Good evening internet. It's been such a long time since I've written from my own perspective that I slightly dread that I've forgotten how. In fact I've been staring at the flashing dash next to the previous full stop for so long I now feel it is angry at me, it has grown impatient with my frozen mind and is tapping away - ushering me to continue with fury. This is torturous. I can not think of a single word and every time I try to write anything I go to place it in speech marks. But like any human being I must valiantly muster up the drive to carry on, for the sake of my sanity.
I've had to say 'Goodbye' more times than I'd care to remember. Casually at a change in direction, mournfully at a change in circumstance, finally at a change of importance - it's never easy. I find with each wave, each tip of the hat, it gets harder and harder to let go of a goodbye. They etch themselves into our hearts like paper cuts on a finger, barely noticeable except at moments of strain during which they sear and deepen until we can not take the pain any longer. Accepting that someone will no longer be a part of your life takes practice, and I'm still unsure if it's an art we as humans can perfect. But we can try, carrying the ghosts of the people we've left behind with us always, like multiple shadows hiding round corners of our minds and clutching to memories. I think the most impossible feat is saying goodbye to someone who has left this earth. We find consolidation in mundane questions about the people we've parted ways with. In wondering; where they are now, what they're doing, whether they're content. But with people who leave us for the further - how can we treasure such musings? I find that such goodbyes never truly occur.
The media age; the age of soaps, video games and cartoons, has lead us to think of death as inconclusive, as something people have the ability to come back from. This leaves us with a nagging apprehension that those we lose to death will return to us. They'll reappear at the point in our lives we're most desperate for them. It takes a while for the realization at the impossibility of this to dawn on most people, and a lot of the time it never fully does. We pretend to have moved on, pretend to be accepting of the loss of those we loved, or those who loved us - but really we're all harboring a shameful secret; that we're never going to stop anticipating a reunion. It's easy to forget people we part ways with, to shove them to the backs of our subconscious and pretend they never existed, file them away in some restricted section. Treat them like land mines in specific cities/towns/countries around the world, avoiding certain places for fear of some healed and scarred wound to be ripped open once more. But with death there's only one real chance of reconciliation. And yet it's these goodbyes we struggle with most, because it's these goodbyes that are eternal. They canker away at us, breaking away little pieces of our resolve against death until, when the time comes, the wall breaks down completely and we welcome it like an old friend, as if that is what awaits us after our assent.
I suppose in a way one can say that without a 'goodbye', we can never rejoice in the magic and infinite possibility of a 'hello'. What is a life without the parting of ways? A life spent entirely beside each other would be a life without the ability to journey for self-discovery, or any discovery at all for that matter. We need the absences to inspire longing, to remind us we have something worthy of being missed. Without that feeling we forget all the positive things about a person, we focus only on the things that anger us in the day to day, giving no time to the aspects of a person that we admire. It's this kind of agonizing environment that irrevocably leads to irreversible damage to a relationship
I fear I may have frenzied myself into a state of self pity with all this talk of heart ache and the crippling writers block I have failed to overcome. So now I'm going to go and comfort eat kale until my tears taste like salad dressing. I'll try and get more into the habit once more of utilizing this space in the cyber universe, I feel I am leaning too heavily on creating the thoughts and feelings of imaginary characters and forgetting to organize my own.
Thanks internet, have a good Tuesday.
Monday 4 February 2013
Friday 1 June 2012
Never follow the spiders.
Well I've decided to try and work through the writers block by churning out yet another poorly worded rambling onto this dusty old URL. I've been gone so long in fact that the layout of the website has completely changed and I can no longer make the font do that rounded letter thing I am such a avid fan of. The new color scheme is all fluorescent and orange, and it's hurting my eyes slightly. I'm finding it virtually impossible to be my dark moody self with this subliminal cheer glaring at me so maybe this will inspire me to be less 'glass half empty' and look on the 'bright side'. Unfortunately I'm also currently listening to Cinematic Orchestra and I haven't yet slept so the glass is entirely devoid of liquid and will be until I get some rest.
