Well then
Today is the 11th of October, which means very little to many of people, and until recently, I was one of them. That was until a few weeks ago when my Dad told me he was getting married on this day, and guess what? He has. This means I now have a step-mother, who I met once, and four step-siblings, who I've never met and didn't even know existed until a week or two ago. It's very strange to imagine that my Dad is once again married. In fact, I'm not imagining it: he IS married again. He seems so happy, so that's all good. It's good he's found someone at last. Still, it hasn't sunk in he is married again. I guess I never figured that he would do after what happened last time... I guess time will tell how this one goes.
In other news, I've started writing a story, at Svenja's insistance. Now, I've never believed I have any talent for creative writing, so I'm not sure how this will read. It may be appalling, and I'll wager it is, because as I said, I've never been a believer in my writing skills. However, I will post it in here for you all to read, and comment upon. It's based loosely upon own events in my own life, but it is heavily ficitionalised. It's not an autobiography, it's a novel. Well, it's pretending to be one. How much of one it is is up to you lot, I guess.
AT twenty years old, most people have yet to have their eyes truly opened to the world around them, and still live sheltered and naïve lives, forever thinking that it will “all be ok” in the end, and that good things are just around the next corner. There was a time when I would have subscribed to that philosophy, and would have believed if someone told me that all I had to do was hang on in there, and all would work out ok.
I used to believe that there was some hand tending the light at the end of the tunnel, and that someway, some how, things always did work out in the end, because life couldn’t be cruel and unkind, could it? Life was a thing of joy where you got what you wanted and everything slotted nicely into place to create some wonderful larger jigsaw that, at the end of your time, you stand back an admire, knowing that it really does all work out.
The first time that I ventured outside into the wider world alone I was 18 years old, and I was at Leeds University studying International History & Politics course. I always had a love for history, and so it seemed like a natural thing to do. All my friends around me had career plans and all involved a three year course at university, leaving at the end with a diploma and a hefty debt. It’s the natural order of things; it’s the way anyone gets ahead in life. So, like a fish caught up in the stream, I enrolled at university, clinging to the notion that this was right, because it was what everyone did: it must be the right thing. Get a degree, and come out smiling and walk into a decent paid job and live out my life with a wife and kids.
I knew somewhere deep inside, that I wasn’t like that. I couldn’t follow the trend and become another faceless nobody going through the system. I had to fight the system. Every part of me wanted out, and for no real cause I could ever sell to anyone. Was it because I didn’t enjoy it? Did I not settle? Was it too difficult? Was I homesick? The truth is it was none of these things, but I could never tell anyone this, because they wouldn’t understand. Would my Dad understand that the only member of our family to ever go to university was suddenly leaving because he knew he had to be different, for the sake of difference? Would the conversation have been plausible?
“I’m leaving university”, I would say.
“Ok, I understand. You know where behind you regardless”, would be the inevitable reply. “But why the change of heart?”
“There is no change of heart. I never wanted to be here. I can’t be a faceless no-one going though some pre-determined system. It’s not me. It’s not unique.”
“Oh son, but what about the future? Your career? Your job?”
No, they wouldn’t understand, and I could never tell them. So I’d concoct some half-baked story about not settling, or not enjoying the course. It would be too much hassle to tell them and to explain that the reason I left and - apparently - ruined my future was because I felt I was on a path to generic nothingness.
And so it was then, when I was 18 that I knew that life wasn’t always ok if you just went with the flow. What sort of life is that? Where you just do what The Man says? That’s no life for me. I knew you had to buck the trend and forge your own life. It may not be successful in terms of monetary gains, and you may not be the CEO of the next Microsoft or Virgin, but you would have fulfilled your own life. Ambitions and far-fetched dreams, for me, have always been for the people who are afraid of the now, and of what they may become. They have to comfort themselves with the notion that by going with the flow, it will all work out. After all, it has to, right?
So it is that I booked myself onto the next flight to Ireland, and set off into the future knowing that my entire life was packed into a single suitcase and with only £1500 to my name. Here I was, leaving behind university and home for a wild whim that things are better if you just go crazy and follow your gut. I felt somehow that I had to move country to really make the change. I wasn’t content to just move South, North, East or West within Britain. No, this statement wouldn’t be loud enough for my own twisted goals. It had to be Gonzo, it had to be bold. It had to be so out-of-the-blue that I even shocked myself.
The flight to Ireland was a nightmare. I was seated next to some decrepit old Jesus freak, who throughout the entire flight, was in a trance-like state, clutching here rosary beads and muttering chants to some higher deity. I was going mad. Any longer on this plane and I was going to crazy and start beating on people. God dammit, can’t these people be any quieter?!
