Daisy and I walked out of the cold into the cold of my student house.
The air around had a definitive weight to it. So much so that the opening of the back door now enforced a phantom influence on the living room. I guess the wind is heavier.
I seem to have been floating around on this cloud for some time, she said. It has continually lost matter but not relevance. The last thing I wish to accomplish is glorifying his ego (all this time on). I almost told him so much this week.
The informed response in her mind was that if she had done, he would have rejected her either by complete ignorance or with malice in his speech. However, the promise of hope one day coming true and fulfilling the dream she had left so long ago was too much to let go of. She'd never be truthful about the truth of the matter. She couldn't if she tried.
"The balance is so precise, you see. If I talk to him then I will finally know. If I don't...then I will never know, and this mental anguish will persist".
(Surely those outcomes are one and the same).
What anguish? (Delusion, I muttered).
"That what was then could now be so different".
Or the same...
"Yes but-". It was at this point my mind numbed. The conversation was tedious and inevitably hopeless. Hope is hopeless, I thought. Hope only exists in the mind of the person who is hoping. Hope is too often coupled with some grand illusion that the world, or people, are in a different state than how they actually are.
The trouble was that the idea provided her with some happiness. It was not for me to shatter, it was for him.
"You see, things have changed. I mean, it's almost 2010 now. A new decade. I'll be moving soon, and things will change further". (That would be superb other than these changes were further distortions that hope was manipulating).
(The source of her woes was unlikely to be the solution. Though in her mind, the source was love.
Love?
Love.
She believed in love and hope, and all of the sugary things force-fed to us as children. At her age! Still, I find it more than difficult to feel disdain for such childish fantasy. It does have an appeal, even for the cynic).
The intensity of first love is said to taint all future relations.
The crazed and manic episodes of melodrama; arguments are the end of the world, and kisses are the beginning. Each day the world is reincarnated and it is difficult to grasp an existence whereby each day simply is. It seems lesser.
"But is it as simple as that? Can we really diminish relationships to first, second, third, etc? When did the race begin and is there an end? Surely it would become a matter of stamina in that instance? I do not believe feelings should be reduced in a cooking pot of belittlement. You feel how you do. Some may say you're foolish, others would say you're wise. It depends on the person's own experiences, as they invariably feel that you should live their life. We are not all entirely similar..."
I suppose, but then, the general consensus overrules, does it not?
"It shouldn't. People know how they feel and such emotions should not be meddled with. The majesty of growing old is tuning into your own thoughts and emotions.
Do you believe in soulmates?"
I, uh...I don't know.
"Well, I do. It's corny. Sometimes life is. Short of the romances in great novels you're unlikely to come across a tale of love that isn't in part corny.
People are stubborn, and cold. Personally, my heart has felt enough cold in its time. It could very well be that my decisions are eternally erroneous. I abandoned once, just as I may try to re-enact. Both may be mistakes but if I do not try then what am I to do otherwise?"
Just carry on?
"Carry on?"
Well, you'll meet somebody new. I know people say this but it DOES happen.
"And what then? To be dissatisfied WITH someone? I'd sooner live thoughtless than emotionless".
The trouble with passion is that its expression lives only in the moment...
When this moment has flown from sight there is but a husk of experience that dwells within our minds, which has a tendency to feel it has once again caught a glimpse of what once filled it. Hope has a high affinity for this husky body.
Daisy and I agreed to disagree. There were too many arguments taking place already.
Neither of us knew the answer, and it would take another 10 years to find them out.
How different this conversation would have been...unfortunately those 10 years still have not come to be.
It's possible this was her goodbye dialogue to the soulmate she did not know anymore.
I'm not very subtle at times...I still see Daisy floating by on that cloud of hers except I know there's nothing beneath her and perhaps look at her oddly.
I believe, sadly, that she needs to let go of that cloud.
Friday, 18 December 2009
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
Smoke and Ashes.
My thoughts - all in a single cigarette. Smoke and ashes.
The routine of overlooking Moulsecoomb Hill from my garden has seemingly become about expression. I smoke to create; ash dancing in updrafts fighting to stay captured in thought waves now separated from its source. The smoke: twisting and swirling about my eyes and body. They dissipate, much like my thoughts as soon as I can reach for a pen.
I wonder about those before me breathing the Sussex air and what it might have been they contemplated on similar nights. Did they have my thoughts? I can't say.
I always seem to be the last to go to bed in my house - even if the people I live with have been out into Brighton. It's as though I am waiting for some prolific development. I wonder if you know or whether you never really "got" my depths. There isn't much to get, really.
Sometimes it is difficult to know you are alive despite so much life around you. Perhaps it is due to this bustling that life becomes forsaken.
The trees bare, the animals still and the people asleep. You, your thoughts, and the night. There is a jingling sound that comes across the garden to the right and I don't suppose I'll ever know the cause of it - I don't, in fact, need to know.
The cigarette ends and I stub it out on the wall to the conservatory. It dies in glitter and resistance. I retire.
Have I sealed the fate of a youth's death; to become a memory in those minds I met fleetingly? Or perhaps worse, to become old and still clutching this cigarette thinking still about all that was and all that might never be. Possibly bitter, with me as the one reminiscing with old faces that I once knew; all in the end of a cigarette.
Shelter in the memories of love, knives in the wind now feel dull.
At night shadowed phantoms steal embraces from the pitch black depths of the corners of my room. The general buzz that life emits seems quieter.
Tonight held fearsome winds and upon the demise of this night's nicotine appeasement the embers flew toward my face. Surrounded by the possibility that the land might tear apart tonight, the expression of emotion to my fellow man seemed distant and unimaginable. A consistent squeaking from above seemed company enough to invite myself out for a final cigarette at 3.05am.
The routine of overlooking Moulsecoomb Hill from my garden has seemingly become about expression. I smoke to create; ash dancing in updrafts fighting to stay captured in thought waves now separated from its source. The smoke: twisting and swirling about my eyes and body. They dissipate, much like my thoughts as soon as I can reach for a pen.
I wonder about those before me breathing the Sussex air and what it might have been they contemplated on similar nights. Did they have my thoughts? I can't say.
I always seem to be the last to go to bed in my house - even if the people I live with have been out into Brighton. It's as though I am waiting for some prolific development. I wonder if you know or whether you never really "got" my depths. There isn't much to get, really.
Sometimes it is difficult to know you are alive despite so much life around you. Perhaps it is due to this bustling that life becomes forsaken.
The trees bare, the animals still and the people asleep. You, your thoughts, and the night. There is a jingling sound that comes across the garden to the right and I don't suppose I'll ever know the cause of it - I don't, in fact, need to know.
The cigarette ends and I stub it out on the wall to the conservatory. It dies in glitter and resistance. I retire.
Have I sealed the fate of a youth's death; to become a memory in those minds I met fleetingly? Or perhaps worse, to become old and still clutching this cigarette thinking still about all that was and all that might never be. Possibly bitter, with me as the one reminiscing with old faces that I once knew; all in the end of a cigarette.
Shelter in the memories of love, knives in the wind now feel dull.
At night shadowed phantoms steal embraces from the pitch black depths of the corners of my room. The general buzz that life emits seems quieter.
Tonight held fearsome winds and upon the demise of this night's nicotine appeasement the embers flew toward my face. Surrounded by the possibility that the land might tear apart tonight, the expression of emotion to my fellow man seemed distant and unimaginable. A consistent squeaking from above seemed company enough to invite myself out for a final cigarette at 3.05am.
Sunday, 22 November 2009
Saturday, 21 November 2009
The Way Things Are.
I'm running on approximately one hour of sleep.
I have work today.
It feels as though there is a tremendous amount of dead weight floating in the space around me. It has no distinguishable features other than its heaviness. The floor is littered with thoughts and emotions that again, I cannot quite tell apart. I wonder if it is simply because of the inevitable juncture in my life I am about to face: leaving university. Although, this will be a more than welcome development.
"I just don't know", I repeatedly say. It's as though I am bordering on senile ramblings.
I just don't know what to think or feel. There seems to be a nothingness to everything.
This is not about martyrdom: it's about life. A common phrase appraised to me lately is that I need to get out of my own headspace and away from these enveloping thoughts that contain me. I think too much (that's been said throughout my life). I need to turn off. I need to sleep. I need someone to give me an answer.
I feel myself in the air and on the floor simultaneously. In limbo.
I feel so enraged with angst and have no clear idea of the reason.
I guess I'm weary. I'm bored. Fed up. Maybe I am premenstrual.
I've no idea what my purpose is to any degree.
I have work today.
It feels as though there is a tremendous amount of dead weight floating in the space around me. It has no distinguishable features other than its heaviness. The floor is littered with thoughts and emotions that again, I cannot quite tell apart. I wonder if it is simply because of the inevitable juncture in my life I am about to face: leaving university. Although, this will be a more than welcome development.
"I just don't know", I repeatedly say. It's as though I am bordering on senile ramblings.
I just don't know what to think or feel. There seems to be a nothingness to everything.
This is not about martyrdom: it's about life. A common phrase appraised to me lately is that I need to get out of my own headspace and away from these enveloping thoughts that contain me. I think too much (that's been said throughout my life). I need to turn off. I need to sleep. I need someone to give me an answer.
I feel myself in the air and on the floor simultaneously. In limbo.
I feel so enraged with angst and have no clear idea of the reason.
I guess I'm weary. I'm bored. Fed up. Maybe I am premenstrual.
I've no idea what my purpose is to any degree.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Nostalgia is a burden. To see elements of what our life was in this changed world.
But to receive no feedback on bad adverts, reality television, political scandals and the such like.
The petty things that make up the days. Feeling that this is still our time. A small century fractured with bad poetry and verse that never reaches you.
Videos of you are still difficult, as are the words once exchanged.
People say that if it's meant to be, then it will be.
But looking at watches, clocks, and sunrises, make me feel it is not our time and never will be.
You know it's bad when listening to Leona Lewis and Mariah Carey from the comfort of this now single bed in Reading evokes some stirring of the emotions.
But to receive no feedback on bad adverts, reality television, political scandals and the such like.
The petty things that make up the days. Feeling that this is still our time. A small century fractured with bad poetry and verse that never reaches you.
Videos of you are still difficult, as are the words once exchanged.
People say that if it's meant to be, then it will be.
But looking at watches, clocks, and sunrises, make me feel it is not our time and never will be.
You know it's bad when listening to Leona Lewis and Mariah Carey from the comfort of this now single bed in Reading evokes some stirring of the emotions.
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
Monday, 16 November 2009
Romance.
This has become somewhat of a parody.
The wistful windings of human contemplation belittled by the tone of angst: long past its expiration, and self-deprecation (now so tedious).
What general musings and specifics can I offer?
I have no grand insight into human functioning. At least, I have no mutuality.
