And there is the second set of mates, who graduated with me last year. Uninspired, we chose to remain students.  The scientists took law conversions, PhD programmes, internships in exotic lands or timeout for masters applications.  In the meantime I am finishing mine. This Friday I have to face the working world and I typically haven’t given it much thought.  So I’ll be unoriginal- I’ll celebrate, I’ll say goodbye, I’ll travel, I’ll go home (to the parents), and only after some weeks will I consider searching for serious jobs. But I don’t expect my Sunday sleeping habits to change.

And yet I’m sure the apparition of a disheveled, topless dwarf was real. He surprised us as we were ushered into our less than reputable installations. Where we the film crew he was expecting? Flattered that we didn’t look the inexperienced amateurs we actually were, we engaged in a friendly chat. Anyhow, we belong to an industry that relies heavily on hypocritical friendliness with strangers (they’re all potentially useful in some way or other: one can nick their stories, sources, contacts, locations…the list goes on).

- ‘No, sorry. We’re making a documentary about squirrels’, my friend quickly replied.

- ‘Oh. And you haven’t seen other teams with equipment?’

-‘Nop. Sorry. What’s your film about?’

-‘Zombies’.

A dwarf and zombies. Needless to say we ended our little chat there and then and locked ourselves in our room.

This was near Newcastle, about a month ago, when we had just embarked on our final project; a documentary that is turning out less to be about the conservation of red/grey squirrels and more a reflection of British nationalism. We were there to follow Paul Parker, chief hunter of the RSPP (Red Squirrel Protection Partnership). Our ears took about half a day to adapt to his strong Geordie accent, but we did what any respectable girl does under these circumstances: smile sweetly, giggle a bit and with luck the conversation became more comprehensible.

Me, my friend, and Paul Parker posing as squirrels

Barely into our first five minutes of meeting Paul put us to the test: which one of us dolls would shoot the first squirrel? Now, we had come to shoot him shoot them, not do the dirty job ourselves. But with the possibility of us becoming what he liked to call “saboteurs”, either one of us manned-up or we would have to come up with a different project. In between two animal-loving ex-hippie Sussex girls, I found myself agreeing to the painful death of a helpless animal. Not great for my ethical documentary values. The kill or cull, whatever you like to call it, its still shooting squirrels, was not particularly traumatic- I didn’t dwell on the creatures death. No squirrel ghosts appeared in my dreams; it was my friend, not me, who had nightmares about it. And yet the footage captured all the tension- and as a consequence I find myself utterly unable to edit or even see this crucial moment.

For a week we woke at what seemed like dawn for the regular student (i.e 6am), scuttled off to Tesco’s for some tea (the coffee snob in me refused to even consider McDonalds’ brown liquid) before we met Paul for our daily rounds. During these we checked traps, learnt how to skin, talked to butchers and cooks about eating ‘the Greys’, met a red squirrel whisperer and hoped to meet one ourselves. We did, its an adorable little creature, even if I only just saw it for about 2 seconds.

In addition to our rodent education, Paul also wanted us to appreciate Newcastle’s nightlife. I’ve heard a lot about the nocturnal capital it has become; sadly however, the party scene I saw was that of a Wednesday 9pm at POP. We were easily half the age and size of the few that were hitting the dance floor, so with a weak excuse we bade our goodbyes. I shall never forget my last image of Paul: he was pole-dancing on top of a woman wearing a plastic nurse outfit. In the meantime, im still stuck staring at a screen choc-a-block with images of squirrels. Lets hope i finish before my mind becomes more screwed than it already is.

ps- if you want to kill time, youtube squirrels, the variety available is astounding: there is everything from political propaganda to songs and dances. My favorite is still the MJ tribute though.

