Well, tomorrow's the end. (Actually, now I look at the clock and see that midnight ticked by some time ago, it turns out today is the end). The last official day of lectures at university. All that's left now are a few essays and presentations and the 5000 word study, which would be terrifying me if I could but accept the reality of its existence. Everything seems like some very vivid dream right now, so if I'm acting weird, that's why: it's because I don't feel like what's going on around me is real. I'm severing my links to reality because I can't accept the reality of what is happening.
I've said before that there's only one thing that makes me feel like getting out of bed is worth the bother and after today she'll be gone, lost, and now I look back and realise I wasted so much of the time that was given me to spend with her. In name, that time was three years, but in practise it was merely a couple of hours a week for 60 weeks. If you add it all up it probably comes to something less than 9 months. I had 9 months with what has become the most important thing in my life and today marks the end. Other than perhaps two more chances to cast my eyes in her direction, it's over and I have to move on. But moving on is the hardest thing ever. My body will, my mind might, but my heart can't. By the way, "she" is obviously a person, but you could read it as a metaphor for the university itself or just the body of people within it. All three fit the bill.
It's important that I express myself about this, but I am the least confident speaker on Earth. I can write a speech for fun but to actually express any of the words is a struggle. And so I find myself back in my old familiar place, face to glowing face with a laptop, pouring my heart out to a plastic box filled with wires and thereby to the very small number of people who bother to read what I inflict upon the Internet.
The agony of creation is back, but this time it's more the agony of expression. Luckily I don't need to tell an institution how I feel about it: neither the bricks and mortar of the building nor the people who metaphysically represent it can comprehend such things, but those I count as friends don't, I think, know how much they mean to me. I can never find the words when I need them, nor could I adequately express my love for these people even if I could just open my mouth and speak. I'm quiet, I wouldn't say shy, but you can think about it that way if it makes it easier to understand. I value quiet time, for me silence really is golden. When you get to that point where you are comfortable to be silent with someone, you have reached a level of friendship that words could never express and so words, being superfluous, therefore fade away.
I appreciate that not everyone feels this way and even if they do, don't see us as being that close. I therefore apologise for every silence which ever left you feeling like I didn't want to talk to you and for the presumption that those silences were as comfortable for you as they were for me. I just wanted any of my friends who do read this to know that I'm so grateful to have been allowed to feature in some small way in your lives and hope that I will be a continuing feature in the years to come.
I actually thought of writing a short piece for each of you, since I can't seem to express myself properly verbally, but it just seemed a bit stupid so you'll have to make do with being told as a group that every single one of you is special to me in a way that my most beautiful words can not begin to express.
Friday, 30 March 2012
Thursday, 29 March 2012
Thursday, the forgotten child.
Carrying on the musical theme, it was remarked upon recently that Thursday is really overlooked when it comes to songs. There's a few on how much everyone hates Mondays and how we're in love with Fridays. Tuesdays get an honourable mention thanks to The Rolling Stones' Ruby Tuesday and the weekend is always popular. But no-one seems to care about Thursdays. You could argue that Wednesday is similarly overlooked, but I'm going to cheat here and claim chants for football team Shaffield Wednesday as songs about Wednesday. Naughty, I know, but I've got a sort of point to make here and the facts were very nearly getting in the way there. Anyway...
Thursday is probably one of my favourite days of the week for many reasons - mostly to do with the timetable of lectures at uni, but also it's good to see Friday and the weekend looming large, albeit with Monday sullenly lurking behind them. Wednesday's become famous as "hump day" recently, using the analogy of the week as a hump-bridge, with Monday and Tuesday being the ascent, Wednesday the summit or hump and Thursday and Friday the descent, but it's a false dawn that hits us at Wednesday lunchtime, telling us the week is half-over, because that means there's still half left, and one does not simply free-wheel down the back of a hump-bridge. But Thursday doesn't have the doom and gloom of the start of the week, the false hope of Wednesday or the problems that Friday, Saturday and Sunday do, which is that every second of Friday, Saturday or Sunday that passes is another second of weekend lost.
All hail Thursday, king of days.
Thursday is probably one of my favourite days of the week for many reasons - mostly to do with the timetable of lectures at uni, but also it's good to see Friday and the weekend looming large, albeit with Monday sullenly lurking behind them. Wednesday's become famous as "hump day" recently, using the analogy of the week as a hump-bridge, with Monday and Tuesday being the ascent, Wednesday the summit or hump and Thursday and Friday the descent, but it's a false dawn that hits us at Wednesday lunchtime, telling us the week is half-over, because that means there's still half left, and one does not simply free-wheel down the back of a hump-bridge. But Thursday doesn't have the doom and gloom of the start of the week, the false hope of Wednesday or the problems that Friday, Saturday and Sunday do, which is that every second of Friday, Saturday or Sunday that passes is another second of weekend lost.
All hail Thursday, king of days.
Tuesday, 27 March 2012
Everything Louder Than Everything Else.
Music. Such a huge part of all our lives and so ridiculously diverse. The subjectivity of music can be very annoying at times and joyous at others. When that friend we all have who knows every song ever introduces us to what will become our new favourite band it's such a brilliant thing, but then there's the bemusement of why your best friend actually thinks Fireflies by Owl City is actually a good song. Maybe it is (no, it's not, really); the thing about "good" music is that it doesn't really exist. If there was such a thing as objectively good music, we'd all agree all the time and there'd be no new music either. Which would be really boring.
But even in the knowledge that musical taste is subjective, it's sometimes hard to fathom the tastes of other people. Listening to Radio 1 is a particularly confusing experience for me. All the while I'm thinking "Really? Enough people out there like this enough to get it on the radio?" The other side of that is of course that I must be the cause of much consternation in other people, my tastes are so outmoded, outlandish and eclectic, ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous. The only thing that I don't understand in the world of music is those people who say they have no interest in it. For me and many people I know, that's akin to saying you have no interest in living. I don't mean that in a melodramatic way but, to paraphrase C.S. Lewis' quote on friendship, I think of music as something which "is unnecessary, like philosophy, like Art ... it has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival"
Now we can harp on for ever about who are the best musicians and the whys and wherefores of our tastes in terms of genre and style, but in the end the songs we really remember are the ones that seem to represent us the best. We pick up on things we see as reflecting ourselves. Of course, there's no song which can absolutely match my current state and tell me exactly what I'm thinking and feeling. A lot of that connection we feel to certain lyrics comes from our wanting to have a connection, or perhaps from a frustrated want to be able to express ourselves in a musical way.
The expression, the communication between singer and listener, is a huge part of the songs we hold dearest. Certainly a piece of music can have its own merits but I've found that for me a song lives and dies by its lyrics and the meanings that they convey and how readily I can relate to said meaning. Of course, the meanings we receive may not be the intended meanings but the subjective nature of our experience of music means that what we take from our music is probably more important than what was put in there at the other end of the process.
But even in the knowledge that musical taste is subjective, it's sometimes hard to fathom the tastes of other people. Listening to Radio 1 is a particularly confusing experience for me. All the while I'm thinking "Really? Enough people out there like this enough to get it on the radio?" The other side of that is of course that I must be the cause of much consternation in other people, my tastes are so outmoded, outlandish and eclectic, ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous. The only thing that I don't understand in the world of music is those people who say they have no interest in it. For me and many people I know, that's akin to saying you have no interest in living. I don't mean that in a melodramatic way but, to paraphrase C.S. Lewis' quote on friendship, I think of music as something which "is unnecessary, like philosophy, like Art ... it has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival"
Now we can harp on for ever about who are the best musicians and the whys and wherefores of our tastes in terms of genre and style, but in the end the songs we really remember are the ones that seem to represent us the best. We pick up on things we see as reflecting ourselves. Of course, there's no song which can absolutely match my current state and tell me exactly what I'm thinking and feeling. A lot of that connection we feel to certain lyrics comes from our wanting to have a connection, or perhaps from a frustrated want to be able to express ourselves in a musical way.
The expression, the communication between singer and listener, is a huge part of the songs we hold dearest. Certainly a piece of music can have its own merits but I've found that for me a song lives and dies by its lyrics and the meanings that they convey and how readily I can relate to said meaning. Of course, the meanings we receive may not be the intended meanings but the subjective nature of our experience of music means that what we take from our music is probably more important than what was put in there at the other end of the process.
Friday, 23 March 2012
Dreams. They are bastards.
No witty title, no obscure musical references, just plain and simple. If there's one thing that's worse than sleeping, it's dreaming. I abhor losing 5-8 hours of my day, but then to be tormented by visions and apparitions - if that happened while you were awake you'd be in a psychiatric hospital. When they eventually invent a no-sleep pill that doesn't kill you, I'll be the first in the queue, in fact I'll camp outside the shop all night, ironically getting the worst night's sleep ever, just to remind me why I'm giving it up.
It's not nightmares, nightmares I can handle. Come at me with a werewolf (a common childhood nightmare of mine), I don't give a shit, I'm asleep. I'll just bust out the karate tekkers like I'm in the Matrix and they've planted the training in my head. I'll fight/run away from bad guys all night. It's fun, and it makes you thankful for waking up and it's kinda what dreaming is for. One theory is that, as well as being the brain shuffling information around, dreaming helps you learn and practise stuff you need to know, like how to take out werewolves.
