Sincerely


It wasn’t yet time to disappear into the nothing place, to interrupt the flow of things, to stumble and fall. She had noticed, but I wasn’t going to detail an excuse. I wanted it to play out. Even if it wasn’t to, this was neither the time nor the place for such a trenchant and fundamental part of us to be explored in any great detail. Matters would only be made worse. As the cigarette smoke from the house across drifted through the window, I made no move, the smell taking me back to a time of wanderlust, of denigration, and sweet unmitigated yearning. Close, sweaty, dripping, nose to nose, tender, forbidding lips, nail marks; a summer love, which, incidentally, happened so fast. It was the beginning of an end. I closed the window, she was chain smoking. Flashbacks aside, I was worried about my health and this probably wasn’t helping. I gazed out of the window into the opposite garden. The swirl of smoke trailed skywards, added to as she inhaled and slowly, through pursed lips, blew into the sky. A well practiced gesture. Her silhouette, that typical smoker stance: cigarette in the opposite hand to the way she was looking, relaxing into the wall. I felt, from behind my closed window, I was there. I could hear the crackling as she pulled long and hard. I looked down at the empty bed. A self-imposed fate. Lust lacked luster these days. Lost upon a never ending wave of nostalgia and a sense of impending doom, yet to be bestowed.

2012
05/22
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Stars


There aren’t many stars in the skies above London. It’s a comfort – a reminder of better times. I can pick out my childhood in Orion’s Belt. Fireworks. A reddish glow and the Big Smoke. Hazy summer nights looking upwards into the Great Beyond. Shouts and screams of boyish pleasure. Arms outstretched, sprinting at full pelt with the widest of smiles. Scabby knees, splinters and bee-strings. The best of memories.

I run my fingers along the walls and through the bushes, something I haven’t done for fifteen years. Teasing a memory. I walk the same street taking one more step for every two I once did. My old house is still surrounded by white-washed walls, chipped paint and a stony facade. Just as it was, I could almost push the door to and settle into bed. But, it is no longer home. Along the alleyway to the school, I grip the school gates. Two foot taller, it looks odd. Underwhelming. Just a shell of a place I once knew. My old window is blocked by foliage. I’d seen so much from my vantage point. Seasons had come and gone. Then and since. Saddened, I turn and I don’t look back.

Everything has changed. I have changed. But, the stars have not – they are my fondest and most abiding memory of a time that has since faded. London, I’m coming back soon. So long as the stars remain the same, I’ll always love you.

2012
05/22
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Indecipherable Ramblings


I.

A chance conversation. Heated. The last before the end. A heart attack. Actually, several. Kept for observation in a Naples hospital, then shipped home. Consciously boxed, unconscious. Never to return to work. I thought and I did so hard. Life is temperamental. We are subject to the whims of happenstance. Eating this. Drinking that. Saying one thing, meaning another. A moment of madness, of anger and you’re gone. Dead as a door nail.

II.

A TV program. BBC3. Horror-struck, I watched. Huge segments devoted to a car crash. I have no business here. I signed the papers, and I hoped I’d be done with it. Not because I didn’t love him mind, but because I had not come to terms with his death. Regardless, the wound runs deep – deeper than I had imagined. Life is short. He had so much to give. We had so much to receive. Snatched away. Never to be seen again. Only in our dreams.

III.

In Cold Blood. Perhaps I wasn’t sure what it was I was getting into. As the book draws to a close, I am of a mind that the killers should not share the same fate as those killed. Life takes funny turns. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth” doesn’t wash. These two mishaps were in the wrong place at the wrong time, just as their victims were. Incident. Accident. Collision. We all are party.

IV.

So much relies on chance. What if love? Or, hate? What if loss? Or, gain? What if life? Or, death? The answer is never satisfactory, because no matter what could have happened, it did not. It’s tortuous, because, so long as instances as these and others cross paths, I’ll have grounds to let my imagination (and prose) run wild. For better or for worse, this is it, isn’t it?

