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Fantasising About Filmmaking

You know, the problem with filmmaking is the filming. Writing is a comparatively straightforward task: in my case at least, I can just bash out a few words, post it online, and anyone can read what I have to say. Its probably why I have kept my blog going for so long. Making a film, on the other hand, is far more complex: cameras need to be set up and actors organised; even the act of using a film camera requires a dexterity which I physically do not have. This is probably why, despite calling myself a filmmaker, I have made so few films.

The thing is, this is now becoming increasingly frustrating. Film, especially short online film, is becoming ever more popular. As a means of communication, films on the web have become almost a default. As I began to explore a few months ago in this entry, where fifteen years ago blogs and blogging were at the cutting edge, these days so-called influencers just talk into their camera phones and upload their ramblings to YouTube. Whatever they say is delivered far more directly than any piece of writing.

The thing is, where does that leave guys like me? I long to make films, but making films is not just a matter of sitting down and bashing a few words out. Yet I know film can be used to say things often far more effectively and convincingly than writing. This afternoon, for example, I had an idea for a piece which, presented through film, would probably be quite compelling and revelatory; but if confined to writing might well just come across as gossip, mud-slinging or worse. What, then, should I do with this idea? I could obviously write it out as a script in the hope that It could one day be made into a film; but as always happens, that would ultimately mean it gets saved on my computer and read by no one.

I thus find myself longing for some way to make film: some means of manipulating pictures, shots and sound into a coherent argument or narrative using only my computer. I fear animation would be too cumbersome and appear too frivolous for what I want to make. Yet these days there must surely be some solution to this problem; otherwise, as online communication moves more and more in the direction of the moving image, those of us who still need to use the written word risk being left behind.

Help With My Water Flask

I’m quite sure everyone will be having issues in the current warm, stuffy weather. Long story short, it was probably the reason for my hospital visit a couple of days ago. I obviously got extremely dehydrated. The thing is, when I’m going out and about in my powerchair, I don’t get much of an opportunity to drink much water, and frankly it usually slips my mind. When I’m trundling around the metropolis, the fact that I need to take on water gets rather forgotten about.

To help with this, a couple of days ago my friend and PA dom bought me a great flask which we can fill with water (or ‘fake’ mojito made with alcohol free rum!) which we can put in my bag and I can take around with me. It was the obvious remedy, you must admit. The thing is, the flask now goes in my the bag which hangs on the back of my powerchair: to get to it, I now need to stop my chair, take my Ipad off my lap, get out of my chair, walk around to it’s bag, open it, and so on. For someone like me, that isn’t a straightforward task. Rather than going thirsty, then, what I’ve been doing is going up to people and asking them to help me with the bottle.

Obviously I try to stick to guys I know I can trust, such as policemen or security staff; yet what I’ve been finding is that most people seem happy to help when I explain the issue to them. They are okay with going to my bag, getting out my bottle, opening it’s suckable spout up and holding it to my lips. A lot of times their fingers get rather wet or sticky, but they usually just ignore it. I must say that I find this enormously reassuring to the extent that I thought it needed noting here. We keep hearing how we live in such fractured, ostracised times, but the spirit of human kindliness and friendliness is clearly still there if you look.

Trouble With Teenagers

I’m afraid to say that I’m really, really starting to dislike kids. By kids I mean teenagers, aged between about thirteen and seventeen. It might just be my perspective, but they all seem to have developed an arrogant, cocksure, undeserved worldliness that is completely misplaced: they are still essentially children, but they seem to think they’re adults. For instance, I was in Starbucks in Kidbrooke earlier enjoying a  cuppaccino, when three youngsters from the nearby school came and sat at the table next to me. At first I thought little of it, but when they began to talk about American history I began to become interested. They were discussing the origins of Thanksgiving, so I thought I would intercede by pointing out that it was just part of the American self-justifying, self-aggandising mythos.

As usual I tapped what I wanted to say into my Ipad and then tried to play it to them. However, to my horror and frustration, they ignored me completely, acting as if I didn’t exist. I tried again and got the same response. Now, I know I was a stranger and that perhaps I should have just let them be, but I find that introducing myself in this way is a good way of helping young people get to know people like myself, and showing them that, at the end of the day, we’re just like anyone else. The way they ignored me, however, struck me as downright rude: they seemed to have a sneering, contemptuous attitude, as if they thought themselves better than me and everyone else in the room. The least they could have done was note my presence and show me some respect.