April through to June, barely a trimester and I was snug in the responsibilities of adultdom.  Its an injection of instantaneous maturity. Suddenly, you allow yourself to bloat in the glory of your self-importance.  Work this, work that, work chit, work chat-  you become one of those insufferable newly transformed mothers: you’re imperious and you want the whole world to know that your baby just (maybe just) wiggled its pinky for the first time. Except that the object of your attention is not the baby who can wiggle its pinky but work, work, work.  You speak of ‘my boss’ with the inflection of a proud parent. And your friends- well they just listen politely, then they zone off, until the finally start avoiding you. They don’t want to know about wiggly pinkies any more than what ‘the boss’ said. They just want to party with you and hear all about last night’s gossip.   And that’s the other symptom you never understood. You stop going out. The student owl in you flies away. He only visits on the weekends.  Barely even says hello. Because he doesn’t want to deal with your new family.

I had two families sandwiched between exams. The first was the small and intimate Medialab UK, the second was the much larger DarlowSmithson.  At Medialab ‘my boss’ was my mentor: she took the time to teach the techniques and explain the procedures.  At Darlow I had a lot of bosses, a lot of colleagues and very messy Friday nights. There I learnt all about the bureaucracy of the documentary industry.  It all simmers down to this: whatever a documentary-maker is interested in, forget it, scrap it, because no one else cares… the superficial programs that you feel contaminate TV? Develop them! Because someone up in Lincolnshire will watch it. The big telly treasures are the new Secret Millionaire, the new Brat Camp, the new… but everything that can be done has been done, so the current trend is to find fusions : “Casualty meets The Antiques Road Show”…You get my point. The sad truth of this Big Brother era is that we cater for subjects that rarely captivate us.  Oh. And the project you get allocated to is complete pot luck.

Was I disillusioned with the lack of science? Slightly. But dont get me wrong. I love the community-feel to the place. The long threads of virtual jokes that aren’t really funny but are because between 3 and 5 the boredom gets unbearable. I loved finding out new facts, learning about new subjects. Did it encourage me to continue in the business? Im not so sure. Maybe i’m losing my inspiration. Maybe a bit of direction. Or maybe I just dont want the working lifestyle full-stop.

https://fileexchange.imperial.ac.uk/files/de55b8010d4/159BrickLane.mov

thats for high quality. alternatively you can check it on:

http://vimeo.com/3900437

London is not London without its iconic red buses. As of this year, these red buses have become icons for another article altogether: the battle between religion and the unbelievers. This time through advertisements. There probably is no God, There definitely is, There definitely is not, There probably is… It’s an argument with no agreement, yet they all agree in one respect- to stop worrying and enjoy life. This seems like a futile effort given that the British are a worrisome lot, but then again London is not England. It could easily be the second largest city Greece, Bangladesh, India, Colombia, Russia, and any country connected to the Eurostar. Returning to radio, I chose my project to focus on the Atheist bus campaign. This meant having to trudge around Victoria station interviewing born-again Christian bus drivers, fundamental atheists and liberal spokesmen of the Church of England. They could have made my work more simple. How was I going to reduce two hours of conflicting conversations into a coherent 7 minute show? By making it even less understandable…obviously. I enjoyed the hours poured into these precious seconds of experimental radio, but a side of me does pity my teacher who must now grade a concoction of simultaneous natter, sounds and music as objectively as he can.

If you’re planning to get into producing media, you’d better be prepared to sacrifice your sight. You will blind yourself prematurely. Staring at sound-waves for days on end makes you see things differently, quite literally. Ironically, its not the radio material that makes one sound like a broken record, but the documentary. By the end of editing, you should be able to quote everyone and everything and laugh at the jokes no-one finds funny. It’s a sad and endearing thing to see, let alone experience. I did so repeatedly. We began filming back in January and have only just finished. That’s a lot of time, but then again we produced 20 minutes when we were only asked for 10. It was a risky move- for we either doubled the pleasure or tripled the torture (I find that the agony of boredom accelerates at a higher speed than joy). If, however, the latter is the case, we can at least rely on our subject matter to relieve some of the stress. One can fantasize over the fat-full morsels on display. Brick Lane Beigel Bakery was our chosen topic and it delights the eye with donuts, strudels and cheesecakes; though the salt-beef beigel is the star attraction. Incidentally, a friend once told me that cows are sacred, but too tasty to matter. I thoroughly agree, but I would add pork to the category. You see I may lack spiritual faith but I worship food most faithfully. Bagel Bake is a microcosm of multicultural society. It also manages to integrate the many men who went bonkers and stayed in their hallucinogenic trips down Brick Lane.

