Gran got out of bed today for the first time since her stroke. She's brighter in herself - you can actually talk to her now, and she is awake more. She's not good though, she had shit on her nightie and onto the sofa after mum helped her to get to the toilet (she's far too proud to let anyone help her whilst she's in the toilet). I'm hiding in the study and crying for what feels like the millionth time in 3 days.
I was useless when it came to helping with my Grandma when she was ill, and I hated myself for it. I always thought it was because I was young and stuff, and now I'm an adult I would be really helpful for Mum should anything ever happen to Gran. Turns out I'm not though. I want to help my Mum, to support her and make this awful thing a bit easier for her. The truth is though, I can't bear to be around Gran. I can't cope with this and fuck knows how long it's going to go on like this for.
This Paint By Numbers Life Is Fucking With My Head
So Christmas was shite. My Gran had a stroke on Christmas Day. Enough said.
Retirement
My Dad's retiring today. He's a Geography teacher. He's taught the whole of his career (34 years) at the same school - www.wyvern.hants.sch.uk. He is one of those teachers who I really believe are born to teach. The comments people have made when they have found out he is leaving are testament to this; comments like 'the place won't be the same without him', 'it's the end of an era' and 'does he have to go?'. I've never know him to be anything but a teacher career wise, and that's crossed over into home life too. He teaches me daily, not in an attempt to make me a better educated person, but because teaching is what he is - finding answers to why things are the way the are, or work the way they do. Finding the story behind something rather than just the basic answer.
I feel sad that he's leaving. I understand his choice to finish now, and support his decision 100% being that it is what he wants to do. Over the years he's taught my friends, my family, my work colleagues, even parents of friends. I've never heard anyone to have a negative thing to say about his lessons, or his teaching or manner with the students. I'm immensely proud of my dad, the geography teacher. Now, when people ask what my dad does, I'm still going to say he's a teacher, because he always will be. Only now he's not on a salary for it!
Dad leaving Wyvern today is a loss for the students yet to reach his classroom; but an exciting step into another part of his life. I hope it brings the happiness he deserves.
I feel sad that he's leaving. I understand his choice to finish now, and support his decision 100% being that it is what he wants to do. Over the years he's taught my friends, my family, my work colleagues, even parents of friends. I've never heard anyone to have a negative thing to say about his lessons, or his teaching or manner with the students. I'm immensely proud of my dad, the geography teacher. Now, when people ask what my dad does, I'm still going to say he's a teacher, because he always will be. Only now he's not on a salary for it!
Dad leaving Wyvern today is a loss for the students yet to reach his classroom; but an exciting step into another part of his life. I hope it brings the happiness he deserves.
Pissed Off & Ready To Roar
I feel the need to moan for a bit. I have a somewhat tricky relationship with my sister. We bounce from getting along reasonably well on a superficial level where we both con ourselves into believing all is well and good; to having a major barney and hurting each other quite a lot and feeling very let down. The latter generally seems to appear around public holidays when we need to be getting on for the sake of others. It also generally involves The Bitch – aka my aunt. Calling her that may sound like I’m being really horrid, but trust me, I’m not.
So I recently asked my sister to go on a cheap holiday with me. She’s been unemployed for a few months, but has now begun a very well paid job. I wanted to just have a long weekend in the sun somewhere. Not anything fancy, just a chance to relax and escape for a while. Apparently she cannot afford it. I spoke to her on the phone earlier. She mentioned a holiday in March. Surprised, I asked where she was going and with whom. Quelle surprise it’s with The Bitch and a couple of their mutual friends, for a fortnight in Morocco!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yeah, because that’s soooo much cheaper than a two bed apartment in the Canary Islands for 4 nights……!!!!!
What I suspect is really the truth here is that she just does not want to spend time with me, or really put any effort into us forging any kind of a relationship together. Instead she’s much happier living according to The Bitch’s instructions.
I don’t know why I am surprised by it anymore, or why I still get hurt by it. It’s not like it’s anything new I’m dealing with here.
So I recently asked my sister to go on a cheap holiday with me. She’s been unemployed for a few months, but has now begun a very well paid job. I wanted to just have a long weekend in the sun somewhere. Not anything fancy, just a chance to relax and escape for a while. Apparently she cannot afford it. I spoke to her on the phone earlier. She mentioned a holiday in March. Surprised, I asked where she was going and with whom. Quelle surprise it’s with The Bitch and a couple of their mutual friends, for a fortnight in Morocco!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yeah, because that’s soooo much cheaper than a two bed apartment in the Canary Islands for 4 nights……!!!!!
