Wednesday, 30 October 2013

realisation

Not once in my life has my dad ever said he loves me... is that weird? :P


I think my mum's said it, but I can't remember distinctly.

Sunday, 27 October 2013

Horror Movie

Just watched Before Midnight.

One long, painful-to-watch argument.

Fuck.

It was exactly how me and Amy used to argue. The knowledge that every word you say is a nail in the relationship's coffin but you want to say it anyway just because it's been hiding there and you hate that person so much at that moment you just want to 'win'.

Godamnit Linklater, you're a genius but watching that hurt.

- Edit.

http://catholicmoraltheology.com/before-midnight-and-lessons-on-how-not-to-talk-to-your-partner/

Going back over this post again, having read this review-cum-essay.

I feel like an actual couple I know, on whose love I relied, are getting divorced. I should have guessed it from the title. Midnight. The worst time. And the sad thing is, there is no other time left in the narrative! Before Dawn? Nope - already done it. Circularity's taken care of: at the end of Before Midnight, Jessie in desperation decides to pretend that he has met Celine for the first time. I remember actually doing this myself, and thinking it was both a terrible and good idea.

But the problem was, by this point, the damage was all already done. And what damage. Half an hour of such unflinching brutality - and yet, looking back at the entire trilogy, completely in keeping with what we know about these characters; namely, that they're intelligent, self-aware and also fucked up enough to go logically down that road. Celine in particular showed traits of being a little fucked up in Before Sunrise, and those traits were (rightfully) followed through to their logical conclusion: she is unhappy, for she is the one who 'sees herself as an old woman'. Jessie too displayed a hint of some machismo in Before Sunrise and Sunset, but what seemed no more than youthful behaviour became unfortunately a trait that was continued, owing to his relative fame as an author. Jessie was a child, and during Before Midnight, acted in ways that frankly were shocking.

And yet, because Linklater, Delpy and Hawke are an ace writing team, you can't blame him for saying the things he did because, in the heat of the moment, when one's self is being directly attacked, the responses he came up with where exactly what millions of men in relationships say every day to their partner. A crucial moment for me was when Celine confesses that she sometimes feels suicidal, and he replies, "You think you're the only one who gets those feelings?" in such a vulnerable moment that I hoped Celine would let him open up and they could just accept and share in their negativity, to let the snake into Eden. But she ignored it, and the argument continued.

That's the trouble, the real trouble with relationships. And one with which I constantly grapple: the peak, and the fall, and then hopefully the recovery. The 'problem' with me and Donna is we haven't had anything dramatic happen, maybe because we're both in denial of our own unhappiness. That, or we're both actually nice people. Amy was nice too, but... there was something unhappy there, something which would always remain, no matter what. This is what Celine has too - and yet, for all that, she is likeable nonetheless. The kind of person who it would be fun to fall in love with, but perhaps not to have kids with. This is why I was surprised when I first read that the premise of Before Midnight was that not only did they get together, but they had kids. I distinctly recall a passing moment of 'wouldn't having kids make Celine unhappy?' but let it go, because, after all, the series was essentially a happy one. Not any more. The apple has been eaten....

Fuck. The moment I wrote that sentence I remembered a random bit at the start of the film where Jessie picks up a half-eaten apple dropped by his daughter and eats it. Wat.

Anyway. I think, for me, I am so afraid of change, so curmudgeonly, that the moment I overcome whatever inevitable fears I have about something new, that just as quickly I hang onto that feeling of having made it, and end up holding whatever it is I've got into too close and ruining whatever made it briefly fun in the first place. That's the worst sentence I've ever constructed but never mind. This essential fear of, then fear of letting go of, is what constitutes my own personality flaw, and makes it hard for me to do, well, anything.

So instead today I watched two very good films in a row whilst eating Pizza Hut and being bald. And wondered whether I would ever actually be alive.

Do you still read these posts bro?

