find that around the middle of the week I start to feel a lull in energy, so I might have a Wednesday evening off of work deal, ready for the Thursday morning start.

I do end up walking for around 1.5-2 hours a day. This might seem like lost time but it's great. Sometimes I just walk and think, or I listen to podcasts, or recently, I've been listening to Audiobooks. My long walks home from the gym are now one of the things I most look forward to in my day.

The part of the day I least look forward to? Getting out of bed. It's far too cold at this time of the year to be doing ridiculous things like getting out of bed.

The Year Of The Audiobook

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'Reading is to be done with the eyes.'

That's what I always used to say.

I like getting new books, finishing them and adding them to my shelf -- to my library. I get a visual representation of how well-read I am. The more I read, the bigger my library. Building it up is one of my favourite things to do. 'Look at my massive collection,' I tell people.

However this year, I got a free trial from Audible, and I downloaded Arnold Schwarzenegger's book, Total Recall. All in all, the audiobook is roughly 23 hours long. Nearly a whole day's worth of Arnie. I finished it in a week. I listened on my daily walks, whilst I showered, and whilst I cooked. It was brilliant. It was like being sat in a room with the Governator himself.

As well as being one of the most inspirational books I've ever read (heard), it woke me up to the possibilities of the audiobook. Reading isn't just for the eyes, it's for the ears too, and who knows what else in the future. I'm looking forward to books you can taste.

My Cuban Friend

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The palm trees and the sun. That's all I could see as I looked up. It was beautiful.

I was lazing in the pool, sipping on my strawberry daiquiri, half attempting to throw a ball into a basketball hoop.

I was failing.

Other then myself and one other guy, the pool was empty. He looked to be in his mid-twenties. He was wearing an LA Lakers' vest, and had a cool pair of 'shades' on.  He was singing a about his Sex on the Beach cocktail.

He must've noticed me struggling with my ball, because he waded over to me, and asked to play.

He's going to be great at this basketball stuff, I thought. After all, he was wearing an LA Lakers' top, and they're one of the best basketball teams in the world right?

He missed.

He didn't mind though. He laughed at himself and then threw the ball back over to me. We took it in turns, missing, and laughing out ourselves.

Occasionally one of us would fluke one in, and we'd give each other an appreciative nod, as if to say 'well played my friend'. 

After a good ten minutes of this, we both tired and sat on the poolside.

'My name is Thomas,' he told me, all the while smiling. We had one of those awkward conversations where a great language barrier sits between you, and you repeat yourself over and over, and your five minute conversation soon becomes a fifteen minute conversation. 

 I think he said he worked with fabrics, and that he was only staying in the hotel for a couple of days.

I noticed that he didn't have a coloured band on his wrist, like the rest of the people staying. I wondered where Thomas came from, but I didn't ask.

He told me to take his number, and to give him a call if I went to Havana again. He promised he would take me partying and did a little dance with his head. I thought about joining in with the dance, but I didn't.

 

He asked me if I'd ever been to Cuba before, and I said no, and I asked him if he'd ever been to England.

For the first time, his smile faded slightly.

'Here in Cuba, for us, it is virtually impossible to leave the country,' he said.

He sipped the last drops of his cocktail, which was now mostly ice-water. I got him another one, and said goodbye, as I had to go get ready for dinner.

On the plane home, I wondered if Thomas would ever get to see a different country to his own.

Sat next to me, my girlfriend squeezed my hand.

'Where'd you want to go next year?' she said.

 

Death & Criticism

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“Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.”
— Oscar Wilde

 

I'm only scared of two things.

Well actually, I'm scared by a lot of things.

But two things scare me more then most.

Death and criticism.

And at least if you die, you're not forced to survive.

People are brave to put themselves out there in the world.

When a young kid stands outside in the cold, busking his little heart out, with a ten pound guitar, and his catalogue of Kings of Leon and Oasis covers, it takes guts.

Well, guts, or he hasn't experienced criticism yet.

And he will. I sincerely hope he'll never have to, but unfortunately the general populace isn't that understanding when it comes to people practicing their craft.

Someone out there is about to throw a verbal tomato at the kid, and he might put that guitar down for the rest of his life.

Oh the shame.

Shame that the guy was never given his chance to work on his craft and shame that people are so quick to criticise.

I've had my fair share of criticism. It hurts.

I received a horrible review from an Edinburgh Fringe show I did a couple of years back. It was a vicious one.

My defence? I'd been living off of 10p noodles for a month, and I was about to have an asthma attack.

Seriously, I went to the hospital the next day.

That and the material could've been better.

The point is, I believe that 95% of criticism isn't constructive. I've had good reviews too, but due to this I now choose not to read any reviews of my work - good or bad.

In fact I choose not to read reviews of pretty much anything. Criticism is an art form in itself, but who criticises the critics? Who keeps them in check to make sure they're adding to the world, and not simply sitting behind their computers seething at much of their time we've wasted.

Somewhere the balance is all wrong to me. The pressure should be applied a little more on the critics.

Unless of course you're Roger Ebert, or Film Critic Hulk. 

...and yes, this is me whining about critics who whine.