I'm in love with my new robot vacuum cleaner, should I be worried?

I’m writing to you from my couch, it’s a bleak wintery new years day in London, I’m 43 years old, wearing a big fluffy electric blue jumper, and I’m head over heels with my new robot vacuum cleaner. It's an unexpected love since I would say I’m rather indifferent to vacuuming. But the cleaning history doesn’t lie, I’ve only had it a week and I’ve sent it out to clean about 8 times, as well as 2 times to mop and 3 times to redo under the bed! To temper this new found love, I’ve also spent the holiday break listening to the Reith lectures, which this year features the topic ‘Living with Artificial Intelligence’, delivered by AI professor Stuart Russell. 

I must admit I’d already started to dream about the other nondescript chores in my life I could farm out to robot helpers, or better yet, put that all together into one robot that could learn any new tasks I’d like to give it, i.e moving from specialised to generalised intelligence, then all the better right?  Of course dabbling as I have in the area of Responsible Tech I knew it was highly unlikely Stuart Russell was about to let us know of all the joys that no longer having to fold up my own clothes would bring, but instead to examine the dangers that might come alongside artificial generalised intelligence. 

There’s quite a lot to unpack from these lectures, but in short, the overarching question of the series is, in creating general purpose AI we create entities that are far more powerful than humans, how do we ensure that they never have power over us? And should we, as Alan Turing warned, have to expect the machines to take control? This is of course a big, rather headache inducing question, to which it seems not even Stuart Russell has an answer. Although he does have some good ideas, (see lecture 4). But don’t despair, he also reminds us that we are not there yet and I’m reminded by a quote from Kate Crawford’s Atlas of AI, that currently AI is neither artificial (referring to all the human labour that goes into it) nor intelligent. 

Still it seems there is already plenty to be wary of in the area of specialised artificial intelligence. I would liken the message of the lecture on warfare to suggesting that we were all wearing big fluffy electric blue jumpers and standing only millimetres from an open flame. If you want to sustain your nightmares from this lecture you could follow up by re/watching the Black Mirror episode ‘Hated in the Nation’, in which a swarm of robotic bees use facial recognition to hunt down and kill the most hated person voted for in a daily twitter poll. A technology he claims is entirely plausible and seems to suggest perhaps you could already buy something similar on the market.

Then there is of course the question, who is in control, us or the machine? Russell argues we have already seen this control over us in action, in the algorithms that govern social media content selection. Rather than serve us up more stuff we like, he argues, they have increased their goal of user clickthrough by instead making us more predictable. Users with more extreme preferences are easier to predict. Knowing this you’d think we’d be able to turn them off, but neither the majority of the users, as they are too addicted, nor the companies that govern the algorithms, as well they simply make too much money, has yet been able to act. 

Of course this wouldn’t be a lecture series on the perils of technology if it didn’t cover what will we do when the robots not only do all of the vacuuming and clothes folding, but all of the work? Should we learn to enjoy the simple art of being or do we still require some kind of purpose to make us get out of bed? I lean on the side of requiring purpose to make life worth living, but perhaps that's because, as he puts it I’m much more British than I am French or Italian (I’m in fact from New Zealand). I offer as evidence the fact that I’m writing this on my holiday and already setting goals for my 3 month sabbatical which I am starting in February. Although perhaps I just need to unlearn my goal oriented tendencies and as Jon Kabat-Zinn teaches embrace non striving? I’ll get back to you on that one after the 3 months.

There is a lot in the lectures that I haven’t covered and which will require many evenings of pondering. But if I could leave you with some final parting advice from Russell on how we might give ourselves a fighting chance of staying in control of the machines, it's to get out our ethics book. To quote him “What works is for a real conversation to happen, for the AI researchers to understand that they don’t know much about the last two and a-half thousand years of ethics research and  be willing to learn about it and read it, and just see the pitfalls, because philosophers, in a way, have been debugging the moral programmes of other philosophers". So it seems that my love for my robot vacuum cleaner is ok, for now, but it might be time to turn off Netflix and learn the difference between rights-based, virtue-based and utilitarian approaches to ethics.

Fazerdaze

It’s a rainy and cold bank holiday Monday, and I find myself curled up in my room avoiding a machine learning assignment by instead consuming an endless stream of everything Fazerdaze. Like the condensation on the window it’s one of those bands that just creep up on you, at first you dismiss it as a catchy poppy song, but before you know it you’ve listened to their entire back catalogue, read everything about them, and you can’t see out your window!

