Truth

I want to write about truth. Some of you may stop reading at this point – you imagine I’m going to start sermonising about God, or even the truth of the Bible. You visualise the next few paragraphs summating conspiracy theories about the world, intent on shielding us from the ‘truth’ about aliens or elite families. According to David Icke, they’re one and the same.

Well I’m not. I don’t believe in a ‘God’ in the widest sense of the word, and the Bible’s a book of inaccuracies, spite and covert, ambiguous legislation. Admittedly, I don’t know much about conspiracy theories. But I’ll hazard a wild guess that conspiracy theories are as conspiratorial as the structures they purport to condemn.

No, the word truth, and its meaning, is something I’ve pondered throughout my conscious life. My love of art and literature has driven me to wonder about their merits; my love of relationships and people has driven me to question their purpose too. And after much psychological turmoil, I often find truth.

Semantics make a blog about truth pretty tricky to write. Words such as ‘truth’ and ‘soul’ are almost always associated with religion. It’s hard to know what words to use when things have been attached to glorified cults, but although I don’t adhere these meanings, I’ll use these words for now. Substituting ‘truth’ for ‘nirvana’ or ‘soul’ for ‘energy’ will lose you. Using ‘cat’ for ‘truth’ and ‘sexy’ for ‘soul’ will confuse you. Let’s stick with truth and soul, and get to sexy-cat energy nirvanas later.

I believe that the chief end of man is to seek, and find truth.

A few weeks ago, Jeanette Winterson talked about why reading is so important on Radio Four. She said something along the lines of, ‘Truth doesn’t matter. Poetry matters.’

I was outraged. Why? Because of the way I interpret truth. I would scream from the rooftops that truth was the chief end of poetry, in a polka-dot pair of boxer shorts if need be. Of course, there are those who’ll think I’m crazy, and those who’ll hold that truth doesn’t matter. Truth’s only understood when you speak of a ‘true’ measurement, or a ‘true’ copy of something – it can’t usually be defined in any other way.

Yet I refer to a higher truth. Stay with me, this isn’t about God. This truth can’t be defined or understood in simple terms, but it is worth considering. ‘What the hell’s the point in talking about something that can’t be defined’ you say? Well, what’s the point in philosophy, art, literature or music? And if you say entertainment, stop reading my blog immediately. Go elsewhere. Shoo.

The reason I refer to truth is because I believe the soul seeks it – the self seeks purpose, and the man looks for meaning. Call it the ‘meaning of life’ if you will. Some believe it lies dormant within us all. I know it’s ridiculously hard to get a sense of this, when so much of our lives are characterised by the mundane. That’s why thousands of people travel to far-off places (gap year in India anyone?). They want to give another dimension to their lives. It’s easier to get to grips with this stuff when a long-haired, predominantly naked man says ‘Oh yeah, meditate on it, that’s how I found the truth’.

Of course, many of you will think that meditating’s utter rubbish. You might be as hedonistic as I have been – heck, grab another Macchiato and don’t be late to the office. Read the Guardian and make yourself feel involved with the world. Give money to a charity and ‘do your bit’. I don’t blame you – look, I even gave you a Lolcat.

But it’s all bollocks. Speak to any one human being who hasn’t been subjected to the bureaucracy and materialism of our society (or has tried to escape it) and they’ll explain that to you. I’ve often been told I’m an ‘old soul’, and I know others who’ve been told the same. Sometimes you’ll hear it from your granny; other times from a naked Indian man.

I once believed that we were all old souls – some more than others, but all ancient nonetheless. I thought that we were passing from life to life, until we reached some end that would release us from our struggles. When that happens, I thought, we’ll become old and gnarled trees – we shall transform and imbibe beauty itself, lying in peace. We will help others on their own journeys, by affecting them with utter magnificence.

I’m not sure I believe that now.

But who could possibly argue otherwise? It seems infinitely more plausible than being judged at the pearly gates, and eventually herded into heaven with the masses. It resembles the very worst aspects of life on earth. Queuing, being shamed, and having to repent? It’s about as close to a bad night out as you can get – you know, the one your friends won’t let you live down.

Let’s not ponder whether we’ll be drinking tea with Ghandi or downing boiling oil with Hitler. We might as well resign ourselves to the idea that they’re up there together.

But back to the blog, and there must be some way to reach this truth. I think it’s through creativity. When I say creativity, I mean reinventing parts of existing creations to incorporate into your own, and delving into the recesses of the mind to give life to that which you create. I’m talking about analysing that which is both in and around you, to create literature, music, art and thought.

Of course, for some creativity is not about truth. It’s about beauty instead – a beauty, my friend describes, as that ‘which moves the soul to gasp with something other than a need for air’.

