Today I went and got myself on the blood doners list.
I've been abstractly meaning too for a while, but never had a good oppertunity until now - posters all over Hampstead, nothing to do and nobody about to point out why it might be a bad idea. And besides, when your hero is a guy who rescues planets, it's hard not to feel inferior merely throwing small change at charity boxes (you may laugh, but my flamboyant phases do tend to coincide with the swell of my Oscar Wilde worship, and the whole World Book Day and Christmas Tree stunts came at the height of my Godfather thang. If you tend towards imitating your heroes, it's nice to idolise someone who'll make you do some good)
I don't have a problem with needles, or with blood, but I was rather nervous. Probably because I know from experience what feeling powerlessly faint is. But I might not have bothered if I'd thought it would be easy. The venue didn't help - under a massive glass canopy which diffused sickly light into the room, making me feel quoozy and look pale before we started. To be honest, I didn't know what to expect - whether it was a sign up, a check up, or whether they'd actually have blood bags on hand. Turns out it was all three - don't get me wrong, all the bad things are coming out in the blog because it wasn't a nice experience, but I don't regret anything. I'd recommend it to everyone (did you know that only 5% of people who can donate actually do?), and I feel it could be very addictive.
So they signed me up, and then they checked out I didn't have anything infectious or nasty (three or four moments there I thought they'd say "sorry, no can do" - from already having cut myself yesterday, to having taken loads of neurophen recentlty, to being far too small or having a history of keeling over), and then shunted me onto a needle and bed. The atmosphere, as I've pointed out, was unpleasant - all I could see was this domed glass roof, and gave the whole thing this sickly nightmarish feel.
As soon as you register something is wrong, you're bound to feel worse - a bit like cutting your finger, and having that abstract moment when you can see there's a wound, but haven't worked out it should be working - so I looked in the other direction, and it was fine. Except that the tube (and now we're going to get icky) was laying across my arm - I didn't see it, but after a few minutes I felt it. Lazy authors trot the phrase "warm blood" out so often it's cliche, but they're right, and it's a very horrible sensation to know it's drifting out.
But my doctor was lovely - we talked horror movies and halloween (apparently, some kids stole some blood a few years back), and said some interesting things about the separation between culture and religion (much in the way halloween is basically Christian, but has been commercialised and made part of the culture; he is a Muslim, and was explaining how the veil is a cultural thing, not a religious one). He also noted how suprisingly empty it was - which struck me as weird. Giving blood is a very easy thing to do; it costs you nothing; it's directly contributing; and like how Oxfam now asks you to buy schoolbooks or camels instead of aimlessly donating, has a very human face. I've never found another form of charity that is so satisfying. According to the literature, each donation you make (a pint and a bit) can save up to 3 people- from accident victims, to people in operations, to people with the plain bad luck of a nasty lifelong genetic disorder.
It was very bizzare. When you hurt yourself, your body tells you it's unwell - and you can target the pain. So, twist yer ankle, your ankle hurts; get a headache, your temples will throb. This was distinctly unpleasant, because it was everywhere, and nowhere, and you can feel something is wrong but it's a shivering, directionless weakness that makes you feel rough all over.
Mentally I knew I was fine, I could walk, get to the tube and get into lessons, but it was the piano that cinched it. In the corner was a piano - my gosh, I miss my own piano - and would have given anything to play it. I could abstractly visualise walking out of the hospital fine; but the piano was more tangible, and I knew I could not have rattled out Firth of Fifth - anything - on it in my present state. I felt very puny with everyone paying me attention - it's not like I was properly unwell or anything, or done anything to deserve it. But they made sure I was very well hydrated and fed, and I hung around there for about 20 minutes.
