November 02, 2008

When the going gets tough…the tough get going!

Same old, same old.

I kinda had a thought today, that I'd love to pass on.

If there was anything in this world which you wanted more than anything else, wouldn't you give everything you had to make sure you could have it? Would you give up everything for that one thing, the ONLY thing that would make you the happiest person on earth, WHATEVER the cost?

Friends, Love, life, my've ditched everything that I really didn't think I'd need to get to where I want to go and there's a fault with my previous statement. No one can do anything on their own and, if, those people you always thought you could rely on let you down, or, in turn, if all you ever did was let them down, maybe they weren't the people you needed to grasp those goals. Those people could not be sensative to anything you wanted. Their can't understand your dream. But you need people, you need life, yes, dare I say it, we need a little bit more love'n'understandin' people.

Never forget who you are or what you want from life. And remember; you can do it. YOU CAN DO IT!

That thought is not just for me but for those people who feel just as lost as I do right now, or maybe lost sight of those things which still matter. Strength comes from within. Don't let yourself down, ok?

October 14, 2008

I'll never let you see

I'll never let you see the way my broken heart is hurting me.

A few words from yours truly. It's not creative, it's just something I wanted to say.

I went back over my Facebook wall posts, picture comments and note comments. And I miss my friends so much. I miss the people who I laughed and cried with for an entire year before the horrible parts of me flowed out like an unstoppable river (a la Pyrrhus, Aeneid II). I can't be honest because I always wanted people to believe I was invincible. I'm not.

In true love, I lost sight of what mattered; treated people how they deserve to be treated. Treating the person you loved the way you were meant to love them. I gave up on the people I should have been there for every fucking step of the way and in turn, willed them, the people I loved to turn their backs on me. I miss them still.

Anyway, all I want is to have my friends back, but the wounds don't heal and the ground isn't safe to fall on because I can't trust it and it can't trust me. I wanted to always tell them how sorry I really was, what it meant to me and how much they made me smile when we sang the old songs.. And how I miss being the way we used to be.

If I could change myself, wouldn't you think I could already? Wouldn't you think I would've have change JUST FOR YOU. ONLY FOR YOU ? ? ? 

Hubris really. Is it something to feel bad about that you miss your friends and will forever regret that it was you, YOU who fucked everything up? It's not self pity, it's just the truth. And if only., if only you had the courage to say what you were REALLY thinking.

And I guess, we live with the decisions we make in life and we all gotta get by somehow. People have done worse. Karma, eh?

October 09, 2008

Lyrical Melodies

Hello again,

I'm sad to report that I've decided to discontinue my creative writing module. That is not to say that this blog will be finished with, oh no oh no! : ).

A few things; I'll probably begin transferring my Facebook Blogs onto here, such as the Summer Sunshine (2007) and F-anime Reviews because it feels funny clogging my Facebook up with them. I'll still be showcasing a few scribbles here on Internal, so no worries.

Anyway, to tie you over, here is the upcoming third single from The Neoterix third album, 'Songs from Exile' entitled, 'Emma.' It is a song about losing love, finding someone else to try and save you and, ultimately, doing yourself more damage in the long run.


It's a question of how

Is it different from now?

The interest rate changed

And you lucked out

Was it something I said?

Was it there in the end?

Take a puff

Oh the drugs were made for this

She perfumed and preened

Drove you wild with her schemes

Broke your heart and she hiijacked

All your dreams

Drink it in with a smile

Maybe, baby, you'll find

There's a girl over here you need to meet


(Chorus 1)

So I said 'Hey Emma'

Don't you cry

Come and dance with me tonight

Hey Emma

Can't you see?

You are all I wanna be


All the night's that you tried

Fearful, broken inside

Sometimes angels are demons in disguise

We need a moment to talk

Hand-in-hand we used to walk

Under the Leamington sunrise

She got up and left

So you took your own steps

To find a soul from somewhere else

Just to open your heart

And to pull out the shards

To give this bleeding wound a rest


(Chorus 2)

So I said

Andrea, what's the use?