Saturday, 26 October 2013

Dichotomy

Spiritual crisis. A phrase overused by people who believe that the spirit is linked to religion. The material intercedes, according to these deep thinkers, and the resulting disaster results in a world dominating by TVs, overweight people, unemployed people, buggers, mobile phones, porn, torture porn, porn torture, porches torn, carpet burns, burping pets, farting fathers, insidious cats, and John. All of these may be true. Conversely, to quote the erstwhile architect Brandon Blach, they may not. But, as he also correctly pointed out, they may.
The spiritual is not necessarily linked to God. In fact, in this discussion we can leave the issue of God to one side. When I speak of the spirit, I do not speak of a link to the Almighty. I speak of a link to one’s soul. And, inevitably, I must point out that the existence of a soul is of course not linked to the idea of a God, and fully accept that souls do not actually exist. What I’m placing forth is the proposition that the essentially human facets of interaction, happiness, love, and so forth can be quite simply summarised as ‘soul.’ This is the opposite of the materialistic pleasures afforded by aspects of life prompting nothing more than a chemical reaction.
Luke, a teenager, plays video games all his life. His numbness is emphasised by his unwillingness to participate in the parties his peers peruse, feeling himself above such baseness. He sneers. His friends used to sneer but they  stopped sneering a while ago. Luke does not know anymore why he sneers, only that he must. And he realises as time goes on that he sneers because he is unable to appreciate these things in a way that everyone else does. To him, parties and socialising are scary. He likes things the way they were. Everything was controlled, predictable. His parents told him what would happen next. Activities were placed before him which he could enjoy for a limited period. Socialisation revolved around who had the coolest toy.
But then adolescence hit, and everyone changed. His soul, created in part by his enjoyment of media with other media-addled children, began to find itself gnawed away by alienation. Whereas once the material provided a means to access the spiritual through a shared love of it with others, now it was he and he alone who still enjoyed (or tried his hardest to enjoy) the same activities; but without the backup of others around him, those activities become empty signifiers of their previous selves, with all their meaning and point lost. He played anyway, because the alternative was too terrible to live with. Life without this crutch, life without the material, meant turning to the spiritual for guidance - which itself meant having to accept that he had a soul to save.
Previously, his soul was the material. That was it, and others were equally soulless. But the others somehow escaped - chose to escape - those shackles. Luke couldn’t see how or why they were shackles. When his friends fornicated with the opposite sex, he waited patiently for them to come back and talk about stuff they used to talk about. But they grew bored now. Luke hung on, and hung on. Every moment that hinted of a return to past ways was grabbed eagerly. Unfortunately, that same eagerness contributed to the already widening gap between Luke’s interests and those of his old friends. He was weird now. He was still a child, and seemed unwilling to grow up.
But growing up was not simply making a choice. It was being able to escape an aspect of his own head that he had never hitherto seen as something worth escaping. There was the crux. How to not only escape, but to want to escape.
Luke decided he wouldn’t be like the others at any point soon. So he accepted that perhaps he ought to stop feeling so depressed and just enjoy his own habits and hobbies. If they wouldn’t be his friends, they probably weren’t real friends anyway. His own head was large enough to accommodate enough dreams and fantasies. Enough realities.
So he forced himself to stop gazing and envying the spiritual world of love and passion and set about earnestly returning to the materialistic. He absorbed himself in games until he stopped feeling anything. At night he would lie in the dark, wondering how long he could keep this pretence up (all the while hating himself for these thoughts, wishing they would go away, which implied in itself the feeling that they had come from outside of him, whereas actually it was precisely the opposite, something that was somehow more terrifying, suggesting as it did that it was only in these times, lying alone and scared in the night, that he allowed himself to think, and that all the other times in his life where he sat and played and played and sat - they were not him at all) wondering why he seemed deficient in some sort of chemical allowing him not only to enjoy, but want to enjoy, this ‘life’ that everyone seemed so eager to take part in. Would there be a moment of revelation? A profound makeover from an external source? A woman willing to sweep him off his feet?
In those moments, Luke experienced his spirit, his soul, his humanity, going through a million thoughts at once, as though it was catching up on all those hours it had lost when Luke was trying to shut it up through his computer games. But, no matter how hard he tried, it always came through, nagging and nagging, urging him to do something, to change, to try hard, to allow himself to fail... and Luke, finally relenting, would vow to try. Then, the next day, he would wake himself, cursing his tiredness, and cursing the (external) thought process that had made him lie there thinking about crap for two hours, wishing it all away. And the same evening of that same day he would return to a game (even though sometimes as he sat down, Luke sometimes felt his body and mind resist momentarily) and for an hour or two there was only the game, nothing else.
This was his materialistic reward for a spiritually lacking life. And, unfortunately, the spirit can never find sanctuary as long as the materialistic holds sway. So, the more Luke tried to numb himself, the more his spirit suffered. Longer and longer he played, and more and more he suffered, so that a place he reached that he would have said was unacceptable a year before would be the norm now. “At least I’m not one of those geeks who plays every day.” “At least I’m not one of those geeks who eats dinner at his laptop.” “At least I’m not a virgin at 20 like some of these guys.” “At least I don’t play hour after hour.” That last one didn’t even apply at the same Luke said it to himself, but he said it anyway.