What I suspect is really the truth here is that she just does not want to spend time with me, or really put any effort into us forging any kind of a relationship together. Instead she’s much happier living according to The Bitch’s instructions.
I don’t know why I am surprised by it anymore, or why I still get hurt by it. It’s not like it’s anything new I’m dealing with here.
Language Barriers
I have some friends and acquaintances who, through no fault of their own, make me feel very inadequate and stupid. They talk in sentences which sound like something from Dawson’s Creek. It’s not in a patronising ‘look how clever I am and the words that I use in everyday life’ kind of way. It’s just that they are clever people who speak well and love words. I find myself constructing sentences to send to them (I largely talk to them on the internet) and reworking it until I am satisfied with the level of language I am using. I love words too. It’s not that I don’t like to use these words because I do. I use them all the time when writing essays, or poems, or portfolio work. Maybe it’s because for the mostpart of my week I am either with young people and tend to speak their language instead, or am counselling orientated and have to pick my words very precisely.
It’s another mask for me to wear. It’s another attempt to ignore the real me and be the person I feel I should be. These people, who inadvertently make me feel inadequate and stupid either probably do not really care how I speak because they love me ‘warts and all’ (as the unbearable Oliver Cromwell once said). Or if they do judge me on not being able to craft a sentence so eloquently as them – well I don’t want them to be my friend.
They probably are not even aware that they speak this way, and that I get in such a knot over it anyway – that’s the irony of it all!
It’s another mask for me to wear. It’s another attempt to ignore the real me and be the person I feel I should be. These people, who inadvertently make me feel inadequate and stupid either probably do not really care how I speak because they love me ‘warts and all’ (as the unbearable Oliver Cromwell once said). Or if they do judge me on not being able to craft a sentence so eloquently as them – well I don’t want them to be my friend.
They probably are not even aware that they speak this way, and that I get in such a knot over it anyway – that’s the irony of it all!
'Happy' Christmas
I love Christmas in principle. When I say Christmas I don't mean the Christian festival - that sucks (a story for another time). I am referring to Christmastime. I love the possibilities that come with Yule; the turn from the darkness to the light, and the first signs of rebirth and Spring appearing. I feel a sense of hope that if Mother Earth can pull herself out of the frozen wastelands and turn her face to a new dawn and a fresh start, then so can I.
So at the moment I am feeling positive. I am turning away from my own handmade darkness (I'm not ignoring it though - ignore it and it has a funny way of screwing you when you least expect it)and looking for my new dawn. That first daffodil of Spring is my flame.
So at the moment I am feeling positive. I am turning away from my own handmade darkness (I'm not ignoring it though - ignore it and it has a funny way of screwing you when you least expect it)and looking for my new dawn. That first daffodil of Spring is my flame.
Deep Breath, Here Goes
Last night I had an urge. Given the fact that this is hard for me to write, I don't think I'm going to be any more explicit than that. Although, you've probably got a fair idea on what I'm talking about anyway. I get this feeling deep down that I know so well. It starts off so faint I'm barely aware that it's there. It creeps up on me, getting stronger, until I feel like it's got such a tight grip on me that if I don't fulfill this urge then it will send me mad. It's all I can think about, all I can see, it literally consumes every one of my senses. I lose all sense of reasoning and congition, I exist on a very basic level of need and desire. I caught myself in time last night. I was curled up and foetal, all my energy going into not connecting blade and skin.
I remember my first time completely. It changed my life entirely. I feel trapped by it, but feel free when I do it; I feel ashamed but also totally unashamed of my scars; I feel constricted by it but in control at the same time; I feel controlled by it and also in control of it. Given the physical and mental pain it has caused me (and still does cause me on a pretty much daily basis) would I go back and alter that day when I first did it at fourteen? No, I don't think I would.
I'm pleased with myself that last night I didn't do it. But I'm not ashamed that two weeks ago I did.
I remember my first time completely. It changed my life entirely. I feel trapped by it, but feel free when I do it; I feel ashamed but also totally unashamed of my scars; I feel constricted by it but in control at the same time; I feel controlled by it and also in control of it. Given the physical and mental pain it has caused me (and still does cause me on a pretty much daily basis) would I go back and alter that day when I first did it at fourteen? No, I don't think I would.
I'm pleased with myself that last night I didn't do it. But I'm not ashamed that two weeks ago I did.
The Beatles v The Rolling Stones
Apparantly you're only allowed to like one or the other - The Beatles or The Rolling Stones. It's a bit like Metallica or Iron Maiden; Led Zeppelin or Deep Purple. Or to take it to an extreme: Take That or East 17!