Anyway, wonderful experience. OK, no, it was highly unpleasant, but I'd say yes again in an instant. And my gosh, so should you! Do I feel good about myself? Last night, Jon was loudly expounding that all human action is basically selfish. Its a view I often agree with - after all, you don't just give money so children will be fed; you give to salve your own conscience that you are able to eat. Even if it gives you pleasure to know they are better treated, there's something in there for you. Miss Geach told us once that she gives to charity, but as a direct drain from her account so she doesn't know where it's going, which is interesting - striving to be purely philanthropic, to give the aid and cut out the emotional dimension entirely. When the doctor asked why I had decided to donate, I told him it was because I wanted to help. It stemmed from a sense of powerlessness against the unpleasantness of the world, and afterwards I actually felt more embarassed than a sense of pride, and really rather stupid at putting myself into this situation in a strange city when I had travelling and lessons to concentrate on. I did take a sticker "Be nice to me - I gave blood today", but I felt like a bit of an idiot wearing it. I suppose, like Miss Geach, people who advertise their goodness have always irritated me - like that craze for bands. On the one hand, it's raising the profile of the charity - like support ribbons. On the other hand, it is a bit "look at me!". I don't like wearing poppies for the same reason. I took the sticker on the doc's orders, in case (he said) I had to have a lie down in the middle of the street or something. In actual fact, I was fine after I left. I took it easy, drunk and ate a lot (another of the hospital staff made sure I was well loaded with snacks, just in case, and they did make me feel better), and arrived in good time for my lectures.
A man gave me a ticket for the tube. He'd reach the end of his journey, and gave me his day travel pass. I don't know if it was because I looked woozy - apparently, people do it all the time - but it struck me as a beautiful thing to do, especially because the people I meet on the tube/bus are the no.1 reason this city is depressing me at the moment. It's the way they pretend they're not there, and neither is anyone else. I don't want to get back at Christmas and find the same shutters have slammed down behind my eyes, and I've turned into one of those zombies who try to sink into the shadows and ignore hobos without blinking. You know the early scenes of Shaun of the Dead, making the point that we're zombies already? It is exactly like that. To have a fellow passenger acnowledge I exist was therefore something of a treat.
I did stumble out of Latin early, feeling faint, and went for a lie down, but I've been fine ever since then. Our teacher had us singing a drinking song - which was great, but it sounded more like a funeral dirge. The lack of alcohol probably had something to do with this (I've felt like a booze up all day; which is ironic, being the only one so far at uni when I've been given medical orders not to drink). Our Latin teacher is darned cool - she rattles along in Latin half the time, even when she is defining latin words, she'll define them using other Latin words. What is phenominal is that I understand her. I suppose it makes sense - my Latin has always been a reactive, instinctive thing, and listening allows me to strip to the core of what's being said quickly without fretting about tenses. She is very enthusiastic, very keen for us to be interested and has a knack for picking fun translations - Seneca is a right bundle of laughs. At the moment we're doing his catty account of the death of Claudius. The first day, we had to write down our email address, what we'd studied and any requests. I was the only one who had one - I voted for some fiction or poetry, and to cut back on the history. The obvious response is "but the histories are interesting too", but I live in hope.
Film studies was more interesting this week - we were talking composition, and unlike the mise=en-scene last week, it's something I really haven't considered often. I'm still fuming from the seminar last week - overanalysis really gets on my nerves, and any literature/media type course will be full of it. Basically, it's treating it like individual works of art - where lines fall, how characters are divided or placed together. How much a director has thought about how he'll place the camera, or not at all. Then we watched Angst essen Seele auf - fear eats the soul. An interesting film. Set in the 70s, an older woman decides to remarry. Two problems - he's over twenty years younger than her, and he's a Moroccan foreign worker.
I discovered I was the only person who'd enjoyed it when we all trooped down for the Film Studies social evening. The plot was serious, the drama slow and weighty - but the cinematography was so beautiful. And I don't mean misty trees and sunrises. I mean grotty, garish, finding a beauty in the everyday world. Not even finding a beauty - forcing a beauty out of unwashed dishes and clashing curtains. Fassbinder makes it beautiful. I was stunned. In my book, good colour control is making a muted tone pallette, shades of blue with a dash of red; lots of white, Hero-style coordination. He manages to pull beauty out of colour chaos. For me, watching this was so incredible that it entertained me despite the kitchen-sink daytime-TV nature of the plot.