But I once read that beauty is truth, and truth is beauty. So as far as I can tell, creativity is about truth – it’s simply formed through a conscious strive for beauty. I believe in many ways that they are one and the same, because beauty – that thing which makes the soul gasp – is the only bluddy thing that makes it gasp in the first place.

And why do I think we have souls? Because it’s something we can actually feel. No matter how much it’s beaten down into chemical actions and reactions, we feel a sense of self that belies more than genes and experiences. Of course, this sense of self does have a lot to do with experiences, but it’s not simply a product of acclaimed Momma Nature and the more familiar Momma Nurture.

The act of creation comes from somewhere, and it’s not simply a process of stealing ideas. If you do, it’s because someone else has arrived closer to the truth than you have – they’ve come within reach of something rather special. This summates it wonderfully.

I believe that creativity must come from the soul, if such a thing exists. And because the soul is on a quest for truth, the expressions henceforth must be a part of that journey. My philosophical friends might scream ‘fallacy! fallacy!’ – but I don’t really care.

Through intellectual exploration, I think we can come to similar understandings of truth. We can get closer to the truth of a work of art, a score of music, or a piece of poetry. This is because I’m not talking about personal truths, which vary from person to person. The truth of any creative process is that the creative process seeks truth.

This isn’t typing ‘is it true that Sylvester Stallone’s dead?’ on Yahoo.

For some, this truth is God; for others, this truth is love. For others again it is their passion and art. It is purpose and it is being – it is the thing that all religions have formed themselves around. This is a truth that philosophers have grappled with for thousands of years, and yet one that people today don’t give a toss about. What’s the meaning of life?

Who cares, let’s watch the X factor.

This truth is one and the same for all – people seek it in many places, and they call it different things. This isn’t black and white, and I’m not trying to start a cult.

But remember the processes that drive you. Consider why you do what you do. Question everything, accept nothing, and value the things that really matter. Delve into the recesses of your self, and you’ll be an infinitely better person for it.

And if you can’t be arsed with that, then go think about deja vu.

Fetishes

A few weeks ago, I watched Nick Broomfield’s documentary ‘Fetishes’. The documentary focussed upon the lives and workings of a group of women in New York, who work at the establishment known as Pandora’s Box.

Not too long before that, I got in touch with a company named Coffee, Cake and Kink. They needed writers to help them with their upcoming blogs, but the articles are unpaid. Although I’m not inclined to work for free, I figured it might be an interesting company to get involved in.

Why? Because fetishes fascinate me. And, for the most part, they probably intrigue you too.

This is due, in no small part, to the quite different dictionary definitions of the word itself. The evolution of the word fetish is worthy of note alone.

Fet·ish [fet-ish, fee-tish]

1. any object regarded with awe as being the embodiment or habitation of a potent spirit.

2. any object eliciting unquestioning reverence, respect or devotion.

3. any object or nongenital part of the body that causes a habitual erotic response or fixation.

(I won’t be handing out brownie points for guessing which one of the those we most relate to.)

I’ve wanted to write about fetishes for some time now, but every time I sit down to type I find myself clueless. There’s too much to say, and too many avenues to be seduced into. I’ve had my own experiences in the past with particular niches, and I’m open to them now.

I think I’d probably enjoy being wrapped up in cling film, but I can’t understand why people enjoy licking and cleaning toilets. Shoes, bondage and golden showers are pretty normal fetishes by today’s standards – others less so, and I’m still getting my head around them.

But from various discussions I’ve had in this past fortnight, I think I’m closer to that holy grail of strangeness. You see, a friend and I spent a whole night last week trying to find out about fetishes we hadn’t heard of. Of note was Omorashi.

This, dare I say, is one of the ‘nicest’ fetishes I’ve read about. It’s based on the excitement of having a full bladder and wetting oneself, or watching another wet themselves in desperation. Go on, have a look at the website – if you need further temptation, there’s a dedicated Harry Potter Roleplay section.

This, like so many other unusual niches, seems to be an incredibly innocent form of excitement. An excitement, I think, that’s almost always related to childhood experience.

You see, the basis for what we consider strange or dirty is forced upon us as we mature. Feelings of being secure, disciplined, frightened or humiliated – these are all things we experience as children. But these are bad feelings – that’s what we’re told.

What’s so wrong with acting like a child? What could possibly be deviant about regaining those feelings – the emotions we beat out of ourselves as we’re told to grow up, get a job, buy a house and pro-create? If we all had fun with fetishes, and tried to regain a hint of that honesty and vulnerability, I feel that the world would be a better place – and a hell of a lot more interesting. I think it’s about time we stopped sitting on the computer, looking over a shoulder.

And she should stop looking so miserable – her sex life could probably be a whole lot better.

