All entries for February 2005
February 26, 2005
The desire to tell secrets sometimes almost makes you implode. You want to tell anything, to have something to tell is the happiest burden. Most of the time you manage to keep them repressed, in a realm known only to you as you look inwards, free from the gaze of prying eyes. The only difficulty comes when looking in a mirror and the face staring back appears to have them written all over it. So you give up looking in mirrors, not making eye contact with the person who stares back and stand alone, without the company your reflection provides. You can never quite tell if you actually have a worthy secret to tell or if you've just created one in order to have something to throw on the fire that wills you to express them.
With alcohol the barrier between the world of the secrets and the outside world becomes thinned. You long to prove that you are the kind of person who has secrets not just a hollow vessel. The secrets become more unruly and spill their way out into the temporal world. So you try and be the best medium for them you can be as they escape beyond your grasp…You try to push things right to the precipice but keep grasp of them before they fall into incomprehensibility. And somehow once they are told you feel purged but not totally, something always remains behind, soemthing part of the fabric of your inner world, and so never leaves. Something of the secrets refuses to be expressed and eludes you eternally.
The next day you emerge, exhausted and see the secrets now written on the faces of those you told and who were told by others. You read your secrets in every smile and frown and sigh. But yet that impulse which burned in you to tell still smoulders and you know that dormant it will lie untill the next time it makes a path to the surface.
February 24, 2005
Im attempting to compile a list of the most toe-curlingly awful records of all time (as this is a far more fruitful use of time than doing overdue essays). These records are so brazenly bad that they have earned a special place in my heart. I especially adore the ones that make you shift awkwardly in your chair in their sheer naffness. Their beauty is cracked, fragile, grotesque and thoroughly wondeful. Please suggest any howlers of your own, fabulous readers, this lot need company..
Je t'aime moi non plus, Serge Gainsbourg
,The heavy breathing classic, banned by a Britain with no sense of the tragic incompleteness of love, actually a bittersweet admission from a bruised heart of how 'lurve' without feelings is better as you're not vulnerable…hats off Serge, I love you, nor do I
Ive been to paradise, but Ive never been to me, Charlene
Quite possibly the most cringy song on the list. A super saccharine treatment of dark themes, dissatisfaction, domestic abuse and abortion. Yes it is horrible, but with a bleak sort of honesty and a 80's permed sense of hope.
Where Do You Go To, My Lovely? Peter Sarstedt
She sips her Napoleon brandy, but she never gets her lips wet. Sarstedt's subject is a Parisian girl about town with a shady past in the backstreets-quelle horreur. Another heinous crime against music, pervy, perplexing and plain awkward. I can look inside your head- run away run away.
All songs are throroughly recommended and are on DC++, only I do implore you to listen to them with headphones on to preserve any scrap of musical credibility
And so the general sense of unease descends, that no ammount of quarter past one pizza consumption can hold off. Why could I not be an automaton without all of the emotional ticks that get in the way of being a successful, motivated, straightforward person. At this hour the only thing to hold back the oppressive melancholy is Baccara, quite possibly the greatest early Thursday morning euro pop this wonderful world has to offer….and so I dance.
I have as it stands, four essays before the end of term. Consumed by the fear I sit frozen like a rabbit in the headlights of a juggernaught. What's the betting that I still have four to do on the tenth of March? This situation that I dread most I make reality by my fearing it. The stuck record of the fear wears thin on the nerves…I bore myself. Why do I condemn myself eternally to mediocrity…I might have to take a break and go and be someone else for a while. I think I'll opt for Tom Jones.
February 19, 2005
What can be said when all that's available are dead words? Everything written is condemned to be a rewriting of whats gone before. Perhaps, one day all of the possible combinations of words will be exhausted and all there will be is deafening silence. That is our aim as we write, to expend more combinations and move things closer to that silence. What can I say when all's been said? Repition renders suffering banal and people will always possess that most laudable capacity- to get bored.
"Promise me you'll never get bored"
"I can't promise that; you wouldn't want me to promise that."