Internet 2.0 has mechanised human thought and emotion. Interaction now seems so repugnant and monotonous that I can barely muster the energy to wake up in the bitterly cold mornings. Instead, I'd rather fall back into the potential of an unconscious universe where the possibilities are seemingly endless and time is obsolete.
It seems I have nothing but cynicism left.
We do, as adults, discuss the fairytales that never came to fruition. The backhand of adulthood knocks those youthful ideals straight from our head down to our feet.
I am a part of a world (not by much choice) where the important questions that orbit the 'community' are:
"How big is your cock?"
"Are you a top or a bottom?"
And if you're fortunate enough, "Do you have a condom?".
If romance isn't dead, then it's doing a mighty fine job at hiding.
There appears to be no remedy for the opinion of this lifestyle.
Celibacy is becoming a medicated state of mind and nothing changes.
I heard yet another story from a middle-aged man, that after 8 years his partner rushed to fetch the mail. Enclosed were HIV results - he was positive. He'd cheated 4 times. They haven't been in touch for 3 years now.
It feels as though there is no value or weight allotted to the worth of the heart. And if hearts are worthless, why bother having one?
The wistful windings of human contemplation belittled by the tone of angst: long past its expiration, and self-deprecation (now so tedious).
What general musings and specifics can I offer?
I have no grand insight into human functioning. At least, I have no mutuality.
Internet 2.0 has mechanised human thought and emotion. Interaction now seems so repugnant and monotonous that I can barely muster the energy to wake up in the bitterly cold mornings. Instead, I'd rather fall back into the potential of an unconscious universe where the possibilities are seemingly endless and time is obsolete.
It seems I have nothing but cynicism left.
We do, as adults, discuss the fairytales that never came to fruition. The backhand of adulthood knocks those youthful ideals straight from our head down to our feet.
I am a part of a world (not by much choice) where the important questions that orbit the 'community' are:
"How big is your cock?"
"Are you a top or a bottom?"
And if you're fortunate enough, "Do you have a condom?".
If romance isn't dead, then it's doing a mighty fine job at hiding.
There appears to be no remedy for the opinion of this lifestyle.
Celibacy is becoming a medicated state of mind and nothing changes.
I heard yet another story from a middle-aged man, that after 8 years his partner rushed to fetch the mail. Enclosed were HIV results - he was positive. He'd cheated 4 times. They haven't been in touch for 3 years now.
It feels as though there is no value or weight allotted to the worth of the heart. And if hearts are worthless, why bother having one?
Friday, 13 November 2009
I awoke in the afternoon.
I went into the garden for my morning cigarette and a flock of birds flew overhead; all grey and black, apart from one white. In the distance toward Moulsecoomb Hill there was one white: hovering.
The flock repeatedly flew the same course, edging closer toward my house with every cycle. The white of them took the lead.
I went into the garden for my morning cigarette and a flock of birds flew overhead; all grey and black, apart from one white. In the distance toward Moulsecoomb Hill there was one white: hovering.
The flock repeatedly flew the same course, edging closer toward my house with every cycle. The white of them took the lead.
Thursday, 12 November 2009
Moulsecoomb Hill.
I came inside and dwelled in the artificial light emanated from my laptop, mark 2. As I finished the sentence I saw the last two carriages vanish behind my half-drawn curtain. The lights of Moulsecoomb Hill (as I like to call it) burn endlessly. It is always a curious thought that the lights at the bottom seem a little more feeble; intermittent, and less bright than those higher up. It could simply be wandering branches trespassing across the view, but to me, it seems these lights are always the first to go out. As though a slow flooding is occurring; extinguishing whatever left they were glowing for late into the night. I never see the upper levels diminish, though I suppose they must do.
I stub out my menthol cigarette on the wall of which holds the door I must pass through. Sat, in quite casual clothes, quite casually unshaven; this is casualty. Two brand new tops, one of which I have worn more or less since arriving home from my excursion to town alone. It is my independence. The sky, a passionate rouge; almost bleeding all around me.
I never imagined that my love and my future would be such a desolate landscape (although I did joke). But it’s not just me; nobody chooses to be unsuccessful with love...it just sort of happens to you. The frog was kissed but it was only a frog. The screen of my laptop went black and Hollywood could not have prepared timing better than that. Must there come a point in anyone’s life where the belief in romance must take its final bow and retire into obscurity, or else live the rest of its professional life within the construct of pantomime? Another train makes its way toward Brighton railway station. I, for one, do not wish to live at the bottom of Moulsecoomb Hill. But I feel whatever burning that once existed must slowly suffer this suffocated fate. There appears to be no romanticised outcome to a romanticised beginning. The prongs of time pinned deeply in perpetuation within our flesh: too stubborn to yield to the reasoning of the heart. The mind has informed time that ‘now’ is not ‘then’, and to prize the teeth of these hands back would be cheating.
There are so many coincidences and parallels that with time I can only assume the quantity of which extends beyond rationale. One is able to read into the falling of a flower in front of your route. Perhaps it is just a flower. Until the romance inside has succumbed to the flooding of Moulsecoomb Hill I will persist to see more than the flower, and will wish to see nothing less. I will peel each singular petal from its source, having planned which statement will yield an agreeable consequence. As though I have any control.
The scariest thing about Moulsecoomb Hill is not knowing how much time remains before the bottom lights finally go out, and I am left looking above at those still alight.
I stub out my menthol cigarette on the wall of which holds the door I must pass through. Sat, in quite casual clothes, quite casually unshaven; this is casualty. Two brand new tops, one of which I have worn more or less since arriving home from my excursion to town alone. It is my independence. The sky, a passionate rouge; almost bleeding all around me.
I never imagined that my love and my future would be such a desolate landscape (although I did joke). But it’s not just me; nobody chooses to be unsuccessful with love...it just sort of happens to you. The frog was kissed but it was only a frog. The screen of my laptop went black and Hollywood could not have prepared timing better than that. Must there come a point in anyone’s life where the belief in romance must take its final bow and retire into obscurity, or else live the rest of its professional life within the construct of pantomime? Another train makes its way toward Brighton railway station. I, for one, do not wish to live at the bottom of Moulsecoomb Hill. But I feel whatever burning that once existed must slowly suffer this suffocated fate. There appears to be no romanticised outcome to a romanticised beginning. The prongs of time pinned deeply in perpetuation within our flesh: too stubborn to yield to the reasoning of the heart. The mind has informed time that ‘now’ is not ‘then’, and to prize the teeth of these hands back would be cheating.
There are so many coincidences and parallels that with time I can only assume the quantity of which extends beyond rationale. One is able to read into the falling of a flower in front of your route. Perhaps it is just a flower. Until the romance inside has succumbed to the flooding of Moulsecoomb Hill I will persist to see more than the flower, and will wish to see nothing less. I will peel each singular petal from its source, having planned which statement will yield an agreeable consequence. As though I have any control.
The scariest thing about Moulsecoomb Hill is not knowing how much time remains before the bottom lights finally go out, and I am left looking above at those still alight.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
Sunday, 1 November 2009
It feels as though I have begun a systematic destruction of my body. I have documented my growing nicotine addiction, and not cared. I have analysed each thought and craving, and gratified each whim. I look forward to the first cigarette of the morning. In the past, I have been more than satisfied with being a social smoker, and now it has become essential to my functioning.
At night, I look out to the lights in the distance from my Brighton garden. Smoking. Thinking. Is this it? I once had, what felt to be, such a perfect life. I was in college, I had two jobs, a large group of friends, and a boyfriend who I never even once believed would break his fidelity. How naive I was.
Since this point in my life, I have broken up with no less than two boyfriends. Again, both my decisions. Now, at somewhat of a parallel; two jobs, and at university, with a fair selection of friends. No boyfriend. This is not to say that I mind, in fact, I have become quite complacent with this situation. I do not fuck around, and merely imagine, fantasise about the great romance that could be with him, or him, or him, if he were a complete gentleman. But, this is hardly ever the case.
Upon watching 'Queer as Folk', my thoughts have become occupied with the gay lifestyle, and what it means to be a) a man, and b) homosexual, and the consequences of this pairing. It is not a happy result. I have immersed my housemates, and a few friends in this lifestyle because I am curious to know whether it is indeed outrageous, and different. It is. An ex of mine is under the impression that it is inconceivable, or at least very difficult, for a couple to stay faithful over decades of 'loving'/loving. Is it? And that, you should try to forgive their mistakes, having built upon something for so long. It has become somewhat apparent that I have backed out of relationships when the possibility of being used has cropped up. I have felt myself slipping into contentedness, and feared the ignorance overwhelming my senses. You see, I, do not want to be fooled.
Men fuck, and women love. But people are still people.
Pain is an expression of humanity, and creation is not always pretty.
So desperate to not be used, that at every given opportunity it became easier to sever emotional ties, one way or another. To relocate, and begin anew, to repeat the same cycle; enjoy fleeting happiness for the fear of potential hardship. It is with this that I took great delight in punishment - to set an example of those who do wrong. I am not a god, and just barely a human. Where does the line reside? Possibly under my feet, or more than likely, within my head. As an understanding person, I do understand human behaviour, but I am unable to fathom its reaches at the same time. That is, I do not accept the wrongs we do. I can only assume that regret becomes a staple feature in one's life. To give my whole, and not some, to those who take interest. As it is truly rare that people are interested in people. One might debate their motivations, but we could be forever in doubt, and most likely will be forever in doubt. But you cannot deny the surface, which is all we are ever able to know.
I don't believe that I will ever meet someone who wants me, and just me.
The trains still run, and I still board them. I still get drunk, and I still dance.
If there is an attractive boy sitting opposite me then I can relinquish the control reality has on me, and dream of happier times with him. I can picture him holding my hand, and smiling; eyes lit...
But the boys still get off of the train a stop too early, and then I am reminded that I am alone.
I would love nothing more than to build a life with somebody, but then in turn, I am aware of the troubles with this lifestyle. The boredom, the predictability, the heightened risk of cheating. Still, I would rather that was my life than what I witness.
I have less than a year left in Brighton. The final Halloween has already been; next Bonfire night, my 22nd birthday, Christmas, New Year's, Easter, and the last summer by the seaside. I can't pretend to know what the future holds, but I know the romance.
Saturday, 17 October 2009
A Slowness.
There are times where the domains of your life assemble - pulled together by some apparently divine thread that you hope to have some infinite purpose. The trouble when microscoping these specifics is that they may not be as entirely coherent, or necessary, or extraordinary, as you might have originally hoped.
What if they are ordinary, or inappropriate?
It is possible, and possibly easy, to view perfection in imperfection. Appreciating that it is an imperfection is the first step, and feels like a stone pushing its way out of your eye socket to fall to the ground and roll away. It's gritty, and dirty, and unfortunately true.
Being aware of what you want or need makes this pixelated world even smaller.
When the outside world seems smaller, so too must the inside world.