Standing here

Dancing with you

Andrea, read my lips

I know I was born for this


Do you find it uncool?

Does it make you feel cruel?

To love a girl

Who breaks her own rules

There was nothing to prove

I think somehow she knew

How much damage

'Forever's meant to do

To you find me sadistic?

Is it that realistic?

That the poet is the boy who's eating glue

Happiness is a chore

A fantasy for the whores

Who are convinced

We all get what we're due


(Chorus 1)

So I said 'Hey Emma'

Don't you cry

Come and dance with me tonight

Hey Emma

Can't you see?

You are all I wanna be


(Chorus 2)

So I said

Andrea, what's the use?

Standing here

Dancing with you

Andrea, read my lips

I know I was born for this


Obviously not the same without the music, but maybe the words will make you think? Until next time!

October 01, 2008

01/10/08: Exercise 1

Exercise 1

So I've happily completed my first session of Introduction to Creative Writing today. I decided that I was generally proud of the original dialogue I finished in class, so I'm going to put that up before I start working on turning it into a prose piece.


(S has just encountered A outside a bar. It's Friday afternoon and S is late for an appointment. A has a cigarette in hand and is horribly drunk. We appear to have arrived in the middle of their conversation. There is a slight pause as A smokes in silence and S watches intently.)

S: So, I heard something interesting about you the other day...

A: Of course you did. There isn't ANYTHING that you don't fucking hear with those giant fucking ears of yours...

S: Hey...hey, there's no need for that sort of language, you know! I just wanted you to know that...well, you know...that I'm here for you...if you needed someone to talk about it with.

A: I don't fucking need to talk to you. I never need to fucking talk to you.

(A pause. S seems to consider leaving at this response, whilst A is gazing moodily into the distance)

S: You know it's more common than you wouldn't thought...

A: How the fuck would you know? It's not like anyone would ever with you, is it?

S: Excuse me?!


A: Umm...well, what I meant to say was...

S: You're saying that nobody would find me attractive enough to...

A: All I'm saying is that you couldn't understand...

S: I can't believe that you've got the cheek to call me ugly.

A: Hey, hey! See, you're overreacting now! At absolutely no point did I explicitly use the word ugly.

S: You did just then! You actually think I don't understand because you think I'm ugly...

A: I...I...well...


A: Well...yeah

S: Well, for your information, I'm glad you feel this miserable! Serves you right, you dirty sexist pig! Oh my days, here I am offering you a shoulder to cry on in your hour of need and you throw it right back in my face and tell me that I'm ugly...that I never...

A: It's not like that...I was just surprised...and I certainly did not use any of those words...

(S is exasperated and turns to leave. She goes a little way before turning back)

S: I have, you know.

A: Mmm?

S: I said, I have you know.

A: I'm sure you have.

S: It was...nice

A: I'll bet it was...

S: Nothing like what you went through.

A: Mhmmm...

(Long pause)

S: You shouldn't beat yourself up about something which you can't change.

A: Yeah

S: My mum always used to say that the worst mistake you can ever make is not to learn from your mistakes.

A: I don't think I even learnt that.

(There is a long silence. A moodily sucks his cigarette. He can't hold his emotions in any longer and begins to cry)

S: Hey, hey, calm down! It's ok!

A: It's not you know. I feel...crap. I can't stop thinking about it. Whenever I look into the mirror, all I can see is this dreadful person. All I want to do is smack him around the face and tell him how much of a tosser he's been. How much I hate him...

S: There there.

A: I hate feeling like this.

(Reflective silence)

S: You know, there's plenty of people out there who've suffered worse...

A: Doubt it.

(Pause. A flicks a cigarette butt away)

A: You're going to be late for your appointment.

(S acts like she hasn't heard him)

A: I said, you're going to be late for your appointment.

S: Doesn't terribly matter. If they find out I've got syphillis, I'll still have it tomorrow, won't I?