The thing that really kills you is the good dreams. The ones where waking up is like being kicked out of heaven, the ones that make eternal slumber seem the highest prize of man's existence. It's been a while since I had one of those dreams that offer me all my desires on a plate, but they stick in my mind, reminding me what's just the other side of the veil of sleeping, calling me to close my eyes and forget the real world. To enter the world of dreams and never return. Now, if it were that simple, of course I'd be more than happy. This would be some sort of attainable heaven, to be able to live forever in your own dreams. But of course it is not that simple, we can not simply choose to reject the waking world and sleep. We could of course reject the living world, but that's a little risky, since we don't know what lies the other side of that particular veil.
The other dreams too, the ones that seem most surreal because of how normal most of it is. It's like watching a movie of your life but the screenplay writer got some essential details wrong. Your college mates are wandering round secondary school and your Uni friends are lounging around the staff room, for example. I never dreamed that, but that's the sort of thing.
The worst dream I've ever had came last night. It was a strange amalgam of the "good" dream type and the weird type. It presented to me, rather than my actual waking wants and ambitions, an alternative set of wants and ambitions, just as stupid and impossible as the ones I do have. It's almost like something was trying to tempt me. It did a fairly good job, to be honest and I've been messed up in the head all day. Well, that's my excuse for the poor footballing performance I turned in today anyway.
But I digress, the reason that a dream affected me so is because I spent a lot of time trying to work out why dream Dan suddenly had new plans for his limited time. It got me wondering if dreams can tell us anything about ourselves. Obviously there are all sorts of theories about dreams, ranging from the fairly sensible psychological to the quite frankly ridiculous psychic. But these theories largely take components of dreams and apply meaning to the presence of these components in your head. I wonder if the full narrative of a dream actually has anything to contribute to our understanding of ourselves.
I need to examine an example dream and see what I can find. Last night's good/weird offering should do the trick. I'm wondering how much of that to divulge though, it's fair embarrassing, to tell the truth, so I'll keep it vague. As most of you know, I'm in love. I've said it a lot and even if you haven't heard me say it or seen it written down on here, it's tattooed across my forehead just to make absolutely sure. Anyway, this has, as you can imagine, been the subject of those "good" dreams which present to me a world where my feelings are reciprocated and even a glimpse of a future where we're happily married. Bliss, torn asunder by the grievous moment of waking. However, last night's dream featured somebody else in a romantic fashion (not like that, if you catch my drift, that's not why it's embarrassing. Thought I'd better clear that up), a most confusing turn of events which led to me waking with a cry of "what the HELL?".
As I say, this had me more than a little confused and wondering if I was trying to tell myself something about just exactly who it is I'm in love with. After one hell of a lot of soul searching, I've decided that it in that respect was just a meaningless dream. However, through that thinking process I have learned a couple of things about myself and life in general, which (sorry) I've decided to keep to myself.
It's not all good, though. Aside from giving me yet another thing to worry about in this time of general stress and heartache, this particular dream had another negative side-effect: I felt guilty for most of the morning for (in my dream) trying to break up a (real-life) couple. It was a bloody dream and I got guilt! For God's sake, this should be enough to convince you all that dreams are bad, evil little buggers.
Despite my tight-lipped refusal to elaborate on my epiphanies, I can't deny that dreams can teach us things, but they are still a bit evil at times. I don't think the functions they perform are enough for me to willingly sacrifice a third of my life to sleeping and dreaming and I'd still jump at the chance of functioning without sleep, but maybe I'd still set aside one or two days a month to visit dreamland.
It's not nightmares, nightmares I can handle. Come at me with a werewolf (a common childhood nightmare of mine), I don't give a shit, I'm asleep. I'll just bust out the karate tekkers like I'm in the Matrix and they've planted the training in my head. I'll fight/run away from bad guys all night. It's fun, and it makes you thankful for waking up and it's kinda what dreaming is for. One theory is that, as well as being the brain shuffling information around, dreaming helps you learn and practise stuff you need to know, like how to take out werewolves.
The thing that really kills you is the good dreams. The ones where waking up is like being kicked out of heaven, the ones that make eternal slumber seem the highest prize of man's existence. It's been a while since I had one of those dreams that offer me all my desires on a plate, but they stick in my mind, reminding me what's just the other side of the veil of sleeping, calling me to close my eyes and forget the real world. To enter the world of dreams and never return. Now, if it were that simple, of course I'd be more than happy. This would be some sort of attainable heaven, to be able to live forever in your own dreams. But of course it is not that simple, we can not simply choose to reject the waking world and sleep. We could of course reject the living world, but that's a little risky, since we don't know what lies the other side of that particular veil.
The other dreams too, the ones that seem most surreal because of how normal most of it is. It's like watching a movie of your life but the screenplay writer got some essential details wrong. Your college mates are wandering round secondary school and your Uni friends are lounging around the staff room, for example. I never dreamed that, but that's the sort of thing.
The worst dream I've ever had came last night. It was a strange amalgam of the "good" dream type and the weird type. It presented to me, rather than my actual waking wants and ambitions, an alternative set of wants and ambitions, just as stupid and impossible as the ones I do have. It's almost like something was trying to tempt me. It did a fairly good job, to be honest and I've been messed up in the head all day. Well, that's my excuse for the poor footballing performance I turned in today anyway.
But I digress, the reason that a dream affected me so is because I spent a lot of time trying to work out why dream Dan suddenly had new plans for his limited time. It got me wondering if dreams can tell us anything about ourselves. Obviously there are all sorts of theories about dreams, ranging from the fairly sensible psychological to the quite frankly ridiculous psychic. But these theories largely take components of dreams and apply meaning to the presence of these components in your head. I wonder if the full narrative of a dream actually has anything to contribute to our understanding of ourselves.
I need to examine an example dream and see what I can find. Last night's good/weird offering should do the trick. I'm wondering how much of that to divulge though, it's fair embarrassing, to tell the truth, so I'll keep it vague. As most of you know, I'm in love. I've said it a lot and even if you haven't heard me say it or seen it written down on here, it's tattooed across my forehead just to make absolutely sure. Anyway, this has, as you can imagine, been the subject of those "good" dreams which present to me a world where my feelings are reciprocated and even a glimpse of a future where we're happily married. Bliss, torn asunder by the grievous moment of waking. However, last night's dream featured somebody else in a romantic fashion (not like that, if you catch my drift, that's not why it's embarrassing. Thought I'd better clear that up), a most confusing turn of events which led to me waking with a cry of "what the HELL?".
As I say, this had me more than a little confused and wondering if I was trying to tell myself something about just exactly who it is I'm in love with. After one hell of a lot of soul searching, I've decided that it in that respect was just a meaningless dream. However, through that thinking process I have learned a couple of things about myself and life in general, which (sorry) I've decided to keep to myself.
It's not all good, though. Aside from giving me yet another thing to worry about in this time of general stress and heartache, this particular dream had another negative side-effect: I felt guilty for most of the morning for (in my dream) trying to break up a (real-life) couple. It was a bloody dream and I got guilt! For God's sake, this should be enough to convince you all that dreams are bad, evil little buggers.
Despite my tight-lipped refusal to elaborate on my epiphanies, I can't deny that dreams can teach us things, but they are still a bit evil at times. I don't think the functions they perform are enough for me to willingly sacrifice a third of my life to sleeping and dreaming and I'd still jump at the chance of functioning without sleep, but maybe I'd still set aside one or two days a month to visit dreamland.
Thursday, 22 March 2012
**SPOILER ALERT**: The future just ain't what it used to be.
The end is nigh. I feel like a butterfly just before the cocoon opens, but with the rather vital oversight that my wings forgot to grow. This gets me thinking a lot about life on the outside. Hah: life on the outside, like it's a prison. No gaol ever had to forcibly evict their inmates. Guess I'm kinda like Red from The Shawshank Redemption, as well. That's it, I'm wingless butterfly Red from the all-insect version of The Shawshank Redemption, just before my cocoon opens. um...
Whatever, the point is that the future's big and scary and I'm woefully unequipped to deal with it. This entry will be split into two parts. Part the first will be me getting depressive about the future (yes, again). Part the second will be me trying to do some serious philosophical engagement with the idea of the future, including Gary's favourite question, that of determinism. I'm hard pressed to decide which will be a worse read, but I hope some of you will take the time to give them a once-over.
Well, if you've read my previous stuff you know how I'm feeling about the immediate future and the biggest event contained therein, but what of the fabled five-year plan? What will I have done over next ten years, the next twenty?
Well, unfortunately I've never operated like that. I don't set myself deadlines for anything in life (which probably explains my last-minute all-nighters before uni work is due in). I know it's common for people, especially of my age, to set out their "five year plan", hoping to find the perfect balance of work, travel or other life goals and career (as distinct from work in that work is just for money whilst a career is what you actually want to do with your life). I highlight travel as that seems to feature in most five-year plans nowadays, I'm not sure where it figures in my "plans" (for want of a better word) for the future, but we'll come to that.
Deadlines I don't set, but targets are another matter entirely. At the age of around seven, I decided I wanted to go to University. Didn't care which one, didn't care what for. Just that that was where I was going. From then on I was looking with maybe half of one eye at career paths which would suit a graduate. The other eye was of course looking at the pies in the sky, and my those pies could fly: I was going to be a professional footballer, I was going to be Prime Minister, I was going to be a professional musician.
During my final two or three years at school, I decided that teaching was going to be my thing and initially went for an Early Years course at college. Going for the younger end of the system because working with the older kids freaked me out a little, and that was mostly because of how badly I treated most of my teachers. I didn't want to have to work with little shits like me, basically.