School was no way out. School was agony, an agony that no other student could ever understand. School was where life tried to force itself upon him. School was where other students discussed their happy lives. School was watching, and hating, and wondering why nobody cared about him anymore like they used to, when his opinions on things used to matter because he knew what he was talking about.
Now, nothing made sense. Or rather, everything made a horrible sense, but nobody was willing to notice the obvious patterns, and predictability of everything. Janie was going out with Jack, but Jack was a dickhead who slept with Toni. To Luke, this entire situation was absurd. For a start, Janie didn’t even like Jack, so why bother talking to him? And sleeping with Toni? Why bother doing something like that when wanking was so much better? Luke knew that thinking like that was wrong, which made it feel so much worse because knowing he was the one in the wrong made him feel like even more of a freak deserving of his solitude. How could he be both right and wrong? What if it wasn’t everyone that was stupid, but him instead?
During moments like that (usually whilst in bed on a Sunday night) Luke’s entire world seemed to shiver and shake and crack at the edges. For those few moments, his head spun and noise filled his cosmos: a noise of absolute chaos, of horror, of a form that had drifted so far into space that it was no longer able to relate anything to anything: even death would not be a big deal, because being that far into space was like being dead already. No life meant no death. Luke was, perhaps, not a human. He was an eternal observer.
Misery flooded him, a misery so complete that he could not weep, because he was not deserving of emotions such as humans experienced. To weep would mean he was like them, and he wasn’t because he was the cursed one, the one who spoke to nobody at school, who ate alone, who ignored and was ignored by all. Teachers were nice to him, of course, but they would be - that was their job. If they really knew what was going in inside his head, they’d look at him funny and maybe stop talking to him then, because really, they were all just scaredy-cats. They didn’t know what it was like living in this headspace, living as a floating asteroid in blank black space where nothing grew and love was an impossibility. They had no idea of misery beyond misery. Their worries and fears and sadness were all trivial, because they were all usually conundrums that could be solved so easily by common sense. Dishwasher broken: get a new one. Not enough money: stop buying stuff. Janie’s boyfriend left her: don’t bother dating anyone because emotions like that aren’t worth the risk of happiness. Well no. Luke knew that was cynical. Or rather, something inside of him said that people would say he was cynical. He did think it. He both thought it and didn’t think it. Rather, perhaps he believed it, but knew he didn’t want to believe it.
And so, slowly, Luke’s spirit began to form itself. It formed itself according to a doctrine which combined extreme fluctuations in self-image (from nothing to genius), rejection of society (whilst wishing he was part of it), rejection of emotions (whilst wishing he could experience them) and finally, most importantly of all, adherence to certainties, facts, and truths. They would never fail him. They would never move on and stop being what they used to be. They would always be there. Of course, they weren’t friends, they were only material, empirical truths with no human aspect, but in a way, that was what made them so relieving to see and know. They didn’t ask for anything, demand anything, moan about anything. They were what they were, and would always be. Similarly, when Luke went to Burger King every lunchtime (a recent habit) he enjoyed how the burgers he liked would always taste and look the same each day. They never let him down. They didn’t need him to act or feel or look a certain way. The burger would taste nice no matter how Luke acted. It would have been nice if he didn’t have any other people in the restaurant to have to cope with and see and hear, but at the same time that was part of life and it wasn’t their fault they were mostly stupid. Well no, they weren’t all stupid - and anyway, they couldn’t be that stupid if they had succeeded in finding sexual partners in order to bring forth their progeny. They had succeeded and took for granted an act that ultimately Luke feared above everything.
He feared sex because he knew in order to find it, he needed to find someone who liked him enough to sleep with him. And to do that, he needed to stop being what he was and start trying to be one of those ‘people’ things. But why should he change? Fuck them. He liked stuff he should have grown out of years before, but at the same time, wasn’t it kind of cool to be into stuff like that? Maybe he had to get over those things first, and then have a life, and only then could he get back into them.
Luke sometimes held his hands to the side of his head just to shut these thoughts up. Round and round they went, the same motifs, the same endless loops of accusations. He was too young to identify that these thoughts patterns, whether true or not, where not helpful for him. If he had someone nearby who he could have told about these thoughts, they could have helped him look at them from a more neutral viewpoint, more evenly tempered, and generally more healthy. But he didn’t have anyone, because he thought his head was too special to share with anyone.
So he sank into the material. And it needed someone of spiritual integrity to get him out. Problem was that people like that were hard to find when Luke spent his time inside his room. Online dating sites might have helped, had he known about them. But unfortunately, Luke knew only about the things he knew, and thought that was the same thing as being intelligent. Hard, I suppose, to be able to concede that one knows nothing, because one only knows what one knows. Socrates: a guy who figured everything out thousands of years ago.

