In the words of Kylie - So Now Goodbye...

-->

This may be one of the last blogs I write on Vamoosh. I feel like the time of pondering, typos and some insanely accidental made up grammar is gone.  I also feel it’s time to write with purpose, see if I can make a wee contribution. So maybe... this is goodbye.

There is a silence around this blog, like it’s too honest and I don’t quite realise I’m doing it. (I do.) I wonder if all women who write with a confessional tone have had this experience. Or maybe, it’s cos, as the title says, my blogs are a bit shit. So the next step is to step outside Miriam a little further, and write on a theme, better, with an editor, to try and net out the pondweed. You’ll never guess what that theme is (you can.)

I feel it’s relevant to tell you why I’m ready to shift-up a gear. Today marks the end of a huge campaign my PR company was running for an arena show, 30,000 tickets to sell over three nights. It was a huge change for me in terms of numbers, but in terms of PR just a few different tricks and maneuvers; and it feels significant.  At the same time I have been hired by a client to do far too much work for a borderline insulting fee. And it’s been really difficult to manage. I should have said no – I know I should have. I know NOW. But it’s made me realise how much the onus is on me to make decisions that suit my worth – and my work’s worth. Alongside this I’ve been reading (obsessively) the opinions and work of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie who has stepped out with extraordinary wit and intelligence to make a difference to how women see and place themselves. I feel inspired to take a deep breath, pool my powers and head on up to the next level. DING DING.

I have really enjoyed expunging the odd thing on this platform. A few blogs have had lovely warm reactions, which has been amazing – and I feel no disappointment about the ones that haven’t. You only learn by putting yourself out there. I like long explanations of little things, and I know this can be a problem when one is reading stream-of-consciousness. Don't expect a huge shift – SOZ – just more chatter, moments from my wee life and maybe a little more background on how we got here. So for now I’ll say thank you so much for reading. I hope to see you on the flip side. 

PJ Harvey, John Donne on National Poetry Day

PJ Harvey read this in a break in her extraordinarily powerful Glastonbury Festival set this summer. When I feel listless, dispirited and terrified by what's happening, maybe it's best to seek solace in the fact that humans have been utter morons before. Let's hope there is enough wisdom between us to rescue ourselves from too huge a fuck up this time round. On and for National Poetry Day... and my sanity.

No man is an island,

Entire of itself,

Every man is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less.

As well as if a promontory were.

As well as if a manor of thy friend's

Or of thine own were:

Any man's death diminishes me,

Because I am involved in mankind,

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;

It tolls for thee.

John Donne 1624 (in the voice of PJ Harvey June 2016)

Yes Peggy. Did you hear about this trendy new series Mad Men?

Ever since I’ve been able to recognise the affect pleasing others has, making people smile yay! that’s been my go to shtick. Not in any kind of fox like cunning way, that’s just how I behave. When I don’t pull things off I do a joke and then think about it for days and days and days. A regret machine. It’s never been a conscious thing, from when I was a wee girl, not a tiny arch manipulator - just eager to get it right.

The reason I’m good at my job is I can run with ideas and ask questions, matchmake things I’ve seen, things I may see, things I know instinctively work or will work. Like Colour Me Beautiful, but not the 80s and not clothes and makeup portioned in seasons. This festival season, I reverted to ticking  boxes, thinking to myself ‘but this is how some people work, in an office, hammering out emails, making phonecalls, GO GO GO’ - and it’s not how I usually work.

I’m onto season five of Mad Men (it’s this documentary about how when you wear a suit and have a willy you can do whatever you like and if you’re a lady you need to be a regular genius to be allowed to do more than pop a roast in the oven). In S5 of Mad Men Peggy gets frustrated that people won’t take her ideas seriously, as they don’t know what they want. It’s also layered with a million other issues around her being a women in a position of responsibility in a male male male workplace-worldplace. She looks around herself (working the longest hours of anyone in the office) and is constantly delivering but also expecting more from herself and those around her.

My job is ideas, and selling ideas, both how I can talk about a show or someone's creation - often deeply personal, and then fairly represent them - as if they were doing the talking themselves. On balance, like Peggy never is able to, I should look back and see how it is - I’m here in this position able to make mistakes, get frustrated, fire off at difficult situations - because I am here and I’ve worked hard for it. I am not perfect. But it’s tough. Cos like Peggy the onus is on me to continue proving myself, time and time again. As that’s how it goes.