2012
05/22
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Perpetual motion


I am cold. She lends me a coat. I am still cold, but thank her, begrudgingly, all the same. I get into the car. It is the passenger seat. She swings into the driver’s side, the car bobs slightly. Annoyed, I look across at her, as if to say “It’s enough that I’ve stooped to borrow a coat, but if you force me to move in ways I ordinarily wouldn’t, there’ll be trouble”. It is from an inane masculine desire to sit where she is, but I choose not to acknowledge my inherent and ingrained sexism. It is on her that I blame myself. I blame our predicament on her. She glances at me and away, her furrowed brow loosening and a concentrated ignorance taking a hold – a return shot: “Don’t you dare, I’m doing you a favour”. I remain quiet, and stubbornly so. As I stare from the window, I notice three things. First, that it is still cold, despite the blower being on full. But, I realise that this is merely an attempt to ignore thirdly. Second, … “I know you’re ignoring me, but I think we need to …” Second, “… talk about this …” that I can almost see and most certainly feel my heart beating through the coat … “it’s important to me. Look at me, please …”. I can’t think, so I turn and glare at her. She begins again, as I try desperately to hold my thoughts together, but they start to lose their form. I feel them slipping away and it further irritates me. I am attacked by butterflies. “We need to talk about you and me, about us … what’s happening to us?” I shrug. Inside, tumult. She goes on. “We used to be so good together, a deadly friendship, inseparable.” In the uncomfortable silence that follows, I turn to her. I lay my hand on her shoulder and in a quiet and as unassuming a voice as I can manage, I tell her that I can’t be in the same room as her anymore since she did what she did. She is no longer my friend. I make sure she knows that, unequivocally. She begins to cry quietly into her sleeve. I tell her to watch the road. Unchanged, she continues to weep. Silent tears run slowly down her face, her make-up becomes a muddy mess. I sit waiting for the fallout. It never comes. I am dropped off with my thoughts. Thirdly … I pull my phone from my pocket, almost unconsciously dialing her number, forgetting all about thirdly. Almost.

2012
05/22
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Drunk.


Foggy, I cling desperately to a tiny understanding of things. A haze of broken glass and bloody toes, blackened eyes and broken noses; vague impressions soaked in alcohol, tarred with cigarette smoke and stained with aggression. Beyond any recognition or sense of time.

I hear the pounding headache of a kick drum and taste those sweaty guitar rhythms, I see crowds of cannily smiling faces and raised hands, fists, which beat back pleas of “please, … help.”  I blink. Blue-flashing lights steadily oscillate in my peripheral vision, or is this but a wishful imagining? I blink. Harder. Faster. I blink. The hubbub grows, whether of concern or congeniality, it is hard to say. Rapid Eye Movement. It builds and builds. Roaring in my ears, getting between my fingers, up inside my brain. It itches.

An enveloping blackness … replaced with menus, orders and the smell of greasy discarded chips, dropped clumsily to the floor covering box-fresh laces in reds, whites and yellows. I close my eyes.

Seconds later, I open them. There are scantily-clad girls. I close them – to sleep (perchance to dream).

Gulping air, I surface, as if from the deep tranquillity of ignorance, a la Trainspotting. Indeed, I’m on my knees in a dirty cubicle,  contemplating my abyss. It’s an Armitage Shanks. Darkly, a man’s voice, “Are you okay in there?” I’m probably not. I’m probably coughing up my entire life into this foul-smelling cesspit, but reply, “Fine … I’m fine. Don’t worry. I’ll meet you out there.” I don’t know him. In fact, I don’t know anyone. I lay down on my side, a foetus; piss-stained, stomach pains, retching, mind games. I don’t know anyone and they certainly don’t want to know me. Hours pass at 85 mph.

I claw my way towards the door. I stagger, dripping, into a room. I see you standing there. I see the fitful kiss. I see the smiles, instantly of cruelty, lust and love, on your faces. I see the knowing looks in your eyes. I shed a tear, exude a sniff and turn. I run. As if cliché. Until I can run no more, until I can no longer walk or crawl. Until I can no longer breathe. Until my feet are red with sores. Until the rubber has worn and my socks give way to flesh. Until I’m running on bone. On empty. I run everywhere and nowhere. I am feral. I am alone. I am in bed.

As I lie, hands behind my head, staring into the darkness at what I can only suppose is the white-wash textured ceiling, I wander freely through the night that was. A Liberty stolen – one I will not have come the morning. Tomorrow, I will not remember. I won’t understand why I have bruises, why I smell of urine and why my heart is broken into pieces, that even if I find fragments under the kitchen table, I won’t be able to glue back together. Dust. It will not be a good day.