That lasted about three months, tops. And I only made it that far because I was in the college football team and didn't want to leave that behind. Our team was like the reserves for Derby Uni's team, which has links to Derby County FC, from whence I could wrangle a move to my beloved Wednesday: still had my eyes on the pies, see? When the team twice moved the time and place of training without telling me, I took the hint that I wasn't wanted and about three weeks later, after a couple of run-ins with my placement supervisor and a heap of missed deadlines I quit the course, vowing to return stronger and more powerful than ever before - on a sports course.
You see already how the plan has changed. That's the other thing: these targets, only some of them are set in stone, others are essentially whittled from marshmallow. Just on a side note: As I recall, the BTEC Diploma in Early Years counted for quite a bit less than any other Diploma offered by the people at BTEC but I can honestly say that the 2-3 months I spent doing that course, it was harder than degree level RS and that is saying something.
Anyway, then came the Sports Science course, which I loved, and the people on the Sports Science course, most of whom I hated. This was a big shame because the ladies on Early Years were mostly awesome, and I'd lost touch with them all. This failure to hold a relationship through transition is the thing that worries me most about the future. I only got back in touch with one lass from the first course (via facebook, which hardly counts anyway) this year and that was only because of a picture of the two of us back in our Primary School days. I've a feeling that a random add of the other peeps from that time (six years ago now, scary) would not be appreciated. If they remember me at all, it's as "that guy who quit after two months, had a huge crush on Mel, bit of a loner, played Status Quo, Bob Marley and the Zutons on his Walkman so loud we could all hear it".
Breezed through Sports Science with only minor mental scarring and one or two good memories. Did manage to keep hold of a friend after leaving, which was good. During this time the ambition was: do anything at uni, absolutely anything that will get you to PGCE so you can become a college lecturer.
So, from Sport to RS, all the while the ambition was lecturing, either at college or, latterly, at a uni. Until the fateful day - I don't know when it was, save that it was some time in third year - that I suddenly did a massive U-turn. My original goal had been to go to uni, and that mission was accomplished, what happened next stopped mattering to me, right when it should be mattering most. My eyes turned to the skies again and I've been dreaming ever since.
I've remarked a fair few times that life could have been so radically different had I been accepted for Criminology at Leeds Met. Peering into the alternate universe where I did go there, I see a me who doesn't know the awesome people I do now and I pity him, though he probably pities me because his friends are the best thing in his life too and I don't know them.
And there's the crux of the matter: so much of who I am, of who we all are, rests on split-second decisions. On my first day at Trinity, the TRS inductees were made to wait around for induction near the forensic psychology newbies. I was this close to switching into the other group and trying to blag my way in, hoping switching course would be easy. How odd, that an alternate me is wandering the same halls as me, never knowing the great times I've had a stone's throw from where he is.
So, that's how the "plan" for my life has gone. Throughout most of it, the over-arching plan has been to have that TV-stereotypical ideal life complete with wife and two-point-four kids, a mortgage and a job to pay off the mortgage, maybe a spot of keeping up with the Jones' if the Jones' happen to be arseholes, if not then an amiable neighbour-to-neighbour freindship. I never painted the details of this picture, though. I was happy to go with the flow and hope that these things fall together.
Where am I now? Well, it depends what mood I'm in and what I've been doing. A couple of months ago I watched Hot Fuzz and decided I wanted to be a policeman officer, then last week I watched Lilo and Stitch and thought that I might move to Hawaii and take it easy. Sometimes I think about opening a little second-hand book shop somewhere at the seaside and a lot of the time I'm thinking that a second degree would be ace, but in truth that is mostly born of a futile desire to reset the clock on this degree and go back and right some wrongs.
As for the general life stuff, I made myself one promise when I started uni: this would be the start of my life's adventure, the first step towards the two-point-four kids and the mortgage. I said I'd walk the whole wide world to find love. And what do you know, it was in the very first place I looked and suddenly that dream-wife had a face, but I've said enough about that before. Obviously I want to travel, I think everyone does, even if they never get round to it, but I'm wary of doing too much too soon, what will I do when I retire if I've already seen the world as a young man?
Even the best plans need financial backing, of course, and that brings me on to work. I can't go back into a normal job, even if I wanted to. First off, the drudgery of the 9-5 routine is just not something I could ever motivate myself for, save to provide for my family, but since I have no financially dependant family, I feel like I can shoot for the moon. And second, there are no "normal" jobs about. My brother has taken 18 months to get into a temporary position and I would not have got that far. As soon as employers see a degree on my CV, I'll be over-qualified.
So, to conclude, no prospect of work, no career plans, no immediate life goals and now that dream-wife has a face, she has become unattainable. So that's why the future's scary for me personally, now for why it should be considered scary in a more philosophical sense.
I'm not going to get overly scientific about time and space. My limited knowledge of the science would be unhelpful. This might make it harder for me to engage properly, but I'll do my best. Happily, I do know a few theories which I'll try to introduce along the way.
The by-now legendary five-year plan shows some expectation that we can influence the future in any way we want. An optimistic view, to be sure. Should you choose to believe that the future is not already written, imagining ourselves in the driving seat of our own destiny is still perhaps even a little arrogant.
Every action we take has myriad untold consequences, even relatively simple goals can be derailed by a miscalculation or someone unkown factor. Now, we can take the time to learn everything about everything that could possibly affect our plans before we make them but - since the nuanced nature of the universe is such that everything that might affect our plans is essentially everything, the position, motion and phase space of every atom, every electron and the possible actions and reactions of any other persons - we would never get anyhting done. However, the possibility of knowing everything we need to is there, and it is this that leads me to believe that we have agency, we are not determined. True, I have said it is arrogant to believe we are in control, but I can't believe that someone with all the relevant knowledge could not cause events to take on a new direction. The possibility of control is there, even if control is not practically attainable.
We are limited to being free willed agents in a determinist universe where order and regularity reign, we have the freedom to choose, but not to control.
If we are to believe the multiverse theory (and to an extent I do), then the freedom to choose is given even less meaning because for every choice we make, there is existent in a parallel universe, another "me" who made another choice. Every choice made by any human person has no effect on the overall universe, just upon what we experience after the choice is made. Choices effect other choices and they effect people we have never heard of and at the same time they do nothing at all.
You can not drive your destiny. The most you can do is occasionally brush the steering wheel.
I've not got round to finishing this. I've been trying to get some more serious thought done but it's taken near of a week to write this and it's time I gave up. It sucks, I know and I apologise. This is probably another one that's not going on Facebook, to be honest.
Like the future, the end of this piece is unwritten. My unfinished symphony, though only unfinished because I've given up.
Whatever, the point is that the future's big and scary and I'm woefully unequipped to deal with it. This entry will be split into two parts. Part the first will be me getting depressive about the future (yes, again). Part the second will be me trying to do some serious philosophical engagement with the idea of the future, including Gary's favourite question, that of determinism. I'm hard pressed to decide which will be a worse read, but I hope some of you will take the time to give them a once-over.
*^*PART THE FIRST*^*
-in which we discover the true extent of the horror that the future can cause, by learning a few lessons from the past-
Well, if you've read my previous stuff you know how I'm feeling about the immediate future and the biggest event contained therein, but what of the fabled five-year plan? What will I have done over next ten years, the next twenty?
Well, unfortunately I've never operated like that. I don't set myself deadlines for anything in life (which probably explains my last-minute all-nighters before uni work is due in). I know it's common for people, especially of my age, to set out their "five year plan", hoping to find the perfect balance of work, travel or other life goals and career (as distinct from work in that work is just for money whilst a career is what you actually want to do with your life). I highlight travel as that seems to feature in most five-year plans nowadays, I'm not sure where it figures in my "plans" (for want of a better word) for the future, but we'll come to that.
Deadlines I don't set, but targets are another matter entirely. At the age of around seven, I decided I wanted to go to University. Didn't care which one, didn't care what for. Just that that was where I was going. From then on I was looking with maybe half of one eye at career paths which would suit a graduate. The other eye was of course looking at the pies in the sky, and my those pies could fly: I was going to be a professional footballer, I was going to be Prime Minister, I was going to be a professional musician.
During my final two or three years at school, I decided that teaching was going to be my thing and initially went for an Early Years course at college. Going for the younger end of the system because working with the older kids freaked me out a little, and that was mostly because of how badly I treated most of my teachers. I didn't want to have to work with little shits like me, basically.
That lasted about three months, tops. And I only made it that far because I was in the college football team and didn't want to leave that behind. Our team was like the reserves for Derby Uni's team, which has links to Derby County FC, from whence I could wrangle a move to my beloved Wednesday: still had my eyes on the pies, see? When the team twice moved the time and place of training without telling me, I took the hint that I wasn't wanted and about three weeks later, after a couple of run-ins with my placement supervisor and a heap of missed deadlines I quit the course, vowing to return stronger and more powerful than ever before - on a sports course.
You see already how the plan has changed. That's the other thing: these targets, only some of them are set in stone, others are essentially whittled from marshmallow. Just on a side note: As I recall, the BTEC Diploma in Early Years counted for quite a bit less than any other Diploma offered by the people at BTEC but I can honestly say that the 2-3 months I spent doing that course, it was harder than degree level RS and that is saying something.