I had a wrap at the Knight's Templar - one of the nicest bars I've ever been in. I hadn't managed lunch, because I'd been at the hospital until 1 and didn't have a chance to go home, and then film went on until 7, so I'd been coping on the crisps and biscuits provided by the nurses. Everyone in my party was leaving early, so I got a bus home. My arm still stings a bit, the finger where they took the sample from is very wrinkled but I'll worry about it tomorrow, and I feel very tired. I'm leaving the other plaster on for now. It's 16 weeks until I can do it again - bring it on!
And I've turned down an invite to the Autumn Ball tomorrow. Reasoning follows:
1 - Its £20 a ticket
2 - I have no shoes
3 - While I do have people to go with, their names are not Lauren, Hannah, Jessie, Anne or Beth, thus making the whole excercise a more expensive version of what goes on nightly in out kitchen - namely people who aren't that keen on each other trying to make conversation like they are.
4 - the last ball I went to with Lauren, Hannah, Jessie, Anne and Beth was terrible anyway. This is because they call it a "ball", which conjures up unrealistic images of high school romance and waltzing, when what they actually mean is "the same parties you go to every week, only with better dresses".
5 - the last ball I went to resulted in a three day misery binge on girly weepie movies, because it didn't live up to said expectations.
6 - the music will be terrible.
7 - I want to have an early night.
8 - I'd rather go to the Geek tea in Chinatown, and while there's still time to go afterwards, I want an early night. There's no point going to a £20 ball then leaving after an hour.
8.5 If I'm getting back to Hampstead on public transport, I'd like to do it sooner rather than later, thanks. To get home at 2 in the AM requires me to leave the party at 12.
9 - I will not have fun (see all of the above).
What no one has realised is that the best bit of the ball is the dressing up. If I could dress up, then cut straight to the bit when I get to lever my heels from my aching feet and happily fall-a-dreaming then I would. I do inevitably feel bad about all this. But I can't help being a party pooper. I have realised that having good, honest fun is not something I'm very good at.
I am happy. Honestly. Writing brings out my bitterness - it's why I do it. I don't bother writing down every little thing that makes me happy, because they don't stick in the mind the way the little irritations do. I do sound very negative, but I don't mean to.
I've been abstractly meaning too for a while, but never had a good oppertunity until now - posters all over Hampstead, nothing to do and nobody about to point out why it might be a bad idea. And besides, when your hero is a guy who rescues planets, it's hard not to feel inferior merely throwing small change at charity boxes (you may laugh, but my flamboyant phases do tend to coincide with the swell of my Oscar Wilde worship, and the whole World Book Day and Christmas Tree stunts came at the height of my Godfather thang. If you tend towards imitating your heroes, it's nice to idolise someone who'll make you do some good)
I don't have a problem with needles, or with blood, but I was rather nervous. Probably because I know from experience what feeling powerlessly faint is. But I might not have bothered if I'd thought it would be easy. The venue didn't help - under a massive glass canopy which diffused sickly light into the room, making me feel quoozy and look pale before we started. To be honest, I didn't know what to expect - whether it was a sign up, a check up, or whether they'd actually have blood bags on hand. Turns out it was all three - don't get me wrong, all the bad things are coming out in the blog because it wasn't a nice experience, but I don't regret anything. I'd recommend it to everyone (did you know that only 5% of people who can donate actually do?), and I feel it could be very addictive.
So they signed me up, and then they checked out I didn't have anything infectious or nasty (three or four moments there I thought they'd say "sorry, no can do" - from already having cut myself yesterday, to having taken loads of neurophen recentlty, to being far too small or having a history of keeling over), and then shunted me onto a needle and bed. The atmosphere, as I've pointed out, was unpleasant - all I could see was this domed glass roof, and gave the whole thing this sickly nightmarish feel.
As soon as you register something is wrong, you're bound to feel worse - a bit like cutting your finger, and having that abstract moment when you can see there's a wound, but haven't worked out it should be working - so I looked in the other direction, and it was fine. Except that the tube (and now we're going to get icky) was laying across my arm - I didn't see it, but after a few minutes I felt it. Lazy authors trot the phrase "warm blood" out so often it's cliche, but they're right, and it's a very horrible sensation to know it's drifting out.