2012
01/30
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Diary: History


For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved history. But, I might add, it’s a love born not out of fact, but rather, its fiction. When I was a lot younger, I can’t remember exactly when, nor shall I hazard a guess (see previous: ‘Dream Reality’), I happened to read The Machine Gunners written by Robert Westall and published by Macmillan in 1975. I won’t say that I hadn’t encountered ‘History’ previous to this, for I can remember constructing Tudor houses out of MDF and cooking authentic Aztecan cuisine (chille con carne?!); but these weren’t exactly role models for learning about or enjoying the past. No, my first understanding of recent history came out of this particular book. I think, at this time, I’d have been a great advert for modern history as I was enamoured with the Second World War, despite the controversy surrounding schools which devoted too much time to it. I don’t believe I understood the cold reality, just that children could take part – collecting empty shells and shrapnel, even machine guns – a headline to which the book owes its title. Perhaps fifty years after Victory in Europe, my parents and I were completely removed from the global conflicts which tore countries and continents apart, and yet I felt I could relate. These children were just like me; I could empathise with their emotions and imagine myself a part of the adventures they had. And so it’s not entirely ridiculous that I would pretend to fly about the living room as an unfortunately-named German ‘fokker’ pilot, collect AirFix and build armed vehicles from Lego.

There is a serious point to be made here though. I’ve come a long way since those inauspicious beginnings. My love of fiction is unwavering, but I no longer necessarily relate to the fictional or historical characters therein. A student of history must employ his or her imagination to understand peoples that are ‘Other’, independent of our contemporary choices, reason and cultural values. The crusader, heretic, and peasant have more about them than these squared-off titles; they are gendered, religious, and landed, further, they have conversations, joke, break down, and fear for their lives. Consequently history is both reality and creation at one and the same time.  But, with great imagination, comes great responsibility, or rather a certain amount of discretion on the part of the author. Where medieval history is concerned, the past becomes a foreign country, the points of reference – language, religion, culture, etc. – become unrecognisable, and this is very important. The author is charged with colouring inside the lines of history, having been cautioned against drawing connections – employing an over-active imagination (See U. Eco, Foucault’s Pendulum, Ballantine Books, 1990 or http://wp.me/pWa2h-e1) and uttering the word ‘Truth’ at his or her audience – a faux pas which humbles, and reminds that imagination has its limits.

With all this in mind, is a history degree more employable for such a broad ‘skill’? No. Indeed, I’m not attempting to put a premium on historical imagination, just to say that the stuffy pastiche of the ‘historian’ alone in a room full of books, occasionally coughing to send dust off the pages of huge, never-read tomes, is not one that really exists. A person can dedicate their life to history, heck, they can call themselves a historian, but they are so much more. I see history as a conduit for demonstrating empathy, logic, and a person’s analytical capabilities, and medieval history, (as any other MA, MSc, or otherwise) as one for showing that a mind can be fine tuned in a short space of time to hone in on the particulars and details that have to be found where there is little evidence otherwise. This is why I’m not to become a ‘historian’ or librarian. Life is not about following the paths of least resistance, about history, economics, English, sociology, psychology, or any one of the sciences, etc., etc, but about all of these in a number of different capacities. That which I have learnt is not narrow enough to be vocational; instead, the skills I have are broad and will favour my work ethic in a variety of different industries. Thus I am determined to prove the versatility of a degree confined to the library or lecture room, and of myself, consigned to those stuffy books by the ignorant. There is far, far more to show for four years of academia than this, and all the more adventures to be had.

I will find my machine gun!

 

Question Time:

What was your first experience with whichever subject you decided to study ? Tell me I’m wrong! – Are you driven more by enjoyment or by the prospects resulting from GCSEs, A-levels, or a degree (or a both)? Do you think this differs between the arts and sciences? And are you looking for or have found work in an area more or less correlating to your field of study?

 

(A plea: I do appreciate ratings, but if I’ve any chance of improving please be critical in writing – comment anonymously. Thanks!)