The lives of spiders repulse me. The things themselves aren't exactly aesthetically pleasing but it's more the idea of their existence that bothers me. These days I find myself doing a lot of waiting, mainly for forms of transport or for certain points in the morning where it is acceptable to make breakfast, but the problem is the overall atmosphere in which I wait. Waiting in itself is not that dull if, that is, you are waiting for an occurrence that either excites or scares you. An event which produces some kind of emotion, whatever it may be is at least producing a feeling and a thought process to occupy your mind as you wait. No, the kind of waiting I've been doing lately is the kind with a foreseeably neutral outcome. This particular brand of time wasting has
become somewhat of a pain to me. I think this is largely down to the fact that I have such an over active mind that when given a space of time in which I have nothing to occupy myself except my own thoughts leads me to think of things like the lives of spiders. Due to a recent infestation of the fuckers I've been observing them and I think it's safe to say I'd have more fun watching paint dry. My feelings of distaste for them increased so profoundly over time that I
am now somewhat enraged by their dull, parasitic nature. How can something with the potential to be deadly and so universally feared (by the most dangerous species on earth) be so infuriatingly intent on just sitting still and waiting for prey? I understand that by some standards they are 'beautiful' and the way in which they bide their time as they hunt and allow their naive prey to come to them can be somewhat admired. However from the way I see it they are just lazy. Lazy and unimaginative. Allowing a skill which they have been free to
utilise since birth create a trap for their food? If a creature simply bides it's time and relies solely on the stupidity and hyperactivity of a smaller, feebler being than where is the thrill of the chase? Where is the prowess? I think the reason I am so bothered by the spiders is because I am so much like them. I sit, and I wait for something interesting to fall into my lap, anything, and on the rare occasion it does I grab a-hold and suck the life, drain the enjoyment out of it just to try and feel something. I used to go exploring for adventure, nourishment for my soul, now I just wait for it to be handed to me. Cautiously, boringly. In some ways I suppose I am like them; I seek out the dark, I am constantly waiting, but unlike the revered arachnids of which I speak; I do not live in a structure of my own excrement.
The lives of spiders repulse me. The things themselves aren't exactly aesthetically pleasing but it's more the idea of their existence that bothers me. These days I find myself doing a lot of waiting, mainly for forms of transport or for certain points in the morning where it is acceptable to make breakfast, but the problem is the overall atmosphere in which I wait. Waiting in itself is not that dull if, that is, you are waiting for an occurrence that either excites or scares you. An event which produces some kind of emotion, whatever it may be is at least producing a feeling and a thought process to occupy your mind as you wait. No, the kind of waiting I've been doing lately is the kind with a foreseeably neutral outcome. This particular brand of time wasting has
become somewhat of a pain to me. I think this is largely down to the fact that I have such an over active mind that when given a space of time in which I have nothing to occupy myself except my own thoughts leads me to think of things like the lives of spiders. Due to a recent infestation of the fuckers I've been observing them and I think it's safe to say I'd have more fun watching paint dry. My feelings of distaste for them increased so profoundly over time that I
am now somewhat enraged by their dull, parasitic nature. How can something with the potential to be deadly and so universally feared (by the most dangerous species on earth) be so infuriatingly intent on just sitting still and waiting for prey? I understand that by some standards they are 'beautiful' and the way in which they bide their time as they hunt and allow their naive prey to come to them can be somewhat admired. However from the way I see it they are just lazy. Lazy and unimaginative. Allowing a skill which they have been free to
utilise since birth create a trap for their food? If a creature simply bides it's time and relies solely on the stupidity and hyperactivity of a smaller, feebler being than where is the thrill of the chase? Where is the prowess? I think the reason I am so bothered by the spiders is because I am so much like them. I sit, and I wait for something interesting to fall into my lap, anything, and on the rare occasion it does I grab a-hold and suck the life, drain the enjoyment out of it just to try and feel something. I used to go exploring for adventure, nourishment for my soul, now I just wait for it to be handed to me. Cautiously, boringly. In some ways I suppose I am like them; I seek out the dark, I am constantly waiting, but unlike the revered arachnids of which I speak; I do not live in a structure of my own excrement.
I recently began to read a book of 'memoirs'.
The story is fictitious however it is written in the first person
and therefore when I am thinking about it I forget it's a work of imagination
and perceive it as someone's real experiences. In this book the writer, Tom, is
describing his teenage year in an all-boy's school and his clique from these
days, later on he goes on to describe his elder years as he is now retired and
divorced. As he does this he slots everything between the ages of 17 to 70 into
one paragraph. At the end of this meager description of a whole existence he
says "That however is not important to this story" and it got me
thinking; just how important will my life be to my story? Will I dwell on a
particular section of my past when I am rotting alone in a home, with no
visitors, no prospects, not even the ability to decide when I urinate? Will I
wish I had done something different, or even more daunting, everything? As
we are young we predict the likely pains and bleakness that age might bring. We
imagine being lonely, divorced, widowed. Possible children growing away from
us. Forgetting one phone call, then one dinner, then being too busy altogether and
it’s as if you’re already gone to them and in a way, you are. Having to quietly
accept the loss of status, loss of respect and dignity, of desire – and desirability
in order to ‘age gracefully’. It all must fade in the end until you are nothing
more than a collection of failed ambitions, awkward sexual encounters and
regret. I believe it’s not until the fear of death fades that the regret does.