Anyway, then came the Sports Science course, which I loved, and the people on the Sports Science course, most of whom I hated. This was a big shame because the ladies on Early Years were mostly awesome, and I'd lost touch with them all. This failure to hold a relationship through transition is the thing that worries me most about the future. I only got back in touch with one lass from the first course (via facebook, which hardly counts anyway) this year and that was only because of a picture of the two of us back in our Primary School days. I've a feeling that a random add of the other peeps from that time (six years ago now, scary) would not be appreciated. If they remember me at all, it's as "that guy who quit after two months, had a huge crush on Mel, bit of a loner, played Status Quo, Bob Marley and the Zutons on his Walkman so loud we could all hear it".
Breezed through Sports Science with only minor mental scarring and one or two good memories. Did manage to keep hold of a friend after leaving, which was good. During this time the ambition was: do anything at uni, absolutely anything that will get you to PGCE so you can become a college lecturer.
So, from Sport to RS, all the while the ambition was lecturing, either at college or, latterly, at a uni. Until the fateful day - I don't know when it was, save that it was some time in third year - that I suddenly did a massive U-turn. My original goal had been to go to uni, and that mission was accomplished, what happened next stopped mattering to me, right when it should be mattering most. My eyes turned to the skies again and I've been dreaming ever since.
I've remarked a fair few times that life could have been so radically different had I been accepted for Criminology at Leeds Met. Peering into the alternate universe where I did go there, I see a me who doesn't know the awesome people I do now and I pity him, though he probably pities me because his friends are the best thing in his life too and I don't know them.
And there's the crux of the matter: so much of who I am, of who we all are, rests on split-second decisions. On my first day at Trinity, the TRS inductees were made to wait around for induction near the forensic psychology newbies. I was this close to switching into the other group and trying to blag my way in, hoping switching course would be easy. How odd, that an alternate me is wandering the same halls as me, never knowing the great times I've had a stone's throw from where he is.
So, that's how the "plan" for my life has gone. Throughout most of it, the over-arching plan has been to have that TV-stereotypical ideal life complete with wife and two-point-four kids, a mortgage and a job to pay off the mortgage, maybe a spot of keeping up with the Jones' if the Jones' happen to be arseholes, if not then an amiable neighbour-to-neighbour freindship. I never painted the details of this picture, though. I was happy to go with the flow and hope that these things fall together.
Where am I now? Well, it depends what mood I'm in and what I've been doing. A couple of months ago I watched Hot Fuzz and decided I wanted to be a policeman officer, then last week I watched Lilo and Stitch and thought that I might move to Hawaii and take it easy. Sometimes I think about opening a little second-hand book shop somewhere at the seaside and a lot of the time I'm thinking that a second degree would be ace, but in truth that is mostly born of a futile desire to reset the clock on this degree and go back and right some wrongs.
As for the general life stuff, I made myself one promise when I started uni: this would be the start of my life's adventure, the first step towards the two-point-four kids and the mortgage. I said I'd walk the whole wide world to find love. And what do you know, it was in the very first place I looked and suddenly that dream-wife had a face, but I've said enough about that before. Obviously I want to travel, I think everyone does, even if they never get round to it, but I'm wary of doing too much too soon, what will I do when I retire if I've already seen the world as a young man?
Also, I'd like to write. Anything really, even keeping this blog going would be a pleasure, but novels, philosophical books and poetry are my preferred area, not that I've any skill in them."When Alexander saw the breadth of his domain, he wept for there were no more worlds to conquer"
Even the best plans need financial backing, of course, and that brings me on to work. I can't go back into a normal job, even if I wanted to. First off, the drudgery of the 9-5 routine is just not something I could ever motivate myself for, save to provide for my family, but since I have no financially dependant family, I feel like I can shoot for the moon. And second, there are no "normal" jobs about. My brother has taken 18 months to get into a temporary position and I would not have got that far. As soon as employers see a degree on my CV, I'll be over-qualified.
So, to conclude, no prospect of work, no career plans, no immediate life goals and now that dream-wife has a face, she has become unattainable. So that's why the future's scary for me personally, now for why it should be considered scary in a more philosophical sense.
*^*PART THE SECOND*^*
-in which we examine the future as a concept in a vain attempt to understand and thereby gain control of it-
I'm not going to get overly scientific about time and space. My limited knowledge of the science would be unhelpful. This might make it harder for me to engage properly, but I'll do my best. Happily, I do know a few theories which I'll try to introduce along the way.
The by-now legendary five-year plan shows some expectation that we can influence the future in any way we want. An optimistic view, to be sure. Should you choose to believe that the future is not already written, imagining ourselves in the driving seat of our own destiny is still perhaps even a little arrogant.
Every action we take has myriad untold consequences, even relatively simple goals can be derailed by a miscalculation or someone unkown factor. Now, we can take the time to learn everything about everything that could possibly affect our plans before we make them but - since the nuanced nature of the universe is such that everything that might affect our plans is essentially everything, the position, motion and phase space of every atom, every electron and the possible actions and reactions of any other persons - we would never get anyhting done. However, the possibility of knowing everything we need to is there, and it is this that leads me to believe that we have agency, we are not determined. True, I have said it is arrogant to believe we are in control, but I can't believe that someone with all the relevant knowledge could not cause events to take on a new direction. The possibility of control is there, even if control is not practically attainable.
We are limited to being free willed agents in a determinist universe where order and regularity reign, we have the freedom to choose, but not to control.
If we are to believe the multiverse theory (and to an extent I do), then the freedom to choose is given even less meaning because for every choice we make, there is existent in a parallel universe, another "me" who made another choice. Every choice made by any human person has no effect on the overall universe, just upon what we experience after the choice is made. Choices effect other choices and they effect people we have never heard of and at the same time they do nothing at all.
You can not drive your destiny. The most you can do is occasionally brush the steering wheel.
I've not got round to finishing this. I've been trying to get some more serious thought done but it's taken near of a week to write this and it's time I gave up. It sucks, I know and I apologise. This is probably another one that's not going on Facebook, to be honest.
Like the future, the end of this piece is unwritten. My unfinished symphony, though only unfinished because I've given up.
Thursday, 15 March 2012
Our affinity for the "Jesus-character": Finally some actual philosophy.
That's right, I had a thought today, an actual intellectual thought, which I can actually write about. YES!
So, let's get to it. In the course of undertaking a degree, you unfortunately have to do some work somewhere along the line and some of mine was to analyse the significance of film for religion (I took the pessimistic view that religion and film don't mix well, for various reasons). Anyway, in our lecture on the subject, it was pointed out that the Western storyteller has a big affinity for using "Jesus figures" - alternatively called the "redeemer" or the "saviour" character. It's true that there sure are a lot of self-sacrificial heroes out there, Sydney Carton (A Tale of Two Cities - if you haven't already, make sure you read it) is one of my all-time favourites, and almost every story has a saviour character, from Batman to Harry Potter to Darth Vader to Neo from the Matrix.
But is it right to call them Jesus figures? In making this claim do we not lift Jesus above such other characters? Had we might as well call Jesus a Darth Vader figure? Is the popularity of Christianity in the West a result of our adoration of the Batman-type character, rather than the cause of it? I'm not making any statement about the factuality of the Bible or the existence of God or whatever, but is it not philosophically worrying that we use our critical thinking to challenge a lot of what religion is about, but then allow it dominion over the whole of literature and film?
The Hero with a Thousand Faces theory tells us that most stories use the same archetypal characters, indeed they have the same basic plot, called the "monomyth", in which:
A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder: fabulous forces are there encountered and a decisive victory is won: the hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man.The use of the term "Jesus figures" replaces the monomyth with Jesus, giving undue legitimacy to what is possibly a fictional or mythical character or to fictional stories about a great spiritual leader. This in turn legitimises the parasitical organisations which have formed and grown strong off the back of the story of Jesus, and taken those stories for their own ends. I believe you would call them Churches.
Wednesday, 14 March 2012
Dear Diary: This is why I shouldn't do lent.
Well, that "couple of weeks" hiatus lasted nearly 36 hours. It seems the forbidden fruit really is sweeter. Last time I put myself under a Facebook embargo it lasted all of 31 hours. I just can't stop talking crap, apparently, and any attempt to just means I end up bursting at the seams with stuff to waffle about.
At the minute I just feel a little bit dependant on this outlet. I tried to kick the habit because I don't want this to become like a mere log of my emotions: I'd have to change the title to "my shit life and why it matters" or something similar and no-one wants to read that. I certainly wouldn't want to be associated with writing it.
On the other hand, this blog has so far allowed me to talk about stuff that just never seems available for discussion in everyday life, but which I nevertheless feel the need to talk about. I suppose I could just keep a diary but I've always thought that the secretive nature of a diary kind of defeats the object of writing stuff down. If no-one reads it, why write it? Of course, the true, unacknowledged purpose of a diary is not to keep things hidden but to make them accessible. If we wanted stuff kept secret we'd never write it down. However enraged someone may be when you read their private journal, deep down they are rejoicing that you have connected to them in that way without the awkwardness of them actually telling you all this stuff.
Since there's no-one to happen upon my creatively (un)hidden diary and it would be way too much hassle to write everything down 100+ times and secrete it about your houses, it's much easier to blog. Plus, this way you don't have to contend with my terrible handwriting.
Anyway, this brings me smoothly(ish) onto today's topic: friendship and sharing.
I hope it doesn't sound too tragic to say that I had only one person in my life I felt I could properly confide in and now they are gone. There's practically no physical distance between us but a mental or spiritual gap seems to have opened up and either one of us is not the same person we once were, or one of us has seen the other in a new light for the first time. I don't know exactly which of these happened, the change or the awakening, nor do I know which of us changed or awoke. Maybe it's just that they've got their own crap to deal with.