In the first few months, of a relationship you form a language together. At first, this prototype is enough to express your optimism and tentative almost-happiness. However, as underlying emotions begin to shift and complicate and maybe even deepen, the language is not enough to express your changed state. A schism opens up between what you're allowed to say and how you feel. You cling to the grammar you created so as to conceal any inconsistancy which may betray the change which has occurred. Love has bound you in the shackles you had kept for another. You're unable to communicate using your inadequate phrasebook without causing pain.
Slowly you realise that you cannot say anything new to this person.
So one day you end things.
And you go and search for someone new to whom you think you can say anything. Untill, this becomes in-jokes and history, a new language. And then you're full-circle.
February 16, 2005
Fearometer: 6.5- Stay a pain pin cushion forever
When I was a kid I always assumed that being happy as an adult would be a complete sort of feeling as opposed to my present confusion. Everyone you had ever loved or cared for would be there to enjoy it with you, like a giant living photo montage. You would have the sensation that you had finally arrived.
As I got older, I slowly began to realise however that as life moves on, certain people drift out of view or dissappear altogether, and happiness is just as fragmented by thoughts of what might have been.
Sometimes people drift back in email form which produces an unexpected distractedness all day.
And sometimes this is almost unbearably bittersweet.
Whilst attempting to hide from the shadowy figure known as yourself, you can sometimes become addicted to a means of escape which is always to hand- the humble lie. At first your lies are cavalier, thrilling even. You wear them like a masquerade. One white lie or two now and then never hurt anyone. As you tell them, you feel a bit dangerous, as if you're unravelling a fabric which you've tried all your life to keep whole. The fragments of yourself held in the mind of everyone you know now no longer fit together properly and jarr awkwardly.
Eventually you become inured to these small time lies. You move on, creating a whole web of them. Telling them begins to produce a strange sadness in you. Yet you cannot stop. The fissure they have opened up in your reality becomes a strain. You fear that all of their threads will become tangled and incohesive as invented realities tend to do. You forget what was true and what created. Your life is being written by you but you must also be the principle character. Truth begins to seep in as the threads draw tighter, trapping you like an inevitability.
And as you run further from yourself, alone now behind the screen of thread, guess who you meet.
February 14, 2005
Yes its that time of year: the Valentine's spleen-vent is called for.
Why Valentines day is crap:
1. Its actually about someone being martyred so should be more about pain and misery, not fluffy bears holding hearts which are a fire hazard.
2. Love is just a cruel illusion nature tricks us with in order to get us to produce sprogs
3. Couples kissing in public right in front of you and making loud slurping noises
4. The memory of a guy in my sixth form whose snogs looked like 'Squid Attacks'
5. "Romantic Music"- just don't request Phil Collins- nuff said
6. It makes people pretend that love is uplifting pure and selfless not annoying, incomplete and torturous.
7. It is used to torment lonely socially inept people (I don't know who that could be)
8. You can smell the desperation at clubs on Valentine's day (no wait, thats a good thing)
9. I usually end up watching queezy Romantic Comedies alone, be still my beating heart.
10. It gets my hopes up
Work poses serious problems for your average fear sufferer. When even getting out of bed and presentable enough to face the world constitutes an infinity of actions to be overcome only with much effort and chagrin, being employed at the services of even the most affable capitalist is a strain on the resources to say the least.
On the securing of said job I was filled with a strange feeling. Relief one the one hand that I was now (semi)immune to accusations of being a 'lazy layabout', but also filled with searing dread constituted in a similar feeling to indigestion except not shifted by Rennie. I would start to worry about my shift about on average 2 days before, giving me ample worry time (essential).
My relationship to work ran in cycles, much like the career of David Hasselhof. Firstly, I would try and eek out my last few minutes of freedom, my flight mechanism in overdrive, as I attempted to get out of having to go. Once forced there, I would be faced with the realisation that my time had been bought and was no longer my own. The infinity of actions usually open to me, even if I usually just opted for the Bargain Hunt/tin of rice pudding combo, was now limited down to certain repetitive actions which I was obliged to do quickly so that drunken letcherous men got more drunken and letcherous. My time was divided up into the compartmentalisation of shifts and every passing second was one I willed to be gone.
Clock watching became the forbidden fruit of my evenings. I soon discovered however, that a watched clock never gets to last orders. I was warned against doing this as it's 'willing your life away', although once you start, its impossible to erase from your mind. Looking busy was another favourite, fastidiously cleaning one shelf till the paint came off, sweeping one piece of floor for half an hour etc. Why this was so satisfying Im not sure, might have just been the secret smirk that you had chosen to do it and it meant damning the MAN or something.