“Hail Mary, mother of grace…”
Oh sweet Jesus, I was starting to crack. Fresh out of home and university and already becoming deeply cynical and short-tempered. I muttered viciously and turned on my MP3 player, hoping to drown out the incessant nonsense. Do these poor fools not know the harsh realities of this foul age we live in?
“No-one’s going to take me alive, the time has come to make things right…”
This is the last thing I need right now. Sitting next time some old fool, 20,000 feet above the Irish Sea, listening to Matt Bellamy sing about rebellion and anti-order. I could feel a thousand eyes on me: the great force was chuckling as everything collapsed.
Feeling more and more cynical and angry, I got up and headed to the rear of the plane, to the bathroom. A guy tried to step into the aisle in front of me, but I was in no mood to wait. I elbowed past him and locked myself in the bathroom.
God damn, why am I here? What am I doing? A few weeks ago I was sat in lectures learning about the Treaty of Westphalia, and now here I am, heading to a foreign country because of some notion that staying would be wrong. But I had no material reason to leave. There was nothing in Ireland that suggested I should go there.
I splashed a little cold water and my face and stared at the reflection looking back. Eighteen years old, leaving all that I know behind, heading into the future without knowing where the hell I’m going, and for what good reason. I looked very tired and worn; I felt detached, as thought watching my life through the eyes of another, unable to warn myself of the dangers ahead. I felt it was wrong to stay, and now something was telling me I was wrong to go. So, there I was, confused and angry, heading to Ireland. There was little else I could do but ride this strange torpedo through and see where I get washed up.
When the plane touched down in Dublin, I was feeling a little calmer. I knew I had come here for a reason, and something told me that I was just about to discover what it was. The plane taxied around to the terminal, and I jumped out of my seat and picked up my hand luggage. I knew that soon enough everyone would be scrambling over each other like dogs in order to get to the door, and to obscurity. I wanted no part of this, so made my move now. I made it to the front just in time for the doors to open. All of my optimism was suddenly washed away: I was greeted by a miserable scene. On the asphalt stood two sullen figures in their fluorescent jackets protecting them for the torrential rain that was falling on Dublin that day. Bollocks. I felt as thought the pilot had taken off from Manchester, circled Liverpool once or twice, and then landed back where we started as some sort of sick joke. God damn you, Lord.
Regardless, I disembarked the plane and headed into the prefab building that was the A-Wing of the terminal. It was a shed, and it was a shed that seemed to be full of faceless goons in Bermuda shorts and plastic “sandals”. Holiday season. I looked at the faces as I passed: middle-aged ogres with young kids, heading away for two weeks in some hell hole like Ibiza, or Mallorca. They looked like caricatures; they didn’t look like real people. Or did they? Perhaps they were simply TOO real, and I was too afraid of becoming one of them that I had to reject them. I felt myself falling apart, and so I pressed on for the nearest exit.
I cleared customs in record time - the meathead in the booth didn’t even open my passport - and found my way to the baggage carousel, and waited for my bag to arrive. I hated this part. Hanging around for hours while some acne-riddled bagboy stands outside, smoking a fag, making us poor fools wait on him. I felt like crawling through the access point in the wall and giving the fucker a kidney punch. I hate this, and I hate this bagboy. Irritable and wanting anything to clear my head, I decided to go get a coffee instead of waiting on this prick. The coffee bar was full: it truly was the height of tourist season, and everyone was heading off for their own place in the sun. Ignoring the people around me, I got myself a strong coffee and heaped the sugar into it before drinking it down and staring into the cup at the dregs that remained.
You may realise it's far from finished, but there you go. I would like to know what you do think about it. Constructive criticism, though, but don't hold any punches. I want honesty ;) You won't offend me, I don't think it's any good myself :D So yes, there you go.
I was reading
manchester_red's post about his childhood memories earlier, and it got me thinking about my own childhood and what I remember from it. What I remember most are the long, hot summers when school was out and we'd spend all day in the great outdoors, happy in our play. Where I live, there is a lot of countryside around: rolling hills, open fields and woodland areas hiding concealed streams and brooks. As kids, we'd explore all these areas, crawling through bramble bushes into hidden fields, and finding things lost for years and years.
Once we chanced upon an old shed building that was rumoured to house dynamite way back in the past. Ofcourse there was no explosives there when we found it, but it made a great den. It was hidden away on the edge of a forest, where we would go and play soliders, or tag, or other childhood games, using the abandoned shed as a base.