Memories and nostalgia appeal to the wearisome minds of defeat and misplaced hope; disappointment reigns, and hope is found in misread, or misled opportunities and experiences. You can build new kingdoms from scratch with the seeds of hope, desperation, and futility, but these rarely bloom or bear any of the fruit you might have deluded yourself into believing you could harvest.
It is when you realise that the past is past and that the present or future are non-comparable that these walls erode, carefully, but destructively.
A barren wasteland is visible, where you must stand alone, and contemplate. The realisation that really, ultimately, you have to do this; you have to stand alone.
The world, sucked in. A moment of clarity where everything kind of...imploded.
"He would stare at empty chairs, think of the ghosts that once sat there, the ghosts who broke his heart. All the ghosts that broke my heart, the ghosts that broke his heart, all the ghosts that broke my heart, the ghosts the ghosts the ghosts the ghosts the ghosts the ghosts, the ghosts that broke my heart before I met you.
Lover, please, do not fall to your knees, it’s not like I believe in everlasting love".
What if they are ordinary, or inappropriate?
It is possible, and possibly easy, to view perfection in imperfection. Appreciating that it is an imperfection is the first step, and feels like a stone pushing its way out of your eye socket to fall to the ground and roll away. It's gritty, and dirty, and unfortunately true.
Being aware of what you want or need makes this pixelated world even smaller.
When the outside world seems smaller, so too must the inside world.
Memories and nostalgia appeal to the wearisome minds of defeat and misplaced hope; disappointment reigns, and hope is found in misread, or misled opportunities and experiences. You can build new kingdoms from scratch with the seeds of hope, desperation, and futility, but these rarely bloom or bear any of the fruit you might have deluded yourself into believing you could harvest.
It is when you realise that the past is past and that the present or future are non-comparable that these walls erode, carefully, but destructively.
A barren wasteland is visible, where you must stand alone, and contemplate. The realisation that really, ultimately, you have to do this; you have to stand alone.
The world, sucked in. A moment of clarity where everything kind of...imploded.
"He would stare at empty chairs, think of the ghosts that once sat there, the ghosts who broke his heart. All the ghosts that broke my heart, the ghosts that broke his heart, all the ghosts that broke my heart, the ghosts the ghosts the ghosts the ghosts the ghosts the ghosts, the ghosts that broke my heart before I met you.
Lover, please, do not fall to your knees, it’s not like I believe in everlasting love".
Thursday, 1 October 2009
An epoch of repetition.
The trouble with knowing is knowing, and that knowledge is all powerful. This knowledge is venomous and consuming, and all too destroying.
Ashtray mouths and smoky words, billowing between bodies; merging, forming new spouts of knowledge flowing in an endless upward spiral direction to heavenly minds. Nietzsche claimed that an omniscient being could calculate each twist, turn and ricochet of a waterfall, and so too words are calculable. The calculus of mind and body, bridged while masked in a devious guise of modern nature. Beautiful, really.
A thin veneer polishes every body; a glazing of ice, and cold enough. The sun and its hesitant heat, the rapture of lust, the demise of one's love, and the rise of the self.
People are too often entirely predictable; in speech, prose, and behaviour. If you dare to spectate, albeit a spectral role, there are very few surprises. Is that so shocking?
Our hydrated bodies nullify with age, a callous exterior with the pretence of warmth: these frozen flames burn within each incident of life, and in death.
Sex. The inevitable honeytrap, that secures security. Do the obsessed obsess or simply seize opportunity? Was it that the natural fall into love that Mr Holfax had known; of belonging, of having, was not normal of people? Is there a usual demeanour to follow within the harsh boundaries and pathways to the cavernous domains of relationships? Would anyone ever explain the ordinary route of attachment? There was indeed a struggle; a tug of war between reservation and sheer frustration of expected conduct against the violent yells of solitude within one's own skin. The need for the soul, that is, the essence of a person, to flee its own sanctum.
The possibility of exploration and liberation from the confines that conception and labour had cruelly imposed.
His eyes were empty and black, with the glimmer of warmth in the brown that dared reveal a vulnerability in the occasional light. Were they black, or brown? A terrible concoction of the two had occurred. Inseparable. Even he could no longer tell, despite the hours of his life spent staring only at his eyes; reaching with his stare with horrific intensity for something.
The perfume, the flesh, and the night. Only segments of experience remain, yet the memories linger, and a stale scent overpowers the senses, as the man drifts away into that very breeze of nostalgia.
"There's lots of good fish in the sea...maybe...but the vast masses seem to be mackerel or herring, and if you're not mackerel or herring yourself, you are likely to find very few good fish in the sea".
Ashtray mouths and smoky words, billowing between bodies; merging, forming new spouts of knowledge flowing in an endless upward spiral direction to heavenly minds. Nietzsche claimed that an omniscient being could calculate each twist, turn and ricochet of a waterfall, and so too words are calculable. The calculus of mind and body, bridged while masked in a devious guise of modern nature. Beautiful, really.
A thin veneer polishes every body; a glazing of ice, and cold enough. The sun and its hesitant heat, the rapture of lust, the demise of one's love, and the rise of the self.
People are too often entirely predictable; in speech, prose, and behaviour. If you dare to spectate, albeit a spectral role, there are very few surprises. Is that so shocking?
Our hydrated bodies nullify with age, a callous exterior with the pretence of warmth: these frozen flames burn within each incident of life, and in death.
Sex. The inevitable honeytrap, that secures security. Do the obsessed obsess or simply seize opportunity? Was it that the natural fall into love that Mr Holfax had known; of belonging, of having, was not normal of people? Is there a usual demeanour to follow within the harsh boundaries and pathways to the cavernous domains of relationships? Would anyone ever explain the ordinary route of attachment? There was indeed a struggle; a tug of war between reservation and sheer frustration of expected conduct against the violent yells of solitude within one's own skin. The need for the soul, that is, the essence of a person, to flee its own sanctum.
The possibility of exploration and liberation from the confines that conception and labour had cruelly imposed.
His eyes were empty and black, with the glimmer of warmth in the brown that dared reveal a vulnerability in the occasional light. Were they black, or brown? A terrible concoction of the two had occurred. Inseparable. Even he could no longer tell, despite the hours of his life spent staring only at his eyes; reaching with his stare with horrific intensity for something.
The perfume, the flesh, and the night. Only segments of experience remain, yet the memories linger, and a stale scent overpowers the senses, as the man drifts away into that very breeze of nostalgia.
"There's lots of good fish in the sea...maybe...but the vast masses seem to be mackerel or herring, and if you're not mackerel or herring yourself, you are likely to find very few good fish in the sea".
Sunday, 20 September 2009
A part.
I felt so alone.
I began to veer from the supposedly planned route; directions a variant to everyone else, and then the distance swelled.
The edge became apparent, and sharper still. Their eyes shadowed: they had already granted me my 'goodbye'. I had already died and yet my senses were entirely acute; a sensation of non-belonging to a world of life - who would immerse themselves in my past, in this present? Who had ever immersed themselves in the stench and filth of the truth? It seemed necessary that now, now when I needed people the most, that they would disperse like the seeds of a dandelion kicked joyfully by children in the warmth of prepubescent summer fields, under the watch of protective and vigilant parents - or so the scene would appear to portray. I felt like those seeds, caught in updraft, and painfully powerless. I ascended with others, but fell sooner than my companions.
Near death experiences had numbed a sense of living: of being. Had I actually been dead for weeks, months, years, decades? Was I a slowly decaying thought in the minds of those who once loved me? These thoughts blurred, and I had no real moment of thought; a perpetual existence until I thought no more. Yet, I thought again and again. When would this thinking cease?
I began to veer from the supposedly planned route; directions a variant to everyone else, and then the distance swelled.
The edge became apparent, and sharper still. Their eyes shadowed: they had already granted me my 'goodbye'. I had already died and yet my senses were entirely acute; a sensation of non-belonging to a world of life - who would immerse themselves in my past, in this present? Who had ever immersed themselves in the stench and filth of the truth? It seemed necessary that now, now when I needed people the most, that they would disperse like the seeds of a dandelion kicked joyfully by children in the warmth of prepubescent summer fields, under the watch of protective and vigilant parents - or so the scene would appear to portray. I felt like those seeds, caught in updraft, and painfully powerless. I ascended with others, but fell sooner than my companions.
Near death experiences had numbed a sense of living: of being. Had I actually been dead for weeks, months, years, decades? Was I a slowly decaying thought in the minds of those who once loved me? These thoughts blurred, and I had no real moment of thought; a perpetual existence until I thought no more. Yet, I thought again and again. When would this thinking cease?
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
Bestival, 2009.
There is something I forget every year in passing: the difference between getting drunk to go to a club, and getting drunk at a festival.
This year I got away from Brighton and its incestuous gays. I got away from the worst relationship I've ever experienced, and the mess that surrounded it.
Nothing is able to really effect my mood at a festival, as opposed to a club. I'm surrounded by primarily like-minded individuals, and live music. Away from people.
The weather was a real delight this year; completely making up for last year, and the people I met were a riot to hang out with.
It's strange to think I could have died on the journey home: a van colliding with the precise place of our car where my head had fallen asleep on. I didn't even wake up.
Another thing I have completely realised is that Brighton is just not for me, in any degree imaginable. I know that when I move away I am going to have a much better time with things.
I cannot wait for Bestival 2010.
I cannot wait for the north.
Wednesday, 19 August 2009
Small town boys may marry small town boys.
The beauty of age is acquired wisdom.
A child who came to the conclusion people "grow apart, not together".
A child who would become a teenager with a drawn on "supercilious" smile, knowingly appreciative of the situation's progression; years in advance of its happening. A well documented carcinogenic effect of the condition from a varied array of sources. Perhaps responsibility really does lie within where attention is paid, or forced upon children.
And so with age, people learn to wait, and develop their patience.
Knowing that people revolve. As children, desiring to be "happened to" until it happens, at which point we wish it had never happened at all.
It's not realising you've been hurt until the blood forms on the surface of your skin, and calling out for your mother's aid.
It is the young adults who still desire to be "happened to" that I wish to be around. More aware than most, and unhappy at this facet, but at the very least able to converse with over the current matters - that is to say, the next 10 years.
The scales are forever tipping out of favour; involuntary gluttony thrust upon our bodies, trapping our minds on the other side of the scales; persistently rising.
There is happiness in the climbing of trees, and picking of apples in your great grandmother's garden. There hangs from those branches the multiple corpses of the future and all its contents; every moment, interaction and situation swings slowly in the breeze of childhood. Intertwined in one endless second that never seems to end, but does. The useless facts, the twisting of being lovesick and betrayed, the stomach aches of laughter, and the days that didn't seem to occur.
The loss of loss itself, and the bodies fall from the tree instantaneously, like the apples it holds so dear.
And the child who ate all of the apples sees the deathly gaze of the morgue, and comprehends what this gaze entails, and in turn, learns what the tree's residents were keeping to themselves.
This child falls to the ground prematurely, and horribly, in an instant of seemingly forever.