Perhaps I’m just getting old; perhaps I’m just turning into a cranky old man who thinks young people should know how to behave. Yet the attitude those kids seemed to have this morning stunned me, and it seems to be becoming more and more widespread. I was just trying to introduce myself, but all I got in return was arrogance.

Brief Breakfasts Are Sometimes Best

Breakfast was quite brief this morning: my PA Abdul arrived at about half seven, made my coffee and toast, helped me with my shoes and socks, did another couple of things and got on his way. Obviously, things usually take a bit longer, but today Abdul had somewhere else to get to so it was quick and efficient. Frankly, that’s fine by me: I’m now fed, caffeinated and ready for the day; after writing this I’ll get in my powerchair and set off to continue exploring the world’s greatest city. Then, this evening, I’ll get back home and wait for Abdul to arrive again to cook dinner. That’s just the way I like it.

The thing is, there was a time when this would have been unimaginable. Growing up, I tended to assume that I would always need constant help; either that or I would always live at home with my parents like a perpetual adolescent. The notion that I would one day have my own flat in South London, the ability to go in and out and roam around as I pleased, choosing what I wanted to eat and where I want to go, would have seemed absurd – even scary. The assumption was that I’d be unable to do anything without the help of my parents or an able-bodied person. Fortunately, my experience living on campus at university, then moving down to live with Lyn in 2010, put an end to that.

However, many disabled people still seem to think that way. There seems to be a residual assumption, especially among people with CP, that they need a personal assistant constantly with them, and that they wouldn’t be able to function without twelve or even twenty-four hour help. Although there is an element of ‘to each their own’ to this, frankly I fail to see how anyone can live like that. These days, I enjoy being by myself and doing my own thing: in my chair I can go where I want; if I fancy a coffee I’ll pop into Costa or Starbuck’s; when I feel like lunch I’ll grab a wrap; if I need to communicate with anyone I’ll just tap it into my Ipad. Inaccessible shops and tube stations aside, I have more or less the same abilities as any other citizen. Then, in the evenings I return home and wait for my PA to arrive to cook dinner.

I think this is a healthy way to go about things. Obviously, there will be periods when I need far more assistance: when I go abroad I naturally go with someone like John. Whereas at home I can quite easily feed myself using my Neater Eater, it would be hard to carry such equipment across places like India or Morocco. The same goes for my powerchair, which is why when I go abroad I take my manual chair, and therefore require far more support. Besides, it’s always far nicer to travel with a friend.

Here at home though, living in my own flat which I can go in and out of at will, I don’t see why I would need anyone here with me more than they currently are. If I had someone with me for eight or twelve hours a day, following me around on my trundles across the metropolis, I daresay things would soon become untenable. Thus this is the way I like things; and I know that, when I need more help, it is only a message over Facebook away. I firmly believe that is the healthiest attitude to have, and that thinking you need constant support and a personal assistant 24/7 ultimately traps people with conditions like Cerebral Palsy in a form of perpetual childhood.

I find myself wishing that I could somehow go back and tell my younger self how things would turn out: how, while mum’s dinners might be both delicious and dependable, it would one day be far cooler to do my own shopping before asking my PA to cook what I fancy. That, rather than being the hostile, frightening place I once assumed it to be, the world was crammed with more wonder and excitement than I could ever have imagined. That is one of the reasons why I blog: if there are any young disabled people out there as timid as I once was, I want to tell them that, once all the basics are in order, they are ultimately just as able as anyone else.

Of Parades, Backsides and Trains

Yesterday proved to be a complete waste of time – albeit an interesting one. After breakfast, I thought I’d go up to Westminster to see what all this. VE day fuss was about. After all, it’s only a few stops away on the Jubilee line, so what would be the point of just staying at home and watching it on TV? A few minutes after leaving the flat, though, I came back for a coat; the hints of summer we had a few days ago were definitely a deception.

My trip up into London proved easy enough. Once up there however, I almost immediately saw that staying at home would probably have been the better idea: the area was teeming with people, so much so that I could barely move. Watching the parade, even getting a glimpse of it, was off the cards – all I could see from my powerchair was other spectators’ backsides. I tried to move around a bit, up and down Whitehall, to try to get a decent view, without avail. Mind you, it must be said that I lost count of the number of people who complemented me on my ‘Make America Think Again’ cap.

After a couple of hours or so I gave up. I caught a glimpse of the flyover, which was fairly cool, but that was about it. With the parade over and the crowds slowly dispersing, I decided to go for a bit of a trundle up The Mall and through St James’s Park. I rather like that area of central London with it’s parks, ponds and fountains. I initially intended to find my way to Bond Street in order to get the Elisabeth Line home, but somewhat predictably I got lost. I eventually found myself at Victoria Station: at first I thought I would just ask for directions there, but then, on the tannoy, I heard that a train would be stopping at Kidbrooke. Catching it would make getting home far easier and quicker, I presumed.