(Pause. S waits for A to respond, but he doesn't. She gets up to leave)

S: Will you be alright?

A: Mmm

S: Is there anything I can do?

A: If I'm still here tomorrow morning, hit me with your car.

(S laughs)

A: I wasn't joking.

S: No, you never do.

(S walks off and exist. A gazes tiredly into the distance before lighting another cigarette and pushing his face into his hands)

August 31, 2008

Notes from a Small Campus: Extract 2

Here's another section from my novel project, 'Notes from a Small Campus.' It's been slow going, as I've started a hundred different projects otherwise and the initial extract wasn't well received because I really took it outside of the context of the narrative and it came out a bit weird, so I was a bit perturbed; so here is a more easy-to-follow extract, where the protagonist, Paris, has recently received his A-Level results:

Notes From A Small Campus: Extract 2

I can still picture results day clearly; I remember the weather was positively awful for August; the rain battered the streets in an endless, soulless rhythm that thundered through my head like the rattling groan of a bass drum. It did nothing to settle my nerves, which were so tense that the Vindelici could have used them as bowstrings. Mother was blustery as ever; wearing her ridiculously huge anorak which made her appear like a walking parachute. (On two occasions, I had since tried to burn this anorak with no success. The second time, Mother caught me. When she had reprimanded me appropriately, in the harshest punishment of all, she purchased a matching anorak for me. Fortunately, I was allowed to terminate this one.)

Before I had even managed to get my shoes on, she had caught me by the hand like a child and began to march down the street, a defiant and angry expression on her face.

I was not able to muster a protest of any sort for the entire fifteen minute walk to school. (I have an inkling that a number of my peers, if one would dare award them such a title, had watched with apt enjoyment) When we arrived, the hall was packed with people milling around, some openly weeping, others rewarded with huge smiles across their faces. All in all, the company was varied and exciting; and thoroughly pedestrian at the same time. Dire, as you can perceive.

Mother dearest had snatched up my envelope from the box and was already tearing into it with more enthusiasm than a beaver at a timber mill (excuse the colloquialism, but it is the most effective simile I can provide you; heightened by the large, rotund image Mother projected from beneath that ghastly anorak.)

My heart stopped. I watched her open the letter and gaze at it for some time, her eyes narrowed deeply, as though she were struggling to comprehend the words which had appeared on the paper, so magically produced from the envelope.

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ she stated, in the least relieved manner imaginable.

Now in nearly all narratives, the protagonist responds with a stupid question like “what’s a relief, Mama?” as if she will explain everything in black and white, so that we can move on to a mournful soliloquy and a touching reconciliation of some sort. Anyway, that’s what I suppose you were expecting. I’m hoping you have more common sense than that.

I, unlike most protagonists, am not one to ask baseless and empty questions for the sake of pointless information. Without the slightest inclination, I snatched the letter from Mother’s hands and took only a second to peruse the three A’s so deftly carved on it.

The parachute/beaver that was my mother allowed herself a smirk and stated in her most sneering tone.

‘Surprised, are you?’

‘No,’ I was not. In the vein of Hellenistic Stoicism, dramatic events do not have the slightest effect on my demeanor. I had three A’s and had achieved what I had desired. There wasn’t much else to it than that.

‘I suppose you want some expensive reward then,’ Mother growled, viciously prizing the letter from my grip and looking disinterestedly back over it, ‘another expensive present to empty my purse with. You know your father lost his job the other day; you can’t expect that we can just make money for you.’

I never expected them to make money for me because they never did. We were exceptionally poor but nevertheless, Mother saved these performances for when the plebs were in listening distance, in hopes of inciting riots and forcing me to be stoned or something. I had already seen the ass-ears of busybody Mrs. Conway as she caught a snifter of gossip drifting in the winds and expected the lynching to occur at once. I’ll never forget her stupid red wig darted through the masses, trying to sidle up alongside my mother. (This was, it must be pointed out, the same woman who had burdened her son with the name ‘Theobald.’ The name conjures up an ageing, balding nobody who throws up over himself when afraid. It turned out to be a fitting title for her son.)