A child who came to the conclusion people "grow apart, not together".
A child who would become a teenager with a drawn on "supercilious" smile, knowingly appreciative of the situation's progression; years in advance of its happening. A well documented carcinogenic effect of the condition from a varied array of sources. Perhaps responsibility really does lie within where attention is paid, or forced upon children.
And so with age, people learn to wait, and develop their patience.
Knowing that people revolve. As children, desiring to be "happened to" until it happens, at which point we wish it had never happened at all.
It's not realising you've been hurt until the blood forms on the surface of your skin, and calling out for your mother's aid.
It is the young adults who still desire to be "happened to" that I wish to be around. More aware than most, and unhappy at this facet, but at the very least able to converse with over the current matters - that is to say, the next 10 years.
The scales are forever tipping out of favour; involuntary gluttony thrust upon our bodies, trapping our minds on the other side of the scales; persistently rising.
There is happiness in the climbing of trees, and picking of apples in your great grandmother's garden. There hangs from those branches the multiple corpses of the future and all its contents; every moment, interaction and situation swings slowly in the breeze of childhood. Intertwined in one endless second that never seems to end, but does. The useless facts, the twisting of being lovesick and betrayed, the stomach aches of laughter, and the days that didn't seem to occur.
The loss of loss itself, and the bodies fall from the tree instantaneously, like the apples it holds so dear.
And the child who ate all of the apples sees the deathly gaze of the morgue, and comprehends what this gaze entails, and in turn, learns what the tree's residents were keeping to themselves.
This child falls to the ground prematurely, and horribly, in an instant of seemingly forever.
Friday, 7 August 2009
A perfect denial.
It seems that personality, intoxication, and experimentation are not words, but lifestyles. It feels as though I am playing a very thorough game of "Guess Who?": the faces of the past blur and manifest in the novelty. More so; the consequences revel within it. My question: "Can I win?"; what if every face conceals the same identity? Who is there to trust? A fickly self-preservation of face is taking place, and the shock effect of drugs, sadness, sex scandals, fame, suicide and murder no longer have effect. They have become themselves one supreme incessant somnolence. I believe the players have forgotten who indeed they are playing, and I have the tendency to catch them when they slip.
I witness people caught up in identity; struggling to find, or struggling to maintain. What is this struggle in aid of? I find myself playing the game with great intent. Yet still, I do not lie about my smile - I have no perfect denial.
My desires might include wishing I had known you for my entire life, to reminisce not only of our time together, but of that before us and the world as it is now. To have known something blissful; quiet, and altogether subtle and incorrupt.
When smiles were smiles, and tears were tears. I do not want glass emotion.
The generation is different; less involved than the apathetic - the apathetic were non-caring about something, and from this non-caring about something, nothingness in the minds of the living was bore. There is a world where the sick are prescribed an identity; where the less abled are looked upon, and helped. The retard struggles, and so too do we; struggle to understand who we are, where we are, if we are - the pure frustration and anger that spews from non-understanding, and being a human, injured fervently and with no diagnosis available. The classification of intelligence and emotion as feverishly undesirable, we might as well gag our mouths, plug our noses, block our ears, stitch our eyes, and numb our hearts with icicles.
It's so perfect.
I witness people caught up in identity; struggling to find, or struggling to maintain. What is this struggle in aid of? I find myself playing the game with great intent. Yet still, I do not lie about my smile - I have no perfect denial.
My desires might include wishing I had known you for my entire life, to reminisce not only of our time together, but of that before us and the world as it is now. To have known something blissful; quiet, and altogether subtle and incorrupt.
When smiles were smiles, and tears were tears. I do not want glass emotion.
The generation is different; less involved than the apathetic - the apathetic were non-caring about something, and from this non-caring about something, nothingness in the minds of the living was bore. There is a world where the sick are prescribed an identity; where the less abled are looked upon, and helped. The retard struggles, and so too do we; struggle to understand who we are, where we are, if we are - the pure frustration and anger that spews from non-understanding, and being a human, injured fervently and with no diagnosis available. The classification of intelligence and emotion as feverishly undesirable, we might as well gag our mouths, plug our noses, block our ears, stitch our eyes, and numb our hearts with icicles.
It's so perfect.
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
Under every homosexual is a pair of Calvin Klein's.
I began to question the feelings I had been so sure of; the anger I held, and its source. I became very aware that the anger was not because of the bad we had shared, but because of the good, and their demise. I had never felt so loved before and I hated him because of it. I had entered the dearest light of humanity and no longer held my shadow - because someone else had taken it from me. It had belonged to another person.
As I gazed out from the Waterloo line train from Reading to Clapham Junction I dissipated into a fluid and felt myself extend out into new cracks and grooves in the flooring of my thoughts. The man opposite me looked with some confusion as I typed a message into my phone that would never be read. I thought back to how now 5 years ago I used to travel on this route for myself, and nobody else.
It became apparent in an instant that each of us are born with death from the day we are given life. We must hold it and carry it wherever we go until we see it manifest.
Then, the burdens of life and the delicate balance between trust and self-defence emerged. How a person must be open enough to talk but never reveal the "worst" of themselves.
"I love you, SO much". Before leaving Reading I gave this utterance loudly, and upon reflection realised I had the same capabilities as those around me. I grasped the concept of a seemingly inhuman human loving behind closed doors.
There are things unshared by all people until they are unable to present these insecurities and moments they performed. We're born inside death and carry it throughout life until we bestow this gift unto those around us. The possibility of regret is too intense, just as the possibility of hurt is. So where do we find the balance?
Just recently I have noticed the straight community commenting on the gay community; noting the things I resent, and so the horrors of the promiscuity and inability to enter or retain a healthy relationship become somewhat of an apparent "fact".
The curious yet accurate hesitant assumptions of the gay community when I was 17 years old in London are now more of a truth than ever.
Are we destined to conceal a pair of Calvin Klein's; displaying only the brand name, or will we ever surpass this lonely lifestyle?
I do wonder if James's friend was correct.
I wonder if my wonderings have been correct for all of this time.
Will there come a point where things are happier? When I can be honest with another, and for them to reciprocate. No ties, no board games, or hidden cards up designer sleeves.
This next year is going to be interesting.
As I gazed out from the Waterloo line train from Reading to Clapham Junction I dissipated into a fluid and felt myself extend out into new cracks and grooves in the flooring of my thoughts. The man opposite me looked with some confusion as I typed a message into my phone that would never be read. I thought back to how now 5 years ago I used to travel on this route for myself, and nobody else.
It became apparent in an instant that each of us are born with death from the day we are given life. We must hold it and carry it wherever we go until we see it manifest.
Then, the burdens of life and the delicate balance between trust and self-defence emerged. How a person must be open enough to talk but never reveal the "worst" of themselves.
"I love you, SO much". Before leaving Reading I gave this utterance loudly, and upon reflection realised I had the same capabilities as those around me. I grasped the concept of a seemingly inhuman human loving behind closed doors.
There are things unshared by all people until they are unable to present these insecurities and moments they performed. We're born inside death and carry it throughout life until we bestow this gift unto those around us. The possibility of regret is too intense, just as the possibility of hurt is. So where do we find the balance?
Just recently I have noticed the straight community commenting on the gay community; noting the things I resent, and so the horrors of the promiscuity and inability to enter or retain a healthy relationship become somewhat of an apparent "fact".
The curious yet accurate hesitant assumptions of the gay community when I was 17 years old in London are now more of a truth than ever.
Are we destined to conceal a pair of Calvin Klein's; displaying only the brand name, or will we ever surpass this lonely lifestyle?
I do wonder if James's friend was correct.
I wonder if my wonderings have been correct for all of this time.
Will there come a point where things are happier? When I can be honest with another, and for them to reciprocate. No ties, no board games, or hidden cards up designer sleeves.
This next year is going to be interesting.
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
The Queen of Scene.
We're getting older, and getting heavier. Our reckless lifestyles of binge drinking, smoking, and drug abuse are taking their toll; ageing our bodies beyond their expected values.
She was once eccentric in aesthetics, but time has conventionalised her. Her hair, no longer as spiked, or as colourful, but a tame condition. A smoulder of youth. The time to be silly has passed; she has become the generation she once held in a measure of high awe, and would subsequently come to call her very own friends. Underage drinking and sweaty fumbles with a different boy every week in the local cemetery are no more. The excitement has faded; routine has become a stone pendant that clutches her chest, and is reflected in her eyes to anyone who knows her. Yes, even her clothes now represent the highstreet and not her former clique.
There is a distinction that must be met, as I consider the people of Brighton.
The difference between sleeping with someone to love them and sleeping with someone because you love yourself. I presume there is a genuine substance out there, beneath the ivy of verbatim, that longs to flourish, but cannot. Suffocated by the very ivy it bore.
She is one of a particular kind - able to distinguish between the genuine and false. She sings with the popular, but loves the truthful. She chooses, and she chooses well.
I wonder, if a person "hates people" but interacts with them continually; can they truly hate them? Perhaps they merely misunderstand, wishing to feel the warm breath of intimacy that never reaches them; their skin. An inevitable cycle is born.
The worst eventuality is for a heart to become cold, and lose touch with itself.
Those who sleep to love, love to sleep, and dream. The lovers, and those able to distinguish are liable to become jaded. Effectless, and mourn-worthy. They receive the criticisms of the world; the main extent of the asphyxiation - the words people use to suppress honesty. A lost world beneath the fauna; a beauty, untouched, and unloved, and a bitterness spawned. A hell of sorts, that is too fiery for those who feel the entirety or rawness of a certain aspect of their humanity to venture into. By this, it is then safer to remain in the sanctuary of the eerie brightness of the topsoil.
It takes around 20-30 minutes for the eyes to fully adjust to the darkness.
She was once eccentric in aesthetics, but time has conventionalised her. Her hair, no longer as spiked, or as colourful, but a tame condition. A smoulder of youth. The time to be silly has passed; she has become the generation she once held in a measure of high awe, and would subsequently come to call her very own friends. Underage drinking and sweaty fumbles with a different boy every week in the local cemetery are no more. The excitement has faded; routine has become a stone pendant that clutches her chest, and is reflected in her eyes to anyone who knows her. Yes, even her clothes now represent the highstreet and not her former clique.
There is a distinction that must be met, as I consider the people of Brighton.
The difference between sleeping with someone to love them and sleeping with someone because you love yourself. I presume there is a genuine substance out there, beneath the ivy of verbatim, that longs to flourish, but cannot. Suffocated by the very ivy it bore.
She is one of a particular kind - able to distinguish between the genuine and false. She sings with the popular, but loves the truthful. She chooses, and she chooses well.
I wonder, if a person "hates people" but interacts with them continually; can they truly hate them? Perhaps they merely misunderstand, wishing to feel the warm breath of intimacy that never reaches them; their skin. An inevitable cycle is born.