When the dynamic changes in this way the only result is confusion and, to some extent, resentment. Certainly that's how I feel. When that connection is lost, simple misunderstandings can lead to full-blown fights and the total loss of what was a beautiful thing. That almost happened today, I just managed to avoid it, but the repercussions will echo for some time and will unavoidably sour or affect other relationships.
I guess this is why people keep diaries, they don't feel they have someone else to confide in. But I like to think I've got you, reader, and would like to apologise for your being used as surrogate and safety net after the partial loss of a great friend. However little attention you pay, your visits here are most welcome, they turn what is essentially a lonely and depressive young man's diary into a thoughtful and honest attempt to connect to some friends and the wider world. If you've made it this far then you've had to sit through another excruciating bout of my rubbish and my eternal gratitude is with you, as is the promise that I will try to get round to writing something that's worth reading in the near future.
Thanks for listening.
At the minute I just feel a little bit dependant on this outlet. I tried to kick the habit because I don't want this to become like a mere log of my emotions: I'd have to change the title to "my shit life and why it matters" or something similar and no-one wants to read that. I certainly wouldn't want to be associated with writing it.
On the other hand, this blog has so far allowed me to talk about stuff that just never seems available for discussion in everyday life, but which I nevertheless feel the need to talk about. I suppose I could just keep a diary but I've always thought that the secretive nature of a diary kind of defeats the object of writing stuff down. If no-one reads it, why write it? Of course, the true, unacknowledged purpose of a diary is not to keep things hidden but to make them accessible. If we wanted stuff kept secret we'd never write it down. However enraged someone may be when you read their private journal, deep down they are rejoicing that you have connected to them in that way without the awkwardness of them actually telling you all this stuff.
Since there's no-one to happen upon my creatively (un)hidden diary and it would be way too much hassle to write everything down 100+ times and secrete it about your houses, it's much easier to blog. Plus, this way you don't have to contend with my terrible handwriting.
Anyway, this brings me smoothly(ish) onto today's topic: friendship and sharing.
I hope it doesn't sound too tragic to say that I had only one person in my life I felt I could properly confide in and now they are gone. There's practically no physical distance between us but a mental or spiritual gap seems to have opened up and either one of us is not the same person we once were, or one of us has seen the other in a new light for the first time. I don't know exactly which of these happened, the change or the awakening, nor do I know which of us changed or awoke. Maybe it's just that they've got their own crap to deal with.
When the dynamic changes in this way the only result is confusion and, to some extent, resentment. Certainly that's how I feel. When that connection is lost, simple misunderstandings can lead to full-blown fights and the total loss of what was a beautiful thing. That almost happened today, I just managed to avoid it, but the repercussions will echo for some time and will unavoidably sour or affect other relationships.
I guess this is why people keep diaries, they don't feel they have someone else to confide in. But I like to think I've got you, reader, and would like to apologise for your being used as surrogate and safety net after the partial loss of a great friend. However little attention you pay, your visits here are most welcome, they turn what is essentially a lonely and depressive young man's diary into a thoughtful and honest attempt to connect to some friends and the wider world. If you've made it this far then you've had to sit through another excruciating bout of my rubbish and my eternal gratitude is with you, as is the promise that I will try to get round to writing something that's worth reading in the near future.
Thanks for listening.
Monday, 12 March 2012
Agony of Creation III: The Monster's Loose.
Under two weeks since this blog went public and I am out of motivation.
I've tried at least thirty times to construct a coherent account of why this blog will most likely die out over the next few weeks but I just can't. Before I had a pressure within me: there were words trying to force themselves out, and I held them back. The pressure began to build until all manner of other words started to overflow into this blog. All I had to do was filter them and send them into the world. However, the pressure's gone, like a dried up water pump in some sub-Saharan village, except I suspect that the red cross will be less concerned about my drought.
Anyway, with no overflow of words, it's hard to carry on talking about anything and everything in this blog and it will most likely go into a hiatus for a couple of weeks at least. I flatter myself to think that some of you may have enjoyed the last 13 days. Probably you haven't but allow me this little egocentrism, will you? I apologise, therefore, to anyone who may miss this after it's gone. I shall certainly be among your number.
I suspect that I am doing the right thing here. It was terribly prophetic of me to call the first entry the Agony of Creation, because it turned into a little musical reference: Agony of creation II was subtitled "Back into Agony", as a subtle homage to Meat Loaf and his Bat Out of Hell albums (Bat II was subtitled Back into Hell) but now I've reached Bat III and the monster is loose my creative flair is beginning to wane. So I'll do what Meat probably should have: leave it here before I start turning out terrible work seemingly for the sake of it.
I may be back.
I've tried at least thirty times to construct a coherent account of why this blog will most likely die out over the next few weeks but I just can't. Before I had a pressure within me: there were words trying to force themselves out, and I held them back. The pressure began to build until all manner of other words started to overflow into this blog. All I had to do was filter them and send them into the world. However, the pressure's gone, like a dried up water pump in some sub-Saharan village, except I suspect that the red cross will be less concerned about my drought.
Anyway, with no overflow of words, it's hard to carry on talking about anything and everything in this blog and it will most likely go into a hiatus for a couple of weeks at least. I flatter myself to think that some of you may have enjoyed the last 13 days. Probably you haven't but allow me this little egocentrism, will you? I apologise, therefore, to anyone who may miss this after it's gone. I shall certainly be among your number.
I suspect that I am doing the right thing here. It was terribly prophetic of me to call the first entry the Agony of Creation, because it turned into a little musical reference: Agony of creation II was subtitled "Back into Agony", as a subtle homage to Meat Loaf and his Bat Out of Hell albums (Bat II was subtitled Back into Hell) but now I've reached Bat III and the monster is loose my creative flair is beginning to wane. So I'll do what Meat probably should have: leave it here before I start turning out terrible work seemingly for the sake of it.
I may be back.
Thursday, 8 March 2012
Love. And apologies for plagiarism, and then more plagiarism.
Well, where to go with this? Finally I'm writing in the daylight, a momentous occasion in itself, but probably not worthy of a blog entry all to itself. We'll make that an honourable mention and move on. (And then, since this entry takes all day, for various reasons, I'll have to add in brackets that it is in fact not daylight anymore - sigh. Now, since I've got you, some advice from the future: reading this is not advised. It really is the most whiny, whinging, angsty, stupid entry yet).
First off, I'd like to acknowledge an until now silent contributor to this blog. It seems that I've been dealing with some of the same issues as "the Ramblings of Livyar". It's unintentional, but I read that blog, ruminate on the views therein and go on to publish my take on it. And I'm set to do it again today so I thought I'd give credit where it's due and plug what is a great read.
Today's plagiarised topic, which also has a supporting role in "the life and times of Gary", is love. It's something that we all experience and it's something that we've all got an opinion on, so here's mine.
It's a kind of sensitive subject, of course, and so this might not be my most expressive entry, and I'm struggling to work out where to start with it. I'd also like to offer advanced warning that it will probably get quite awkward reading this because, as with everything I've written, I'm doing it more for the cathartic process of writing than for it to be read so it's more or less inevitable that I'll say too much as I have done before and this will get way too in-depth. In fact, I'd like to request that if you are a friend of mine reading this, could you read no further unless you really, really feel you have to? I know, I know, it's on the internet, it's my own fault if it gets read, but it won't be going on Facebook and as I said, this writing process is more about me than you (sorry) and I feel it has to be published to complete the process. If you feel for whatever reason that you need to know what I have to say, please read on, but if you can possibly live not knowing, please go and have a cup of tea instead. As for those reading this who don't know me, feel free to carry on, your opinion of me doesn't matter.
I suppose it's logical to start with where I am now. So, for two years, four months and around twenty-six-and-a-half days I have been in love. I seem to have experienced the Kübler-Ross process in the course of trying to deal with these unrequited (and I sometimes think unrequitable) feelings. The 'five stages of dying' are denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance and whilst I have not been through these in the traditional linear procession I am currently lying in acceptance.
But that doesn't mean the love is gone, just that I have traversed the sea of depression, anger and bargaining to the tranquil bays of knowing that it can never be, and being content to have found love, even unrequitedly. All the cliches about if you love them, you'll be happy to set them free have proven true.
This, of course, is the true source of my graduation terrors. For as much as I have accepted my situation, and am willing to let go the hope of love, I've come to rely on having certain people in my life as motivation to get up in a morning.
So that's where I'm at right now and now I'd like to engage more directly with my peers and their musings on the subject. I've never seen the question of whether unrequited love can be genuine love actually asked before Livyar did, although I have met those who believe the answer is no, even if they won't admit it. I'd concur with Liv that it is as valid as returned love, but then I'm a little biased, perhaps.
However, I think that most of my peers are quite pessimistic in their outlook on love. There are of course the non-believers and the disillusioned, but even those who claim to believe in love or even be in love can not seem to believe that I can have true feelings for someone. I guess I can see why, a guy like me, a girl like her, it's got to be a stupid crush, yes? NO!
There's times I've wished it were. We all have systems for dealing with a crush and that sort of faux love is out of our system very quickly, and doesn't hurt in such a way that pain relief would be tantamount to a death sentence.