In truth, Mother had provided me with little in the way of presents, save on my 8th birthday, when I had been magnanimously (and I use the term loosely) awarded with a CD of the Bach Double-Violin Concerto in D-Minor. (I later learned that my father had procured it in a Buy-One-Get-One-Free deal with the new Take That album and having no use for it, passed it onto his son, who, he assumed, had an interest in ‘music with violins in it.’ This was the only present I had ever received from either of my parents. It also turned out that neither had known that it was my birthday. On a side note, no, I cannot account for my father’s peculiar taste in boy bands)

‘I don’t want a reward,’ was all I recall saying, though it might have been somewhat more curt and tongue-in-cheek, because the next thing I recall was that Mother had lost her temper, cursed at me, and promptly stormed out, leaving an eerie silence in her wake.


Another stream-of-consciousness, random piece


For the most part, he has been thrilled to be allowed to exist, which, when you think about it, is praise enough, even for anyone of his stature and persona. He is, as much as has been said, an enigma, an enigma who made no real point of really wanting to be an enigma, but precedent and fate resulted in the enigma.

For what cause is there in him, except that one, hazardous revelation; that he isn't really that real at all, or that he is a mystery to others because he remains a mystery to himself? I do not refer to him by name when I pass him in the street, nor salute with wide eyes and fateful gestures as if he were my equal or cousin.

He is a stranger to me and I to him.

Unfortunate, then, that I was always expected to know him best of all. That it was supposed to be my task to reinforce the nature of who he was/wasn't/is. He doesn't recognise himself in the mirror and when I look into the mirror I only see him. Which, for the most part, leaves me unsettled and borish; ill fated and confused.

How big's the mirror?

I didn't really take that into consideration beyond what I already didn't know.

A man who is the enigma yet does not understand what he is, because he is an enigma, understands himself best of all; he understands that he cannot be understood.

Three days later, I shot him. And they buried him just outside on the verge, somewhere, where misery seeds grow alongside pity and eccentricity.

I never told anyone I knew him. Because I didn't.

August 29, 2008

This is the picture I put on my desk…

This is the Picture I Put On My Desk

It's ironic that the you on my desk is more pleasant

Than the you in real life.

She doesn't talk back.

She doesn't talk back.

She just smiles.

You see, I hate the you in real life

And I love the you on my desk

All she does is smile

All she does is smile

In the dress I so often see you in

And maybe, the you in real life

Could meet the me in real life

Just for a day

Just for a day

And I'll tell the you in real life

(Not the you on my desk)

How I feel about her...

August 26, 2008

Paula Clarendynn

I'm not really sure of the point of this was, but I wrote it whilst in bed and figured I'd just put it on here cos I like it for some reason...

Paula Clarendynn

My name is Paula Clarendynn and I'm in love with a man whose name I don't know.

I watched him beat his wife to death with an ironing board yesterday. What a bitch. He told her that she couldn't iron for shit, which was true because she couldn't. He didn't like the triangular creases she put in his trousers.

I saw him pick up the board, sending clothes and iron flying in all directions. I saw him hit her with it; once, twice...six times, until the caved in ruin that was her face bled so much that it reminded me of a cherry pie. She bled more and pleaded for more. So he stopped.

He pushed her head through the collapsable legs of the ironing board when she told him to stop, but paused when she dared him to do it.

He said he couldn't. She said he would.

Then she said he shouldn't, so he did.

He slammed the legs shut around her neck and it split open, then tore clean off; like pulling the ring off a can or squeezing the juice from a lemon. Easy peesy, leamon squeezy. Her neck broke like two twigs under an axe, but I was too far away to hear it break. I imagined it; the snap, crackle and pop. I recorded it in my head.





I do remember what he looked like though. He wore a red suit with red sleeves, a red tie in a windsor knot, red shirt and he had slid a red biron into his right breast pocket. He looked gorgeous.