The project was wonderful to make, despite the fact that with two Mexicans and a Sardinian it was a highly embellished affair. Thankfully we relied on our English counterpart to bring us back down to earth. Now that I don’t sit next to them 7 hours a day, I have begun to miss their presence. But I find solace in the fact that we will all be re-united tomorrow in celebration, at the union of course.

The fact that we live at the bottom of a deep gravity well, on the surface of a gas-covered planet going around a nuclear fireball ninety million miles away and think this to be normal is obviously some indication of how skewed our perspectives tends to be. D. ADAMS

ps- If you havn’t already realized, this post is a reflection of my ultra-charged deadline week. Uni has now become a work place with a 10-7 schedule, where I often have to stay over-hours.  JOYYYYYYYYY.

Aside from the delectable whisky available up in Scotland, I really could have been anywhere. The point of the trip was to spend time with friends, to share jokes, smiles and sniggers. Fortunately, the Sun was willing to provide us with more than one victim. Heard of Alfie Patten? He’s Britain’s newest child celebrity. At only thirteen, he’s now father. Yes, he impregnated his 15 year-old girlfriend when he was 12.

Peter Cook and Dudley Moore enjoying the news of Alfie on our road trip

He wasn’t even a teenager!! I reckon he’s secretly aspiring to be England’s real-life incarnation of Alfie. That, or the baby-dad has decided to begin turning most men’s dream into a reality: create his very own ‘Patten’ footie squad. Anyhow this being news from the Sun, further drama was required. A devastated Alfie has confronted claims that he may not be Maisie’s dad (is it me or is the name a good indication of her parents age?) by promising to test his DNA - I wonder if he’s even learnt how the procedure works yet?

So, as a new celeb entered the world of Hello, another one was preparing to say goodbye. Yup, Jade’s cancer is terminal. It’s accompanied by some sob story about the bloke she’s currently (or was, I only read the headlines) dating. This was the best news my friend Peter Cook heard of in a long time. He’s not prone to hating, but somehow- I’m not quite sure what Jade did do to him, he’s very happy he won’t have to see her face again. Personally, I wouldn’t be surprised if she miraculously recovered against all odds. She’d get to be on the cover of Heat again and receive another million for the magazine’s exclusive rights. I can’t say she’s my favourite person either. But cervical cancer specialists have recently attributed a rising demand for tests to a “Jane Goody effect”. If you didn’t already know, cervical cancer is preventable- it’s caused by a virus that gets into your… well, your you know where. And yet still it is the second biggest cancer killer in the UK. So little miss tabloids may have done something useful for her sex after all.

What stunned me of Edinburgh is the fact that is one of the only cities I know to be able to walk out and into a country side hamlet in less than 20 minutes. It’s incredible. What’s better still is that as you walk around Arthur’s seat (Edinburgh’s very own urbanite extinct volcano) you can shout out and hear the echoes loop around the nearby University student halls. Astounded and absorbed, John Cleese, Peter Cook, Patty Smith and me insulted Dudley Moore as he went to fetch his bicycle. We had to walk while he got to ride all the way to the village pub and back. And I have a right to insult and complain: as a result I still have tendonitis. Tendonitis? Another of my newly acquired trivia. Its got something to do with an inflamed tendon, mostly around the knees. Andy Murray had it the other day, it was supposed to hinder his match against Nadal BUT the Spaniard hurt himself. Luck really does have the final say.