We may work like Olympians but exhaustion ain't no competition

When I was in the first few years of high school physics I remember learning about how when electricity is conducted down loads of different avenues it always remains the same voltage. So instead of the (uh logical duh) option of electricity splitting in amount when it is routed down two wires from one source, both wires carry the same amount. I say this, as a bit of an analogy for how the arts works.

The mainstay of my work, and my company, for the last three years has been festivals. Arts festivals, work spanning venues and artists, producers and shows.

When you take on one project at a Fringe, you smash yourself into it with every ounce of yourself. When you take on two, that energy is not split but doubled. Same for 5, 10, 20 strings to your bow. Each requires the same energy as if it were just one project.

Watching Olympians perform I understand that feeling of pushing a little harder, that moment at the end of a sprint where you find energy and power that you didn’t know you had in you. And I am one of hundreds of people at this festival who entirely understand that feeling; dismiss it, and push on through.

There are two problems with this level of commitment to a job. One, is fatigue, and two is competition about the visible level of commitment to the role. Who worked hardest; who had the fewest days off; who is stuck in one place for the most hours; who is taking the most risk. I’m usually much more of a party girl than this year, but possible fatigue induced illness has rendered me slightly off kilter and where I would find that 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th wind I find myself retreating, with my laptop, to double and triple check things over a cup of tea and some vitamin supplements.

There is something about the way we apply ourselves so vigorously to every task with the same energy, expectation and precision that we feel everything keenly, like the princess on her pea. Every layer of stress and self-expectation piled up, always aware of that wee bump right through all the layers.

I don't want to compete over exhaustion. That's plain bonkers. When we talk about this crazy-ass storm we've thrown ourselves into, I want a smile and a 'I know, we're idiots, bumz right', not a riff-off over who's the most burnt out. #martyr

Trying not to get sucked into it is key to me this time round. But it’s hard. I’m not at 100% and it’s breaking my heart. Although, I guess I get points for managing to make myself ill before the festival even started? Non? Promise, it’s not a competition.

We may work like Olympians but exhaustion ain't no competition

When I was in the first few years of high school physics I remember learning about how when electricity is conducted down loads of different avenues it always remains the same voltage. So instead of the (uh logical duh) option of electricity splitting in amount when it is routed down two wires from one source, both wires carry the same amount. I say this, as a bit of an analogy for how us in the arts work. (I also am not Brian Cox, but the idea of things never decreasing in power as they split off is a almost perfect analogy for festival work.)

The mainstay of my work, and my company, for the last three years has been festivals. Arts festivals, work spanning venues and artists, producers and shows.

When you take on one project at a Fringe, you smash yourself into it with every ounce of yourself. When you take on two, that energy is not split but doubled. Same for 5, 10, 20 strings to your bow. Each requires the same energy as if it were just one project.

Watching Olympians perform I understand that feeling of pushing a little harder, that moment at the end of a sprint where you find energy and power that you didn’t know you had in you. And I am one of hundreds of people at this festival who entirely understand that feeling; dismiss it, and push on through.

There are two problems with this level of commitment to a job. One, is fatigue, and two is competition about the visible level of commitment to the role. Who worked hardest; who had the fewest days off; who is stuck in one place for the most hours; who is taking the most risk. I’m usually much more of a party girl than this year, but possible fatigue induced illness has rendered me slightly off kilter and where I would find that 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th wind I find myself retreating, with my laptop, to double and triple check things over a cup of tea and some vitamin supplements.

There is something about the way we apply ourselves so vigorously to every task with the same energy, expectation and precision that we feel everything keenly, like the princess on her pea. Every layer of stress and self-expectation piled up, always aware of that wee bump right through all the layers.

I don't want to compete over exhaustion. That's plain bonkers. When we talk about this crazy-ass storm we've thrown ourselves into, I want a smile and a 'I know, we're idiots, bumz right', not a riff-off over who's the most burnt out. #martyr

Trying not to get sucked into it is key to me this time round. But it’s hard. I’m not at 100% and it’s breaking my heart. Although, I guess I get points for managing to make myself ill before the festival even started? Non? Promise, it’s not a competition.

What you looking at? A thought filled fortnight.

-->

I’ve been full of words for two weeks now. Ok. I’m always full of words but currently they bubble over. I zone out thinking about what’s next, ideas and discussions with people on completely mundane topics trigger ideas that swirl and consume me. My face glazes over as I travel to another place with my thoughts.