He sleeps in my bed now to get away from the police. He wants to wait until the body of his wife has decomposed and he can use her bones for knife handles. I keep the knives for him. So we wait. I sleep on the sofa and climb into bed with him when he goes to work.

My name is Paula Clarendynn and I'm in love with a man whose name I don't know.

August 01, 2008

By Any Other Name

Just a quick poem for you!

By Any Other Name

Here is a Rose

You dug her grave

A scarlet heart, beating

Which stopped yesterday

I still smell as sweet

Though perhaps you don't know

That my real name is Alyss

And your real name is Rose

July 08, 2008

Notes from a Small Campus: Extract 1

As promised: the opening of my new novel!

1: 'I Don't Care: UCAS never prepared me for this!'

'The primary component of any exciting piece of fiction is to start at the beginning (‘a very good place to start’ warbles Julie Andrews through The Sound of Music) but, you can hardly expect that from someone like me. Beginnings, it must be stated, are hardly a specialty of mine; rather, middles and ends are the focus of inordinate perfection. So, to speak, we are forced to being in media reus (for the plebs, this means ‘in the middle’) and I simply don’t have the energy to paint you some startling circumstances about a childhood I can’t remember. I swear the memory brings tears to my eyes…

No, really…

So I will start at the beginning. So let me start by saying that I sympathize with any and every student who comes to university burdened with the dream of education and fantastical adventures involving drugs, sex, alcohol, rock and/or roll poured laboriously into the mix.

They are all wrong.

Instead, we find ourselves neutered, isolated from the comforts of our beds and trapped in a world of strangers and aliens who pick on the slightest inconsistency in our personalities ad infinitum. Positively frustrating are such ilk in their practices and yet, so perfectly formed in their pursuits.

UCAS did not prepare me for what I went through those three years. They made it out that you received your results and leaped on the fairytale-train to your selected home for the next three years and after copious drinking and work, you would emerge as a fully formed human adult.

Yeah, right.

This is my story. I finished my education quite happily, coming out with a First in Classics from the University of Warwick, one of Britain’s proudest institutions of education. And I can tell you, in all authority, that the experience that I was subjected to for those three years were not, as one supposes, littered with one night stands, games of ‘Centurion’ or copious amounts of vomiting. They were still, the best of my life and yet, I had never sat down to consider those fanciful years of youth for some time until this moment, when I put my pen to paper.

I would drudge up a range of interesting pieces of history for you regarding this institution, but I want to make one thing abundantly clear: I am not your tour guide. I’m not your shoulder-to-lean-on and I am most certainly not your friend.

The truth is that someone came up to me only yesterday, proclaiming that university educated people were fantastically elitist and brought hope for the country. Everybody could go cut out that ‘wonderful slice of life and learn something about being a person and a human being; learning from the greatest teachers our time has given…’ (His exact words)

I can’t even remember how we got on the goddamn topic.

I’ll be perfectly honest, the entire exchange was hardly to my liking and it had set the fine cog wheels of my evidently pretentious self (and admit it, you thought I was an idiot the moment you sat down to read…) into motion to consider whether his thoughts on the matter had any relevance at all or whether he was simply regurgitating a stereotype of his own. In short, it amazed and stunned me. The philistine…

There is a conception amongst some people that university students are a noble pack of creatures, wearing cream suits, smoking cigars and discussing the economy in well practiced English accents etc. The rest merely considered it a careless romp through alcohol and anything else which came to hand for three years, apparently in possession of something akin to a degree in the aftermath.

The truth of the matter is, anybody suggesting either of these extreme ideas (which, one notes, are not mutually exclusive) quite obviously, built their knowledge of university almost exclusively from the perspective of a blind, deaf and dumb person. Perhaps equally disturbingly, nearly everybody I know has developed an opinion that studying my degree: Classics, is accurately depicted in The Secret History.

You can imagine, I was positively irate.'

More to come guy! Comments welcome!

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