I found one of the station staff and asked, using my Ipad, if I could get on that train. They duly obliged, and I was helped to board the train, only to be asked to get back off two or three minutes later because nobody would be at Kidbrooke to help me with the ramps there. I got off the train and was told to wait for the next one.

That wasn’t so bad: I just connected to the station Wifi and checked my Facebook. Twenty minutes or so later, though, exactly the same thing happened: I was helped to board the train only to be told to get back off at the last moment. Needless to say I was furious. Back on the platform I demanded to see the station manager, only to be told, rather condescendingly, to calm down. If other people can get on and off overground trains with such ease, why couldn’t I? London public transport has come on in leaps and bounds in terms of accessibility over the last few decades, so why is the overground still so shitty?

To once again cut a long story short, I got home an hour or so later: it wasn’t late, but I was hungry. I would have been home far earlier if I had just taken the tube; although it must be said that, sat in the train carriage, I was treated to some intriguing views across South London. More to the point, if I had stayed home I would also have had a much better view of the entire parade. Yet trying out the London overground is something I had been wanting to do for a while – I now know it sucks.

The Most Unpleasant Few Hours of my Life

It is incredible how much better a good night’s sleep in your own bed can sometimes allow you to feel, and how much it can help you regain your usual perspective on the world. It has been quite a rough, nasty few days to be honest: I was considering keeping all this to myself because it was such a nightmare, but as usual the blogger in me has taken over. Basically, it started six days ago, when John and I were in Paphos. After quite a few Keo beers the night before, I woke at about 4am, feeling slightly strange and disoriented. I lay awake, unable to get back to sleep, until John woke at around seven. When he did, he passed me our hotel room’s television remote control so I could watch a bit of TV before getting up and dressed. But then I noticed something: my fingers wouldn’t press the right buttons on the control, and I could suddenly sense something was very, very wrong.

It was like nothing I had ever felt before. I had had quite a few nasty absences over the previous few days, but this was of another order. My fingers were going haywire, and it seemed like reality itself had gone out of kilter. It was rapidly getting worse. I told John, who phoned an ambulance.

I cannot remember the next few hours, so forgive me if I omit the detail; I just know that they were the most unpleasant, frightening hours I have ever experienced. Reality seemed to have become chaotic, time seemed somehow to be repeating on itself. It was horrible, and something I hope never to go through again. I must say, though, that the way in which John stood by me that day, looking after me, making sure I had the medical help I needed, was truly humbling. I doubt there are words in any human tongue which can come close to expressing the gratitude I owe him, save to say that I don’t think I would be here now writing these words, had it not been for his help. I will now forever regard him as something akin to a brother – Samwise to my Frodo, Spock to my Kirk.

We spent the day in the hospital. I had many tests, including a blood test and EEG. My memories are predictably extremely hazy. I’m not sure how many epileptic seizures I had, but it was several.* All I remember is being unable to stop my arms and legs shaking. There was talk of keeping me there overnight, but I preferred to be taken back to our hotel, as it would be easier for me to eat etc there. I’d been put on a drip of some kind, and the fits were easing off. John took me back to our hotel, and I had a fairly good night’s sleep.

That was a few days ago, and fortunately since then I have seen no sign of a recurrence, although to be honest I didn’t feel quite right for three or four days. I don’t think there is any clear cause, but obviously I must do all I can to prevent it happening again. That includes improving my diet and avoiding alcohol at all costs. I went to the local hospital yesterday to get checked, but nothing was found. My deepest regret is that this nightmare ruined what was turning out to be a wonderful, fascinating trip. Again, my profound gratitude goes out to John: not only did he once again take me on an amazing holiday, but this time he helped me through the most unpleasant few hours of my life. How lucky I am to have such a friend.

*I presume they were epileptic, given my absences are essentially a mild form of epilepsy, but of course I could be wrong

The Rise of Vlogging

I’m very proud to have kept my blog going for over twenty years. I think I’ve said here before that I see it as my primary output as a writer, recording my thoughts, observations and experiences from day to day. I started blogging when blogging was more or less in its infancy, and still primarily a practice confined to writing. Internet users had to visit your blog to read what you had written.

These days, however, the online landscape is very different. Vlogging on websites like YouTube seems to have exploded, and is probably now bigger than straightforward blogging ever was. I hardly spend any time on YouTube without encountering a vlogger; that is, a person expressing their thoughts and reflections directly into a camera, or filming something that they want to express to viewers.