But on with research, and a little interview. I’m lucky enough to know a Dominatrix called Ana. She was good enough to answer some of my (probably impertinent) questions last week.

Could you tell me a little about how you got into fetishes, and why?

Like a great number of people, my journey into the world of sexual fetish wasn’t a conscious decision. It was something within me which one day happened to speak with a voice loud enough to be heard and as such be noted and eventually realized. I should point out that my life of fetishism began as a child – which is often the case for many fetishists.

Could you explain what kind of fetishes you have had experience with?

I have encountered so many between my career as a Pro Domme and my private life that I’d likely need to take a day off to list and explain them all – not to say I hadn’t read about or seen videos to do with countless types of fetish over the years, but seeing in the flesh with one’s own eyes and being party to someone revealing their true self in front of you is quite something.

I have had nylon fetishists who enjoy wearing tights and seeing tights being worn, being bound and gagged with them, being completely engulfed in a nylon bodysuit or bodybag. I’ve had people into puppy play where they take on the role of a dog and get to play fetch and receive tummy tickles and food treats for obedience and performing well at being taught a new trick, and I have spoken online with game show gunge and balloon fetishists too who can’t think of anything more joyous than being dunked in the gunk or being in a room filled with balloons as Mistress pops them with her killer stilettos. Finding a premises with enough outdoor space for my own dunk tank is on the five year plan.

Why, in your opinion, are fetishes still a largely underground phenomena?

Well that’s just the thing you see, having a fetish need not be as secret as they may have been over the past sixty years – these days. Some people may choose to keep their fetishes to themselves if they have a partner who they love and adore and could simply not be without – yet is completely disinterested in the fetish and sometimes even distressed or repulsed by it. That’s a sacrifice those fetishists make and it is a heavy burden to bear. Sadly these type of relationships do exist and some of those who go unaccepted by their loved ones make a percentage of the clients I have through my chamber doors.

Fetishes are for the most part a personal thing, as is one’s sexuality. It’s just not the done thing to bump into a stranger on the street and begin talking about where you find yourself on the sexual orientation spectrum any more than it is to start telling the stranger what happens makes your head swim and your genitals tingle. I’m quite sure you could be bothered by the law for such behaviour. I don’t believe it’s as underground as some may believe, but it is going on behind closed doors.

Can you discuss the lack of physical sexual action in fetish scenarios?

In terms of the sessions I have with my clients, I am more interested in the inches between the ears than the inches between the legs. Between my client and I there is no sexual conduct such as hand to genital masturbation, oral sex or penetrative sex, but that doesn’t mean that the sessions themselves aren’t very sexually charged, even if he doesn’t have an erection. All the sexual excitement is going on upstairs in the grey matter and that’s where it counts. Any dolt can fuck, that’s what gonzo porn is for. Fetishism is in my opinion about playing with the mind and not just the body.

Unfortunately, I’m inclined to believe that many people still imagine themselves neanderthals – they rarely link psychology to their sexuality. I would also be inclined to say that a greater majority of women are more psychologically involved with sex than men, but that may be because I’ve slept with a range of idiots in the past.

Let’s just say my study of fetishes is an ongoing project.

Now go and have fun.

London

To celebrate the dawn of 2012, I went to London.

Arriving at Notting Hill Gate, my partner and I walked among the majestic facades of mansions, trying to locate the building we would be staying in over the next seven days. You see, we were kindly offered a friend’s home over Hogmanay, on the condition we looked after a whippet.

And what a whippet he was.

The house was beautiful too, but the company made the whole week wonderful.

I returned to Edinburgh feeling as though I needed to write about London. Perhaps not about London, or even the people that live there, but the confusion and sadness I felt after leaving.

The thing is, I have never felt such materialism and ruthlessness seep from everyday life as I did there. It’s an exciting place, and I knew that when I first made the trip some six years ago. Only this time, I felt different. Perhaps it was because I wasn’t drunk at Live8, singing along to Snoop Dogg.

The first thing I noticed was Mark Landy’s series of posters, strewn across every station. He asks people to tell their stories of kindness on the tube. Yet on many an underground escalator, I also found videos of celebrities from Channel 4 – winking, smiling and waving at me as I ascended into yet more madness. Surely, I thought, people can see that this man is wheedling niceties for his own gain. Our kindness to others is just about all we have left, and I assume he’s making a mint from it.

If you can’t wait to get home and report your stories of kindness, stop. Look across to the seat in front of you, and afford the person you see with recognition that they are alive. There sits a human being, someone with something to say. They’ve probably had a shit day, and they’re likely to feel as tired as you do. If they haven’t lost their humanity, they might even return a smile.

Don’t get me wrong, this happens everywhere – we’re too afraid to be nice to strangers in case they reject us as being creepy, drunk or psychotic. (For the record, I am often all three – but usually around friends, and not strangers).