Shortly after our Haggis breakfast, we returned. This time without one of our comedians. There was more space and less energy. Not that it mattered, having cuddled with Peter and Dudley the previous nights, in a set-up resembling Vicky Christina Barcelona, sharing shoulders was now a desired pleasure. The radio was more prominent, and we even got to hear The Archers before the news. Have you by the way ever heard Billy Connolly’s interpretation of their theme song? I think the Brits should stop being snobs and listen to the Scottish joker: it would make a great national anthem. Imagine it being played at the London Olympics. Genius. Aside from the fact that both countries are intensely proud, one in a more boisterous manner and the other adopting an understated tone, the difference between the two countries doesn’t go beyond the obvious. Perhaps I didn’t see it because I was too involved with my company. I’d like to believe this is really the case, if only to give me an excuse to return sometime soon and reassess my judgement.

Billy should be hired by the government to boost British morale….

The real Peter Cook and Dudley Moore show what anglosaxon humor is all about…

<https://www.theonion.com/content/news/head_lice_going_around_senate?utm_source=a-section>

Smell.

I will show you fear in a handful of dust – T.S. Elliot

♦

Fear is frightening. It subsists in the air you breathe. It feeds your dreams and fuels your reality. One is never free from fear. And if you confront it, you risk death. Fear killed my father. But I…I survived the rubble. Because I didn’t know fear.

♦

The Descent of Man changed Ariel’s life forever. As a child she was at loss on why all the women of her family fussed over ‘love’. It was a concept she could not comprehend. All this fascination with telenovelas and their tales of triumphant impossible love. The interminable discussions about so-and-so devoted to a man who loves another, whose feelings are reciprocal, but who doesn’t want to get in the way of the first. It sounded so messy. Why should she have to adapt her conduct to attract this future and unknown ‘prince charming’? Why on earth should she want to sacrifice her interests for those of another being? Why would anyone want to make illogical decisions in the name of a feeling? What could make man, supposedly the most rational of all creatures, less than reasonable? “Ay Arielita”, her aunt Chola used to chant, “one day you will understand”. And she did. Just not the way her aunt meant.

For Ariel, undying love was a myth. Even at a young age she realized her parents were not in love. If they had ever felt a shared ecstasy, the sensation was long gone. Her mother smothered her and her siblings with the attention of a frustrated intellect, while her father deceived his age and family with the ever-more frequent late ‘work dinners’. They had lived a Schopenhaurian romance. The will-to-live was a force with the power to distort wisdom, an inherent drive to continue the clan. Once children were born, desire was consumed and love evaporated into thin air; leaving only the faintest scent behind. At 17, Ariel discovered Darwin. It was an epiphany. The Englishman had legitimized Schopenhauer’s cynicism of love into a scientifically sound theory. In terms of sexual selection, senseless choices were justifiable if they allowed individuals to prolong their lineage. Colourful feathers attracted predators and potential mates. Early death didn’t matter if the mates had already become mothers. Given enough time, a whole species could evolve to possess such aberrant characteristics. Love was like the peacock’s male plumage, dangerous and exorbitant. Having grasped the mechanics of love, she concluded that if it existed, it was an evolutionary trick. A deluded dream she did not want to fall for. She wanted to demystify love. So Ariel decided to combine chemistry with biology. To study the science of attraction. More specifically, the smell of love.

♦

Smell is the less acknowledged of the senses. We have become oblivious to our nose; yet we use it all the time. You may presume that it serves to enhance our experience of life, not to save it. But I will argue the opposite. Mites can sniff danger. The whiff of an attack sends them to sleep. This allows them to survive in hiding, without food, for long enough to ensure that the menace has moved on. Humans are not mites, but with over a thousand olfactory genes, we shouldn’t take the possibility of recognizing peril for granted. When they lived in the open planes of the African savannah, smelling danger could have delivered our ancestors from harm. If we developed an extensive library of genetic texts to instruct our snout- their function must have been critical for our survival. Their directions operate at different levels: the conscious and the unconscious. Consciously, you could recognize the incense of smoke, and escape before the fire reached you. At a less palpable level, the aroma of anxiety could arouse alertness in a group venturing into a vulnerable position. But like most things in this world, smell is double-edged. What can save us can also kill us. Though it brought me into life, the smell of love killed my mother.