This evolution of blogging interests me. It is, at the same time, an extension of blogging in that internet users are expressing their thoughts to other internet users; and also fundamentally different from it.

Blogging can be seen as a form of writing; and writing is an art, as it always has been. It takes a certain amount of skill to construct sentences and write them down to form a coherent statement. Obviously some entries take more effort and skill than others, but on the whole I try to put at least a little thought into what I write here. Vlogging, on the other hand, seems to now be more a matter of pointing a camera and pressing record. 

There will naturally be advantages and disadvantages to this, and it isn’t my intention to sound too negative. While I have continued to express myself through writing as I cannot physically use cameras or speak clearly enough, vlogging has obviously made expressing yourself on the web much more accessible. For most people using a webcam or camera phone is much easier, quicker and simpler than sitting down and writing something. You could even say it was a step towards the democratisation of blogging and online expression, as such a simplification allows a more diverse range of views to be expressed.

However, I’m starting to fear that that very opening up has meant far more reactionary, less thought through opinions are now being broadcast. Vlogging is simply a matter of speaking into a camera and uploading the results to huge websites like YouTube, meaning that anyone can record anything they like and it will be available to the same audience as any other online video. I am thus now coming across far more reactionary, less educated or nuanced views online. Whereas a blog entry, like any piece of writing, can be drafted and redrafted, resulting in a more refined end product, the videos I now come across are far rougher and unedited: someone has simply spewed a stream of right wing bile into a camera and put it online for all to see without a second’s worth of real consideration. Such spewings are becoming more and more reactionary, deranged and intolerant, as vloggers vie to attract attention. And because of YouTube’s search algorithms, the chances are it will reach a far bigger audience than anything I write here!

A lot of what is uploaded to YouTube these days is absolutely outstanding, and I’m seeing more and more pieces of very refined, technical filmic art. There are thousands of highly skilled, intelligent filmmakers on YouTube. They all naturally have a right to express their own points of view, whatever they may be. Yet alongside them are an increasing number of talentless hacks with absolutely no technical skill, uploading whatever reactionary right wing bile they like and demanding it receives the same attention as anything else. Websites like YouTube have certainly opened up and diversified public discourse; but in so doing it has encouraged a lot of bigoted, uneducated voices to be raised out of the rotting rhetorical cesspit that they would have been confined to before now.

The Room Where Time Stops

I suppose I have a pretty strange relationship with the front room of my grandparents house in Harlesden. I vaguely remember that when I was five or six, I used to be reluctant to go in there, preferring to play in the back room or the passage next to it. The front room was slightly too smart for me and my brothers to play in.

Yet, sat in that very room with my parents as we opened our presents this morning, I couldn’t help feeling utterly astonished: on the walls around us were photographs of four generations of my family, spanning about seventy years of history. On one wall are three framed black and white  photos of my mum, aunt and uncle. Probably taken some time in the sixties, my mother looks about ten – a smiling, exuberant,  bubbly young girl.

Opposite that wall though, on a table by the front window, now stands a beautiful glass photograph of my niece and nephew which my parents opened just this morning. They  both bear the kind of cheeky, fun filled smiles that only children their age seem capable of; it’s a beautiful, beguiling picture which I found staggering when I first saw it earlier, astonished at how quickly my niece and nephew are growing.

That glass photo now sits on a table next to an electric photo frame sent by my other brother Luke, showing a montage of pictures of the newest member of our family. Elias is now around thirteen months old, and also growing rapidly. The photos reveal a young boy so full of life, for whom the world is still so boundless and captivating.

On the third wall of the room and on the mantlepiece above the old disused fireplace, are various other photos of other members of our family. There are two of my Greek Cypriot grandparents, my Yiayia and Bappou, looking just as loving and caring as I remember them to be when they lived here and we used to come to visit them. There is also one of them on their wedding day, taken before anyone here today was born. And there is also a photo of myself, my brothers and cousins – their grandchildren- as a group, probably taken when we were last all together.

Looking at the pictures on these three walls, they inevitably remind me of the unstoppable passage of time. My grandparents are no longer with us, and my brothers and cousins are in various places around the world, as far afield as Brazil. Yet here in this north London house is where that all started; where, over seven decades, three generations have been raised with warmth and love. Time, of course, can never stop,  just as my brothers, cousins, nieces and nephews should never stop heading out into the world;  but the pictures on the walls of the front room capture moments in time which bring the family together again.