Luke is based on a kid I knew at school, and also based on me. I don’t like the fact I used the name Luke because the only Luke I’ve met is nothing like this kid. Connotations of a name are important for my stuff, for whatever reason.

Bugger

Ok, so I've shaved my head so much I look like Bane/Edward Norton in American History X. This is possibly the result of me having had some sort of mental breakdown, or perhaps just the result of me being a bit stupid. It's hard to tell the difference these days.

Either way, I have a week before I start work again, and if it doesn't look acceptable, I will just have to tell them to wait another week before I do so, otherwise I will not only scare the kids, but will scare myself.

It is possible that, for the first time, I've decided to 'mutilate' myself as some sort of indication of the need to escape a situation. What situation that is, I'm not sure. All I know is I'm stressed by the following things:

My hair, obviously.
Donna's birthday coming up and I've not bought enough stuff.
The constant fear that Donna will decide to break up with me, even though I should really break up with her because I don't know if it's going anywhere; although, having said that, being uncertain about the future doesn't necessary mean having to stop something if you enjoy it. Do I enjoy it? I don't know. I don't know what I feel atm.
Work.
My own inability to write.
Getting older. Living at home. Living at home and getting older.
Having a strange inability to enjoy socialising with anyone. This has always been the case. As a kid, when 'friends' would come round, I would sit there playing a game with them, half-wishing they weren't there. I distinctly recall a birthday around the age of 12 whereby I spent half the time playing a game while the others watched; only afterwards did I realise maybe I had been a cunt and scared myself.
Daily I scare myself...

Okay, this is kind of stupid. I'm fine. I must be fine because everyone at work seems to like me. Even Nicola said I strike her as normal. She said that unless I was addicted to a computer game or something. I said I was and she laughed. Nonetheless, despite that, she seems to think I'm a functioning human being.

I fear that already, this week's worth of isolation is making me reflect on things, step outside of reality for a while, and dwell like a drunk monk. I cannot quite believe I have done this to my head. I cannot believe either how much my world has shaken as a result. For a moment or two I actually thought 'well, you've ruined everything now - might as well kill yourself'. At least, thought I, the corpse I would leave with its stupid lack of hair would look appropriately crazy enough to let people know 'oh - he really was crazy at the end there. Did a Britney Spears.'