I just couldn’t understand it. Nor could I understand Knightsbridge, where people spend hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds on stuff. I mean, that’s all it is – stuff. I made the mistake of entering Harrods, and quickly made my escape: one particularly sad-looking staff member wheezed ‘keep going till you sense the fresh air – then you’re free.’

To add insult to injury, as my mother would say, the people in Harrods didn’t appear happy with their stuff. It’s good to be proud of the things that you do, or the things you create. It’s good to be proud of the stuff that you buy, if you’ve worked hard to get it – if you actually care about the stuff, or the fact that it improves your life in some way. How many times can I write stuff in a sentence? Many times. Do I care for it? Not a jot.

Unfortunately, I’m at a loss as to why people work so terribly hard there. It’s not easy, it’s expensive and – according to some – it’s ruthless. So why, on achieving the success, wealth and prestige that so many people desire, are they numb? It seems like Victorian ennui – there’s simply too much to take in.

The grass is always greener.

And there’s not just one Jones family – there are thousands.

London made me feel insignificant. I felt as though nothing I said, did or thought was of even the slightest importance. It made me feel as though – if I were to succumb to the numbness – my great achievements would become small steps; my existence a mere drop in the ocean.

And it’s all true.

Our combined achievements are fleeting in history, and our existence a mere speck in the universe. London is an ocean, and I am a drop. Yes, people move there because of greater chances; but the more opportunities, the more drops that fall. The more drops that drip, the less significant your splash. As drops continue to fall, London’s sea expands.

I’d rather jump in a puddle.

Why have a Blog?

My name is Sophie Gackowski, and right now I’m working as a freelance copywriter. Not a very good – or acclaimed – copywriter, but a copywriter nonetheless. Are copywriters ever actually ‘acclaimed’? Probably not. How many times can you fit copywriter into a sentence? Many times.

Anyway, this current line of work leads me to write about all kinds of things. Yesterday I spent the day writing about mobile phones – 75 word reviews, priced at 90p each. It’s pretty dismal pay. What bothers me more than the low wage placed upon the heads of these reviews, is the importance of each handset having social network integration.

You see, I find it difficult to understand why I even have a Facebook account. On occasions I’ve found myself deleting the contemptible thing. Or rather, putting it into a state of hibernation – Facebook would never allow us to make such a finite decision on our own.

This has been for a variety of reasons, and I’m sure anyone reading this will be able to relate to them all: you do it to get more work done; to stop yourself snooping into others’ lives; to make sure you don’t message your ex-partner when pissed. One of my main reasons for ‘deleting’ the account, was because I feel like I’ve never very much to say.

If I did have anything to put forward, why would anyone want to read it?

And if they didn’t want to, why should I then create a blog?

To answer that is a difficult task. Simply setting up a blog on WordPress shows you the millions of people who’ve got there before you. Surely they must have interesting things to say, for them to have done this before me.

Well, perhaps not.

If you’re interested in photography, you’ll enjoy my partner’s blog.

If you’re interested in taking the piss out of various things, you’ll adore my boss’s blog.

If you’re not sure what you’re interested in, you’ll probably end up writing a blog entitled ‘Life’.

I take photographs, I write, I draw, I read. I make tiny things for dolls’ houses sometimes, although they’re not really for dolls’ houses – I don’t even own one. The thing is, I like lots of things, but I’m not particularly good at any of them. From a young age I’ve wanted to embrace and hold the knowledge of the world, imbibe everything that could possibly give me – or you – a sense of purpose in life.

But that’s not realistic, is it? It’s not something anyone can accomplish – even Stephen Fry, who’s one person I actually do follow on Twitter.

This is why I consider myself a ‘Jack of all trades, yet Master of none’. I cannot, and will not, devote my life to the pursuit of success. To pour all of my energy into one thing that another will always be better at doing – it frightens me. This is why I am currently happy as a freelance copywriter. I earn little, but enough: enough to try and pursue happiness in its truest form, anyway.

A kind of happiness that does not rely upon success nor matter, but comes simply from creating things. Creative actions make others feel, without directly trying to. Whether those actions make someone despair, rejoice or simply feel something inexplicable is not the point. I’m not suggesting we all go out and abuse people in the street to make them ‘feel’ – although I’d often like to. Rather, we should simply aim to affect one another, because that’s all there is to life, really.

And so, I write this blog with no intent in mind. There is nothing I value more than my ability to think and reason, and my ability (or difficulty) in expressing those musings via the written word, or another form of creative action. I don’t consider myself a philosopher, and I’ll never utter anything profound.

So why do I have a blog? Because I might say something interesting one day.

And if that has the ability to make someone else feel, then I shall be content.