I still can’t quite put my finger on exactly why they’ve got under my skin. But there’s something intoxicating about not knowing why you love something. Like the beautifully simplistic song Somethink, with lyrics like “Something in the way your smile disappears when you look at me, Something in the way you love me, Something in the way you don’t”. You need to touch it and prod it as much as you can to figure it out how it makes your heart beat a little faster.

There’s nothing attention grabbing about Fazerdaze, like Amelia herself who seems the typical self deprecating New Zealander, but perhaps its that unassumingness that makes it all the more endearing. Amelia although only 24 has been around the music scene for a while, getting into music at an early age as a solace from a chaotic family life. Music was where she found her people, and clearly her passion. And with bedfellows like Goodshirt’s Gareth Thomas as her testing ear, I wouldn’t be surprised if she is on her way to being part of New Zealand’s music royalty. In song “Little Uneasy” you  can hear shades of her quoted early musical influence, Smashing Pumpkins. That is, if you can imagine Smashing Pumpkins had taken antidepressants and instead of Billy Corgan’s intense 90’s twang vocals its a bit more dreamy and you can bath in the bliss filled summer that’s not outside your window.

Fazerdaze’s first full album, Morningside, has been released today. Check them out, but be careful after a few listens you might find yourself dancing around your room with Fazerdaze on repeat…..and if I keep avoiding my machine learning course that’s no doubt where the robots will find me too.

It's funny what you get used to

Mouldy union jack curtains tower to the sky

It’s funny what you get used to

The dank smell of no light leaks out of every corner

It’s funny what you get used to
The ten year old next door smokes weed
It's funny what you get used to

The neighbours give you the weird eye through their long strewn hair and jungle of a garden

It’s funny what you get used to

We're not welcome in the park in the evenings, shut the windows to block out the noise

It’s funny what you get used to

Someone was stabbed in the car park, they crawled home and died

It’s funny what you get used to

Power in the hands of too few?

I’ve finished my grieving over Brexit and have started my soul searching.  In looking for a glimmer of hope the only one I can see is if I believe that it was not a vote to put Britain first and that we can do it better than if we didn’t have all those pesky European neighbours of ours coming over eating our food and meddling in our business, but if I believe that it was an actually an outcry against the powers that be. If it was in fact the masses saying no, listen to us for once.

Unfortunately I don’t think the masses have voted for something that is in fact in their best interests, but that they have been forced to take the only opportunity they can to show their dissent.  I’ve been flip-flopping in the last few days about wether the outcome of this referendum means other forms of democracy which give the public more direct involvement in democracy, such as liquid democracy, are in fact a good thing.  One the one hand it seems to show that the general public can be swayed by inflammatory advertising and emotional triggers, which can yet still be controlled by those few in power, but on the other side this does make them widely unpredictable and in turn harder to control.  Unfortunately in the case of Brexit I doubt the reaction will be a general uprising but rather a clamp down and a short return to the status quo, those in power don’t actually want the financial system to fail nor actually to change and whether we are officially part of the European union or not will no doubt have little effective difference. 

The one hope in fact lies in the shock of the middle class. Those not in power but baffled by the irrationality of the majority.  If we ask ourselves why they acted this way, perhaps we’ll see the system for what it is, power in the hands of too few.

What world is this?

I feel deeply saddened to wake to the world today. To a world that I thought I understood but to which I realise I don’t.  Today the majority of Britain voted to leave the EU. 

I’m not worried about the financial ramifications. The outcome has already caused havoc in the markets this morning. But I’ve learnt, having lived through the financial crisis, financial markets have short memories. You only have to look to Iceland, who despite being bailed out and voting not to pay back the money still continues to thrive.  Or the sub-prime mortgages, which despite being at the root of the speculation on which the crisis was built, begin to appear again. No I’m not worried about that. I have no doubt that those in power wish to remain that way and will figure it out. 

Nor am I worried that my dream of being 1.5 years away from attaining freedom to live anywhere in Europe will be dashed. It’s a freedom that is very dear to my heart, having had it threatened to be taken away from me in 2009 in the last crisis, I know first hand the stress it causes. The lack of freedom to make decisions about your life is soul destroying. Living since then with that burden on my shoulder I will celebrate with great vigour the day that monkey is off my back. But no this doesn’t worry me either. Britain needs immigrants as much as immigrants need Britain and I doubt they will make that move. 