2011
10/18
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Diary: Introduction


I am not, as I have pointed out on numerous occasions, a diarist. This isn’t a diary, nor will it ever be. However, having recently taken a turn for the unemployed, bowing to the pressures of destitution, I suppose I owe someone an explanation. Over the course of three or four posts, I want to give you something of myself from within said unfortunate context. This will, I hope, be both observational and inspired (as opposed to inspiring). In the first 500 words, I’m going to talk about my love of history, its affect on my employability, and the reasons why I’m not going to become a librarian or historian (whatever that is). The second is to address my intense hatred of all things Stevenage, and the third, exactly where or who I plan to be in the future. I’m also expecting to put together a post at the end of my work experience to explain what I learnt about publishing and its influence on my outlook.

By way of an introduction I want to address the popular derision of unemployment.

It’s not as if I haven’t ever looked down on the unemployed. I have. But then I’ve always been a student. For most of my twenty-three years, I’ve been learning. With respect to my bachelors, at least in the first year, I was lazy (reflected in my grades), following the path of least resistance. My masters was a completely different experience, but this I’ll return to. Unemployment always seemed easy, but things do when you don’t understand them. Don’t get me wrong, it is easy, but it is very far from ambitious. I’m certainly neither content, nor comfortable with the idea that I’m taking money for nothing, but, at the same time, I’m confident that unemployment isn’t the bastion of depression and poverty. Perhaps this says something of my own understanding of what I thought being without means means. There is something of Thatcher’s Britain, of the Great Depression, and of the English Poor Law that comes to mind when unemployment and jobseeker’s allowance is brought up, images the job centre certainly does nothing to dispel, but I am of a mind that from the bottom things can only get better. Give it a week, I’m sure they’ll beat the optimism out of me!

And it really is the bottom, or somewhere near. ‘Welcome back, Mr Meddick’, he said. I’m not too sure how to take this kind of familiarity. I mean, the man is not my doctor. Indeed, it is interesting that the government has chosen to do unemployment’s hair and nails, pay for some new clothes (Emperor fit), and provide it with elocution lessons. Why are claimants now referred to as ‘customers’? Retailing unemployment at £53.45 per week. Put quantitatively, this boils down to nearly 9 hours of work on minimum wage. People shouldn’t be suggested to, you can’t buy any other rate than the one you are given. Which brings me to the bureaucracy. ‘So, Mr Meddick, what kind of jobs shall we find for you?’ Tentatively, I give a cursory glance to a list that had been written for me in 2009. These are jobs I wanted? No. No, actually these were the jobs they suggested that I take on account of my ‘experience’ (all of none) . Basically, I invented my aspirations in the space of a 5 second scan of a very long list of  fairly-easily found jobs (he says, from a position of unemployment). On paper, I’m down for customer service, telesales, and library assistant work. This is all fine, in principle, but essentially I’m putting myself in a position where I’m spending half my time looking for the work they need me to do in order to get rid of me, and the other half looking for the work I want to do so as to begin a long and fruitful career in print media (and let’s not get started on graduate positions, which they do not encourage I find!).

It’s an awful dichotomy, between the short-termism of socio-politics and the personal – and ultimately, I’m obliged to jump through their hoops. Indeed, I have work experience this week and the ‘customer’-assistant had to consult his manager as to whether I was allowed to be absent, something that may upset my claim. And then I realised we’re living in the 1830s. To sign on, I have to be in Stevenage at a given time on a given day. I told him Tuesday was no good, I’d be in Cardiff working for three days and this presented them with a problem. The very idea of it! I, the claimant, was inconveniencing them. This suggests a fundamental problem with the job centre, that once you’ve signed on, you are tied into a contract that is unforgiving. But with the country, the world even, a lot smaller these days, it doesn’t positively promote finding work through alternative means.  So, here I am, at the very bottom, strapped into the place I most hate (another to which I will return), with lots and lots of red tape. And isn’t this all very unprofessional? All very ‘not John’. But, despite this, I’m happy. This is a position from which I can work. In the next ‘diary’ post I’ll explain exactly what history and more particularly my masters has done for me. In light of where I am today, it’s an awful lot. Especially as it’ll prove crucial to where I’m going.