I don't understand this debate. Why can you not love both? Why limit yourself to one band when you can have twice the musical magic instead? Surely it's a case of cutting off your nose to spite your face as my mother would say?
Maybe I'm getting old. I'm sure that the sixteen year old me would happily recite me a list of reasons why you can only like one or the other, and only mix with those who have the same opinions as you. At the grand old age of 25 (going on 65 some days) I find myself being much more liberal. I like to call it 'liberal' rather than thinking I have lost the passion I had for things at sixteen.
I remember having a debate with my Dad at that age. I told him I would never lose my individuality; my sense of injustice and desire to change the world; my belief that Che Guevara really was the most brilliant political activist to walk on this earth.
Maybe my stage seven has come early. I'm having my middle life crisis at twenty five. Perhaps I just need to buy myself a motorbike... maybe that's what's missing. (Then I'd have to stop listening to The Who - that's not biker music!)
I don't understand this debate. Why can you not love both? Why limit yourself to one band when you can have twice the musical magic instead? Surely it's a case of cutting off your nose to spite your face as my mother would say?
Maybe I'm getting old. I'm sure that the sixteen year old me would happily recite me a list of reasons why you can only like one or the other, and only mix with those who have the same opinions as you. At the grand old age of 25 (going on 65 some days) I find myself being much more liberal. I like to call it 'liberal' rather than thinking I have lost the passion I had for things at sixteen.
I remember having a debate with my Dad at that age. I told him I would never lose my individuality; my sense of injustice and desire to change the world; my belief that Che Guevara really was the most brilliant political activist to walk on this earth.
Maybe my stage seven has come early. I'm having my middle life crisis at twenty five. Perhaps I just need to buy myself a motorbike... maybe that's what's missing. (Then I'd have to stop listening to The Who - that's not biker music!)
My New Favourite Thing
http://asofterworld.com/index.php?id=37
Being a therapist, a worrier and someone who has issues with love, this could have been made with me in mind!
Being a therapist, a worrier and someone who has issues with love, this could have been made with me in mind!
Sleeping Pills
I've not slept well for the last month. Actually, more accurately I've hardly slept for the last month. I have coursework due in on Monday and have a lot of work still to do on it. I need to be able to go to sleep so I can be fresh and get on with my work. Out of desperation I succumbed last night once again to taking pills to help me sleep. After about an hour I fell asleep. Seven swift hours later and my alarm brought me back to reality. Well, when I say reality I actually mean a strange state somewhere between the conscious and the sleeping world. The pills had got me to sleep but now I couldn't wake up properly from them. Major problem. It was my plan to do an hours study prior to going to work. Instead it took me all that time to try and shake off this cloud that was enveloping my head. Now I am trying to work out what I dreamt and what has really happened. Everything I dreamt was so vivid that I literally do not know the difference between reality and dream world.
So I am now left with the question, do I take the pills again tonight? If I decide 'Yes' then I get a good sleep but cannot wake up properly from it and have no idea what's real and what isn't. If I decide 'No' I have a horrid night of non-sleep, but get my work done because I give up trying to be asleep and study instead.
So I am now left with the question, do I take the pills again tonight? If I decide 'Yes' then I get a good sleep but cannot wake up properly from it and have no idea what's real and what isn't. If I decide 'No' I have a horrid night of non-sleep, but get my work done because I give up trying to be asleep and study instead.
Ho Ho Ho
Apparantly in Sydney and Melbourne this year anyone dressed up as Santa will lose their license if they are heard saying "Ho Ho Ho". The reason being because in America "Ho" is street slang for prostitute. In America. So thousands of miles away (and a whole heap of water) people are losing their jobs in case they upset a random American tourist.
I'm sorry to get on my political soap box here, but WTF??? Surely there are about a guzillian more important things for people to worry about than policing what Santa says in Australia? It's not like they're even the real deal. Everyone knows the real Santa is in Lapland, and he certainly wouldn't be saying "Ho" and be referring to American prostitutes. He's happily married to Mrs Claus thank you very much.
I'm sorry to get on my political soap box here, but WTF??? Surely there are about a guzillian more important things for people to worry about than policing what Santa says in Australia? It's not like they're even the real deal. Everyone knows the real Santa is in Lapland, and he certainly wouldn't be saying "Ho" and be referring to American prostitutes. He's happily married to Mrs Claus thank you very much.