What worries me is the sentiment. The sentiment to separate, point our differences and build walls. That deeply saddens me, and feels like a major setback. 

Those people are not taking your stuff, they are not chaining you to their rules. That is our stuff, that is our responsibility to figure it out. This is our world. Everyone’s.

I hope some day you’ll join us and the world will be as one!

Memories

It was the smell that drew me back.  The wet damp smell of hay that lined the birds cages. I'd been wandering around a market in the French countryside, on task of my writing teacher to go and be inspired by my surroundings, and to let it invoke memories.  

At first glance the market could be a market anywhere, filled with plastic, and the the sounds of rhythmically clashing traditional music intersecting in your ear. But I quickly found myself drawn to the one thing that struck me as unusual. It seems a common good to buy at a French country market are live fouls. Stacked high in wooden crates with barely enough room to move are little furry bundles of various sizes and mottles, their feathers sticking out here and there through the rough wooden crates.  One woman orders three. The store owner opens the crate grips them by their powerful legs and they are plunged head first in a furious flurry of flapping into a smaller crate, where their defeated cries become quiet chirps. The crate is tied in blue string and the new owner carries them off balanced on 2 fingers, their tiny heads peaking out at freedom as they go. 

Suddenly though I breathed in and found myself in my grandparents barn in New Zealand, or more specifically behind it.  We would often play in there.  It was the height of a two story building and, from my memory, never completely full.  You could climb up the prickly rectangular bails and lie at a great height.  For some reason this day my brother had decided to venture out back.  I’m not sure what he did to disturb the bees, nor am I sure how we knew to find him there.  But I do remember all of us standing there, all my little cousins and I, at a safe distance, watching as the swarm attacked. The strange thing was my brother just stood there, not moving, not screaming, just standing as one after the other the bees left their stings in his body.

The thing was this frozen boy was very unlike my brother.  He was always the loud one, the one you would hear when he was two houses from home. The  first and only one of the grandchildren to give a speech at my grandmothers 70th birthday.  He baffled me with his ability to speak with confidence about topics he knew nothing about, and how he would often contradict himself in his beliefs.  Swinging widely between strict vegetarianism, lecturing us about the health benefits and ethical high ground of not consuming to meat, to revelling in eating the thickest, reddest, juiciest steak on offer.   Still despite his contradictions, I admire my brother.  I admire him for being able to leap into whatever comes his way. It’s a beneficial quality and it’s this boldness I believe has enable him to deserve the highest praise I have heard for him, “He has a mind”

Back in the market I can just about see him conversing with store owners without any French. Buying the large black charcoal disc on offer to find out what it was, turns out it was a cheesecake. Buret atop his head to simultaneously blend in and charm the locals. I hope that one day he can join me here in person, and we'll grab one of those horrid to a New Zealanders taste, French coffees to try with the charcoal covered cheesecake, and chat excitedly about what obscure traditional CDs we have purchased and are eager to get home and listen to while swilling a glass of the local French wine.

See you soon, love sis xx

Dear Tomorrow,

You need not come

I'm quite happy under this tree,

With the sun on my face,

And the breeze in my hair.

Forget your quest for ever marching time

And come smell the Tuscan roses with me!

Jeantine xx

On a Sunny Day..

Starting to see the charms of this city.

When you can go from this

 

(notice the see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil photo happening in the corner) 

To this

in a 20 min cycle ride!

I took my notepad with me and looking back through it I found this poem from my time in India (another time when I was more connected with nature).  I had a Banyan tree outside my room in Pune where I lived for 3 months, in fact the whole area we stayed in was lined with these beautiful old trees.

By the Banyan Tree

By the Banyan tree I sit and watch the rain fall and wash the earth

By the Banyan tree I lie and see the sun turn the sky pink

By the Banyan tree I sleep and awake to the birds singing

Dreams

I've noticed in the night time,
just before I dream
my thoughts wander freely,
free from reality or restriction
maybe that's all we have to do to realise our dreams in the daytime
just let ourselves go!

Sleeping With Strangers

Sleeping with strangers, that's how I sometimes spend my Thursday/Friday evenings and Monday mornings.  Mostly with business men of all ages, some married, some not, but from time to time women too.  Not in a bed, that would be too mundane, but on a plane seat.

We never touch, but we twist and turn in our tightly packed seats only inches from each other. I lie there with my head nearly on their shoulder, listening to the deep rhythm of their breathing as they sleep. From the perspective of a northern european culture it's actually quite an intimate thing to do, and call me strange but in an odd way I like it.