The worst eventuality is for a heart to become cold, and lose touch with itself.
Those who sleep to love, love to sleep, and dream. The lovers, and those able to distinguish are liable to become jaded. Effectless, and mourn-worthy. They receive the criticisms of the world; the main extent of the asphyxiation - the words people use to suppress honesty. A lost world beneath the fauna; a beauty, untouched, and unloved, and a bitterness spawned. A hell of sorts, that is too fiery for those who feel the entirety or rawness of a certain aspect of their humanity to venture into. By this, it is then safer to remain in the sanctuary of the eerie brightness of the topsoil.
It takes around 20-30 minutes for the eyes to fully adjust to the darkness.
Friday, 10 July 2009
The Daisies.
Florence came into the pharmacy to collect her prescription today. I read the first line of her address, "The Daisies". The daisies was a quaint and curiously fantastic dream of hers; a dream that seemed to fulfil a childhood longing, a longing for a beautiful rose cottage with an obedient and loving husband of 50 years, strengthened by each waking day. A head of flowing sunshine of innocence and hope, an idealistic and sheltered mind, and a heart with one singular ambition.
When looking for a home The Daisies touched her arm in a loving motion. She stirred inside; a half-smile attached itself to her spirit. There would be no other place quite like the charm of living in a place with such a delightfully cheery name. She'd hang baskets of flowers, and water them daily, greeting neighbours with a huge smile as she collected the milk from her doorstep for the first cuppa of the day.
Today, Florence is riddled with arthritic pain and the despair of loneliness. The loneliness of the expanse of the distance between her reality and from the hopes she still holds, like a sweater of the deceased; a lingering scent of what was.
Quietly broken, Florence collected her pills and departed from the store after a well felt thanks to the store assistant. She would return to her number 5 flat and make a cup of tea for herself while dishing out food for her pet cat "Tibby".
Her life centred around the small yet convenient area of The Daisies, Westons pharmacy, and Sainsburys. The world had become so small, yet utterly consuming.
Tonight, she would go to bed early, as she has done for as many years as she cares to recall. The years are now overstretched, and in the same instance, a fast blur of similarity.
The daisies no longer grow.
When looking for a home The Daisies touched her arm in a loving motion. She stirred inside; a half-smile attached itself to her spirit. There would be no other place quite like the charm of living in a place with such a delightfully cheery name. She'd hang baskets of flowers, and water them daily, greeting neighbours with a huge smile as she collected the milk from her doorstep for the first cuppa of the day.
Today, Florence is riddled with arthritic pain and the despair of loneliness. The loneliness of the expanse of the distance between her reality and from the hopes she still holds, like a sweater of the deceased; a lingering scent of what was.
Quietly broken, Florence collected her pills and departed from the store after a well felt thanks to the store assistant. She would return to her number 5 flat and make a cup of tea for herself while dishing out food for her pet cat "Tibby".
Her life centred around the small yet convenient area of The Daisies, Westons pharmacy, and Sainsburys. The world had become so small, yet utterly consuming.
Tonight, she would go to bed early, as she has done for as many years as she cares to recall. The years are now overstretched, and in the same instance, a fast blur of similarity.
The daisies no longer grow.
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
Fabulous.
Moths, dancing amongst silhouetted creases; shadows fluttering between light, an elaborate flitter between sentiment and action. A display past imperfect faces, grammar, substances. A thousand moths, and one.
Naked and true, disappointment, and disappointment, smiling holding hands.
Little angels in rows, saintly statistics aligned in tune with their chorus, a new born. An appointment, arch in shape; ever drifting descent, toward my head.
Great Fall into hole; scratching, fading a silhouette.
A moth flies.
Naked and true, disappointment, and disappointment, smiling holding hands.
Little angels in rows, saintly statistics aligned in tune with their chorus, a new born. An appointment, arch in shape; ever drifting descent, toward my head.
Great Fall into hole; scratching, fading a silhouette.
A moth flies.
Tuesday, 7 July 2009
Fair.
The romantic chance encounter, the awkward hello, and slight rise of the right hand side of my mouth. A burst of red roses and trumpets playing, no. These facets fell down, gargled away and spat out toward the drainage system.
The slight breeze that surrounds us, the gentle warmth of the day, the unexpected feelings inside, they all were vanquished. Swallowed by the mouth of the sticky lips of a slut with all the intentions of the devil and a woman scorned, bitterly retorting after 30 years of entrusting a man with her entire being. Combined together, in fact, in a mish-mash of vulgarity, senselessness and maliciousness.
The worst amalgamation of mistrust; the beauty that one lusts for, and the intelligence that one loves.
When in the habit of knowing more than one should, one wonders whether or not certain revelations should come to light; whose place is it to remove the dusty and stained cloth that conceals the tar-like mess that underlies too many relationships?
I am quite aware, and whether out of spite, or out of the current status quo, I am all too aware. At what point are we able to "be okay" with the master betrayals of lovers - are some lovers never to be 'forgiven'? Do feelings ever truly dissipate? Dribbled out our mouths, with the mess of life, straight into the muck of the sewers beneath us.
Now a far cry from innocence, and the entangled sexual lives of the gay community, who is there left? It is now I begin to understand how someone like A-O can be so peculiar around the concept of liking another person. Two former lovers, sleeping together, and possibly with others at the same time? Could you imagine? This is of course not fact, nor speculation, but it is from the current initial point I begin to comprehend and build vignettes about the trueness of no desire due to persecution and disregard for another's feelings. How does one pick oneself up after such events? Truly shattering.
Each relationship, each person, slowly crumpled like pieces of paper.
I am unsure the creases can ever be flattened out.
There are too few bodies, minds, and hearts that remain sacred enough to immerse myself with. It is probably time to admit defeat, defeat to the grand city, culture, and apathy.
A sewn thought.
The slight breeze that surrounds us, the gentle warmth of the day, the unexpected feelings inside, they all were vanquished. Swallowed by the mouth of the sticky lips of a slut with all the intentions of the devil and a woman scorned, bitterly retorting after 30 years of entrusting a man with her entire being. Combined together, in fact, in a mish-mash of vulgarity, senselessness and maliciousness.
The worst amalgamation of mistrust; the beauty that one lusts for, and the intelligence that one loves.
When in the habit of knowing more than one should, one wonders whether or not certain revelations should come to light; whose place is it to remove the dusty and stained cloth that conceals the tar-like mess that underlies too many relationships?
I am quite aware, and whether out of spite, or out of the current status quo, I am all too aware. At what point are we able to "be okay" with the master betrayals of lovers - are some lovers never to be 'forgiven'? Do feelings ever truly dissipate? Dribbled out our mouths, with the mess of life, straight into the muck of the sewers beneath us.
Now a far cry from innocence, and the entangled sexual lives of the gay community, who is there left? It is now I begin to understand how someone like A-O can be so peculiar around the concept of liking another person. Two former lovers, sleeping together, and possibly with others at the same time? Could you imagine? This is of course not fact, nor speculation, but it is from the current initial point I begin to comprehend and build vignettes about the trueness of no desire due to persecution and disregard for another's feelings. How does one pick oneself up after such events? Truly shattering.
Each relationship, each person, slowly crumpled like pieces of paper.
I am unsure the creases can ever be flattened out.
There are too few bodies, minds, and hearts that remain sacred enough to immerse myself with. It is probably time to admit defeat, defeat to the grand city, culture, and apathy.
A sewn thought.
"When it is darkest, men see the stars".
I hadn't really any idea that today was Michael Jackson's memorial at the Staples Center in Los Angeles, USA. This blog goes against most of what I feel appropriate to discuss; fame, stardom, the act of idolising mere people, but much within the same vein it is exactly appropriate for the larger topic at hand: Humanity.
I can't help but feel that within the next 50 years there will be no more of these 'stars' to mourn for. I have always felt that mourning for someone you did not know was practically vulgar, and self-gratifying. Contrary to this belief, I feel on a personal level I mourn for the essence of my childhood that he was a part of. My mother used to play "HIStory" every Saturday as she did the house cleaning, and of course, I would listen, but detest this involuntary attack upon my audition. Perhaps too, we mourn for the general sense of loss of someone who, despite being no more personal to us than a myth, or phantom, was an icon and presence within our lives for such a great time. And when I say "our" I mean even vicariously from those around us.
When I left my house today the sun had begun to shine, but by the time I was in town I could feel a deep downpour was coming. Needless to say, I was soon drenched head to toe, dripping, but holding my head high. I did not run, I did not scream - I walked calmly. Liberation. A thunderstorm in July.
I got inside, and dried myself off, changing my clothes, to see that people had begun watching MJ's memorial. I reluctantly switched onto CNN/Facebook's coverage. I suppose it is captivating to watch a single person surrounded by millions. How the words, music, and actions of a person can influence and affect the world. I caught up to Lionel Richie's performance onward, but replayed what I'd missed after the memorial.
It was both touching, and offensive to hear so many thanks toward Michael for opening the doors to African-Americans, and people of all manner of race and creed. Only offensive in the sense as it appeared at times to be somewhat of a rally, instead of a mourning. There are numerous forms of discrimination and yet race was only the real kind mentioned. To reduce a person who can longer speak in response, is perhaps, a little disrespectful. In any sense, it got me thinking about love, fear, hate and the spectrum of human interaction despite differences. I have never disliked any person because of a trait other than personality differences, but then, would it not be a better quality for me to possess to be able to appreciate and surpass the truth that some people are not my kind of people, and not become bitter over it? The trouble, I suppose, resides in the very nature of the 'dislike'. If we are inherently opposed, how are we able to overcome this? An integral part of this answer must surely be by leading by example. I could make the first move with several people in 'making amends' - even for troubles I have not propagated, but, I do not, because I do not want to. In this non-action I lead by non-example. A foul example.
It is easier to categorise people into groups: you need only look at Facebook et al to see this, we have embarked on a pixelated mission to organise and arrange our life and friendships into visibly neat little categories. "Friends", "University friends", "Family", "Partners", "Ex-partners". It is perhaps comforting to be able to do this, and a major part of Internet obsession. We de-humanise people so it is easier to hold grudges, gossip, and hate without due reason.
Recently I have felt that younger generations must be psychologically completely differently predisposed. What effects does growing up with the Internet have?
I have my theories. When you hear about the good one man, now lost, attempted to achieve, you can't help but take stock of your own life, and if you do not automatically do so then perhaps you should take a longer look in your fragile mirror.
Nothing I have said is novel, but I hope people find some truth within it.
I guess, my question is: Will people in future even try?
With no real recollection of the video, after the memorial the first song I listened to was "Stranger in Moscow" on youtube.com.
On the way home, in the rain, I had a packet of "Walkers" Salt n' Vinegar crisps in-hand and a homeless man asked without asking for some of them. I gave him a few from my packet. After I had walked a while, I realised I could have simply given him the entire packet itself.
Now of course, in time, these songs will adopt an even greater emphatic concern for my weary mind and heart.