♦

Our genetic triumph depends on the success of our children. Their psychological and physical fitness will determine whether they advance in the game of life. Passing-along our inherited talents is just as important as teaching them tactics. Without the selective process of love, the number of possible couples is innumerable. How do you know which match will give you the most profitable pedigree? And even if you have identified a potential concomitant, you do not want to spend expensive time and emotion seducing someone who will not reciprocate. You want to fall for a realistic partner of the same rank. It may be too risky to aim higher, and wasteful to aim lower. Love may be mad, but there is always reason in madness. If love evolved to help us fall for the correct partner, some of our attractions must be innate. Like with the smell of danger, some selective processes are obvious, others operate at an unconscious, more biological, level. Ariel feared this ineffable chemistry, because she could not shield herself from its consequences.

♦

Unlike most girls in the 1980’s who attended University lectures in search of a husband, Ariel joined with the hope to research. She became one of the few females in the Biology department at the UNAM, Mexico’s leading university. Back then, smell was not the field of study it is today. Ariel’s ideas on its drawing power would have been mocked as epicene romanticism. To be labelled what she had always scorned was the ultimate insult. Convinced that her concept was rational and provable she immersed herself in studies. Given the multiplicity of her subject, a valuable clue could come from the unlikeliest of sources. Biology was not enough. Whenever possible she would join seminars in psychology, chemistry and physics. She kept her suspicions on the scent of love a secret, but believed that one day, she would confirm her fancy as scientifically sound.

♦

Solving the mystery of love is not easy. Much less if you want to prove it with science. If attraction relies on the senses, then smell is probably the easiest one to test. The method is easy: make men, or women, sweat into cotton T-shirts; pads sewn into the underarms soak up their scent. The opposite sex then grade the collected essences according to their appeal. This approach has suggested people fall for their ‘equals’. This may be in terms of allure or intelligence. Despite this attraction to members of a similar echelon, humans also love a genetic clash. The most successful sex appeal is invisible. It is an opposite immune system. Why? Well, because combined, the resulting system will be far more efficient than the two originals. If parents truly want their children to have what they didn’t- this is the ultimate opportunity. Combat diseases, survive, and reproduce. This is what sexual chemistry is all about.

♦

Ariel had guarded her heart fiercely. She wanted to concentrate on proving the power of scent, she never expected to be its victim. Caught unawares, how was her cautious army to respond to this aerial attack? Even if she had foreseen the assault, there is no defence against this biological warfare. Her sense of smell was not outstanding, but it didn’t need to be, the weapon was intensely pungent. Micky’s approach had released and directed molecules into her lungs. They travelled through her body, discovered her every cell and presented their potential. Bathed in the must of another’s fragrance, she could no longer recognize it as alien. More difficult still, came the realization that someone other than herself was real. Nauseous, she surrendered to the dictate of her DNA. One by one, her organs shut off; they endured on Micky’s odour. The first infested where the first to lose independence. Her lungs, the previous entry point of his whiff, no longer distinguished the smell of other, it only searched for his scent. Last was her mind: the imagination of love had finally eclipsed her intelligence.