Spurred on by a conversation with someone else on a plane, I'd actually been reflecting on this lack of intimacy in our culture just a few weeks ago. I was on the way to a friend's wedding in India and started up a conversation with the German guy of Chinese descent who had negotiated his way into the seat beside me to take a video of the plane taking off.  He was on his way to China to source people to produce eye glasses for a charity that designs and distributes glasses to people who need them in Africa. Somehow we navigated our way to the topic of how absurd we find it that so many people who are in love cannot marry because of religious reasons. I started to congratulate myself for how lucky I was to have grown up in the great Western culture which values individual freedom, but I paused just for a second to contemplate that there might actually be downsides to our culture.  The first thing that came to mind, was that I'm in fact in awe of the closeness of the family unit and communities in other cultures, and the support this closeness provides.  It may sound strange coming from someone who's chosen to live halfway across the world from my family, but I think we have traded too much this intimacy for individualism.

A Logical Romantic's View

The 12" sparkly high heels did their job, catching my attention.  I could see one foot out of the corner of my eye as I stood in front of my friend's apartment fixing the height of my bicycle seat. I couldn't help but feel unsettled as I  imagined what it must be like to be her, sitting there in next to nothing, waiting to attract some wandering eye.  Of course it was perfectly normal in this part of town to sit in the window of your apartment like that. You see my friend whom I was visiting lives between two windows.  Which might sound perfectly innocent until I explain that she lives in Amsterdam.

She in fact doesn't live in the main red light district, but on a street with a little pocket of red light windows. Which may sound better, but is in fact worse. As while the red light district may have a lot more windows it also attracts a lot of curious people who are just there to see what it is like. The people frequenting these little pockets though, are there for one purpose only.  It's creepy to watch them walking down the street eyeing up the merchandise.  To know what it means when the curtain is closed.  Or worse yet to catch them on your way out the door, themselves also on their way out, cheerfully waving goodbye, see you next time, like they had just had a haircut from their favorite barber.  

Years ago when NZ legalised prostitution I remember arguing with a religious friend of mine, who was horrified at this change, that this was a good thing.  This industry has been around for centuries and wasn't going away, and as it stood up until then, it would be the women offering the service not the men who were criminalised.  And, I also argued, now they could be protected by health and safety laws and yes I said it, pay taxes.  I've too explored the topic with enough men to know that many of them think it is a valid service. For men, they explain, sex is a need, if they can't get it in normal ways, then its good that this service is provided.  I've also heard other men, describe sex as similar to eating a sandwich, they get hungry, they eat the sandwich they go on their way.  Fortunately I've also heard from the same men its no substitute for being with someone you have an emotional connection with. 

I too have been one of the curious keen to have a look at the red light district. But despite my liberal beliefs telling me that people shouldn't be restricted, I didn't last more than 5 mins in the area without getting a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and wanting out of there.  I had also looked to rent an apartment on the other side of my friends street, but although it was very nice I decided not to take it as I didn't want to be reminded on a daily basis that this industry exists.  Still despite these feelings of unease I had never really been forced, until now seeing it on my doorstep, to face up to what I really think about the industry.

So what do I think?  Is it a valid service for men who just need to eat a sandwich and women who supposedly are happy to do the menial task of sandwich making in exchange for money?  

In the end I think no.  As despite as much as men may like to think of it this way, it isn't quite like sandwich making.  I think in the end it really comes down to choice. How much choice to the women involved in this have?  And I suspect its much less than everyone would like to admit. My gut tells me that these women are either financially, physically (sex trafficking) or mentally bound in some way that does not allow them to make what I would call a "normal" choice.  Much as we do not allow the child laborer ,who may choose to be out of school to earn money for their family, to make that choice, I don't believe we should allow these women to make this choice either. 

Word Consumption

He consumed his book like a hungry man eating a sandwich. Page after page, flick, flick, flick. Words fell and got stuck in his beard as he ate, but he didn’t let this slow his pace, he just brushed them aside and continued on.  Twisting and turning in his seat in the corner of the Munich cafe his contortions unconfined by the strangers around him.  He stopped twice.  Once to order a coffee and once to eat an actual sandwich. He was my partner in crime as I twisted in turned in my own parallel universe. I missed him when he left. Gone, our epicentre of calm amongst the clinking chattering coffee shop was shattered. I found myself driven out by his replacements, an American woman and her partner. Words masked to me by the clinks, the story of the drivel she poured forth was told by the very bored look on her companions face.  Time to consume elsewhere.