I was wandering in the rain, mask of life, feelin' insane, swift and sudden fall from grace, sunny days seem far away, Kremlins shadow belittlin' me, Stalins tomb won't let me be, on and on and on it came, wish the rain would just let me..
How does it feel (how does it feel), how does it feel, how does it feel, when you're alone and you're cold inside.
Here abandoned in my fame, Armageddon of the brain, KGB was doggin' me, take my name and just let me be, then a begger boy called my name, happy days will drown the pain, on and on and on it came, and again, and again, and again...Take my name and just let me be..
How does it feel (how does it feel), how does it feel, how does it feel, how does it feel, how does it feel (how does it feel now), how does it feel, how does it feel, when you're alone and you're cold inside.
How does it feel (how does it feel), how does it feel, how does it feel, how does it feel, how does it feel (how does it feel now), how does it feel, how does it feel, when you're alone and you're cold inside.
Like stranger in Moscow, like stranger in Moscow, we're talkin' danger, we're talkin' danger, baby, like stranger in Moscow, we're talkin' danger, we're talkin' danger, baby, like stranger in Moscow, I'm livin' lonely, I'm livin' lonely, baby, stranger in Moscow.
I can't help but feel that within the next 50 years there will be no more of these 'stars' to mourn for. I have always felt that mourning for someone you did not know was practically vulgar, and self-gratifying. Contrary to this belief, I feel on a personal level I mourn for the essence of my childhood that he was a part of. My mother used to play "HIStory" every Saturday as she did the house cleaning, and of course, I would listen, but detest this involuntary attack upon my audition. Perhaps too, we mourn for the general sense of loss of someone who, despite being no more personal to us than a myth, or phantom, was an icon and presence within our lives for such a great time. And when I say "our" I mean even vicariously from those around us.
When I left my house today the sun had begun to shine, but by the time I was in town I could feel a deep downpour was coming. Needless to say, I was soon drenched head to toe, dripping, but holding my head high. I did not run, I did not scream - I walked calmly. Liberation. A thunderstorm in July.
I got inside, and dried myself off, changing my clothes, to see that people had begun watching MJ's memorial. I reluctantly switched onto CNN/Facebook's coverage. I suppose it is captivating to watch a single person surrounded by millions. How the words, music, and actions of a person can influence and affect the world. I caught up to Lionel Richie's performance onward, but replayed what I'd missed after the memorial.
It was both touching, and offensive to hear so many thanks toward Michael for opening the doors to African-Americans, and people of all manner of race and creed. Only offensive in the sense as it appeared at times to be somewhat of a rally, instead of a mourning. There are numerous forms of discrimination and yet race was only the real kind mentioned. To reduce a person who can longer speak in response, is perhaps, a little disrespectful. In any sense, it got me thinking about love, fear, hate and the spectrum of human interaction despite differences. I have never disliked any person because of a trait other than personality differences, but then, would it not be a better quality for me to possess to be able to appreciate and surpass the truth that some people are not my kind of people, and not become bitter over it? The trouble, I suppose, resides in the very nature of the 'dislike'. If we are inherently opposed, how are we able to overcome this? An integral part of this answer must surely be by leading by example. I could make the first move with several people in 'making amends' - even for troubles I have not propagated, but, I do not, because I do not want to. In this non-action I lead by non-example. A foul example.
It is easier to categorise people into groups: you need only look at Facebook et al to see this, we have embarked on a pixelated mission to organise and arrange our life and friendships into visibly neat little categories. "Friends", "University friends", "Family", "Partners", "Ex-partners". It is perhaps comforting to be able to do this, and a major part of Internet obsession. We de-humanise people so it is easier to hold grudges, gossip, and hate without due reason.
Recently I have felt that younger generations must be psychologically completely differently predisposed. What effects does growing up with the Internet have?
I have my theories. When you hear about the good one man, now lost, attempted to achieve, you can't help but take stock of your own life, and if you do not automatically do so then perhaps you should take a longer look in your fragile mirror.
Nothing I have said is novel, but I hope people find some truth within it.
I guess, my question is: Will people in future even try?
With no real recollection of the video, after the memorial the first song I listened to was "Stranger in Moscow" on youtube.com.
On the way home, in the rain, I had a packet of "Walkers" Salt n' Vinegar crisps in-hand and a homeless man asked without asking for some of them. I gave him a few from my packet. After I had walked a while, I realised I could have simply given him the entire packet itself.
Now of course, in time, these songs will adopt an even greater emphatic concern for my weary mind and heart.
I was wandering in the rain, mask of life, feelin' insane, swift and sudden fall from grace, sunny days seem far away, Kremlins shadow belittlin' me, Stalins tomb won't let me be, on and on and on it came, wish the rain would just let me..
How does it feel (how does it feel), how does it feel, how does it feel, when you're alone and you're cold inside.
Here abandoned in my fame, Armageddon of the brain, KGB was doggin' me, take my name and just let me be, then a begger boy called my name, happy days will drown the pain, on and on and on it came, and again, and again, and again...Take my name and just let me be..
How does it feel (how does it feel), how does it feel, how does it feel, how does it feel, how does it feel (how does it feel now), how does it feel, how does it feel, when you're alone and you're cold inside.
How does it feel (how does it feel), how does it feel, how does it feel, how does it feel, how does it feel (how does it feel now), how does it feel, how does it feel, when you're alone and you're cold inside.
Like stranger in Moscow, like stranger in Moscow, we're talkin' danger, we're talkin' danger, baby, like stranger in Moscow, we're talkin' danger, we're talkin' danger, baby, like stranger in Moscow, I'm livin' lonely, I'm livin' lonely, baby, stranger in Moscow.
Saturday, 4 July 2009
Montauk.
Just over 2 days after seeing the "red star" in the sky for the second time in my life.
I was mostly tired, half frustrated, watching "Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind". They were in Montauk, USA, and I was in Brighton, UK. I picked up a book I'd purchased from a charity shop with Leila, "The Pearl Bastard". Where should feature? Yes, Montauk.
The most interesting thing I found from Montauk was this:
It has little relevance for me, but, the coincidence was interesting enough.
I was mostly tired, half frustrated, watching "Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind". They were in Montauk, USA, and I was in Brighton, UK. I picked up a book I'd purchased from a charity shop with Leila, "The Pearl Bastard". Where should feature? Yes, Montauk.
The most interesting thing I found from Montauk was this:
It has little relevance for me, but, the coincidence was interesting enough.
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
If in my garden I am trimming words and sentences.
I sat happily sipping away at my Glenns vodka and lemonade at my desk, as a file finished downloading. I watched people I know sucking cock as part of a living, and Laura Marling sang:
"He went crazy at 19, said he'd lost all his self-esteem, and couldn't understand why he was crying". It was just another incident where the associations appeared all too convenient. I can't say that I judge people for doing it, although, in reality my judgements upon it are probably more than transparent. I feel it is a shame; it leads me back to the point that the actions you make now lay down the foundations for subsequent relations, and the dismissal of other potential relations.
I'm wearing a cloak of prose. That is my action, and fashion. Others prefer to declare their insanity by means of undressing, eating, snorting, abstaining, cutting, working, and an innumerable amount of other actions and non-actions that as a whole, comprise our destruction and salvation.
It was 8am as I sat on Vikee's bed, bearing all. We hadn't slept. I set out the history of my lovers on her bed, and the actions involved. I told my story, my version, my feelings and thoughts. Too often people fall victim to being the slave of gossip, rumour, and the idleness of non-thought. I feel one of the biggest sins of life is to lack individual thought - denying yourself the freedom to unchain yourself from the poison people spew. You are not so ignorant, really, we know when people are lying or exaggerating, but the entertainment is so intense that we lay ourselves down; a meal for the talker, on a deliciously sticky web. There is no single correct version to any story; there is an intolerable ocean of facts, both unsaid and vocalised, living in disarray, crashing into one another.
These waves have crashed.
So now, I stand before tabula rasa. The clean, the unknown, the unhad. We are so 'happened' to at such tender ages, how is it that people can find the strength now to overcome the troubles they hold so dear to them?
I am quite positive that the world has not changed in the thousands of years man has roamed freely and captive. Yes, we now hold more information about the land, sea, and space around us. Our neighbours and relatives and the insides of our heads, but any one person from 2009 could be associated with any one person from 1009. An identical or uncanny resemblance with regards to mannerisms and personality.
We still behave erroneously, and destructively; we are logically illogical. My time may be cut short; the mistakes of poisoning my body, destroying the space I fill, given to me over 21 years ago now. I can't help but feel every person I have known, whirring around my head - I do not forget. I can't help but feel the next 1000 years will yield similar results.
Knowledge may very well be power, but the effects of the world, and living within it, still remain. I'm watching things revolve in an ever so slight way; the truth, slowly revealing its face to me from behind its smoky mask. It is exciting, but what will become of me when I stand face-to-face with the nightmare? The nightmare of knowing all of what you don't want to know. I can hold confidence in a cup, and drink from it, I can sit quietly, and notice, but how am I to speak up in a room filled with white noise exuded from every soul that has, is and will be? We are each a blip; a glitch in existence, we already were - we are not. Ultimately, very few of us exist. We become the abstract at conception. What greater pity can be had than for the living dead?
"He went crazy at 19, said he'd lost all his self-esteem, and couldn't understand why he was crying". It was just another incident where the associations appeared all too convenient. I can't say that I judge people for doing it, although, in reality my judgements upon it are probably more than transparent. I feel it is a shame; it leads me back to the point that the actions you make now lay down the foundations for subsequent relations, and the dismissal of other potential relations.
I'm wearing a cloak of prose. That is my action, and fashion. Others prefer to declare their insanity by means of undressing, eating, snorting, abstaining, cutting, working, and an innumerable amount of other actions and non-actions that as a whole, comprise our destruction and salvation.
It was 8am as I sat on Vikee's bed, bearing all. We hadn't slept. I set out the history of my lovers on her bed, and the actions involved. I told my story, my version, my feelings and thoughts. Too often people fall victim to being the slave of gossip, rumour, and the idleness of non-thought. I feel one of the biggest sins of life is to lack individual thought - denying yourself the freedom to unchain yourself from the poison people spew. You are not so ignorant, really, we know when people are lying or exaggerating, but the entertainment is so intense that we lay ourselves down; a meal for the talker, on a deliciously sticky web. There is no single correct version to any story; there is an intolerable ocean of facts, both unsaid and vocalised, living in disarray, crashing into one another.
These waves have crashed.
So now, I stand before tabula rasa. The clean, the unknown, the unhad. We are so 'happened' to at such tender ages, how is it that people can find the strength now to overcome the troubles they hold so dear to them?
I am quite positive that the world has not changed in the thousands of years man has roamed freely and captive. Yes, we now hold more information about the land, sea, and space around us. Our neighbours and relatives and the insides of our heads, but any one person from 2009 could be associated with any one person from 1009. An identical or uncanny resemblance with regards to mannerisms and personality.