Small talk with the locals was another bain – I grappled with the age old question of 'what would a normal person say?' I decided that the weather, Soaps and the menace of seagulls were good topics. Geez that whole polite conversation thing is tricky.
The time frame of the night became like climbing a hill, the first half was uphill and after 10.30 it began to descend again, time slipping away, leaving only the residue of stale tobacco smoke in my hair.
February 13, 2005
Fearometer had just exploded
Ok, ok so Im here at 4.57 am, those blasted birds are twittering again and I have neither done any of my essay or gone to sleep. Hence, this blog is my last refuge before having to face up to the cold light of day. My pulse is racing, I feel like I have just been ejected out of an aircraft and am plummeting towards earth except I cannot quite work out quite why that is a problem. I am sinking further and further down, once I land on the floor of my room, I carry on through the floor and down into the room below as the carpet folds around me. The person in the room below is quite suprised.
The only breaths I can take are shallow ones, like an aneasthetised cat. They have slowly been getting shallower since I worked out how many hours I have left before the deadline (why must it be called that?) I have as per usual spent the evening procrastinating and then putting the world to rights, speaking rapidly and incomprehensibly the language which expresses my rising essay anxiety.
I am aware as I speak, that what I am saying is not what I am really talking about. I start, as is customary by now, to say how much I resent the sherade of exams, the bragging which goes with academia, the fact I should go out and get a proper job, the thought that what I am doing will never help anyone in the real world in the slightest etc etc.
I begin now to make excuses for why I cannot do my essay
1 I am unable to see straight/going blind
2 I am too tired/about to faint
3 I will not be able to do it well anyway and it is too late to bother now
4 I am too pathetic/inept/beetle-like to be allowed to exist
Post excuse making, I concoct ways of getting out of said essay. This sort of contingency planning is symptomatic of the beginning of the most advanced stage of the Fear. Firstly, I think about running away and going to live in a nice bush over by Westwood, then I remember that I like wearing slippers and drinking tea. Then I think of hiding in my room, this is always a comforting thought-how long could I stay in here for- beseiged by the outside world's cruel demands one me, I would erect a barricade and hold fast till I ran out of food, I like this idea as it requires nothing of me so I keep it in mind.
The most scary solution is emailing my tutor and asking for an extension. Firstly because it gives in to their fear and produces a lovely if frustrating sort of relief, until anyone mentions essays or the doing of therin. Secondly as I always leave it far too late to do this and then they get cross with me and their voice is just added to the thousand voices of the fear inside my head.
Where did my time go when I had 8 days to do this f*cking essay? It was stolen from me. The days blur into one, what happened is fragmented and dislocated inside my head like the radio bandwith between stations, the snatches of conversation interspersed with the white noise of distorting anxiety.
Apologies for ramblings, thankyou for the blog therapy- much appreciated.
February 12, 2005
Fearometer: erm 9
Scene: any miscellaneous bedroom across the land.
You wake up with a feeling of rapturous realisation. The sweet muse has bestowed priceless inspiration on you- the Unified Field theory, the poem that's going to catapult you onto one of those annoying Guardian 'bright young things' pages, an invention for making Paul Daniels bearable, the ability to acually embrace the Fear rather than just writing about it on your blog etc.
But of course the whole trajectory of your half hearted life being what it is, you cannot rouse yourself to write down this gem of divine revelation on a handy Tesco receipt so achingly close by. You'll do it in a few minutes once you get over the exquisite comfort of your duvet. So you curl up and relish the snug warmth of your cocoon. And almost imperceptibly lethargy creeps and drags you back to the arms of Morpheus.
Next morning, eye makeup smeared like motorcycle tracks over your pillow you groan. All that remains of your fabulous mental discovery is the smug feeling it ilicited in you, which feels hollow now as it mocks you . You search your well ordered memory filing cabinet only to find it full of chewing gum wrappers and fluff. You start to think to yourself that maybe it wasn't true light of day genius but only the somnolent ramblings of a delirious imagination. And maybe it was….but next time the muse calls, you're definitely going to bother to get up.