Thrice I've confided in someone (and never in the person I'd really want to, of course. I'm a man, I don't do emotional intelligence) and none of these people has dealt well with the emotionally fragile and angsty cry-baby I've become (yep, still a man). The first had the audacity to suggest I was caught in some lustful infatuation based solely on animalistic instincts and desires. The second took the opportunity to whine about her bad experiences (meaning I ended up giving her the support and comfort I'd been seeking from her) and the third committed perhaps the worst of sins. He tried to be a good friend. I think it was Henri Nouwen who said that
I would almost prefer the depression to this acceptance, which seems almost like terrible numb apathy. But I have nearly reached the fifth stage of the fifth stage. Accepting my acceptance will be the hardest thing I've ever had to do.
First off, I'd like to acknowledge an until now silent contributor to this blog. It seems that I've been dealing with some of the same issues as "the Ramblings of Livyar". It's unintentional, but I read that blog, ruminate on the views therein and go on to publish my take on it. And I'm set to do it again today so I thought I'd give credit where it's due and plug what is a great read.
Today's plagiarised topic, which also has a supporting role in "the life and times of Gary", is love. It's something that we all experience and it's something that we've all got an opinion on, so here's mine.
It's a kind of sensitive subject, of course, and so this might not be my most expressive entry, and I'm struggling to work out where to start with it. I'd also like to offer advanced warning that it will probably get quite awkward reading this because, as with everything I've written, I'm doing it more for the cathartic process of writing than for it to be read so it's more or less inevitable that I'll say too much as I have done before and this will get way too in-depth. In fact, I'd like to request that if you are a friend of mine reading this, could you read no further unless you really, really feel you have to? I know, I know, it's on the internet, it's my own fault if it gets read, but it won't be going on Facebook and as I said, this writing process is more about me than you (sorry) and I feel it has to be published to complete the process. If you feel for whatever reason that you need to know what I have to say, please read on, but if you can possibly live not knowing, please go and have a cup of tea instead. As for those reading this who don't know me, feel free to carry on, your opinion of me doesn't matter.
I suppose it's logical to start with where I am now. So, for two years, four months and around twenty-six-and-a-half days I have been in love. I seem to have experienced the Kübler-Ross process in the course of trying to deal with these unrequited (and I sometimes think unrequitable) feelings. The 'five stages of dying' are denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance and whilst I have not been through these in the traditional linear procession I am currently lying in acceptance.
But that doesn't mean the love is gone, just that I have traversed the sea of depression, anger and bargaining to the tranquil bays of knowing that it can never be, and being content to have found love, even unrequitedly. All the cliches about if you love them, you'll be happy to set them free have proven true.
This, of course, is the true source of my graduation terrors. For as much as I have accepted my situation, and am willing to let go the hope of love, I've come to rely on having certain people in my life as motivation to get up in a morning.
So that's where I'm at right now and now I'd like to engage more directly with my peers and their musings on the subject. I've never seen the question of whether unrequited love can be genuine love actually asked before Livyar did, although I have met those who believe the answer is no, even if they won't admit it. I'd concur with Liv that it is as valid as returned love, but then I'm a little biased, perhaps.
However, I think that most of my peers are quite pessimistic in their outlook on love. There are of course the non-believers and the disillusioned, but even those who claim to believe in love or even be in love can not seem to believe that I can have true feelings for someone. I guess I can see why, a guy like me, a girl like her, it's got to be a stupid crush, yes? NO!
There's times I've wished it were. We all have systems for dealing with a crush and that sort of faux love is out of our system very quickly, and doesn't hurt in such a way that pain relief would be tantamount to a death sentence.
Thrice I've confided in someone (and never in the person I'd really want to, of course. I'm a man, I don't do emotional intelligence) and none of these people has dealt well with the emotionally fragile and angsty cry-baby I've become (yep, still a man). The first had the audacity to suggest I was caught in some lustful infatuation based solely on animalistic instincts and desires. The second took the opportunity to whine about her bad experiences (meaning I ended up giving her the support and comfort I'd been seeking from her) and the third committed perhaps the worst of sins. He tried to be a good friend. I think it was Henri Nouwen who said that
The third person fell into the trap of trying to help in an impossible situation, as I have done when my friends needed comfort. For the attempt to help I will be eternally grateful, but it was one which left me feeling quite alienated and misunderstood, pushing me deeper into anger and depression. So, I got back into writing: poetry, songs, short stories, anything just to get the feelings out. Nothing did, not as it had before, I was left to wallow in despair until finally came the zen-like moment of acceptance. The dreams I had - the marriage, the house, the kids - were gone and out of reach, but I still have the love of which these dreams were born. Do you know how many people search their whole lives for something like that and fail? I bet it's a bloody lot. And she will undoubtedly be happy without me, from which thought I draw no small comfort.when we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand
I would almost prefer the depression to this acceptance, which seems almost like terrible numb apathy. But I have nearly reached the fifth stage of the fifth stage. Accepting my acceptance will be the hardest thing I've ever had to do.
perchance I am mindful of the way our future meetings will be few and far between and, most of all, maybe I am preparing myself for the inevitable diaspora. But I would give anything to forfeit this apathy and once again stand, a defeated and depressed man, broken by the cruel vicissitudes of fate, back amongst the heat of that love that was so strong it burned me. The fires of Hell could surely not be so hot, and yet be endured so willingly by mortal flesh.
(Extract from my last missive on love, as to why I have come to acceptance)
Sportspeople: They're only human and we've got to remember it, but so have they.
In other news, I saw one of our aspiring Olympians today. On a train in Sheffield, so quite likely training at Pond's Forge or the EIS. Whether her particular sport had given her excellent posture and comportment or it was just an inflated sense of self-worth that made her walk like her nose was attached to a zeppelin, I know not. In any case, even I was briefly caught up in the aura of awe that seemed to follow her. That instantly recognisable white, blue and red tracksuit with the 2012 logo seemed, just for a second, to set our subject aside as something other than human.
Given the penchant of sci-fi directors for making tracksuits simply the must have fashion item of the dystopian future, this other-worldliness was enhanced at least ten-fold. I wonder, are we facing an invasion of the body builders? This air of superiority to the rest of us mere mortals recalled to me a joke friend of mine and I share that transhumanists are likely to cause global civil war, with only one result of course: that being that the vastly superior transhuman army is routing the armies of the regular humans, until me and said friend step in to save the world, get the girl (one each, sharing would be creepy) and generally have that Spielberg ending.
All joking aside, I wish the young lady luck in her endeavours this summer as the weight of expectation to haul in a gold on home soil will be immense and a whole stadium or arena will be expecting this woman to show superhuman ability if necessary, and that pressure can't be nice to perform under. But I also hope she finds some humility when the final results come in. The attitude of a sportsman should always be magnanimity, but there are very few people in all of the world who can combine talent (in any area) with genuine grace.
Last night I felt honoured when, though only through the medium of television, I witnessed arguably the greatest sportsperson of our generation (or any generation) further enhance his reputation. The gentleman in question is one of the most humble people one could wish to meet. He truly realises how lucky he is to be in the position he is in and never fails to thank God for his successes. Whatever you think about the religious implications, you have to admire a humility that is almost as spectacular to behold as the talent it comes with.
Given the penchant of sci-fi directors for making tracksuits simply the must have fashion item of the dystopian future, this other-worldliness was enhanced at least ten-fold. I wonder, are we facing an invasion of the body builders? This air of superiority to the rest of us mere mortals recalled to me a joke friend of mine and I share that transhumanists are likely to cause global civil war, with only one result of course: that being that the vastly superior transhuman army is routing the armies of the regular humans, until me and said friend step in to save the world, get the girl (one each, sharing would be creepy) and generally have that Spielberg ending.
All joking aside, I wish the young lady luck in her endeavours this summer as the weight of expectation to haul in a gold on home soil will be immense and a whole stadium or arena will be expecting this woman to show superhuman ability if necessary, and that pressure can't be nice to perform under. But I also hope she finds some humility when the final results come in. The attitude of a sportsman should always be magnanimity, but there are very few people in all of the world who can combine talent (in any area) with genuine grace.
Last night I felt honoured when, though only through the medium of television, I witnessed arguably the greatest sportsperson of our generation (or any generation) further enhance his reputation. The gentleman in question is one of the most humble people one could wish to meet. He truly realises how lucky he is to be in the position he is in and never fails to thank God for his successes. Whatever you think about the religious implications, you have to admire a humility that is almost as spectacular to behold as the talent it comes with.
Tuesday, 6 March 2012
Please to note
OK, since the word is starting to spread about this blog, it's probably best if I just make something clear before there are any misunderstandings. For my own reasons, I decided against naming names in these posts, but some people have asked if they get a mention. Know this, then: if I told you you have been alluded to in this blog, you are NOT someone about whom I've said anything negative. Anyone who I told they are referenced in the blog has not been derided in any way, cool? It wasn't a conscious decision to only tell people they've got a mention if it's good, it's just that none of the people who get a mild pasting here have asked about it. Just thought I should clear that up.
So, those of you who are new here, read on with light heart, you most likely come out of it well, and for those gluttons for punishment amongst you who are interested despite having read what I have to say, my next entry will be some time in the next few days. Peace and love, guys, peace and love.
So, those of you who are new here, read on with light heart, you most likely come out of it well, and for those gluttons for punishment amongst you who are interested despite having read what I have to say, my next entry will be some time in the next few days. Peace and love, guys, peace and love.
Two-facedness: both sides of the story and turning the other cheek.