We still behave erroneously, and destructively; we are logically illogical. My time may be cut short; the mistakes of poisoning my body, destroying the space I fill, given to me over 21 years ago now. I can't help but feel every person I have known, whirring around my head - I do not forget. I can't help but feel the next 1000 years will yield similar results.
Knowledge may very well be power, but the effects of the world, and living within it, still remain. I'm watching things revolve in an ever so slight way; the truth, slowly revealing its face to me from behind its smoky mask. It is exciting, but what will become of me when I stand face-to-face with the nightmare? The nightmare of knowing all of what you don't want to know. I can hold confidence in a cup, and drink from it, I can sit quietly, and notice, but how am I to speak up in a room filled with white noise exuded from every soul that has, is and will be? We are each a blip; a glitch in existence, we already were - we are not. Ultimately, very few of us exist. We become the abstract at conception. What greater pity can be had than for the living dead?
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
There become no strangers.
The mouse ran up the clock,
The clock struck noon,
He's here too soon,
Hickory, Dickory, Dock.
Why is it you still try to communicate? The outrage that I should speak still.
We ran up the clock until we could run no more: stoic in motion.
We faced the sky; we held such importance, and the next day we had found ourselves fluttering apart.
My heart has split.
It protracts to its origin, yet cannot locate its kin.
I have been spared the cataclysmic impact of infidelity - the acknowledged at least. But how familiar the concept feels.
The cremation of our bodies, our histories, has formed a suffocating black fog that enfolds me. I don't mind admitting that I am a prisoner. Are all love-letters destined to share this fate? Is there truth in only a moment, and no more? A linear dimension of love that can protrude no further than the final train journey from an era of your life that you take no great pride in dismissing at a later date - other than the immediate, other than the now? Yes, now it is so terribly the correct thing. How about next year? Will the fall of autumnal leaves, the scent of a peculiar rain, or the rising temperature of your skin not displace something forgotten; something hidden, something unbeknown? Will you then relent, regret, and be reminded?
Are there halves, wholes, or a multitude of varying divisions?
Have the times changed; is commitment the prehistoric brute that we can't quite piece together? It certainly resembles something we knew, but what of our lives? Perhaps our mortality is too present, and now incumbent, that this beast is a mere abstract piece. I find myself in a transitional era in that I grew surrounded as a child by devotion, but now find myself enveloped in seduction, manipulation, and apathy. Has the most ultimate pattern occurred; that we now seek all that we once sought to find, and failed in doing so? Or, was this the manner, the nature, the truth? Was this the path that would make the most sense of us both?
I have tentatively been well informed before, and fear the worst. Our paths shaped too irregular; the fit, no longer exists.
If a brogue can turn my head, I hope this is not absolute truth; just speculation. Yes, pensive, yes, difficult.
'What I find most consoling is to know that the boy sitting in the row near the doors has had a tiresome life and time of things, but despite this, and his atrocious good looks, he is still humble. Knowing his hands are soft, and courteous when caressing you mid-tight embrace. However, he remains safely by this exit. We both know he'll use it when we arrive at Paddington station and I'll never see him again'.
The clock struck noon,
He's here too soon,
Hickory, Dickory, Dock.
Why is it you still try to communicate? The outrage that I should speak still.
We ran up the clock until we could run no more: stoic in motion.
We faced the sky; we held such importance, and the next day we had found ourselves fluttering apart.
My heart has split.
It protracts to its origin, yet cannot locate its kin.
I have been spared the cataclysmic impact of infidelity - the acknowledged at least. But how familiar the concept feels.
The cremation of our bodies, our histories, has formed a suffocating black fog that enfolds me. I don't mind admitting that I am a prisoner. Are all love-letters destined to share this fate? Is there truth in only a moment, and no more? A linear dimension of love that can protrude no further than the final train journey from an era of your life that you take no great pride in dismissing at a later date - other than the immediate, other than the now? Yes, now it is so terribly the correct thing. How about next year? Will the fall of autumnal leaves, the scent of a peculiar rain, or the rising temperature of your skin not displace something forgotten; something hidden, something unbeknown? Will you then relent, regret, and be reminded?
Are there halves, wholes, or a multitude of varying divisions?
Have the times changed; is commitment the prehistoric brute that we can't quite piece together? It certainly resembles something we knew, but what of our lives? Perhaps our mortality is too present, and now incumbent, that this beast is a mere abstract piece. I find myself in a transitional era in that I grew surrounded as a child by devotion, but now find myself enveloped in seduction, manipulation, and apathy. Has the most ultimate pattern occurred; that we now seek all that we once sought to find, and failed in doing so? Or, was this the manner, the nature, the truth? Was this the path that would make the most sense of us both?
I have tentatively been well informed before, and fear the worst. Our paths shaped too irregular; the fit, no longer exists.
If a brogue can turn my head, I hope this is not absolute truth; just speculation. Yes, pensive, yes, difficult.
'What I find most consoling is to know that the boy sitting in the row near the doors has had a tiresome life and time of things, but despite this, and his atrocious good looks, he is still humble. Knowing his hands are soft, and courteous when caressing you mid-tight embrace. However, he remains safely by this exit. We both know he'll use it when we arrive at Paddington station and I'll never see him again'.
Monday, 15 June 2009
Unable.
"She will die". She must die. The endless phrasing drifted across my body like the hand of some careless phantom; an accidental skim of my body, with their ghastly cold, a monotone reality coloured in monochrome. The joy, the smiles, the laughter, the warmth, the arguments, the time, the friends, Christmas's, birthdays, crises, pets, and those I introduced to you, albeit indirectly. It all became so pale. Only I would remain. I stood within the shadow you cast over my life, and wept to myself.
I cried for the lack of trust, the lack of involvement, the lack of emotion, interaction, humour, the lack of humanity. I have mourned for your death, so many years ago, mother. The intensity of it all, and those I tried to reach for, would surely be too much. I thought back to their deaths, and I thought back to the death of my lover's family. How I lacked the reasoning and compassion I should have known, and shown, because I refused to feel.
I think to the summer, and look to the summer, but nobody is there. They have all become silhouettes, and just like you, I have no person to hold my hand, to hold and collect my tears. It didn't have to be this way, if only I had known what it meant to love someone romantically. And while you may have shown me love, this is one aspect of my life that remained sheltered. Clumsy hands on occasion would offer a rose, a kiss, a hug, and insight into what it would mean to be in possession of a person's love, but ultimately it would be me who would triumph. I would succeed in avoiding the betrayal you had suffered; the betrayal that was imprinted into my mind as a child. My suspicions of any person who looked at me the way they do in films; films about great love stories, 'The End' in calligraphic text. Was I doomed to this fate, or would one day someone find me; find me lost and unsure?
I cried for the lack of trust, the lack of involvement, the lack of emotion, interaction, humour, the lack of humanity. I have mourned for your death, so many years ago, mother. The intensity of it all, and those I tried to reach for, would surely be too much. I thought back to their deaths, and I thought back to the death of my lover's family. How I lacked the reasoning and compassion I should have known, and shown, because I refused to feel.
I think to the summer, and look to the summer, but nobody is there. They have all become silhouettes, and just like you, I have no person to hold my hand, to hold and collect my tears. It didn't have to be this way, if only I had known what it meant to love someone romantically. And while you may have shown me love, this is one aspect of my life that remained sheltered. Clumsy hands on occasion would offer a rose, a kiss, a hug, and insight into what it would mean to be in possession of a person's love, but ultimately it would be me who would triumph. I would succeed in avoiding the betrayal you had suffered; the betrayal that was imprinted into my mind as a child. My suspicions of any person who looked at me the way they do in films; films about great love stories, 'The End' in calligraphic text. Was I doomed to this fate, or would one day someone find me; find me lost and unsure?
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
Chapter 2 was missing.
It happened again.
Both Norah Jones and Alicia Keys were absent this time. As was the horoscope.
The ridiculousness of it all - so many coincidences, or am I merely in greater tune? I say 'in greater tune' but perhaps I mean out of sync (as a direct result). I have persistently mused about polar extremes sometimes being a bounded entity; identical in nature, and behaviour.
An insatiable urge rushed through me this morning as I revised for my 'Personality & Individual Differences' course (the examination is this Friday at 9.30am - a time of day that sees me at less than my best in every possible conceptual combination).
Him. HIM. And also him. I did suspect, and my theories grew ever-more precise...
How could I have been so naive? The irreparable damage; grandiose schemes, and fantasies, now bleeding, dripping from tattered hopes. All into one. A liquidated substance at my feet, staring back at me. Not him.. Why him? And why does he insist on these calculated attacks on me: to penetrate those I have loved.
I use that word (both words in fact) with deliberate, and disgusted intent.
What collided in my consciousness this time? Jaffa cakes. Those delicious morsels that I showed great preference for as a child. So what does this mean?
Furthermore, what of this day and age? Are we too embittered? Too unforgiving? Too conscious..?
The consistent, and eternal imagery of him, and him. It is, perhaps, entirely sedated. The beautiful young son of a single-parent mother with impending talent to be realised, just beyond the horizon. Now comatosed, breathing gently with great courtesy of mechanical assistance. The assistance of the industrial past; strong, and withstanding. Painfully slow. Yes, so painful. Not to mention the revelation of untold infidelity - or potential moments. Moments that existed nevertheless, but were absent - unreported, just like my speech.
The people you love, the people you fuck; they each have a corresponding consequence to the next person you meet. The previous will decide whether one person is worthy, or not.
Whether one person is allowed to love you, or not.
It appears, with such dreaded clarity, that time moulds things anew, so much so that there is no return.
Time, you are the great destroyer. Distance, you are the great conclusion.
Both Norah Jones and Alicia Keys were absent this time. As was the horoscope.
The ridiculousness of it all - so many coincidences, or am I merely in greater tune? I say 'in greater tune' but perhaps I mean out of sync (as a direct result). I have persistently mused about polar extremes sometimes being a bounded entity; identical in nature, and behaviour.
An insatiable urge rushed through me this morning as I revised for my 'Personality & Individual Differences' course (the examination is this Friday at 9.30am - a time of day that sees me at less than my best in every possible conceptual combination).
Him. HIM. And also him. I did suspect, and my theories grew ever-more precise...
How could I have been so naive? The irreparable damage; grandiose schemes, and fantasies, now bleeding, dripping from tattered hopes. All into one. A liquidated substance at my feet, staring back at me. Not him.. Why him? And why does he insist on these calculated attacks on me: to penetrate those I have loved.
I use that word (both words in fact) with deliberate, and disgusted intent.
What collided in my consciousness this time? Jaffa cakes. Those delicious morsels that I showed great preference for as a child. So what does this mean?
Furthermore, what of this day and age? Are we too embittered? Too unforgiving? Too conscious..?