2011
10/09
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Self-awareness*


Whether it’s the gospel use of grammar, punctuation, and spelling; un-tagging of indecent pictures; casual name-dropping; or unimpeachable privacy settings, most people are now more self-aware than they’ve ever been. This is not to suggest that life beyond the ‘News Feed’ is without subtlety. In the manner a person’s voice is projected, it’s intonation, the look in a persons eyes, their stance and mannerisms, so much is codified to be unpacked without a moment’s notice. But therein lies the difference. I spend a lot of time on Facebook and Twitter every week, too much considering what it achieves, pouring over statuses and pictures when I could be reading or writing something. Without the person there to explain away a specific word or phrase, indeed without their facial or emotional expression, there is so much to mistake, to misinterpret, and misunderstand. And yet, it is rare that people do because there are both conscious and unconscious rules of engagement, which help people to determine how to respond in certain situations.

Unfortunately, the rules that people play by differ according to the circles in which they run; the way they present themselves, both in writing and pictorially; and the way they respond to others, and more often than not this difference manifests itself in back-biting. No-one is perfect, and criticism is rife on social networking sites (perhaps no more, but more evidently than ‘IRL), whether openly – celebrity Tweeters often bearing the brunt – or, without comment –  judging someone for that badly taken drunken picture someone took three years ago, but not tell them about it – but even these are a part of a certain social etiquette. A lack of ‘likes’ or comments is just as powerful as the thousands of potential ‘dislikes’ achieved if Facebook chose to include the function. Thus, if you can accept that Facebook is, at least in part, an exercise in vanity, in more than just its aesthetic form, then by extension, it is also one that breeds insecurity. Here, of course, insecurity works both ways. Everyone wants to be accepted, but this depend on their own definitions of  the unsaid ‘cool’ or abjectly ‘normal’, of the ‘beautiful’ or self-deprecating ’ugly’ profile-pic, of the university-educated ‘cultured’ or untravelled ‘ignorant’. This comes even before I’ve begun to use the word ‘jealousy’.

Do not mistake what I’ve been saying for an attack on the internet, on social-networking, on you. Ironically, in so far as I’ve chosen to include a statistics box and starred ratings, to write poetry, for Christ’s sake, this lackluster blog is most certainly a vain undertaking. Indeed, I am guilty of painting a personal persona. As far as I am concerned, my Twitter page has to be more measured and free from Facebook’s detritus. Yet, I am not suggesting that everything, this included, is driven by vanity. It might just be, and it is, that I enjoy writing for a tiny audience who want to read this, or putting myself in a position where I’m seen in a semi-professional capacity. Moreover, I’m not saying that people aren’t allowed to be interesting, and others to be interested in them, but, that quite often there is an element of narcissism involved when a person’s ‘cool’ is checked against another’s (we are still young after all). I suppose the fact that everybody is still on Facebook suggests we are either very comfortable with this fact or that I am completely wrong. I wonder how many of you think about exactly what you’re writing? About the ‘friends’ you keep? About the pages you ‘like’? About the pictures that are included (or not) in an album?  I’d like to think that if we are comfortable, we’re not ignorant of it, or else I’ve let on too much of my self than I’d have liked. Or, have I?

Thoughts?

*Disclaimer: I have a Facebook account and I am as guilty as anyone else for vanity and jealousy. That’s just life.

2011
09/09
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Dream reality


When I think back to certain parts of my life and explore the remotest parts of the imagination, I’m greeted with events that may well have been real, but I’m unable to qualify. They seem to be dreams, but with a hint of something more. I’ve lived in several different locations in my short twenty-three years of life, and each of them has had something unique to offer. So much is this now true that I have trouble putting them into their proper context, remembering(!), instead my brain processes them as events bathed in a white sunlit glow. It makes my head itch.

You see, I can remember specific instances. For example, there was a time when I couldn’t put onto paper the number 8. My reception teacher (Edit: a hopeful guess at my age?) (Edit: I can’t for the life of me remember her name) (Edit: though I can, apparently, recall her gender), told me (Edit: It could have been a friend) that one way around this would be to draw two circles on top of each other (Edit: Or, one below the other). Looking around the class at all the children drawing it in the traditional manner (Edit: They may well have been drawing it using circles) caused me to break down in tears (Edit: This I can vouch for with some truth. I was a crier). I persevered. That number 8 was drawn by the end of the day, I think. Or quite possibly, by the end of the week. In my mind, I can’t put that instance into its original context. All I know is that I was (Edit: probably) in primary school, learning how to add numbers together, and I was infuriated by my lack of ability. It’s not a particularly life-changing instance, but it’s one that has stuck out in my head, bathed, as I said, in a sunny glow.  Potentially, though I know that what I can see in my mind’s eye has happened, the way my brain has lost those details that had turned it into a life-like situation has left me with the dream-reality. I suspect that what I have left is a mixture of fact and fiction and this is what makes things difficult.