Strange Days Part II

I’m beginning to believe that the flight from Munich to London causes ripples in the fabric of reality, as this the second time I’ve landed into oddity…

Shortly after myself and some 90 other passengers filed off the plane, each on our own personal mission to break the gate to immigration world record, we soon discovered all our rushing was in vain. Instead we found ourselves collected in a hallway that led to a dead end.  This in itself would’ve been odd, but the hallway also contained a lift and stairs that did not lead anywhere. I didn’t try them myself, as my puzzled look was answered by a fellow passenger, “I’ve been up there”, he said, gazing up as if it was another planet, “it’s just a landing that leads to nowhere”. This I confirmed by watching passengers enter the lift only to reappear two minutes later returning down the escalator that ran alongside the stairs. Hilariously it created a feedback loop by causing newly arriving passengers, on seeing people descending, to think this must be a way out and in turn themselves try the lift. So that’s it, we were stuck in the bowels of Heathrow, with only the rotating passengers as an illusion of escape.

It in fact would’ve been a good start to some kind of weird psychological thriller.  As hope extinguished that we would find a way out, passengers started to murmur.  One passenger picked up the airport emergency phone that was mounted on the wall near him and reported that we were trapped.  “Where are you?”,  “I don’t know” he said.   I overheard another questioning out loud “Do they think we have Ebola?”.

Fortunately the psychological thriller in which we were all sealed off in a wing in Heathrow due to someone on the plane having a deadly airborne disease did not eventuate.  A woman with a key appeared, and the seemingly dead end hallway miraculously opened and led us back to reality.

Strange Days

I think perhaps the fact that I’m reading Murakami has somehow seeped through my skin and plastered itself across my chest, inviting weird things to happen.  Or perhaps, it's because Murakami is currently framing my reality, that I see everything strangely.  Still it was surreal, one of those fleeting moments that you almost can’t be sure really happened..

As soon as my flight landed in London, I felt the gravity of the black hole of hurry pulling at my coat tails. I tried to resist, actively meandering for a while, but as it is with black holes, resistance is futile, and by the time I’d reached my tube stop I was in full London mode.  Internally congratulating myself for getting on the carriage that allowed me to be closest to the exit at my stop, I joined the race to get out.  As I moved with the mob up the stairs, other commuters were in their own race downwards.  In this mode you barely hear or see anything, you are just part of the crowd, heat seeking the exit. Still I heard what he said.  I have a vision of what 1/3 of him looks like, out the corner of my eye.  Tall, dark and well dressed, he paused for a second, as his mob passed mine, and said, just loud enough for me to hear, ‘I love you’.

Old Haunts

Sitting in the sunshine in Dalston, at my old favorite cafe, its hard not to wonder if you can ever truly get over your first loves.  Dalston was the first place I lived in London and there's something undeniably comforting about being back on familiar streets.  

I didn't know I was going to love Dalston the first time I laid eyes on it.  I remember looking at Kingsland Rd and wondering why anyone would ever want to walk up there!  All I saw was collection of shops selling junk and chicken.  Yet it's hipsters, with their uniform of rolled up jeans, art events, and quirky cafes with drinkable flat whites, an unusual feat 3 years ago in London, won me over.  To the point that I loved too the African hairdressers, and even the chicken shops that mark its diversity.  Its hard to let go of something that has wriggled its way unexpectedly under your skin. Still I'm reminded as I watch those around me repeating old patterns, and ending up in the same rut, it's healthy to move on.

Its seems obvious from the outside that continuing to hang out with or even holidaying with your ex is not going to help you get over them.  Yet, and I should know, as it's not only Dalston that has wriggled its way under my skin, when you are in the middle of it, even though you know it perpetuates it, saying no feels like denying your heart, and not following your heart is the worst feeling in the world! Neither am I the exemplar of how to solve these problems.  For the longest time a friend's ring tone for me, was 'Don't dream it's over'.

Yet what I do know is that what another friend told me at the time to ease my pain, was right. She said, you will love other people, it will be different, you will love them for other reasons, and as hard as it is now to imagine that you could love anyone else, you will truly love them.

Dalston will always be there. It's not going anywhere. I feel lucky that know it, but I feel lucky too that I learned to let other places into my heart.

