photo by sean, © 2010
Well, I was in Brighton this past Thursday, for three reasons: 1) to accompany Mufidah into town; she continued into Hove to meet with one of her Mac Made Easy clients, 2) to leaflet around Brighton for my upcoming writing course and workshop there, and 3) to bring my sometimes-smart, sometimes-bloody-stupid iPhone into the Apple Store to discuss the various things which go awry with just enough frequency to turn what would be an amazing technological tool into a real pain-in-the-ass. I wasn't looking to get a new phone as mine was only a bit more than a month old and I suspected the issues were not necessarily hardware-related ... but the Apple Store genius-folk are not really interested in problem-solving. They prefer to just hand out new phones, and so that's what I got. But this post isn't about my sometimes-smart, sometimes-bloody-stupid iPhone (and the good news is that, thus far, this new phone does seem a bit smarter).
Rather, what I'm really getting at is that when I stopped by the Brighton Jubilee Library to put out my leaflets, I walked past a woman sitting at a table and noticed that next to her was a copy of Kurt Cobain's journals. I never knew these had been published. When I asked her if the book was hers, she said no, that she had just finished reading it and that I was welcome to take it. An unexpected little drop of golden sunshine had burst in upon my day. I took the book over to a comfy chair and lost myself in it for an hour-and-a-half or so, and had essentially finished the book by that evening, having read it on the train back to Lewes (and getting a rather patronizing roll of the eyes from the older woman who sat across from me with her daughter, reminding me that I'm really happy to be the age I am with a 19-year-old daughter who shares many of my musical interests), and continuing to pore through it after returning home.
Nothing particularly new that I didn't already know about Kurt, etc., but it was good to read his own handwritten (and unannotated) words instead of the third-party crap written about him by Rolling Stone and other music critics, particularly given that he was not exactly fond of journalists and their shoddy, uninspired work. Yet another of countless things I share with Kurt, who had somehow managed to glean in his 27 years so much about the world and the apparent inability of most people to recognize, or care about, injustices which are everywhere around us.
What is it about folk like him, Jim Morrison, John Lennon, et al. who seem to see so clearly what others disregard?