(Edit: I might have dismissed this moment as being ‘not particularly life-changing’, but perhaps in the very fact that I have remembered, even if this was not a conscious choice, its value, to one degree or another, is proven. Even if what I have recalled is in fact fiction, there is no reason why the narrative could not apply to my life. This may have contributed to my drive, even if it did not ever actually occur. Perhaps what is left of my childhood and early teens is a mere ‘ideal’, designed to instill an essential outlook. This does not render what I have written redundant, it is only a reflection of this ‘sunny glow’ and what one chooses to do with its existence.)

So where then is the line between fact and fiction? Novelists write stories, some of which  I have read. Most I haven’t. Each one permeates into the realm of the real. Even where literary chance exists, and oddly so, it cannot be dismissed as fiction (Edit: ‘Dismissing’ as fiction implies it is beneath fact, I do not believe this for a second – fiction says exactly what life does, but in a shorter period of time – they are on a par). Coincidence happens every day; sometimes we take it on the chin, and in other situations it is the reason for a belief in something higher. It can be a comfort that if we are designed to be at a certain point at a certain time, then someone somewhere is controlling exactly what we do and therefore someone somewhere knows what happens next. Then again, when one analyses coincidence, there is found a lot less left to chance and a lot more based on the choices we make. A complex web of individuals and situations within an interpolated set of contexts, causing what seems random. Or, is exactly random, the coming together of individual forces, with no sense of the designs, size, shape, strength of the others, completely independently.

The things I remember are both fact and fiction, but they are recalled for certain reasons. Is it chance that I ‘remember’ the instance in the primary school? Or, have I consciously made a decision to ‘save’  to disc something that just isn’t as interesting (Edit: perhaps this a case for its actuality) as remembering how to ride a bike, or, err, tie-dying?  I imagine that it’s both. Whether that’s actually important or not is another story. What is, however, are the choices I make as a result of the chance fact/choice fiction (Edit: I’m making a distinction between chance and choice here, but they’re probably governed by each other – chicken and egg – perhaps, they’re even the same). Broadly speaking, if I were to be able to pinpoint whether a particular thought were a memory or dream, would I change my decision-making process as a result or in spite of  its newly found status? If a decision is made upon a dream, does that mean I’m relying more on chance? I’ve decided upon an idea based upon absolutely nothing substantially real. Then again, if I make a decision on something as inane as the drawing of the number 8, even if it is a memory, I’ve probably got a screw loose somewhere, and I’m leaving far more to chance than I would have. Probably.

N.B. My number 8 remains scarred to this day, skewed to one side in tribute (Edit: or surrender) to its real or unreal context.

2011
08/28
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In the night times…


Hazy rouge: ‘Red at night, shepherd’s delight.’  The softest of touches, a threat of oxygen, a lack of understanding. Spindly fingers work their way up and over your chin to press into your face. “Stop peeking,” through the bony cracks. A deathly orange glow, sharp and blinding, intensifies the sinking feeling that seems ever-present and uncomfortable, “I don’t like surprises”. As a pedestrian, you look on and wait to cross, but the kiss never comes. Naive anticipation turns to expectation turns to regret and to fear. The house, it disappears over the horizon; the sun, it falls into oblivion; and the cold, it covers and caresses, licking the skin to shivers. Strands of rain, they fall, pricking your facade so as to draw salty tears; no umbrella I own could ever shelter you from yourself. Streams to rivers and rivers to seas: an exhausted, red-stained face. I wait for you as I round the corner. Turning to look back, I wave and half a weather-swept smile crosses your face, if only momentarily. “It’s dark,” that is to say, “To bed,” there’s understanding in your echo. Volumes go unsaid, the eyes imagine more than I ever could. In a glance we agree to ‘never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting.’ Tonight, at 1am, we’ll meet somewhere in the sky, flying straight on ’til morning, and tomorrow, I’ll walk past your house – but to what end?

2011
07/16
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