Well, the last vestige of hope that an early night would be possible has just gone, so I'm back to writing to soothe my angst. Whilst laying awake and listening to the (largely terrible) music pumping from several different rooms of the Halls of Residence that I have made my home this year, I started - for no discernible reason - to ponder the culture of two-facedness that seems to have taken over in many areas of life. Before I begin to examine this, allow me to apologise, for I feel sure that my writing language - already quite archaic - has become somewhat more antediluvian in the last few days. I must blame this on Dickens, for I've started reading Great Expectations again. Anyway, on with the treatise.
I have one friend who, next year, will be sharing a house with two people he really shouldn't be; one of whom he affects to despise and the other who he claims to be annoyed by. He'll not tell either of these people what he thinks of them (either that or the feelings he expresses when they are not around are false). Some would say this is a kindness and true, not hurting the feelings of these two people is indeed noble, but sharing a house with them is unwise if it is merely borne of a desire not to hurt them.
Other acquaintances of mine constantly talk behind each others' backs and present different faces to different people. The widely-held reason for this, which is hackneyed in the extreme, is that in modern society we all conceal our true selves behind masks as a protective measure against the persecution we might face if we were to stand, naked and unashamed, before the jury of our peers.
True, things seem to run fairly smoothly in my little community, despite the lying, but I still can't help but feel it is unhelpful to be dishonest with someone. The irony is, of course, that cultural conditioning means I do exactly the same things, even without thinking about it, to keep things ticking over nicely and avoid conflict. I've never told my former housemate that he lost my friendship - and perhaps worse, my respect - at some point during our co-habitation, nor have I told the newcomer to my friendship group that far from brightening my final year of study, as he has led himself to believe, he has in fact proved to be one of the very few people I shall not be sad to see the back of.
The inevitable consequence of frank honesty in this situation could only be a horrible cliquishness in our societies, eventually causing everyone to pick a side and become at odds with former allies. Perhaps our hiding behind those proverbial masks is as much protective of everyone else as it is of ourselves. Perhaps any two-facedness we encounter in our friends' lives keeps us from doing bloody murder on a regular basis.
On the other hand, the internal conflict caused by suppressing our feelings is equally damaging. Perhaps the most universal exemplar of this is one where more positive emotions are involved. For example it has, for many reasons (and you'll have to trust me that they are good ones), proven impossible for me to confess to being in love and the suppression of such a feeling always leads to depression, anger and existential crisis. Moreover, it is rare that suppression of these feelings is of any benefit to those around us, as in the previous case. This is perhaps where the masks we wear to protect our friends become less like the jolly lucha libre visages that they appear in my imagination and become something akin to Hannibal Lecter's prison muzzle, holding us back. And yet we are so accustomed to the mask that we very rarely rend it from our faces and present our selves to the world. Even those more emotionally balanced than I have sometimes to endure the bars across their mouth.
This pay-off of sacrificing inner peace for societal peace is a seemingly intrinsic human trait and must be conditioned into us at a very nearly genetic level by now. As societal animals, Pan Narrans (or Homo Sapiens for you traditionalists) must need a community so badly that we willingly subsume our individual self for the good of a society, even if that society includes some who we would rather not be in a society with.
Still, sharing a house with them is insane.
I guess the point is that no man is an island, but the bridges we build quite often have feet of clay.
Yet another pessimistic blog entry, and I apologise most profusely. Good night all.
I have one friend who, next year, will be sharing a house with two people he really shouldn't be; one of whom he affects to despise and the other who he claims to be annoyed by. He'll not tell either of these people what he thinks of them (either that or the feelings he expresses when they are not around are false). Some would say this is a kindness and true, not hurting the feelings of these two people is indeed noble, but sharing a house with them is unwise if it is merely borne of a desire not to hurt them.
Other acquaintances of mine constantly talk behind each others' backs and present different faces to different people. The widely-held reason for this, which is hackneyed in the extreme, is that in modern society we all conceal our true selves behind masks as a protective measure against the persecution we might face if we were to stand, naked and unashamed, before the jury of our peers.
True, things seem to run fairly smoothly in my little community, despite the lying, but I still can't help but feel it is unhelpful to be dishonest with someone. The irony is, of course, that cultural conditioning means I do exactly the same things, even without thinking about it, to keep things ticking over nicely and avoid conflict. I've never told my former housemate that he lost my friendship - and perhaps worse, my respect - at some point during our co-habitation, nor have I told the newcomer to my friendship group that far from brightening my final year of study, as he has led himself to believe, he has in fact proved to be one of the very few people I shall not be sad to see the back of.
The inevitable consequence of frank honesty in this situation could only be a horrible cliquishness in our societies, eventually causing everyone to pick a side and become at odds with former allies. Perhaps our hiding behind those proverbial masks is as much protective of everyone else as it is of ourselves. Perhaps any two-facedness we encounter in our friends' lives keeps us from doing bloody murder on a regular basis.
On the other hand, the internal conflict caused by suppressing our feelings is equally damaging. Perhaps the most universal exemplar of this is one where more positive emotions are involved. For example it has, for many reasons (and you'll have to trust me that they are good ones), proven impossible for me to confess to being in love and the suppression of such a feeling always leads to depression, anger and existential crisis. Moreover, it is rare that suppression of these feelings is of any benefit to those around us, as in the previous case. This is perhaps where the masks we wear to protect our friends become less like the jolly lucha libre visages that they appear in my imagination and become something akin to Hannibal Lecter's prison muzzle, holding us back. And yet we are so accustomed to the mask that we very rarely rend it from our faces and present our selves to the world. Even those more emotionally balanced than I have sometimes to endure the bars across their mouth.
This pay-off of sacrificing inner peace for societal peace is a seemingly intrinsic human trait and must be conditioned into us at a very nearly genetic level by now. As societal animals, Pan Narrans (or Homo Sapiens for you traditionalists) must need a community so badly that we willingly subsume our individual self for the good of a society, even if that society includes some who we would rather not be in a society with.
Still, sharing a house with them is insane.
I guess the point is that no man is an island, but the bridges we build quite often have feet of clay.
Yet another pessimistic blog entry, and I apologise most profusely. Good night all.
Saturday, 3 March 2012
Agony of Creation II: Back into Agony. The blog bites back. Also, modern life, and where you can shove it.
Trying to make this blog a more regular thing was maybe not the best idea I ever had. I forgot my own advice: "make sure you've got something to say first" was supposed to be the mantra of this journal but my unquenchable thirst for writing has found some sort of release here and it's quickly becoming an addiction.
That would be OK if I wasn't once again being reminded of the enormity of the challenge of writing something that I would be comfortable with publishing. Eventually my need to write will break through the quality control systems and I will put something out there but it will be half-cryptic. In one way, it'll be something like the letters that TV serial killers occasionally send to the fictional detectives who are hunting them down: there will be clues in there to what I'm really thinking but you'd have to be me to know they're even clues, never mind decipher them. On the other hand, it'll be something like a valentines card or letter from a secret admirer: a missive packed wall to wall with lies that cry out to be exposed and picked apart until the truth within is found, a thin veil over what it is that I want to say but can't.
I suppose, if you wanted to place a lot of significance on that type of thing, it would tell you a lot about my mind that those two types of communique come together for me.
Not a lot happens around me that's worthy of note, never mind publication on the world-wide web, but alongside the odd cryptic messages and writings about writing that I post, I'll try to make sure there's always some philosophical musings or news and views, so that there seems like there's actually a point to this exercise.
In that spirit, I'll take a moment to reflect on something a bit deeper.
I'm capable of deeper thought, even if my writing's a bit shallow, and one of the things I've mused on since at least the age of six is: was I born at the right time?
I'm such a temporal anomaly, I always like to say I'm child of the sixties and that the fact of being born in 1990 is merely an inconvenient technicality. It's most noticeable in my musical tastes, which most definitely lie in the period around the 60s and 70s - my formative years if I'd been born 3 decades earlier. Admittedly, my generation is much more open to our musical past than were the teenagers and young adults of the 90s, but I always feel out of place with modern popular music. It's important, too, because music is such a big part of who we are. The cultural groups we split into - mod and rocker, chav, goth, emo and hipster - have clearly defined musical boundaries, hence our music informs our labels and sense of identity.
The main reason I used to believe I was born in the wrong time is because of the age discrepancies in my family, for example, my grandmother on my dad's side is the same age as my great-grandmother on my mother's side and my dad is the same age as my great-aunt from my mother's side, so I always feel generationally askew, and my liking for old music and fashions just reinforces the feeling that I'm out of my time. My romanticised view of the past and generally pessimistic view of the future both comes from and reinforces this feeling.
Modern society does not interest me at all, in a world where the norm seems to be over-indulgence (in as many things as possible, but mostly alcohol and sex) I lead a fairly plain life, which would be branded boring by most of my contemporaries, but in which I have created a peace for myself, a lagoon of tranquillity in a sea of madness. This is not to say that modern society is all about gluttony and hedonism, not at all, but such traits are perhaps the most prominent ones in our society that have very little counter-culture. The issue is not the over-indulgence, more it is the general acceptance of it, even by those who do not engage in it.
As for modern technology, I won't deny that it has its advantages but every advance brings about a whole new set of problems for us, both ethical and practical. The only useful technological advance for me would be the invention of a time machine. If someone offered me a one-way trip back to 1969, I wouldn't even stop to pack. The one consolation of living in the time I do is the good friends I've made along the way, but once again I am headed for a turning point where I suspect I will lose many friends who mean more to me than I do to them. Is this difference in value to do with the different times we come from? Perhaps, although mostly it's because of my refusal to engage with modern society, which places me firmly in the margins of other people's life stories, or in a footnote, if I'm lucky.