Those days always seemed to last forever. We'd all meet up at 9/10AM and stay out long into the dusk. Life was so much different back then, when we had innocence and not a care. All we worried about was losing at our games, or not getting our tea because we stayed out too late.
Fond memories of my childhood, especially of the summers.
In other news, I've started writing a story, at Svenja's insistance. Now, I've never believed I have any talent for creative writing, so I'm not sure how this will read. It may be appalling, and I'll wager it is, because as I said, I've never been a believer in my writing skills. However, I will post it in here for you all to read, and comment upon. It's based loosely upon own events in my own life, but it is heavily ficitionalised. It's not an autobiography, it's a novel. Well, it's pretending to be one. How much of one it is is up to you lot, I guess.
AT twenty years old, most people have yet to have their eyes truly opened to the world around them, and still live sheltered and naïve lives, forever thinking that it will “all be ok” in the end, and that good things are just around the next corner. There was a time when I would have subscribed to that philosophy, and would have believed if someone told me that all I had to do was hang on in there, and all would work out ok.
I used to believe that there was some hand tending the light at the end of the tunnel, and that someway, some how, things always did work out in the end, because life couldn’t be cruel and unkind, could it? Life was a thing of joy where you got what you wanted and everything slotted nicely into place to create some wonderful larger jigsaw that, at the end of your time, you stand back an admire, knowing that it really does all work out.
The first time that I ventured outside into the wider world alone I was 18 years old, and I was at Leeds University studying International History & Politics course. I always had a love for history, and so it seemed like a natural thing to do. All my friends around me had career plans and all involved a three year course at university, leaving at the end with a diploma and a hefty debt. It’s the natural order of things; it’s the way anyone gets ahead in life. So, like a fish caught up in the stream, I enrolled at university, clinging to the notion that this was right, because it was what everyone did: it must be the right thing. Get a degree, and come out smiling and walk into a decent paid job and live out my life with a wife and kids.
I knew somewhere deep inside, that I wasn’t like that. I couldn’t follow the trend and become another faceless nobody going through the system. I had to fight the system. Every part of me wanted out, and for no real cause I could ever sell to anyone. Was it because I didn’t enjoy it? Did I not settle? Was it too difficult? Was I homesick? The truth is it was none of these things, but I could never tell anyone this, because they wouldn’t understand. Would my Dad understand that the only member of our family to ever go to university was suddenly leaving because he knew he had to be different, for the sake of difference? Would the conversation have been plausible?
“I’m leaving university”, I would say.
“Ok, I understand. You know where behind you regardless”, would be the inevitable reply. “But why the change of heart?”
“There is no change of heart. I never wanted to be here. I can’t be a faceless no-one going though some pre-determined system. It’s not me. It’s not unique.”
“Oh son, but what about the future? Your career? Your job?”
No, they wouldn’t understand, and I could never tell them. So I’d concoct some half-baked story about not settling, or not enjoying the course. It would be too much hassle to tell them and to explain that the reason I left and - apparently - ruined my future was because I felt I was on a path to generic nothingness.
And so it was then, when I was 18 that I knew that life wasn’t always ok if you just went with the flow. What sort of life is that? Where you just do what The Man says? That’s no life for me. I knew you had to buck the trend and forge your own life. It may not be successful in terms of monetary gains, and you may not be the CEO of the next Microsoft or Virgin, but you would have fulfilled your own life. Ambitions and far-fetched dreams, for me, have always been for the people who are afraid of the now, and of what they may become. They have to comfort themselves with the notion that by going with the flow, it will all work out. After all, it has to, right?
So it is that I booked myself onto the next flight to Ireland, and set off into the future knowing that my entire life was packed into a single suitcase and with only £1500 to my name. Here I was, leaving behind university and home for a wild whim that things are better if you just go crazy and follow your gut. I felt somehow that I had to move country to really make the change. I wasn’t content to just move South, North, East or West within Britain. No, this statement wouldn’t be loud enough for my own twisted goals. It had to be Gonzo, it had to be bold. It had to be so out-of-the-blue that I even shocked myself.
The flight to Ireland was a nightmare. I was seated next to some decrepit old Jesus freak, who throughout the entire flight, was in a trance-like state, clutching here rosary beads and muttering chants to some higher deity. I was going mad. Any longer on this plane and I was going to crazy and start beating on people. God dammit, can’t these people be any quieter?!
“Hail Mary, mother of grace…”
Oh sweet Jesus, I was starting to crack. Fresh out of home and university and already becoming deeply cynical and short-tempered. I muttered viciously and turned on my MP3 player, hoping to drown out the incessant nonsense. Do these poor fools not know the harsh realities of this foul age we live in?