But my doctor was lovely - we talked horror movies and halloween (apparently, some kids stole some blood a few years back), and said some interesting things about the separation between culture and religion (much in the way halloween is basically Christian, but has been commercialised and made part of the culture; he is a Muslim, and was explaining how the veil is a cultural thing, not a religious one). He also noted how suprisingly empty it was - which struck me as weird. Giving blood is a very easy thing to do; it costs you nothing; it's directly contributing; and like how Oxfam now asks you to buy schoolbooks or camels instead of aimlessly donating, has a very human face. I've never found another form of charity that is so satisfying. According to the literature, each donation you make (a pint and a bit) can save up to 3 people- from accident victims, to people in operations, to people with the plain bad luck of a nasty lifelong genetic disorder.
It was very bizzare. When you hurt yourself, your body tells you it's unwell - and you can target the pain. So, twist yer ankle, your ankle hurts; get a headache, your temples will throb. This was distinctly unpleasant, because it was everywhere, and nowhere, and you can feel something is wrong but it's a shivering, directionless weakness that makes you feel rough all over.
Mentally I knew I was fine, I could walk, get to the tube and get into lessons, but it was the piano that cinched it. In the corner was a piano - my gosh, I miss my own piano - and would have given anything to play it. I could abstractly visualise walking out of the hospital fine; but the piano was more tangible, and I knew I could not have rattled out Firth of Fifth - anything - on it in my present state. I felt very puny with everyone paying me attention - it's not like I was properly unwell or anything, or done anything to deserve it. But they made sure I was very well hydrated and fed, and I hung around there for about 20 minutes.
Anyway, wonderful experience. OK, no, it was highly unpleasant, but I'd say yes again in an instant. And my gosh, so should you! Do I feel good about myself? Last night, Jon was loudly expounding that all human action is basically selfish. Its a view I often agree with - after all, you don't just give money so children will be fed; you give to salve your own conscience that you are able to eat. Even if it gives you pleasure to know they are better treated, there's something in there for you. Miss Geach told us once that she gives to charity, but as a direct drain from her account so she doesn't know where it's going, which is interesting - striving to be purely philanthropic, to give the aid and cut out the emotional dimension entirely. When the doctor asked why I had decided to donate, I told him it was because I wanted to help. It stemmed from a sense of powerlessness against the unpleasantness of the world, and afterwards I actually felt more embarassed than a sense of pride, and really rather stupid at putting myself into this situation in a strange city when I had travelling and lessons to concentrate on. I did take a sticker "Be nice to me - I gave blood today", but I felt like a bit of an idiot wearing it. I suppose, like Miss Geach, people who advertise their goodness have always irritated me - like that craze for bands. On the one hand, it's raising the profile of the charity - like support ribbons. On the other hand, it is a bit "look at me!". I don't like wearing poppies for the same reason. I took the sticker on the doc's orders, in case (he said) I had to have a lie down in the middle of the street or something. In actual fact, I was fine after I left. I took it easy, drunk and ate a lot (another of the hospital staff made sure I was well loaded with snacks, just in case, and they did make me feel better), and arrived in good time for my lectures.
A man gave me a ticket for the tube. He'd reach the end of his journey, and gave me his day travel pass. I don't know if it was because I looked woozy - apparently, people do it all the time - but it struck me as a beautiful thing to do, especially because the people I meet on the tube/bus are the no.1 reason this city is depressing me at the moment. It's the way they pretend they're not there, and neither is anyone else. I don't want to get back at Christmas and find the same shutters have slammed down behind my eyes, and I've turned into one of those zombies who try to sink into the shadows and ignore hobos without blinking. You know the early scenes of Shaun of the Dead, making the point that we're zombies already? It is exactly like that. To have a fellow passenger acnowledge I exist was therefore something of a treat.