If we truly accept death then there can be no reason to wish we had more time to
live, or the means to rewrite our lives. Only after we have come to accept that will we be no longer conscious or exist other than in memory, can we really start to
appreciate all we’ve had in our lives. Be grateful for the wife we’re estranged
from, the children who’ve grown and gone on to show no signs of psychological
damage from our parental failures, cherish the status we once had and the
respect that went with it and fondly remember the bruises and grass stains from
that weekend in Guildford. However, unfortunately, not everybody gets to that
point. The idea that the world can go on without us is something difficult to
grasp, even to the least narcissistic of us because we’ve never known it. We
did not experience the world before we occurred upon it, nor will we ever suffer
it after we are gone. It seems an obvious enough statement to make but that is
because at this age we can only think about death like something that happens
to other people. There is no other way to describe it than; unfathomable. I am
straying off course here and as I’ve already devoted a blog post to the subject
of death it is starting to worry me that I am doing it yet again. I’m just
twisted like that.
I am now sure at this point that my brain is
no longer capable of forming coherent sentences and I think it’s time to wrap
this up. I probably haven’t made any sense since I began musing over these unnecessary
subjects but at least my grammar was correct. I hear a pot of coffee calling my
name from the kitchen which either means those weren’t ordinary mushrooms in my
dinner or the kettle’s boiled. I’ll let you choose which of those seems most feasible
to you. Whatever helps you sleep at night children.
Tuesday 6 March 2012
Never assume you can define normality while sleep-deprived.
Well hello loyal subjects. Yes, it has been quite some time. You're probably all wondering what dark, twisty, satanic misadventures I have been embarking upon since we last spoke. Alas young ones, I am only able to disappoint as I am keeping that information to myself today. I have (very recently) decided that rather than being egocentric and petty I will instead be returning this page to it's former... something. By that I mean that I will not be burdening the public with my failed love life, my drug habits, or my venomous revenge plots. Instead I will hint and dance around all these issues and then do the adult thing and simply pretend instead to be interested in current affairs.
Recently I have found myself very focused on the idea of normality. As you will all undoubtedly agree I am not what majority vote would classify as 'normal'. I do not mean this in the 'I wear tweed and listen to bands you've never heard of ' way, I mean it in the socially unacceptable way. I talk too much, my thought process is completely mangled, I have a very warped opinion of reality and i rarely adhere to social queues. Oh and of course I wear tweed and listen to bands you've never heard of. But why does this make me abnormal, what is the definition of normal? The Oxford English Dictionary defines normality as: The condition of being normal; the state of being usual, typical or expected. But does that apply to society today? Definitions of what constitutes abnormal behavior have changed dramatically throughout history. Before the application of scientific thinking in this area, any behavior that seemed outside of an individual's control was thought to be the product of supernatural forces. The way in which our ancestors dealt with abnormal behavior reflected their very different beliefs about it's nature and cause. Although we have moved on in our understanding of what constitutes normal and abnormal behavior (and therefore which requires treatment), the definition of abnormality itself inevitably remains a judgement call. We could spend hours trying to define this most elusive concept, what is evident is that no single definition is adequate on its own, although each captures some aspect of what we might expect from a true definition of the term. Unfortunately the ideal of normality can be heavily influenced by a number of presences including the pressure from social influences, the ability to function adequately and hate/love. Abnormalities manifest themselves in many different forms but not all of these manifestations are undesirable. For example; having an IQ over 140 is abnormal, but it is not undesirable. However, depression is a common mental illness in the UK, making it normal to suffer from, but depression isn't desirable.
With all this in mind, what constitutes normal behavior for every day life? Can we put our choices down to abnormalities in character? Can we say we made mistakes based on slips of judgement or pure accident? Or do we have to merely accept our follies and take responsibility for the things we simply can not explain away. Just how many times does someone have to repeat the same action before it stops being a 'mistake' and starts being a personality trait? It's normal to fuck up lads. But it's not normal not to recognize a mistake from a choice. Yes delusions come in much more serious forms, warped ideas of reality, tactile, auditory or visual hallucinations etc. but delusions can also be presented as megalomania for example, among other more mild delusions. Including not knowing when something is simply your fault.
I've been blaming everyone else for the choices i've made recently and if you were a victim of my ruthless insidiousness then i am truly sorry. I have terrible luck, there is no denying it - i've never won anything by chance, I always call coins wrong and a lot of other more substantial and eloquent 'symptoms' which I won't go in to due to my new blogging rules. This downfall has caused me to be overly superstitious my whole life, almost to a crippling degree. However I can not blame the universe for my absent-minded nature. I will openly admit that one of my biggest character flaws is that I can be trusted. I miss deadlines, I'm always late, I lose everything and I can decide not to listen to my conscious at will. This does not make me a bad person, in simple terms it just means I have the ability to be a bad person and often am mistaken for one. I never wanted to be like this, but over time things change and you have to learn that not everything is going to be rainbows and smiles. Your reality is going to look a lot different to how you imagined it as a child. And that's normal, in fact in my case it's a good thing because when I was a child i wanted to be a viral digimon named Diaboromon.