Young Fathers

It doesn't matter what music you are into its impossible not to be blown away by Young Fathers live.

Exploring the lineup for Visions they caught my ear.  Hip Hop is not the normal genre I hangout in, but something intoxicating emanates from their sound that crosses genres.  A raw power that reminds me of where hip hop started out.  Excited by what I heard and saw on YouTube, I was proclaiming they would be act to see at the festival, yet they were more than that, they were one of the best live acts I have ever seen!

Watching Young Fathers is more like watching a stage performance than a gig.  Walking out with challenging staunchness, they created an air of voodoo mysticism that almost conjured you to dance to the beat. Being in the front row was insane! You could watch the sweat sparkling on their hard chests and look in the whites of their eyes as they leaned out into the audience, daring you to drink from their cup. Not breaking character for a second, each song dripped with energy. At times you didn't know where to look, from Bankole's stripped bare chest to Massaquoi moving across the room seemingly possessed by the sound. The ending was as slick and as well timed as the rest.  They went out to "I heard", leaving Hastings on stage, backed by strobe lights, singing the chorus into a subdued mic, until the crowd took over, "Inside I'm feeling dirty, It's only cause I'm hurting".  Then he was gone, leaving the crowd heaving, aching for more.

Caught up in the wildness, at the end I was as drenched as they were. But my sweat was worth it. I can't help feeling I was present as something was being born into the consciousness of the mainstream.

Ammirazione

Half Italian, half English, she had the delicate complexion of an English rose but with the Italian temperament coursing in her veins.  It was a potent mix.  She was young, but old enough to know what she was doing.  "I find her the most terrible kind of person" she said, speaking of her friend's partner, "Oh she's pretty", she said, mistakenly thinking we had assumed this wasn't the case. "No she's the worst kind of terrible....Stupid.  There's no excuse for stupidity. I can forgive the ugly, they were born that way, there's nothing they can do."

We'd been discussing if we had any A-sexual male friendships.  The conclusion was no. Unsurprisingly she had a lot to reference.  I know them all from my neighbourhood she said, as if it was the most natural thing to walk around the block and make new "friends".  That's how I met my boyfriend, "He's 39....All my lovers have been 10-15 years older than me." I swear I could hear the swish of male heads snapping our way.  Seemingly pondering him, "What part of the male body do you like?" she asked.  "I like feet", "My most sexual experience was washing a man's feet."

Crossing her ever so slightly chubby pale legs, she tucked her curly brunette locks behind her ear and took a drag on the cigarette she'd been nursing.  "She's blonde", she said, going back to her friends partner, "and a TV presenter".  She gave us a demonstration of how the blonde would stand when greeting people, legs crossed, hips out, shoulders back, hand reached forward. Sitting down again, she gazed out into the courtyard.  It was one of those perfect Saturday evenings were you could stay out all night in light summer clothing. From our spot on the balcony we had a view into half a dozen other apartments. It was fascinating people watching.  It reminded her of Hitchcock's 'Rear Window'.  "Its a stunning movie", stunning, a word she liked to use to describe a lot of things, "Grace Kelly at her peak".  "Its funny, most of my favourite actresses are blonde", the incongruence of this and the TV presenter's blondness bothering her for a second…

We were interrupted by a young man on another balcony taking his shirt off and dancing around in a drunken attempt to entertain his friends.  Conversation moved on.  "How are you finding the long distance relationship?", asked my friend.  "Oh terrible,  I'm not coping at all!". About to finish her thesis, her plan was to move to Brussels and get a job in European public policy. "I'm giving myself until January 2016 before I return to Italy".   "He understands, I'm young I need my time to explore."

Somehow I doubted if her Italian partner was as understanding as she said, but I admired the sexuality and confidence she wore on her sleeve.  I love that I'm allowed to.  One of the few biases tipped in a woman's favour.  

Zigzagging Toward the Light

Sometimes music is the only truth you need.  On a hot and steamy Friday night in London, I was happy Conor Oberst was the only truth I could hear.  I must admit I've long been a captive fan of the song 'First Day Of My Life',  so much so that I hadn't really noticed the rest of his body of work. But none of that mattered, he had me at 'Hello', or rather at the opening song 'Time Forgot'.   In his cowboy hat, mysterious lighting silhouetting him to the audience, he didn't talk for the the longest time,  instead he just sung his truths into our ear.  But I like that, it added to the mystery. 