Lost Love
Do you think there is one perfect person out there for you? And if so, does it follow that you are the perfect person for them too? It's hard not to say Yes to both those questions, because that's what a girl is brought up to expect. How can we think anything else is going to happen when our developing minds are being saturated with images of tall, dark and handsome Princes coming to save us from a life of pain and suffering at the hands of our sisters, or eternal sleep?! I found my Prince seven years ago. Only instead of tall, dark and handsome he was kinda short and Welsh. He promised me the world. He made me feel safe. He made me believe I would never feel loneliness again. If you've ever read Sense And Sensibility there is a bit when Eleanor and Marianne are talking about Mr Willoughby when he had just broken Marianne's heart. This is how it goes:
Eleanor:Did he tell you that he loved you?
Marianne: Yes! No, no... it was everyday implied, but never declared. Sometimes I thought it had, but it never was.. he has broken no vow.
Eleanor: Broken no vow?! He made us all believe he loved you!
Marianne: He did, he did! He loved me as I loved him!
That sums our relationship up really. Anyone who knew us would tell you that we loved eachother. Trouble is, like Willoughby, he never really declared it absolutely. Then I wonder what right I have to really feel the pain of loss of something that was never really 100% mine to begin with.
For the most part I've made my peace with it now. It's been a year since I've spoken to him and that contact was because he and his girlfriend had split up (I know). He was in my dream last night. It was a variation of a similar theme. I bump into him on a night out in Cardiff. He ignores me for a while then hugs me with such depth and emotion I feel like I'm going to drown in him. At the same time though the feeling is exquisite, almost transcendental. Nobody has come close to having the kind of affect on me that he had (and does still have in my dreams). Which leads me back to my questions, is there one perfect person? and if so, does it follow that you are the perfect one for them too?
Im my experience my answer would be yes then no. If I am right here though, does that mean there is no point in trying to find someone else to spend your life with when you know that they'll never quite be the person who makes you complete?
Eleanor:Did he tell you that he loved you?
Marianne: Yes! No, no... it was everyday implied, but never declared. Sometimes I thought it had, but it never was.. he has broken no vow.
Eleanor: Broken no vow?! He made us all believe he loved you!
Marianne: He did, he did! He loved me as I loved him!
That sums our relationship up really. Anyone who knew us would tell you that we loved eachother. Trouble is, like Willoughby, he never really declared it absolutely. Then I wonder what right I have to really feel the pain of loss of something that was never really 100% mine to begin with.
For the most part I've made my peace with it now. It's been a year since I've spoken to him and that contact was because he and his girlfriend had split up (I know). He was in my dream last night. It was a variation of a similar theme. I bump into him on a night out in Cardiff. He ignores me for a while then hugs me with such depth and emotion I feel like I'm going to drown in him. At the same time though the feeling is exquisite, almost transcendental. Nobody has come close to having the kind of affect on me that he had (and does still have in my dreams). Which leads me back to my questions, is there one perfect person? and if so, does it follow that you are the perfect one for them too?
Im my experience my answer would be yes then no. If I am right here though, does that mean there is no point in trying to find someone else to spend your life with when you know that they'll never quite be the person who makes you complete?
Swimming In The Rain
Last night I went swimming
in the rain.
Encased in liquid velvet
I rediscovered something
Something I lost long ago:
I found my soul.
Riding the luminescant waves,
glowing in the moonlight,
relishing in the raindrops,
my soul was alive:
alive and free
My soul caught my gaze
and seeing me laden down
let out a laugh
like a beautiful melody,
bewitching me like a spell.
I was captivated.
If I could just reach out far enough
I knew I would be saved,
and I could feel once more
the delights of swimming
in the rain.
Every stroke I made,
every wave that broke over my head
brought me no closer.
Like Echo I felt forever destined
to never obtain my hearts desire.
As I gave in to the pull
of the mysterious comfort
of the sea
one last time,
My soul saved me.
My soul saved me
and set me free.
I cried tears of relief
mixing in with the raindrops
and the sea water breaking all around.
I was at one and at peace
and I knew once more why it is
that I love to swim in the rain.
By Me
in the rain.
Encased in liquid velvet
I rediscovered something
Something I lost long ago:
I found my soul.
Riding the luminescant waves,
glowing in the moonlight,
relishing in the raindrops,
my soul was alive:
alive and free
My soul caught my gaze
and seeing me laden down
let out a laugh
like a beautiful melody,
bewitching me like a spell.
I was captivated.
If I could just reach out far enough
I knew I would be saved,
and I could feel once more
the delights of swimming
in the rain.
Every stroke I made,
every wave that broke over my head
brought me no closer.