I originally had a point about claiming insanity in murder charges and some other intellectual topics of discussion but after reading back the word 'digimon' I know that I am just too tired for this. I will advance more on this tomorrow because apparently I am no longer repulsed by my own writing anymore. I haven't really covered enough ground to be proud of my valiant efforts today - but I did throw a haribo in the air and catch it in my mouth so I don't really care anymore.
Recently I have found myself very focused on the idea of normality. As you will all undoubtedly agree I am not what majority vote would classify as 'normal'. I do not mean this in the 'I wear tweed and listen to bands you've never heard of ' way, I mean it in the socially unacceptable way. I talk too much, my thought process is completely mangled, I have a very warped opinion of reality and i rarely adhere to social queues. Oh and of course I wear tweed and listen to bands you've never heard of. But why does this make me abnormal, what is the definition of normal? The Oxford English Dictionary defines normality as: The condition of being normal; the state of being usual, typical or expected. But does that apply to society today? Definitions of what constitutes abnormal behavior have changed dramatically throughout history. Before the application of scientific thinking in this area, any behavior that seemed outside of an individual's control was thought to be the product of supernatural forces. The way in which our ancestors dealt with abnormal behavior reflected their very different beliefs about it's nature and cause. Although we have moved on in our understanding of what constitutes normal and abnormal behavior (and therefore which requires treatment), the definition of abnormality itself inevitably remains a judgement call. We could spend hours trying to define this most elusive concept, what is evident is that no single definition is adequate on its own, although each captures some aspect of what we might expect from a true definition of the term. Unfortunately the ideal of normality can be heavily influenced by a number of presences including the pressure from social influences, the ability to function adequately and hate/love. Abnormalities manifest themselves in many different forms but not all of these manifestations are undesirable. For example; having an IQ over 140 is abnormal, but it is not undesirable. However, depression is a common mental illness in the UK, making it normal to suffer from, but depression isn't desirable.
With all this in mind, what constitutes normal behavior for every day life? Can we put our choices down to abnormalities in character? Can we say we made mistakes based on slips of judgement or pure accident? Or do we have to merely accept our follies and take responsibility for the things we simply can not explain away. Just how many times does someone have to repeat the same action before it stops being a 'mistake' and starts being a personality trait? It's normal to fuck up lads. But it's not normal not to recognize a mistake from a choice. Yes delusions come in much more serious forms, warped ideas of reality, tactile, auditory or visual hallucinations etc. but delusions can also be presented as megalomania for example, among other more mild delusions. Including not knowing when something is simply your fault.
I've been blaming everyone else for the choices i've made recently and if you were a victim of my ruthless insidiousness then i am truly sorry. I have terrible luck, there is no denying it - i've never won anything by chance, I always call coins wrong and a lot of other more substantial and eloquent 'symptoms' which I won't go in to due to my new blogging rules. This downfall has caused me to be overly superstitious my whole life, almost to a crippling degree. However I can not blame the universe for my absent-minded nature. I will openly admit that one of my biggest character flaws is that I can be trusted. I miss deadlines, I'm always late, I lose everything and I can decide not to listen to my conscious at will. This does not make me a bad person, in simple terms it just means I have the ability to be a bad person and often am mistaken for one. I never wanted to be like this, but over time things change and you have to learn that not everything is going to be rainbows and smiles. Your reality is going to look a lot different to how you imagined it as a child. And that's normal, in fact in my case it's a good thing because when I was a child i wanted to be a viral digimon named Diaboromon.
I originally had a point about claiming insanity in murder charges and some other intellectual topics of discussion but after reading back the word 'digimon' I know that I am just too tired for this. I will advance more on this tomorrow because apparently I am no longer repulsed by my own writing anymore. I haven't really covered enough ground to be proud of my valiant efforts today - but I did throw a haribo in the air and catch it in my mouth so I don't really care anymore.
Sunday 20 November 2011
Never give a teenager a scalpel.
Has anyone noticed just how shit things have become? Surely you've thought it, looked back on the days where you didn't need a job, didn't need ID, didn't need anything but a bottle of WKD and your friends and thought 'Jesus, i miss that'. These days it's all UCAS applications, vicious circles, and debt. I am trying not to dwell so much on the past but when your present is making you sick it's hard not to. This week for me has been one of firsts, the first time i've been referred to as a step-daughter, the first time i've not missed a lesson, and the first time i've evaluated my drug addiction. I returned today from london where i had spent the last 30 hours pretending to be a model daughter, for those of you who have never had the displeasure to have to do this, it is made of four main ignominies:
1. Smile constantly
2. Laugh at all jokes, however stale
3. Dance with your father and try not to kick him (deliberately or otherwise)
4. Drink as much free wine as possible.
Personally i think i did a bang up job of concealing my ruthless and unrelenting rage but i can not be utterly sure as i thought i did pretty well in my drama GCSE as well and that turned out to be very untrue. All i know is i was invited back 'Anytime darling' to what i can now refer to as; My father's house. I spent most of the night pining for Brighton as i was gravely aware of two very long-awaited events going on simultaneously to my dad's "oh by the way i got married" celebration. This is one thing i can admit about myself, i get terrible "fun envy".