I drunk a bottle of my mother's wine in the bath whilst reading War and Peace. There is something terribly glamourous about that last sentence. I then watched the first half hour of a film called A Woman Under the Influence. I liked it, but had no idea why I had downloaded it. As I was watching I shaved my head at a normal #2, as I had done last time and the time before that. Thinking I was finished, I took off the plastic head that keeps it at that length, before looking in the mirror and thinking "oh, I missed a bit." Problem is, I was drunk, and my mirror was actually my clock. So I picked up the razor without looking and shaved a little. "Huh," I thought. "Must have been a lot there I missed." So I sent it across the top of my head, relishing the sound of hair being cut. I looked at the mirror properly. "I look weirdly like a bald guy." Then I looked at the razor and a moment of unreality struck me. The old Ctrl-Z moment. "Oh. I'm actually fucked." Sobriety whacked me - perhaps too hard. I knew I couldn't leave my hair like this - I had a bald head and more hair on the sides, making me look like Sven Goran Erikson. That was insane - shaving it all off was also insane, but at least it would be consistent.

So I did it. And regretted everything leading up to this moment. I regretted deciding not to go with my parents to Germany in the end. I regretted ever getting the wine. I regretted meeting Donna because then it wouldn't be her birthday and I wouldn't have had to stay here and shave my drunk head. I regretted being in my house with a cat who has diarrhea and a litter tray that needs to be cleaned tomorrow even though my hair will still be non-existent.

I had stubble, and shaved that off too, thinking somehow it might make me look better. It didn't. Now my entire head is hairless.


That is exactly the length mine is right now. I'm possibly about the same weight too.

Tomorrow I must grow more hair. I will not be able to see Donna otherwise. Unless I wear a hat. But her dad will be there and he'll be laughing at me. And they'll both make me take it off. And both pretend it doesn't look that bad. Or both laugh.

Either way, Donna's still in love with her ex and she only has 'feelings' for me. I'm tired of that kind of talk. It stopped being okay when I was 22 or so. Either get a grip or don't. I don't want someone to be constantly here and there. I know I'm hardly one to talk but I can't stop the fact that I'm... fucked up.

Seriously. I drank my mother's wine whilst having the second bath of my day then went apeshit on my head.

Now... I'm lying in her bed because it's more comfortable than mine. I know. I always feel like Norman Bates when I lie in her bed during her times of absence. There are two excuses: one is the above, and the other is that Poppy hates it when I'm upstairs and she has the entire house to herself. Truth is, I don't like being alone in this house. It was ok when it was just me. But I have to look after Poppy, which means I have to go out and buy things. And get up to feed her. And open the flap. And clean the cat box.

I think that's the thing about having a girlfriend - you need to civilise yourself. Become a caring person instead of a numb bot. The summer of 2008 was so awful but so amazing... going to Tesco at five in the morning after playing Warcraft all night, then going straight to sleep once I'd got back... it was like I was cheating this world with its stupid systems.

Yes, I want to escape. That's all this post is about. Escape to what though? Nothingness? A world without any feelings at all? Perhaps. I don't know. The thought of living in Chatham doesn't particularly appeal to me because I'm afraid. I'm afraid of the dirt and grime and loud noises and loud people and any flatmates I'd have. I don't want to go out and talk to people because I have a disturbing mentality towards people. And I'm really sorry about that and don't know what it means. Don't know what it means and I say yeaaaaahhhh.

What a waste of space I am. Honestly.

I ought to write.

Friday, 25 October 2013

trawling through crap i've done this year, found this nugget of amusement

Oxo... so-called because they were once oxen, twisted and mutilated, a wretched and something form of life... now perfected, in a powdery cube. food should never be powdered. nothing should ever be powdered. powder is inherently deceitful, for it is solid, but a liquid sort of solid... solids that are poured are unreliable.

