Pontarlier’s Quiet
Haven’t written much in a while. A few weeks ago I was home, perhaps jinxing myself by proclaiming how the slow pace of life here was making me all creative-y and that. A few people have mentioned the lack of recent blog posts. So here is one.
“With insomnia, nothing is real.
Everything is a copy of a copy of a copy.”
I used to be very good at sleeping but recently during the week I have been sleeping only sporadically. I used to power nap with nonchalance, and lie in til it got dark whenever I needed to. In the past few days though I have awoken in the middle of the night, still knackered, but wide awake, feeling thoughts rushing through my head, to no end, until I have had enough of staring blindly at the ceiling and I read or listen to music then eventually, for a few insufficient hours, the night takes me once more.
But is there any point writing about it? I can just type in “insomnia quotes” or “insomnia lyrics” into google, to find little pre-packaged bits of commentary to validate how I’m feeling. You can do that for anything, gluing yourself to whatever mood you’re in, as if these thoughts were in some way noble, important, vital. Today people can follow any whim, justifying it with, and taking solace in, copies of other people’s thoughts. All the while with a nagging hangover from youth, remembering being told “you are all special” and free do whatever they want. People consume and regurgitate culture over and over, whilst they day-dream, or if they are lucky night-dream, about fame or adulation or appreciation for their own wonderful talent they won in the great gene lottery.
In my quest for rationalisation and justification of my thoughts, google threw up The Streets’ title track off their fourth album, “Everything Is Borrowed,” which I hadn’t heard in a long while. Whilst it resonated with me a little, I mainly found myself frustrated by it.
“This is my hour, I’m never going to bed.
The sky is still black, but begs to be red.
I just put my book down, but it begs to be read
I’m not nod, I’m not napper, never rest my head.”
It is almost good, the right sort of ideas are there, some of them approaching admirable, some almost insightful. But instead it fails, and is shit. Rhyming red with read is suspect at best, to start with. Any positive facets are horribly diluted by the sub-cheesy backing track, all strings and nostalgic nonsense, vomit-inducing Lilly Allen-lite parts, any interesting ideas lost in his half-baked lyrics, as Skinner simply states the obvious with clunking turns of phrase that are all the worse because you know he can do so much better.
All this brutally highlights his now stupid voice, horribly stranded between the wonderful first album’s crisp style and that of actual singing. It sounds woefully empty. I find it difficult to move beyond that first album where he talks his stark stream of consciousness, almost rapping, almost chanting, and you can imagine him head down, walking through the dark city streets, the lights and noise and sights rushing over him, all these thoughts spewing out of him naturally. This is juxtaposed perfectly with the minimalist beats and basic samples, all of it making epic empty space, aping the grey city.
Skinner’s later work is a far cry from this, now one can only imagine him struggling to slowly cobble together something sing-along to satiate festival crowds, and neglecting the perfect poetry of Original Pirate Material, where there was barely a word out of place. Instead a few ‘nice’ string parts will fool the masses into thinking this is of any worth. Of course it may be impossible to recreate that first album – Skinner is no longer a man from the streets, he is an international pop star. And we still have that first album. I turn off Everything Is Borrowed, and listen to The Same Old Thing, similar ideas, six years earlier, and whilst not the even close to best part of the album, infinitely better.
“Apparently, there’s a whole world out there somewhere”
Perhaps I should just consume more positive culture, shut down the bits of my mind that produce such rambling thoughts, lose myself in the relentless charge of time. But out here in quiet France there is not so much to do, not so much ‘real life’ to lose myself in, or at least not that which I am used to, me, the city-dweller, the pub-drinker, the gig-goer, the eternally connected. I ebb between welcoming this peace and being frustrated by lack of things to do. Not that, thinking about it more objectively, there really is a great lack of things to do. I have plenty of books, a whole language to learn, a town to explore, French people to talk French to, and much more besides. And of course the Internet, with its collection of almost all human thought, all human achievement and all human knowledge. And time, always lots of time. Should have plenty of time to do all these things.
There is also plenty of natural greatness to admire. This area is blessed with great sunsets, and my room looks out upon them.
I can walk or cycle out to the countryside, amongst only the sky and trees. I cycle along the “chemin du train,” a greenway snaking out of Pontarlier through the hills. The sky seeming massive now the horizon isn’t cluttered with buildings. This area is high up, so there is a nip in the air, but it is crisp and refreshing. As the day draws to a close mist begins to gather over the fields by the river Doubs.
I feel that perhaps I have escaped from the hubbub of society. Except I haven’t quite. Pontarlier is not bustling, but it is by no means a village, and this path out of town is popular. Other cyclists and runners and walkers drift by. When I stop and sit on a bench above a river, with my breath condensing and adding to the mist, I can hear the roar of traffic, out of sight but not so far away. It is almost relaxing, this endless drone, a little like the white noise of the sea. Perhaps reminding me that whatever I do, I cannot escape the things that have shaped me, I cannot really “break out” {whatever that means} of this soft-blanketed society. Maybe I don’t want to, maybe I just want the feeling of escape without its harsh reality, maybe I, like everyone, else need this cocoon of familiarity, this choice our cars and our freedoms give us, this safety of our sheltered lives. Maybe at this juncture though, I just wanted the silence of nature.
To me, Pontarlier seems to be fairly rural. Perhaps this is inaccurate. Whilst compared to the vast conurbation of London it is far smaller, it is substantially bigger than the tiny villages that dot the landscape around it, and is a hub of sorts, people commute here or come here to shop. The centre of town has quite rustic feel, with some narrow cobbled streets nicely actualising my mind’s image of a classic French town. But Pontarlier has grown far beyond this, to high(ish)rise blocks of flats, and a sprawling industrial park on the edge of town. I made my way there the other day as the sun was going down.
Yes, that is a car, marooned on top of a tower, for reasons unknown.
It is very empty out here, particularly when wandering round on the weekend.
The sky is without clouds, and these massive warehouses and chain stores seem empty too, missing people, as most are closed today, but also missing something less tangible. They seem so impersonal and so ugly. They seem so uniform, clearly put up cheaply and in a hurry, so cynical and shameless in their purpose. Smaller businesses, like many of the shops and cafés in the centre, seem to have a more human purpose – to provide a livelihood for the proprietors, to be a part of the community. Whatever they sell, they at least seem to spring from the endeavour of a real, living, breathing human.
By contrast, these metal monstrosities, just dumped by anonymous corporations on the edge of town, feel soulless, even when they are busy. Consumer-zombies stumble round the brightly lit interior, dazedly grabbing ‘deals,’ products sold for the benefit of The Company, sourced from a million miles away by god knows who.
I’d like to hope though that whilst people will always remain, one day this impersonal way of doing things shall one day fade, industry is always changing. I am reminded of this as I reach the end of the industrial park, and head back towards the populated city. There are some factories, whose heydays have perhaps passed; there are vehicles full of people; there is an old train line now abandoned.
Being unable to sleep comes and goes. Usually after a couple of nights, I catch up, and I lie dreaming all night. I suppose sleep is just a ride into the next day, and there’s plenty to wake up for; I’m enjoying teaching, in general. The kids are fun to work with, and strong at English, in general, so it’s all, y’know, terribly fulfilling.
But rest can be good too.