For example, if i have a choice of two parties in one night i will inextricably end up feeling as though i have missed out. If someone in my vicinity is on something and i am merely drunk or sober then i will experience a burning desire to join them until i either give in and call my dealer or i fall asleep. This is what has lead me to believe i am an addict. Not in the way that i get itchy, sell my organs, or cry if i don't receive my fix but by an exclusive inclination to be the highest at any offered occasion. If i were to suddenly find myself in a convent where the residents were never on drugs then i would be content. However if i were to say return to a festival this weekend i guarantee either i wouldn't survive or i would return with at least a minor form of brain damage. I've always been a cheery fucker with a prominent emphasis on the positive, and today i am being no different; I am positive that I will not make it to 18 at this rate. I am positive I need to slow down. And most importantly I am positive that I neither want to nor am capable of doing so. The reason I tell you this internet is that i want you all to know that when you hear from some source or another that my body was found with my brain eroded and my blood 90% toxins you will know that it was no one's fault but my own. In addition to this, mighty following, This is a warning to myself more than anything. But children it is also a warning to you, as my friends you are probably all just as dependent on drugs as I am (and i'm not talking class A's, tobacco, alcohol and marijuana are all classified as drugs too). We must quit whilst we are ahead; and alive. Your teenage years are said to be the best of your life, but mine are passing in a very expensive haze. The older generation say experiment whilst you're young, but what happens if your curiosity turns to dependence? Your rush to reliance? Desire to obsession? I for one will not be quitting drugs, i will still have a roll-up on the way to college, still partake in drinking games, and i will occasionally dapple in the dark art of assorted substances. However I will no longer allow my rapture to get the better of me and will only do each in moderation and never again allow myself to repress my fear of my own expiration. Because this isn't ecstasy, it's leprosy. A long time ago I created a post entitled 'Never drink anything that looks like chemicals, and tastes like cough syrup' in which I spoke about how I knew my limits. Well I think I have reached and exceeded them in every possible way since September. I have twisted and mutated each and every aspect of my mental stability. I have had enough and now I intend to give my immune system a well-deserved nap. Let the torture ensue.
I know this blog has been abused recently, i've been using it like some kind of jeremy kyle tribute to put my own mortality under the microscope and in doing so accomplishing nothing but confusion and acrimony. I have also been invariably using this space for my own agoraphobic needs and it is for both of these offences that I am sorry. I am sure next time i hail to click on this prototypical conformity I will be back to my personalities usual concoction of the psychotic and the analytic. Or i'll just tumultuously ramble on until my brain gives up or I am carted away for insanity because that is what the internet is for. Freedom of expression. And as a wise man once said; Don't give a child a gun, unless you want him to use it.
"No matter what, even if I take my meds and I heal myself I'll still be insane. But that is what I want, to be someone to relate to for anyone who is as alienated, awkward, spastic and passionate as me." - Max Bemis
1. Smile constantly
2. Laugh at all jokes, however stale
3. Dance with your father and try not to kick him (deliberately or otherwise)
4. Drink as much free wine as possible.
Personally i think i did a bang up job of concealing my ruthless and unrelenting rage but i can not be utterly sure as i thought i did pretty well in my drama GCSE as well and that turned out to be very untrue. All i know is i was invited back 'Anytime darling' to what i can now refer to as; My father's house. I spent most of the night pining for Brighton as i was gravely aware of two very long-awaited events going on simultaneously to my dad's "oh by the way i got married" celebration. This is one thing i can admit about myself, i get terrible "fun envy".
For example, if i have a choice of two parties in one night i will inextricably end up feeling as though i have missed out. If someone in my vicinity is on something and i am merely drunk or sober then i will experience a burning desire to join them until i either give in and call my dealer or i fall asleep. This is what has lead me to believe i am an addict. Not in the way that i get itchy, sell my organs, or cry if i don't receive my fix but by an exclusive inclination to be the highest at any offered occasion. If i were to suddenly find myself in a convent where the residents were never on drugs then i would be content. However if i were to say return to a festival this weekend i guarantee either i wouldn't survive or i would return with at least a minor form of brain damage. I've always been a cheery fucker with a prominent emphasis on the positive, and today i am being no different; I am positive that I will not make it to 18 at this rate. I am positive I need to slow down. And most importantly I am positive that I neither want to nor am capable of doing so. The reason I tell you this internet is that i want you all to know that when you hear from some source or another that my body was found with my brain eroded and my blood 90% toxins you will know that it was no one's fault but my own. In addition to this, mighty following, This is a warning to myself more than anything. But children it is also a warning to you, as my friends you are probably all just as dependent on drugs as I am (and i'm not talking class A's, tobacco, alcohol and marijuana are all classified as drugs too). We must quit whilst we are ahead; and alive. Your teenage years are said to be the best of your life, but mine are passing in a very expensive haze. The older generation say experiment whilst you're young, but what happens if your curiosity turns to dependence? Your rush to reliance? Desire to obsession? I for one will not be quitting drugs, i will still have a roll-up on the way to college, still partake in drinking games, and i will occasionally dapple in the dark art of assorted substances. However I will no longer allow my rapture to get the better of me and will only do each in moderation and never again allow myself to repress my fear of my own expiration. Because this isn't ecstasy, it's leprosy. A long time ago I created a post entitled 'Never drink anything that looks like chemicals, and tastes like cough syrup' in which I spoke about how I knew my limits. Well I think I have reached and exceeded them in every possible way since September. I have twisted and mutated each and every aspect of my mental stability. I have had enough and now I intend to give my immune system a well-deserved nap. Let the torture ensue.