Good God, I get maudlin at night, must be the Irish in me. I'm gonna have to start writing these things in the daytime, hopefully I won't be so depressive next time.
That would be OK if I wasn't once again being reminded of the enormity of the challenge of writing something that I would be comfortable with publishing. Eventually my need to write will break through the quality control systems and I will put something out there but it will be half-cryptic. In one way, it'll be something like the letters that TV serial killers occasionally send to the fictional detectives who are hunting them down: there will be clues in there to what I'm really thinking but you'd have to be me to know they're even clues, never mind decipher them. On the other hand, it'll be something like a valentines card or letter from a secret admirer: a missive packed wall to wall with lies that cry out to be exposed and picked apart until the truth within is found, a thin veil over what it is that I want to say but can't.
I suppose, if you wanted to place a lot of significance on that type of thing, it would tell you a lot about my mind that those two types of communique come together for me.
Not a lot happens around me that's worthy of note, never mind publication on the world-wide web, but alongside the odd cryptic messages and writings about writing that I post, I'll try to make sure there's always some philosophical musings or news and views, so that there seems like there's actually a point to this exercise.
In that spirit, I'll take a moment to reflect on something a bit deeper.
I'm capable of deeper thought, even if my writing's a bit shallow, and one of the things I've mused on since at least the age of six is: was I born at the right time?
I'm such a temporal anomaly, I always like to say I'm child of the sixties and that the fact of being born in 1990 is merely an inconvenient technicality. It's most noticeable in my musical tastes, which most definitely lie in the period around the 60s and 70s - my formative years if I'd been born 3 decades earlier. Admittedly, my generation is much more open to our musical past than were the teenagers and young adults of the 90s, but I always feel out of place with modern popular music. It's important, too, because music is such a big part of who we are. The cultural groups we split into - mod and rocker, chav, goth, emo and hipster - have clearly defined musical boundaries, hence our music informs our labels and sense of identity.
The main reason I used to believe I was born in the wrong time is because of the age discrepancies in my family, for example, my grandmother on my dad's side is the same age as my great-grandmother on my mother's side and my dad is the same age as my great-aunt from my mother's side, so I always feel generationally askew, and my liking for old music and fashions just reinforces the feeling that I'm out of my time. My romanticised view of the past and generally pessimistic view of the future both comes from and reinforces this feeling.
Modern society does not interest me at all, in a world where the norm seems to be over-indulgence (in as many things as possible, but mostly alcohol and sex) I lead a fairly plain life, which would be branded boring by most of my contemporaries, but in which I have created a peace for myself, a lagoon of tranquillity in a sea of madness. This is not to say that modern society is all about gluttony and hedonism, not at all, but such traits are perhaps the most prominent ones in our society that have very little counter-culture. The issue is not the over-indulgence, more it is the general acceptance of it, even by those who do not engage in it.
As for modern technology, I won't deny that it has its advantages but every advance brings about a whole new set of problems for us, both ethical and practical. The only useful technological advance for me would be the invention of a time machine. If someone offered me a one-way trip back to 1969, I wouldn't even stop to pack. The one consolation of living in the time I do is the good friends I've made along the way, but once again I am headed for a turning point where I suspect I will lose many friends who mean more to me than I do to them. Is this difference in value to do with the different times we come from? Perhaps, although mostly it's because of my refusal to engage with modern society, which places me firmly in the margins of other people's life stories, or in a footnote, if I'm lucky.
Good God, I get maudlin at night, must be the Irish in me. I'm gonna have to start writing these things in the daytime, hopefully I won't be so depressive next time.
Thursday, 1 March 2012
I did it first. Jus' saying, like: The "couldn't think of a name for the blog" blog blogging blog. Subject: Blogging (and the imminent end of an era).
So, the blogging bandwagon is quite obviously up and running and although nobody knows it, I was kinda there first. :P
As with most of the new crop of bloggers, I started it as a therapeutic thing, then gave up 'cos I thought it was getting a bit whiny, plus I was scared of the fact that I actually had a readership - in Germany, of all places - and I felt under pressure to make sure I was writing good stuff. Hence me saying to people starting blogs "make sure you've got something to say first". I know how much I would hate to be the person reading my blog, sat there thinking "good God, man: Get a sodding life and quit whining". It's not that I think my mates are as boring as me but I'm just the kinda guy who likes to impart advice, it's usually advice people don't need, but there you go.
As it happens, the blogs are largely of a high quality - one in particular is brilliant, in fact - although I do slightly regret that I have to read blogs to get into my friends' heads, rather than hearing it from the horse's mouth, if you'll pardon the expression.
Guess I'm guilty of the same thing, though, given that I'm writing a blog myself now. Meh, I suppose we'll just have to roll with it.
Anyway, now for the actual blog. You see, I hope to do more than talk about the new blogging trend in this blog, that's been done already and I feel like I should do something different. Not that I'm quite sure what to write about. Anyway, time for the blog within the blog.
It's been a mixed day, the trip to see Star Wars Episode I in 3D was brilliant and included good times with some great mates, and watching the England game was much more enjoyable than I would usually have found it, but the shock news on the football front - the sacking of Gary Megson, manager of my team Sheffield Wednesday - took me aback somewhat but none of those seem good blog material.
The main thing that's been occupying my mind is the G-bomb: Graduation. [I'd appreciate it if when you read that word you could imagine scary music and thunder and lightning in the background. Cheers]
Anyway, the point is Uni has actually been the best time of my life and the end is nigh [again, cue scary effects]. It's terribly cliche but you don't what you've got 'til it's gone (or going) and I'm just starting to appreciate what I've got here. I'm sure everyone's sick and tired of my whinging about how I'm not looking forward to the end of uni and I am so sorry about how I keep going on about it. Me being a depressive git must get so wearing.
But the truth is that this experience has been so formative to me and I have absolutely no idea how life's going to go after graduation, except that it'll most likely be rubbish. There's no jobs out there and there are definitely none that will give me more long and lazy Thursdays in the chaplaincy lounge. Friday five-a-side has gone and random midnight walks to Burley Park would be much more serious undertakings, given the hugely increased distance between me and the destination.
So I'm sorry for wallowing in despair but that's just me, I wear my heart on my sleeve and get too caught up in my emotions. If you're going to read this blog, prepare for the worst of what blogging can be, prepare for whining and first-world problems, prepare, in fact, for me to do everything I'd tell you not to do.
So, yeah. This isn't me jumping on the bandwagon, just me saying that I did this before it was cool and all over Facebook. I guess I'm feeling a little hipster today, he says, hoping to God he got the slang right.
As with most of the new crop of bloggers, I started it as a therapeutic thing, then gave up 'cos I thought it was getting a bit whiny, plus I was scared of the fact that I actually had a readership - in Germany, of all places - and I felt under pressure to make sure I was writing good stuff. Hence me saying to people starting blogs "make sure you've got something to say first". I know how much I would hate to be the person reading my blog, sat there thinking "good God, man: Get a sodding life and quit whining". It's not that I think my mates are as boring as me but I'm just the kinda guy who likes to impart advice, it's usually advice people don't need, but there you go.
As it happens, the blogs are largely of a high quality - one in particular is brilliant, in fact - although I do slightly regret that I have to read blogs to get into my friends' heads, rather than hearing it from the horse's mouth, if you'll pardon the expression.
Guess I'm guilty of the same thing, though, given that I'm writing a blog myself now. Meh, I suppose we'll just have to roll with it.
Anyway, now for the actual blog. You see, I hope to do more than talk about the new blogging trend in this blog, that's been done already and I feel like I should do something different. Not that I'm quite sure what to write about. Anyway, time for the blog within the blog.
It's been a mixed day, the trip to see Star Wars Episode I in 3D was brilliant and included good times with some great mates, and watching the England game was much more enjoyable than I would usually have found it, but the shock news on the football front - the sacking of Gary Megson, manager of my team Sheffield Wednesday - took me aback somewhat but none of those seem good blog material.
The main thing that's been occupying my mind is the G-bomb: Graduation. [I'd appreciate it if when you read that word you could imagine scary music and thunder and lightning in the background. Cheers]
Anyway, the point is Uni has actually been the best time of my life and the end is nigh [again, cue scary effects]. It's terribly cliche but you don't what you've got 'til it's gone (or going) and I'm just starting to appreciate what I've got here. I'm sure everyone's sick and tired of my whinging about how I'm not looking forward to the end of uni and I am so sorry about how I keep going on about it. Me being a depressive git must get so wearing.
But the truth is that this experience has been so formative to me and I have absolutely no idea how life's going to go after graduation, except that it'll most likely be rubbish. There's no jobs out there and there are definitely none that will give me more long and lazy Thursdays in the chaplaincy lounge. Friday five-a-side has gone and random midnight walks to Burley Park would be much more serious undertakings, given the hugely increased distance between me and the destination.
So I'm sorry for wallowing in despair but that's just me, I wear my heart on my sleeve and get too caught up in my emotions. If you're going to read this blog, prepare for the worst of what blogging can be, prepare for whining and first-world problems, prepare, in fact, for me to do everything I'd tell you not to do.
So, yeah. This isn't me jumping on the bandwagon, just me saying that I did this before it was cool and all over Facebook. I guess I'm feeling a little hipster today, he says, hoping to God he got the slang right.