The consistent, and eternal imagery of him, and him. It is, perhaps, entirely sedated. The beautiful young son of a single-parent mother with impending talent to be realised, just beyond the horizon. Now comatosed, breathing gently with great courtesy of mechanical assistance. The assistance of the industrial past; strong, and withstanding. Painfully slow. Yes, so painful. Not to mention the revelation of untold infidelity - or potential moments. Moments that existed nevertheless, but were absent - unreported, just like my speech.
The people you love, the people you fuck; they each have a corresponding consequence to the next person you meet. The previous will decide whether one person is worthy, or not.
Whether one person is allowed to love you, or not.
It appears, with such dreaded clarity, that time moulds things anew, so much so that there is no return.
Time, you are the great destroyer. Distance, you are the great conclusion.
Monday, 8 June 2009
The Science Of Tears.
My indoctrination into the field of Psychology has been terribly prevalent in recent weeks. My analysis into human functioning has grown to new heights, with scientific rigour in its essence. Mostly everything I have ever feared happening to my cognitions. Oh, and I don't doubt that for former lovers this is their worst nightmare.
I was somewhat alarmed to recognise the fact I did not know why people cry. I mean, I know under which circumstances people are liable to. But what is its function? It is a universal behaviour, after all.
There are 3 primary forms of tear; 'basal tears' to maintain lubrication, 'reflex tears' for irritation such as from onions, and 'emotional tears'.
Interestingly, emotional tears contain a greater proportion of manganese, prolactin and adrenocorticotropic hormone, which is associated with hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis. This axis is highly implicated with mood, emotion, sexuality, and stress.
From a more evolutionary stance, it is suggested tears were for eliciting and acknowledging pain; with the hope of receiving altruistic aid.
The basic gist of the science of tears is that having cried, the body expels certain stress hormones, which elucidates the reason as to why people report feeling better after having a cry.
Many species share similar features of the axis, though human beings are supposedly the only ones to shed emotional tears. A response to external or internal factors which can include loss, or self-realisation. The introduction of greater levels of testosterone in boys during puberty is seemingly the reason why men cry less than women.
It is therefore possible that the suppression of tears can result in depression, or a lowering of mood.
I was somewhat alarmed to recognise the fact I did not know why people cry. I mean, I know under which circumstances people are liable to. But what is its function? It is a universal behaviour, after all.
There are 3 primary forms of tear; 'basal tears' to maintain lubrication, 'reflex tears' for irritation such as from onions, and 'emotional tears'.
Interestingly, emotional tears contain a greater proportion of manganese, prolactin and adrenocorticotropic hormone, which is associated with hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis. This axis is highly implicated with mood, emotion, sexuality, and stress.
From a more evolutionary stance, it is suggested tears were for eliciting and acknowledging pain; with the hope of receiving altruistic aid.
The basic gist of the science of tears is that having cried, the body expels certain stress hormones, which elucidates the reason as to why people report feeling better after having a cry.
Many species share similar features of the axis, though human beings are supposedly the only ones to shed emotional tears. A response to external or internal factors which can include loss, or self-realisation. The introduction of greater levels of testosterone in boys during puberty is seemingly the reason why men cry less than women.
It is therefore possible that the suppression of tears can result in depression, or a lowering of mood.
Sunday, 7 June 2009
Attractive for one night.
Twenty-one, twenty-two. My expiration is due.
To be utterly attractive for one night in a minute manner; to acknowledge my feelings, and exploit them for self-gratification.
The casual alcohol-fuelled ego and boy fucking of Thursday, Friday and Saturday are not satisfactory for this particular night. No. Instead, tonight requires passion - feeling. A one-dimensional construct between the cheap bed sheets of an unemployed university student in the country's gay capital. Self-affirmation in any context manageable, and quite often, unmanageable. Tonight requires my attractiveness for a singular night.
Intimidation, banter, tension. All of these are marred and swallowed whole.
Tonight, I will make you beautiful, and so too, I am devoured.
To be utterly attractive for one night in a minute manner; to acknowledge my feelings, and exploit them for self-gratification.
The casual alcohol-fuelled ego and boy fucking of Thursday, Friday and Saturday are not satisfactory for this particular night. No. Instead, tonight requires passion - feeling. A one-dimensional construct between the cheap bed sheets of an unemployed university student in the country's gay capital. Self-affirmation in any context manageable, and quite often, unmanageable. Tonight requires my attractiveness for a singular night.
Intimidation, banter, tension. All of these are marred and swallowed whole.
Tonight, I will make you beautiful, and so too, I am devoured.
Friday, 5 June 2009
To woo, to enchant, to maintain, to respect.
Whose hand will pull you through the crowd?
Love is a weathered coin.
The comfort and security of your body; your receptiveness, your love.
The distrust and fear of your body; others' desires, your betrayal.
It is surely over-simplistic to say that a person who loves another person would never betray them. How do you recover? Left starving for the sense of connection - for you to mollify, instead of distress.
If I could introduce you to that year again, I would.
Introduce you to my life; drape you in the matters of me, and those around me. An expansion of my feelings - you would be. I question, how far you might have gone; would you have tore me apart? Reciprocated the way you were treated, to my increasingly brittle heart. Or have continued to complete me. 'It's just the nearness of you'; your scent, your touch, and I knew I had found what I had sought so terribly to locate within the insuperable vastness of this planet.
Although our conditions are ever-critical and metamorphosed, I would happily propose in the slightest regions of my mind. A dinner party and the age of 40; complete, sipping slowly from flutes of accomplishment, with the intermittent twinkle of the past, and future, combined. Ella Fitzgerland and Louis Armstrong describing only us, on a loop, the repetition we grew accustomed to. My belief is firm: the night would contain no end.
Sometimes it feels as though I am entirely lost.
My expectation persists; to see your hand, reach out for me from within the crowd of nobodies, and tell me that I am somebody, and smile.
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Darcy, and the silver-lined cloud.
You see, I can cry on a whim, smile as I please. These emotions are extensions of me, not components. Tender touches, heartbroken pretence; I have mastered them all. I am, to most degrees, now human. Am I not? Are we not all fated to superficial understanding? Will you love the lie until you die? Whimpering and wrenching over the lost illusion. The masquerade of humanity and compassion. The art of loving. It takes great expertise, and I don't doubt its inheritability. I am the boy I have always been, older. Instead, my voice now flourishes, while my sense of hope and affection diminish; and not of waves of spite, but waves of failure, encroached with apathy. I'm in awe of words of sorrow; isolation, solitude, solace. They flow through me, soaking every thought and feeling. It is true that I can smile within this minute. And in the next, it is also true that the soothing sensation of those who empathise will hold me closely; kiss my forehead sweetly, and call me theirs.
Some surprises will never cease to surprise you; there are innumerable and unacknowledged aspects at work - you do not want to recognise them. Thus in effect, perpetual heartbreak is likely yours. Transformations may occur, but I know, that to me, you will be who I knew, not who you are. For that person modified the entire world in 1 day; never mind 6, with 1 to rest.
I will forever monitor contrasting 19 hours. When your face dropped, so too did my heart, and my understanding. I reverted.
The future was ours, and yet, I could see no farther than another 19 hours.
The process of planning, and now, so much more travelled down the road. Things are of clarity, and are yet perhaps still premature, or even impossible. Has the happened, happened too often already? How does one cope with such actions?
To fill a quota, to fill a weekend with work; over you? Over love? No. What was the thought process? - Absent.
Some surprises will never cease to surprise you; there are innumerable and unacknowledged aspects at work - you do not want to recognise them. Thus in effect, perpetual heartbreak is likely yours. Transformations may occur, but I know, that to me, you will be who I knew, not who you are. For that person modified the entire world in 1 day; never mind 6, with 1 to rest.
I will forever monitor contrasting 19 hours. When your face dropped, so too did my heart, and my understanding. I reverted.
The future was ours, and yet, I could see no farther than another 19 hours.
The process of planning, and now, so much more travelled down the road. Things are of clarity, and are yet perhaps still premature, or even impossible. Has the happened, happened too often already? How does one cope with such actions?
To fill a quota, to fill a weekend with work; over you? Over love? No. What was the thought process? - Absent.
Letters to no-one.
A quantity of 4 letters now reside between my Abnormal & Clinical Psychology folder and my printer. Each envelope holds a significant name on its front. It was time that all of the emotion inside was externalised. They exist, of course, and they may do so for a very long time to come. I have no intention of destroying these fragments of my insides. They exist, now contained in a body other than my own. The lows, the highs, and the lessons learned. I know they are there.
The named will never receive these letters, though a great proportion of me wish for their autonomy; to be caught in an updraft, and to grace the dining room table of each of them.
You see, I have discussed and thought at great length just recently; the position I stand in.
I stand neither in the realm of promiscuity, nor of abstinence and utter solitude. Intelligence, attractiveness, and wit, I stand in no extreme. The vast majority of us are not in the middle of this world. The average are the few here. We are those who stand thinking, and longing; longing to be loved but thinking all of the while. We are of course too preoccupied with thought to appreciate our surroundings; the love, the humour, and also the horror of either side. Neither pole satiates our desires. There are greater things than our gratification. We may shiver out of fear; we die, we may cry for the past; the deceased, and we may collect souvenirs. We are the reminiscent and the contemplative. The sacrifice of this is happiness, and the concept of the loss of this middle ground. Paranoia and jealousy override the beauty of our moment, and all is lost.
If only the lost could know; know all of the unknown that is known to the privileged current.
I examined 2 of the 4's previous correspondences.
I found two patterns, two collisions of the past and the future, both blissfully unconscious of the other. 'Romanticised encounters, the wrong time' and 'Physical confrontation never seems to end with any satisfaction?'.
We lose concentration.
The named will never receive these letters, though a great proportion of me wish for their autonomy; to be caught in an updraft, and to grace the dining room table of each of them.
You see, I have discussed and thought at great length just recently; the position I stand in.
I stand neither in the realm of promiscuity, nor of abstinence and utter solitude. Intelligence, attractiveness, and wit, I stand in no extreme. The vast majority of us are not in the middle of this world. The average are the few here. We are those who stand thinking, and longing; longing to be loved but thinking all of the while. We are of course too preoccupied with thought to appreciate our surroundings; the love, the humour, and also the horror of either side. Neither pole satiates our desires. There are greater things than our gratification. We may shiver out of fear; we die, we may cry for the past; the deceased, and we may collect souvenirs. We are the reminiscent and the contemplative. The sacrifice of this is happiness, and the concept of the loss of this middle ground. Paranoia and jealousy override the beauty of our moment, and all is lost.
If only the lost could know; know all of the unknown that is known to the privileged current.
I examined 2 of the 4's previous correspondences.
I found two patterns, two collisions of the past and the future, both blissfully unconscious of the other. 'Romanticised encounters, the wrong time' and 'Physical confrontation never seems to end with any satisfaction?'.
We lose concentration.
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