I know this blog has been abused recently, i've been using it like some kind of jeremy kyle tribute to put my own mortality under the microscope and in doing so accomplishing nothing but confusion and acrimony. I have also been invariably using this space for my own agoraphobic needs and it is for both of these offences that I am sorry. I am sure next time i hail to click on this prototypical conformity I will be back to my personalities usual concoction of the psychotic and the analytic. Or i'll just tumultuously ramble on until my brain gives up or I am carted away for insanity because that is what the internet is for. Freedom of expression. And as a wise man once said; Don't give a child a gun, unless you want him to use it.
"No matter what, even if I take my meds and I heal myself I'll still be insane. But that is what I want, to be someone to relate to for anyone who is as alienated, awkward, spastic and passionate as me." - Max Bemis
Wednesday 19 October 2011
Never join the army.
It's difficult to concentrate when you have a chorus of white noise surrounding you but i'm going to have to try in a vain attempt to keep my sanity. After yet another unnecessarily exhausting day i am attempting to float away on the forth and gather myself some real sleep. As the natural course of my monotonous life dictates, it is 1.39am on a wednesday night so as per usual i will be thinking about either sex or death. I am currently watching 'Full Metal Jacket' which makes it virtually impossible for me to think about sex right now (at least in any way i'd actually want to) so instead i am whimsically pondering death.
The other day i was looking through one of my old year-eight note books. You know the kind; My Chemical Romance lyrics shrouding the thing, the odd poorly drawn mess and the name of whichever boy had slightly interested me on that particular day written next to a comically large '4EVER'. The reason i bring this to your attention loyal subjects is because i'd forgotten just how eerily obsessed i used to be with death. When we were younger we didn't really understand the concept of death, which is logical as we didn't really understand the concept of life either. It's hard to accept the hypothesis that 'life is precious' when you are young - mostly due to the fact that anyone who tells you that it is, doesn't appear to be having an exceptionally good time anymore and are probably closer to death then you could ever dream of being. That is the thing isn't it my children, we are so absorbed in living that we can not fathom death. Have you ever just sat down with a cuppa and thought about death? I can see a few hands up; i strongly advise you to seek help. If you haven't; i strongly advise you not to. As a general activity contemplating your eventual and possibly untimely demise isn't much of a mood elevator.
I personally have many theories on what happens in the after life, most of them are very badly formed and based on the jumped-up ramblings of an assortment of junkies and rock stars. But they all basically go like this:
1. You die.
2. Shit happens.
If you'd like a more detailed account then i suppose you can say i'm following a kind of fucked up hybrid version of the norse and the hindu religion. I believe that there are separate levels (or realms) in the spiritual world beyond our physical world. In Norse religion they believe there are three levels; one for warriors, one for average do-gooders, and one for sinners. My views concorde with these but i believe we each establish our own level based on the lives we lead. This is where the Hindu religion comes into in that i believe we collect a certain type of energy through-out our lives (the matter auras are made of). When we die we release this energy and it will take us to where we will be most content through reincarnation. I also have a second and much more looming theory that absolutely fuck all happens when you die and you're just dead. But we don't talk about that.
There's also the lovely little question of just exactly how you will exit through the emblematic and not entirely relevant giftshop. I believe that ectoplasmic projections sometimes seep into our dreams to warn us of things to come and the result of this is reacquiring dreams. I have a very frequent dream in which my dad is driving me off a cliff - this is not a good sign. In all honesty i will be perfectly satisfied with death as long as i don't die in some horrifically embarrassing, painfully avoidable or comically stupid situation. If there is an afterlife i don't want to have that 'morning-after' sense of regret for the rest of eternity. I often find myself making discussions based on how much i will be kicking myself later. Generally as a rule i will do something entirely to avoid regretting not on my death bed. Regret is such a touchy subject which i will be fondling profusely next time.