I did stumble out of Latin early, feeling faint, and went for a lie down, but I've been fine ever since then. Our teacher had us singing a drinking song - which was great, but it sounded more like a funeral dirge. The lack of alcohol probably had something to do with this (I've felt like a booze up all day; which is ironic, being the only one so far at uni when I've been given medical orders not to drink). Our Latin teacher is darned cool - she rattles along in Latin half the time, even when she is defining latin words, she'll define them using other Latin words. What is phenominal is that I understand her. I suppose it makes sense - my Latin has always been a reactive, instinctive thing, and listening allows me to strip to the core of what's being said quickly without fretting about tenses. She is very enthusiastic, very keen for us to be interested and has a knack for picking fun translations - Seneca is a right bundle of laughs. At the moment we're doing his catty account of the death of Claudius. The first day, we had to write down our email address, what we'd studied and any requests. I was the only one who had one - I voted for some fiction or poetry, and to cut back on the history. The obvious response is "but the histories are interesting too", but I live in hope.
Film studies was more interesting this week - we were talking composition, and unlike the mise=en-scene last week, it's something I really haven't considered often. I'm still fuming from the seminar last week - overanalysis really gets on my nerves, and any literature/media type course will be full of it. Basically, it's treating it like individual works of art - where lines fall, how characters are divided or placed together. How much a director has thought about how he'll place the camera, or not at all. Then we watched Angst essen Seele auf - fear eats the soul. An interesting film. Set in the 70s, an older woman decides to remarry. Two problems - he's over twenty years younger than her, and he's a Moroccan foreign worker.
I discovered I was the only person who'd enjoyed it when we all trooped down for the Film Studies social evening. The plot was serious, the drama slow and weighty - but the cinematography was so beautiful. And I don't mean misty trees and sunrises. I mean grotty, garish, finding a beauty in the everyday world. Not even finding a beauty - forcing a beauty out of unwashed dishes and clashing curtains. Fassbinder makes it beautiful. I was stunned. In my book, good colour control is making a muted tone pallette, shades of blue with a dash of red; lots of white, Hero-style coordination. He manages to pull beauty out of colour chaos. For me, watching this was so incredible that it entertained me despite the kitchen-sink daytime-TV nature of the plot.
I had a wrap at the Knight's Templar - one of the nicest bars I've ever been in. I hadn't managed lunch, because I'd been at the hospital until 1 and didn't have a chance to go home, and then film went on until 7, so I'd been coping on the crisps and biscuits provided by the nurses. Everyone in my party was leaving early, so I got a bus home. My arm still stings a bit, the finger where they took the sample from is very wrinkled but I'll worry about it tomorrow, and I feel very tired. I'm leaving the other plaster on for now. It's 16 weeks until I can do it again - bring it on!
And I've turned down an invite to the Autumn Ball tomorrow. Reasoning follows:
1 - Its £20 a ticket
2 - I have no shoes
3 - While I do have people to go with, their names are not Lauren, Hannah, Jessie, Anne or Beth, thus making the whole excercise a more expensive version of what goes on nightly in out kitchen - namely people who aren't that keen on each other trying to make conversation like they are.
4 - the last ball I went to with Lauren, Hannah, Jessie, Anne and Beth was terrible anyway. This is because they call it a "ball", which conjures up unrealistic images of high school romance and waltzing, when what they actually mean is "the same parties you go to every week, only with better dresses".
5 - the last ball I went to resulted in a three day misery binge on girly weepie movies, because it didn't live up to said expectations.
6 - the music will be terrible.
7 - I want to have an early night.
8 - I'd rather go to the Geek tea in Chinatown, and while there's still time to go afterwards, I want an early night. There's no point going to a £20 ball then leaving after an hour.
8.5 If I'm getting back to Hampstead on public transport, I'd like to do it sooner rather than later, thanks. To get home at 2 in the AM requires me to leave the party at 12.
9 - I will not have fun (see all of the above).
What no one has realised is that the best bit of the ball is the dressing up. If I could dress up, then cut straight to the bit when I get to lever my heels from my aching feet and happily fall-a-dreaming then I would. I do inevitably feel bad about all this. But I can't help being a party pooper. I have realised that having good, honest fun is not something I'm very good at.
I am happy. Honestly. Writing brings out my bitterness - it's why I do it. I don't bother writing down every little thing that makes me happy, because they don't stick in the mind the way the little irritations do. I do sound very negative, but I don't mean to.
13:50 |
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