As he switched between Bright Eyes classics and some of the newer songs from the recently released 'Upside Down Mountain', he almost apologised for playing the new material.  But he needn't have, as I'm sure the audience agreed with the guy who yelled out, 'Its a beautiful album mate!'.  His songs haven't lost their potency or their poetry, I'm as much a fan of 'Zigzagging Towards the Light' as I am of 'We are Nowhere and its Now'.  He performed all with equal urgency in his aching voice, and despite the fact that, as my friend pointed out, he is 34 and married now, I believed he felt every word as he highlighted his points with energetic guitar strokes, and paced in frantic circles during the chorus.  The banter when it came was equally as truthful.  Having played festivals for the last few weeks, he admitted, 'I don't know how they do it', 'the punters that is', 'rolling up night after night'…'I advise against it', he said as he launched into 'Governor's Ball', a song about festivals.

I confess I amassed a little crush on the man in black with his cowboy hat, and swooned along with audience when he would lift it, seemingly along with the mystery, to reveal the man beneath.  Conor Oberst you can come and wash away my troubles any time.  You made everything in the evening seem easy, that in the morning is such a drag!

Through the Giant Apple..

She woke up and rubbed her eyes, that's strange, she thought, stories like this always end this way, its all topsy turvy to be starting out this way, but anyhow her alarm was ringing so she had not time to think about it, she had to go to work.  She went downstairs, patted her pet dinosaur on the head and opened the giant red apple that led out into the world.  It was rather odd that no-one had taken a bite of the apple it was rather big and juicy looking, but she was glad it had stayed that way, she preferred things clean and crisp!

She was wearing a bright purple and blue tie-dye ensemble.  She fitted right in. There had been a big renaissance in tie-dye recently.  After all it was only a matter of time before something as great as tie-dye caught off again!  She danced down to the canal and waited for the next boat to turn up.  She was glad to see a deck chair was still free, she got on. She loved this time of year, she took a deep breath in, ah, you could really smell the foxgloves in the breeze as you glided along.

She got off, happy to see her friends were already there.  "Hey Inger! Hey Hannif! Hey Lili! Hey Mike!", it was good to have them close by after all they had helped write this story. She couldn't stop to chat for too long though, the first activity of the work day, morning yoga was about to start and she was a little late, some things never change! After yoga they all went off eager to get on with their days work, looking forward to seeing each other at the concert that evening.  The Backstreet boys were doing a live ukulele score to the movie 'Back To The Future'.   She was surprised to find out some people have never seen the movie!

Inger went off to climb, she was a spectacular climber.  I'm not sure what she was climbing today but they were sure to hear about her feats that night, if not before, she had a sizeable fan base on social media.  Hannif was planning which 5 star restaurant/hotel to review, while shinning his champagne glasses for his next party.  He was a fantastic host, everyone thought so, but especially the Portuguese, they were his greatest fans.  Lili was working on her latest song, she wrote the most beautiful lyrics, they were so pretty people copied them onto notes and left them all over the city to remind people how wonderful things could be. She had a large following of wide eyed male musicians, who all wanted to collaborate with her, and for some reason especially if their name started with R.  Mike had in fact helped out with the Backstreet boys ukulele score, unsurprisingly they needed a lot of help, it was through him that they had tickets to tonights gig. But he was really famous for playing guitar, though his gigs were an exclusive affair, he only played for people who were deemed cool enough.  Unless you were wearing tie-dyed skinny jeans you weren't getting in! And she, she went off to write her next story, or rather finish this one..

After the concert she came back happy but exhausted and fell into a deep sleep. She had a very odd dream that night.  She dreamt that instead of tie-dye she was wearing only black, she didn't have a pet dinosaur, in fact no pets at all, her flat was too small! Instead of her bright red apple door she had to go through a square door and down some stairs.  Instead of going by boat to work she had to take a rather large vehicle with everyone jammed in, and it smelled like petrol not foxgloves, which in fact didn't smell like anything at all.  She went to work in a building equally as square as her door and sat there stiffly all day, with no yoga breaks, with lots of others doing the same. They weren't really sure why they were doing what they were doing, and if you asked the people they were doing it for, neither were they!  Everyone assumed someone up there knew the reason why, but the truth was no-one did.  And the strangest thing of all no-one danced anywhere.  She wondered what was wrong with them? Were they not happy?

Can Men and Women Truly Be Friends?