But for right now fellow sinners i must craw over to Megan and go to bed as it is 2am and all i can think about is how i don't want to die wishing i'd had anal sex. Full Metal Jacket just finished and now i am free to let my obscene mind wonder. Well done me.
'We are put on this Earth to fuck around, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.' - Kurt Vonnegut.
The other day i was looking through one of my old year-eight note books. You know the kind; My Chemical Romance lyrics shrouding the thing, the odd poorly drawn mess and the name of whichever boy had slightly interested me on that particular day written next to a comically large '4EVER'. The reason i bring this to your attention loyal subjects is because i'd forgotten just how eerily obsessed i used to be with death. When we were younger we didn't really understand the concept of death, which is logical as we didn't really understand the concept of life either. It's hard to accept the hypothesis that 'life is precious' when you are young - mostly due to the fact that anyone who tells you that it is, doesn't appear to be having an exceptionally good time anymore and are probably closer to death then you could ever dream of being. That is the thing isn't it my children, we are so absorbed in living that we can not fathom death. Have you ever just sat down with a cuppa and thought about death? I can see a few hands up; i strongly advise you to seek help. If you haven't; i strongly advise you not to. As a general activity contemplating your eventual and possibly untimely demise isn't much of a mood elevator.
I personally have many theories on what happens in the after life, most of them are very badly formed and based on the jumped-up ramblings of an assortment of junkies and rock stars. But they all basically go like this:
1. You die.
2. Shit happens.
If you'd like a more detailed account then i suppose you can say i'm following a kind of fucked up hybrid version of the norse and the hindu religion. I believe that there are separate levels (or realms) in the spiritual world beyond our physical world. In Norse religion they believe there are three levels; one for warriors, one for average do-gooders, and one for sinners. My views concorde with these but i believe we each establish our own level based on the lives we lead. This is where the Hindu religion comes into in that i believe we collect a certain type of energy through-out our lives (the matter auras are made of). When we die we release this energy and it will take us to where we will be most content through reincarnation. I also have a second and much more looming theory that absolutely fuck all happens when you die and you're just dead. But we don't talk about that.
There's also the lovely little question of just exactly how you will exit through the emblematic and not entirely relevant giftshop. I believe that ectoplasmic projections sometimes seep into our dreams to warn us of things to come and the result of this is reacquiring dreams. I have a very frequent dream in which my dad is driving me off a cliff - this is not a good sign. In all honesty i will be perfectly satisfied with death as long as i don't die in some horrifically embarrassing, painfully avoidable or comically stupid situation. If there is an afterlife i don't want to have that 'morning-after' sense of regret for the rest of eternity. I often find myself making discussions based on how much i will be kicking myself later. Generally as a rule i will do something entirely to avoid regretting not on my death bed. Regret is such a touchy subject which i will be fondling profusely next time.
But for right now fellow sinners i must craw over to Megan and go to bed as it is 2am and all i can think about is how i don't want to die wishing i'd had anal sex. Full Metal Jacket just finished and now i am free to let my obscene mind wonder. Well done me.
'We are put on this Earth to fuck around, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.' - Kurt Vonnegut.
Sunday 16 October 2011
Never avoid the valley
Why hello internet. Hasn't it been a while? Just in case you weren't sure i can assure you that it has, i would like to tell you that i am back. 100% me, i am no longer an exhausted shell of a woman I've been since bestival. I have healed, cleaned my life up. I no longer have the urge to massacre whole villages, and i am back. nanananananananana. I hope you've all been doing better than i have. i hope you're all on top of your college work, i hope you've all got a life plan going and you're not wasting your time chasing skirt. Not that i am...
Today i would like to talk about skin. Not the organ, or the things we wrap tobacco in, i mean the metaphorical thing we live in. Like our gender, our race, our appearance. I read an article today about a man who attempted to reassign his own sex by hacking away his penis with a Stanley knife and it got me thinking about acceptance. This man was willing to risk his life so he didn't have to keep living it as himself. Is this something we all struggle with? Is it a chemical imbalance? Or is it just an emotional thing? People say you can be born in the wrong skin, but why is this? The NHS now offer breast augmentations for people who are 'desperately' unhappy with their size, who's to say this wont lead to all kinds of unnecessary surgeries done on the basis of vain fancy? If i walked into a hospital now and said that i was supposed to be born a shoe, would they send me to a psychiatric facility, or would they put me under the knife and start attaching laces to me? Don't get me wrong, i'm not against reassignment or plastic surgery, i just think we should have a better system in order to differentiate between people with a real pathological need to be different and those who simply need a little help with self-acceptance. Obviously I, like the majority of the people, would be totally down with many procedures, a new nose, new boobs, wings? But i think that if these things were available to everyone we'd lose all sense of individuality and end up looking like this http://beyondbeautifulbabe.files.wordpress.com/2010/08/ugly-barbie2.jpg
and who'd wanna shag that aye?