Why Micky? Why not Jose? Or Mario? Or even the rare-to-come-by Anton? What made his odour more potent? Maybe Mario wasn’t sexually active, after all, women prefer the pong of promiscuity. Jose probably possessed a similar immune system. Anton had bad timing. Her conscious had never looked for a partner, but her biology had. She was at her prime to produce young. If her intellect was averting her attachment to someone at such a valuable time, her body needed to step up the attack. It would have to exploit her senses to circumvent the problem. Unconscious of her body’s stealthy search for a mate, she fell in love. Love halts the search for a father. It signals a ‘stop’, even if only temporary, so that we can get on with the business of breeding. To focus on the fruit of intimacy. Even if Anton had been a better match, had he attempted to court Ariel during this period, it would have been to no avail. However luring his bouquet may have been, it blurred into the dank pool of everyman’s perfume. A woman in love can only notice her lover’s smell.

♦

Micky had exchanged the vineyards of California for the concrete landscape of Mexico City. In demand by the rich aspiring to imitate a western lifestyle, he established himself as a sommelier. Though trained to distinguish tannins, he applied his nose to assess most situations. He could smell the Antons. He could smell their threat. But love skews the senses and he distorted Ariel’s blindness to them. In those days there was tension and jealousy, uncertainty and passion. The pressure built up, until one day, their emotions erupted. As Ariel approached ovulation, her body launched an advertisement campaign. Encouraged by the pleasant fragrance of fertility, Micky planted the seed of commitment. Life grew, leaving less and less space for the phantoms of distrust to return. Ariel’s wits squirmed. But they had already been defeated by whims of adulation. Her academic hopes were at the mercy of time. She had succumbed to aunt Chola’s definition of love, and yet she failed to see it that way. Deep inside, she remained sceptical about its duration.

Nine months later I was born.

Screams and the stench of blood welcomed me into this world. My parents were happy-in-love and appreciating the warm smell of new life. Their new life. The reek of death was around the corner and no one noticed. As I said, few people listen to their nostrils nowadays. My father might have been able to pick up the whiff, but he was in love, and love blinds your sense of smell.

♦

It was 7:19 am. Ariel woke to a roar. As thunder clapped around the medic centre, Hospital Juarez shuddered. Patients assumed Chac was angry. But it wasn’t the rain god whom they had irritated. Once she realized it was Huemac, dread gripped her. The 43^rd floor of a cement tower was the last place she wanted to be in when the lord of earthquakes gnashed around. Her body tensed, her mind flurried. Why was she here? Love. She could have been safe at home focusing on her ambitions had it not been for love. Love. Love! Where was Micky? Was I safe? Shaking, she wobbled over the trembling floor towards the window. Huemac was furious- the city was collapsing, quivering with qualm. The floor gave in. The hospital, the checkpoint between life and death, whose officials often helped the fugitives of demise, would indiscriminately exile ordinary civilians to the grave. My mother was crushed by the falling building. She had travelled in the direction of love, it had misguided her, and she ended up at the wrong district.

Nothing is stable; the destinies of men, no less than those of cities, are in a perpetual sway. Huemac’s blow had unleashed a torrent of smells. The gas-lines had broken, the aroma of anxiety set loose, and danger prowled the air. Anxiety is a condition of agitation where one wishes will for the best and fears the worst. Fear and anxiety can be smelt. They are quite literally, contagious. The funk of someone’s terror activates your sensation of angst. If in a disturbing situation, aroused emotions will open the nasal vaults of your nostrils. Your sense of smell is so acute you cannot ignore your surroundings. The ability to absorb and release panic increases exponentially. Accelerated by fear, the hearts of my father and his city began to beat irregularly. Tremor grasped his throat, invaded his arteries and reached for his heart. Mexico City, whose blood pumped in every direction with verve and activity, stopped. The transport of lives halted. There was no communication between the different boroughs of its body. Though scarred, Mexico’s capital survived its cardiac arrest. My father didn’t. Fear killed him. Like love, fear can also signal ‘stop’.

Several days later, 58 babies were rescued from the rubble of Hospital Juarez. I was among them. Like mites who sniffed danger, we had hibernated under the debris of a wrecked nursery ward. We didn’t know fear, we couldn’t recognize its odour. Ariel died. Micky died. And I survived.