I woke up on June 24 to the disaster movie troupe ‘The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom has resigned…’. My body turned to lead as I knew what it meant. I cried out involuntarily. In the weeks leading to this and after we’ve seen a sad smorgasbord of the best and worst of people on both sides of a polarising argument. I don’t really want to add to that. There’s enough out there. But I feel poised, ready, angry, fired up, calm, focused and ready to work on something. So where to start… let’s take a gooooood look around.

In pop. Beyonce.

Well. Where to start. Let’s talk about her ASS on the BIG ASS screen at her BIG ASS concert in Glasgow. Beyonce’s full frontal address of the male gaze is nothing short of superb. Bonce makes it very clear in Lemonade it's about her looking out not YOU looking on. So her arse? Hers to do WTF she likes with. And she reaches a hell loada people with a message few others could. Plus – who doesn’t like walking to work smiling pondering smashing shit with a baseball bat in full couture.

Behind my wry smile. My Pals.

All I see is familiar faces. Nice huh. My personally configured echo chambers on fb and twitter reflected one very clear thing post June 23… and although I know we speak to one another with similar view points, we can support each other going out with those views and have each other’s backs. Speak UP TEAM.

In art. My Artists.

I do what I do cos I love the work. This year – watch out for Angela Wand at Gilded Balloon, Rachael Clerke at Summerhall, GODDAM HAWT Hot Brown Honey at Assembly Roxy, Nassim Soleimanpour at Summerhall, Figs In Wigs at Pleasance – and the reason I group these performers together is no comment on them above other shows – but a feeling, a sense of creativity born out of struggle, a situation where we’ve been told we cannot be. But here we freaking are BEING.

Maybe what I want to say about the last few weeks is the individual is a powerful thing, and though easily manipulated and polarised, we have to hope also there is always room for CHANGE, always room to flip that switch, always room to remember that the person standing alongside is a GODDAM HUMAN TOO.

Say this: All I ask – let me be, let me be me, ass, brain, hair, fake-Scot, embarrassed English, proud Brit, proud European, proud and full of beans to be alive enough of the time. If we each lead a fight for that…. Maybe we have a starting point. Looking out, what do you want to see ahead of you? Fuck dem people looking back. Screw their inward obsession. That’s their gaze. And what matters is they can see you standing proud and strong right in front of them.

We almost had it all - but hey, that's what we go to school for.

-->

Did I mention I turned 30? I didn’t think I had. The thing with milestones is all your schoolmates hit them too, (let’s not mention the 'milestone moments' of six 2016 weddings or babies) but the age thing – we all get there at the same point. Last week my school friend Rae hit 30, and like every moment we look back and assess, with misty eyes and longing, it’s for Rae and I driving through Tunbridge Wells at 3am playing Busted as loud as my dad’s ford fiesta speakers would go. I’ll tell you – that's still loud enough to be embarrassing. 

I was going to now write a bit with Busted lyrics. But realised that was mental. So I popped some Adele on and gazed out the window for a minute or two. (Also mental.)

GOD – she ain’t a happy bunny huh? I mean, we’ve all been burnt love. But then again – Adele has made millions, selling more records than people who know what records ARE could actually buy. But you know, what’s wrong with a woman making so much out of a bad situation? I can’t tell you how much I’ve said yes to, how much has changed since my heart was broken. Since my breastbone was sliced down the centre from my neck to my belly button, my ribs broken out the way, and my vital organ pulled out and smashed through a mincer… (one of those old-fashioned ones that you work by hand for those asking.) Then the stringy mess roughly plopped back in and just left to heal – people around me variously and generously propping me up at those moments it failed me again.

But you know? Even if that level of pain is grossly underrated in the way it can change your life, ironically, for better, or worse, for richer, for poorer. I’d not change it now.

***

When I was 18 storming across a town I hated with a girl I loved, I knew those were moments that I would never forget.

Like Busted – and many, many angst ridden youths – for so long I have wondered where I fit. SO, it’s time. Allow me to channel a little of pop’s optimism. Hey – I could get with an air hostess if I wanted to. So. Imma sand down the edges, soften that glare and listen out. No more sighing over my scars – the only way they will heal is if I open myself up to someone else getting in there.

All I want really is to fall in love again. Cute huh. So maybe that’s what I should go to school for.