Saturday, 12 October 2013

Grilling

You know when you’ve been off your medication (which is prescribed for no real reason anymore) for two days and you’ve drunk a bottle of wine, and your head as a result is spinning and brain zaps are causing you to randomly feel like you’re on something except ironically you’re off something (I mean ok there’s the whole bottle of wine but that’s not really much is it really) and I guess you don’t really know.
Are you ok?
Yeah I’m ok.
Are you sure?
No. But yeah. The fact that I say no means I’m probably ok because I’m finally in a society where I can open up and be honest about being a little fucked up. I talked to a happy-go-lucky cockney guy about Brain Things the other day whilst the kids were watching Dr. Doolittle 2 in the room next door. His mum is schizophrenic and suicidal. You would never know it from meeting him. It is only now, when I have drunk a bottle of wine, that I can fully appreciate how... sad and stuff it all is.
Yeah. You ever feel like you can’t feel real emotion until you’ve had something to drink?
Yeah.
Me too.
Funny that, seeing as you’re...
Me. Yeah. I get that whole solipsism thing. Except actually when I write things like this (I say this like it’s a regular occurence - in fact, i haven’t written anything like this since I was 20, and that was... well fuck, it was eight years ago) I’m inhabiting different viewpoints with each different line.
So who is this viewpoint?
That viewpoint is me.
And what viewpoint are you?
My sister perhaps? Or rather, I. Am that.
Righthhthththt.
No you see - there’s me, the outside viewer, upon the whole thing. And, when I’ve drunk enough, I can feel more comfortoable recognising the world outside myself. And when I’m not, I inhabit myself. Perhaps a little too much.
Maybe. But that’s not a bad thing.
No. Not a bad thing. Just the way it is. You’re an introvert.
Yes. I’m an introvert and it’s ok.
You’re also depressed. And it’s ok.
Yeah. It’s all ok.
Sort of.... numb.
Yeah. Maybe a little numb. All the okness is nice, but it’s like reaching the end of a race and you realise that once you’ve won, there are no more races to race.
So. What are your plans?
Right now? Type a little, fap a little, sleep a little.
How’s the whole ‘not getting laid’ thing working out for you?
It would be ok, if there wasn’t a voice in my head telling me I wasn’t a man because I wasn’t getting laid. Truth be told, I quite like the strange joys of succumbing to lust but not acting upon it. I enjoy just having someone to lust over a little. But I enjoy feeling loved more. Sure, she probably doesn’t love me, but it’s fun playing pretend for a while. If a while ends up being a year, then that’s fine too.
A cat is fine too.
I don’t even know where that ancient meme comes from, but it makes us feel old quoting it.
Us?
Yeah - I’m still not sure who I am meant to be here - a part of you I guess -  but at the same time, I’m not really you... oh, I’m confused to be honest.
You’re confused because you’re not able to be as critical of me as you used to be. You’re my sister. You’re the part of me created by her. The part that says I have to be a certain way. One of the last things Sean said a year ago was that the impact you had on me was perhaps greater than anyone else. Sure, that’s not a direct quote, but he implied that perhaps you had a big impact.
See, you’re talking to me as if I actually was your sister. I’m not. I’m you.
Well, that’s fine.
So, we’re fine.
Yeah, actually. We’re cool.
Are you... happy?
Are you?
Er, I’m satisfied - I don’t know what that entails, but...
It’ll do. For now.
Sure. But you’re not writing anything.
I know. I’m not writing anything.
It’s annoying, right?
Yeah.
But at the same time, you recall that when you were writing your best stuff, you were a virgin and had never had a girlfriend?
Yeah... what’s your point?
You know it already. Would you swap?
No.
Right. That night with Amy changed you forever - it wasn’t just about getting laid. It was about killing a part of your own mind.
It was.
Is it dead?
Yeah... it is.
You sound sad.
I don’t know!
You’re agitated.
Maybe. I don’t know. That wild part of me. I was a wild mind. An alien mind. A ‘fiction is more important than reality’ mind. Now I’m...
Placated.