I'd also like to bring up that trust thing i keep harping on about. It's a dodgy little subject that one. We can throw it around however we wish, some don't trust anyone, some trust too easily and some like me pick and choose using a very complicated screening process and those people like me, are wrong. You can not trust anyone in this day and age. Some wise man once said 'drunken minds speak sober hearts'. That man was both entirely deluded and incomprehensibly accurate. Sometimes when we've been poisoning ourselves with alcohol we say things we don't mean, we say things that we shouldn't, and whenever this happens we always, always, regret it. I hate that i talk when I've been drinking but it's impossible not to, alcohol dissolves our social filter and everything merges in to one horrible blob of awkward secrets, embarrassing facts and painful memories. But this does not give someone the right to pass on the information, if anything it should do the opposite. If someone confides in you while they've been drinking please do not take this to mean what they are saying means nothing, it really means the opposite- it means everything. It is something they can only say while not entirely knowing they're saying it: so guard this information with your life. Or you may find you're risking someone else's.
The next thing i'd like to bring up is something a lot lighter than usual: i'd like to talk about the avengers. I am super totally excited about the new film that is supposed to grace out silver screens some time around next summer, but there was something i noticed today that horrified me. As a ravenous graphic novel fan (anime and manga included) i like my films to be spot on with accuracy, and although they rarely are it's nice when the Hollywood big shots make an effort. So i was absolutely disgusted to find out that they'd cast the guy who played the human torch in the fantastic four, as captain america. what? WHAT? how is that supposed to work, he can't be both? This isn't the parent trap? Get it together marvel. I know this isn't exactly top news but it just really bothered me. I know Chris Evans is beautiful and has a perfectly manly chin, but that doesn't mean he can defy the laws of physics. Is it really that difficult to hire two actors? This has totally destroyed the point of the film, all the heroes in the same time period inexplicably and fighting the same cause. Now i don't even know what they'll do, and no amount of Samuel L. Jackson can fix this.
I had that feeling again today. The vast emptiness, mixed in with the sensation of being totally complete. This always tends to happen with a realization of beauty. Today for example, i was sitting on the bridge next to my train station, the sun was about to set and the whole sky was a blood colored haze. I had a coffee and a cigarette and i realized how brilliant everything was when we let it be. Then i got thinking, and came to a very weird conclusion. We are taught throughout our lives that the ends of things are beautiful, the end of a day, the end of life, the end of a rainbow. We are also taught that the beginnings of things are, the beginning of a day, the beginning of a relationship, the beginning of time. This may not seem so unfathomable to you, but the thing that mystifies me is the fact that we never celebrate the middle. No one ever says 'oh i saw the most amazing midday yesterday' or 'there's a light inside the tunnel.' but friends, we should. The middle is worth singing about. The middle is the best bit. The middle of an oreo, the middle of nowhere, the place where Malcolm is. I don't see why we are so eager to skip past the middle, that's where we should be most comfortable. That's the point in which we are past the rocky start and we have everything to look forward to. Where we can take a step back and observe, this is the calm between storms, this is the moment between the rock and the hard place. This is what we live for. Those not busy being born aren't busy dying, they're living. And so are we.
And in that spirit i'd like to bid you ado, i can only stand so much of my own inner monologue. And it is the middle of the night - which in my opinion, is the best part.
Sunday 2 October 2011
Never sweat the distance.
It's so easy to overlook things, to underestimate things. I don't really think we ever anticipate the magnitude of situations until it's too late. People can be so pathetically short sighted. Especially when it comes to the feelings of others. For examples, going years without realizing someone has romantic feelings for you, or telling white lies and waiting for the truth to come out, or agreeing to move to Chichester for your mum without even considering the long term effects. Thanks mum, for completely and utterly fucking me over. Have you ever been so tired you fall asleep in class? Have you ever been so tired you don't know where your dreams end and reality begins? Have you ever been so tired you're afraid to sleep in case you never wake up? I am exhausted. All. The. Time. No matter what time i go to bed, i always wake up feeling as if i've been awake for years. I can't remember what it's like to get into bed and fall asleep. All i know now is the sliding hand of the clock, or the s l o w ebbing sands in the timer waiting for the approaching unconsciousness. But i'll be damned if i even get 2 hours of sleep these days. And my teachers wonder why i fall asleep, why i'm late, why my deadlines aren't met. And my mum wonders why i'm not eating, why i'm never home, why i am so damn mad. Take a look mum, this is what we're living for now. I hope you can see it in my eyes, the blame, i am going to fuck my life up. And there's nothing i can do to stop it, because i am too tired to try. I feel unconnected as if i'm not real, my life in brighton is one half of a life, and my life here is the other half but there is no way to make them meet so i'm just stuck in a kind of limbo between them. I don't care if i go upwards or down, heaven or hell. I just want to move on. I just want to get some sleep.
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