I might be about to get myself in trouble here, as I certainly have friends who are of the male persuasion, but here we go, "Fasten your seatbelts, its going to be a bumpy night"...

If I'm truly truly soul searchingly honest about all my male friendships, I doubt very much that they are platonic.  There is in every case some element of attraction there.  And, I'll go as far as to say, I suspect this is true of all male/female friendships.  

First, before you raise your hands in descent, let me define "friend".   I don't mean someone that you're happy chatting with when they happen to be around.  By friend, I mean someone you share personal details with, someone you call up for a chat, someone you hang out with just the two of you. 

But still, "Wait!", I hear you cry, I definitely have friends, as you define as above, that I'm not attracted to.  But here's the thing.  The attraction doesn't have to be on your side, it can be on either side to make it work.  After all, we all enjoy a little attention.  Finally, you cry with a whimper, "But they are in a relationship!"  Don't kid yourself, being in a relationship, happy or not, doesn't stop you being attracted to people.  Stop and think about it for a bit, and be truly truly honest.  

The thing is, I think males and females are fundamentally different.  Different enough that the friendship doesn't work unless lubricated by a little attraction.  For example, I definitely know guys that I have stuff in common with, but with whom I haven't tried to pursue a friendship with.  I've been asking myself why, and I think it simply comes down to the fact that I can't imagine sitting down and chatting with them for a long period of time.  Even though we have things in common, men and women approach how we get from topic A to topic B in different ways, the social glue is just different.  You only have to compare lunch conversations you would have with a group of guys versus lunch conversations you would have with a group of girls to understand what I mean.  When its just my males colleagues we/they talk about external events, what politician said what, who won the snooker, who's going to do well in the world cup, some kind of mammoth feat of driving really fast or long.  I sit there trying to piece together what little scraps of information I know about these things to join in, or if I'm lucky, find enough to direct the conversation elsewhere.  With my female colleagues it's all more personal, what's going on with their partners, their friends, their houses, ok, and the cliche, what handbag/dress do you think I should buy?  These things I find infinitely easier to relate to.  Somehow, whether it is a societal construct or not it, the end result is, it is just different stuff that makes us tick. 

Yet throw some attraction in the mix and it is a whole different story!  Wether we like to admit it or not our basic instinct in life is to procreate, and faced with a possible mate, we suddenly develop a whole new level of interest in the other person.  Getting from topic A to topic B is no longer a problem.  We want to know, what kind of pet they had growing up?  What side of the bed do they sleep on?  What food can they not stand?  All the stuff we are usually not interested in suddenly becomes fascinating when we are attracted to someone.  I've had people describe this to me as a flirting dance.  Sometimes  the dance will end in a relationship, sometimes nothing, and sometimes when you are a match, but not quite enough of one, you become friends instead.  

So how do these friendships work?  Generalising grandly there are two main categories I see them falling into.  Either you are both attracted to each other physically, but the personality is not enough of a match to enjoy spending a lot of time together, i.e. you probably enjoy flirting with each other but are equally happy to say goodbye.  Or secondly, your personality is a match but one side is attracted and the other not.  In which case the friendship works as one person enjoys the attention and the other giving it.

So this begs the question, is it ok?  I think for the most part it is.  I certainly value my male friendships.  And aside from the fact that I concur with my Grandmother's once given wisdom, that there is nothing wrong with a little flirting, I value them also because they give another perspective on things.  One which is often invaluable, not least when I'm involved in another one of those flirting dances, my male friends manage to cut through to the heartbreaking truth with an ease that my female friends are not able to do.

The problem though is that from time to time the line in these friendship can blur, and it can be heartbreaking when it does.  Sometimes for whatever reason one person's needle of attraction tips too far.  I have personally been involved in one of these needle tipping friendships, and while it was heartbreaking for him, it also screwed with my head.  For a while I lost a friend, I didn't know how to behave anymore, I blamed myself for leading him on, I second guessed everything he or I did.  We've healed now and are still friends, time and distance have helped, but it has made me a little bit more cautious, and a little bit more honest about my friendships.

  

Yet surprisingly, despite all these muddy waters, I still believe the answer to my original question, "Can Men and Women truly be friends?", is Yes!   As sometimes you find a friendship where for whatever reason you can be secure in the knowledge the needles will never tip, and despite the attraction, you can treat each other plain and simply as a friend.  If this is the case, you should congratulate yourself for navigating the perilous seas and pay homage to the  bermuda triangle you are in, as it is truly a rare and beautiful place.