Kind of. I don’t feel the need to quixote my life.
Yep.
So what do we do?
I’m not sure. Wait?
Wait for what? Don’t say.
I won’t. Wait for something. That moment of wildness. Where all borders fly away. Where words are more important than actions. When drink finally facilitates that reaching into the tar of knowledge. When illness reigns supreme once more. Where gibberish makes sense.
I don’t want that anymore.
I know.
I can’t do that anymore.
I know that. And yet...
And yet what.
You’ve typed almost a thousand words to yourself, inhabiting two people.
Perhaps.
A flicker of the old spark?
A flicker of the old madness? Because I was mad. In 2005 I was mad. We both were. It was... young. It was vibrant. But it stank. It was pus. A pus mind. Good for bacteria, bad for the soul.
What are you talking about.
Not sure. I want truth now. I can’t do with pretentious madness anymore. No time for it. That’s the thing. No time.
Back then we made our own time.
I know. You’re no longer my sister. You’re Matt.
No I’m not. I’m just a part of you that Matt opened up.
What part.
The part that said it was okay to do weird things. Do you even need me anymore? If you do, I’m around - but kind of sleepy and stuff.
You sound like a hippy/Michael Cera.
And now you realise you were nothing but another hipster.
Nah. Well, maybe.
So what do you do? You print me off? Pretend I’m a book? Consign me to paper and call it a day?
I don’t know. When will  I need you again?
You never needed me. You liked me, though.
Should I move out? Wake you up again? Or should I be single? I don’t know!
You’re using that exclamation mark thing again. It’s not you. You never used to use that. You used to rip off Joyce and the other Irish guys. You were more Irish than you realised.
But I’m not Irish.
You are Irish. You’re wet. Green behind the ears.
What the fuck are you talking about?
No idea.
So what are we doing? Going round in collective circles, trying to find an answer to a question that stopped being asked a while ago? Remember when I used to write like it was fun? Back in Germany? When there was a reason for it? Livejournal, perhaps. Jottify? No one’s left to listen.
EXcept they are. The world needs people like you. People who haven’t given up. FUCK. When did you stop caring about changing things? About coming up with crap, responding to this boring fucking world? Where’s your old anger gone? You feeling it now? That old anger? Knowing that you live in such a tedious, boring fucking world where people like Ed Milliband are allowed to even speak? You have a voice, god damn you, a voice! And you choose to hush it up. Well you’re a fucking moron for doing that. I like your voice. Who gives a fuck if only one or two people hear it? It’s a good voice, and you need to develop it, and use it, and if you stop using it then you’re as good as dead.
But my...
Job. Yeah, you and your job. It’s a good job. You do well. You’re a good guy, who helps out people. But it’s not real. It’s just a vocation. Your talent... is you. This is really you. This.
What, literally this? This stupid thing right here?
Yeah. It’s you feeling alive for the first time in weeks.
No... it’s not. I’m drunk. I’m just pretending.
Yeah... you’re in thrall to the man already.
Dude, we’re not students anymore. There is no Man. We’re done with all that.
When did you die, man?
When did I die? When I realised that acting cool wasn’t enough to make you feel alive.
Well, fuck.

Long pause.


Truth be told, I wrote to escape. Escape what, I don’t know. It was therapy. Then I actually got therapy. And all of a sudden my mind belonged to something other than a white page. My emotions got real. People got real. Feelings were validated. No more need to escape. Absolute honesty. You reckon art is a piece on a page? No. Art is a conversation that makes someone else feel better.
You believe that?
No.
I thought you didn’t. Tell you what. I’ll always be here. And if you don’t like that, too bad.
Why are you talking like a Yank?
Because you just watched Argo and hear everything in the voice of the cool old guy in it.
Oh. Ok.
Are we done?

Why not.

I was enjoying Argo for what it was until...

POLICE CARS CHASING AN AEROPLANE AS IT'S TAKING OFF? WAT




AND YES FUCK YOU I DID JUST USE CAPS

Thursday, 3 October 2013