“No-one’s going to take me alive, the time has come to make things right…”
This is the last thing I need right now. Sitting next time some old fool, 20,000 feet above the Irish Sea, listening to Matt Bellamy sing about rebellion and anti-order. I could feel a thousand eyes on me: the great force was chuckling as everything collapsed.
Feeling more and more cynical and angry, I got up and headed to the rear of the plane, to the bathroom. A guy tried to step into the aisle in front of me, but I was in no mood to wait. I elbowed past him and locked myself in the bathroom.
God damn, why am I here? What am I doing? A few weeks ago I was sat in lectures learning about the Treaty of Westphalia, and now here I am, heading to a foreign country because of some notion that staying would be wrong. But I had no material reason to leave. There was nothing in Ireland that suggested I should go there.
I splashed a little cold water and my face and stared at the reflection looking back. Eighteen years old, leaving all that I know behind, heading into the future without knowing where the hell I’m going, and for what good reason. I looked very tired and worn; I felt detached, as thought watching my life through the eyes of another, unable to warn myself of the dangers ahead. I felt it was wrong to stay, and now something was telling me I was wrong to go. So, there I was, confused and angry, heading to Ireland. There was little else I could do but ride this strange torpedo through and see where I get washed up.
When the plane touched down in Dublin, I was feeling a little calmer. I knew I had come here for a reason, and something told me that I was just about to discover what it was. The plane taxied around to the terminal, and I jumped out of my seat and picked up my hand luggage. I knew that soon enough everyone would be scrambling over each other like dogs in order to get to the door, and to obscurity. I wanted no part of this, so made my move now. I made it to the front just in time for the doors to open. All of my optimism was suddenly washed away: I was greeted by a miserable scene. On the asphalt stood two sullen figures in their fluorescent jackets protecting them for the torrential rain that was falling on Dublin that day. Bollocks. I felt as thought the pilot had taken off from Manchester, circled Liverpool once or twice, and then landed back where we started as some sort of sick joke. God damn you, Lord.
Regardless, I disembarked the plane and headed into the prefab building that was the A-Wing of the terminal. It was a shed, and it was a shed that seemed to be full of faceless goons in Bermuda shorts and plastic “sandals”. Holiday season. I looked at the faces as I passed: middle-aged ogres with young kids, heading away for two weeks in some hell hole like Ibiza, or Mallorca. They looked like caricatures; they didn’t look like real people. Or did they? Perhaps they were simply TOO real, and I was too afraid of becoming one of them that I had to reject them. I felt myself falling apart, and so I pressed on for the nearest exit.
I cleared customs in record time - the meathead in the booth didn’t even open my passport - and found my way to the baggage carousel, and waited for my bag to arrive. I hated this part. Hanging around for hours while some acne-riddled bagboy stands outside, smoking a fag, making us poor fools wait on him. I felt like crawling through the access point in the wall and giving the fucker a kidney punch. I hate this, and I hate this bagboy. Irritable and wanting anything to clear my head, I decided to go get a coffee instead of waiting on this prick. The coffee bar was full: it truly was the height of tourist season, and everyone was heading off for their own place in the sun. Ignoring the people around me, I got myself a strong coffee and heaped the sugar into it before drinking it down and staring into the cup at the dregs that remained.
You may realise it's far from finished, but there you go. I would like to know what you do think about it. Constructive criticism, though, but don't hold any punches. I want honesty ;) You won't offend me, I don't think it's any good myself :D So yes, there you go.
I was reading
manchester_red's post about his childhood memories earlier, and it got me thinking about my own childhood and what I remember from it. What I remember most are the long, hot summers when school was out and we'd spend all day in the great outdoors, happy in our play. Where I live, there is a lot of countryside around: rolling hills, open fields and woodland areas hiding concealed streams and brooks. As kids, we'd explore all these areas, crawling through bramble bushes into hidden fields, and finding things lost for years and years.
Once we chanced upon an old shed building that was rumoured to house dynamite way back in the past. Ofcourse there was no explosives there when we found it, but it made a great den. It was hidden away on the edge of a forest, where we would go and play soliders, or tag, or other childhood games, using the abandoned shed as a base.
Those days always seemed to last forever. We'd all meet up at 9/10AM and stay out long into the dusk. Life was so much different back then, when we had innocence and not a care. All we worried about was losing at our games, or not getting our tea because we stayed out too late.
Fond memories of my childhood, especially of the summers.