Like Echo I felt forever destined
to never obtain my hearts desire.
As I gave in to the pull
of the mysterious comfort
of the sea
one last time,
My soul saved me.
My soul saved me
and set me free.
I cried tears of relief
mixing in with the raindrops
and the sea water breaking all around.
I was at one and at peace
and I knew once more why it is
that I love to swim in the rain.
By Me
Miracle On St David's Day
Miracle On St David's Day
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude
The Daffodils by William Wordsworth
An afternoon yellow and open-mouthed
with daffodils. The sun treads the path
among cedars and enormous oaks.
It might be a country house, guests strolling,
the rumps of gardeners between nursery shrubs.
I am reading poetry to the insane.
An old woman, interrupting, offers
as many buckets of coal as I need.
A beautiful chestnut-haired boy listens
entirely absorbed. A schizophrenic
on a good day, they tell me later.
In a cage of first March sun, a woman
sits not listening, not seeing, not feeling.
In her neat clothes, the woman is absent.
A big mild man is tenderly led
to his chair. He has never spoken.
His labourer's hands on his knees, he rocks
gently to the rhythm of the poems.
I read to their presences, absences,
to the big, dumb, labouring man as he rocks.
He is suddenly standing, silently,
huge and mild but I feel afraid. Like slow
movement of spring water or the first bird
of the year in the breaking darkness,
the labourer's voice recites "The Daffodils".
The nurses are frozen, alert; the patients
seem to listen. He is hoarse but word-perfect.
Outside the daffodils are still as wax,
a thousand, ten thousand, their syllables
unspoken, their creams and yellows still.
Forty years ago, in a Valleys school,
the class recited poetry by rote.
Since the dumbness of misery fell
he has remembered there was a music
of speech, and that he once had something to say.
When he's done, before the applause, we observe
the flowers silence. A thrush sings,
and the daffodils are flame.
Gillian Clarke
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude
The Daffodils by William Wordsworth
An afternoon yellow and open-mouthed
with daffodils. The sun treads the path
among cedars and enormous oaks.
It might be a country house, guests strolling,
the rumps of gardeners between nursery shrubs.
I am reading poetry to the insane.
An old woman, interrupting, offers
as many buckets of coal as I need.
A beautiful chestnut-haired boy listens
entirely absorbed. A schizophrenic
on a good day, they tell me later.
In a cage of first March sun, a woman
sits not listening, not seeing, not feeling.
In her neat clothes, the woman is absent.
A big mild man is tenderly led
to his chair. He has never spoken.
His labourer's hands on his knees, he rocks
gently to the rhythm of the poems.
I read to their presences, absences,
to the big, dumb, labouring man as he rocks.
He is suddenly standing, silently,
huge and mild but I feel afraid. Like slow
movement of spring water or the first bird
of the year in the breaking darkness,
the labourer's voice recites "The Daffodils".
The nurses are frozen, alert; the patients
seem to listen. He is hoarse but word-perfect.
Outside the daffodils are still as wax,
a thousand, ten thousand, their syllables
unspoken, their creams and yellows still.
Forty years ago, in a Valleys school,
the class recited poetry by rote.
Since the dumbness of misery fell
he has remembered there was a music
of speech, and that he once had something to say.
When he's done, before the applause, we observe
the flowers silence. A thrush sings,
and the daffodils are flame.
Gillian Clarke
My First Clients
I had a note in my tray waiting for me when I got to work yesterday from my counselling supervisor. He's written to my tutor to confirm my readiness to begin counselling. Me counselling others, not having the counselling myself (although I have to do that too). So in January I should be set up with my first two clients. Very scary thought. This is the culmination of several years of study and training courses. When I am 'counselling' fellow students on my course I feel confident in what I do. Plus my feedback has been very postive - not blowing my own trumpet, just telling it like it is. This is what I've wanted for so long now. To get out there and be counselling people. And I am really excited about it. All I want from life is to help people; or to help people help themselves. In January I will be one giant step closer to the career I want and away from that stuffy little council office where all I do is make sick peoples lives harder. Can't wait.
The Downside To Youth Work
Today has been a fucking hard day. I have spent this afternoon with fifteen year old boy explicitly telling me how he was going to kill himself tonight - what he was going to use to do it, what time to do it and his trying to work out how best to hit a vein. He's not a new person to me. I've worked with him for the best part of a year and he's been doing so much better. Something happened though, that I'm not going to go into (that's his business, not mine) and everything's changed again. Today was different to other times he's said he wants to kill himself. It was like he was resigned to his fate. He literally could not see himself still being here tomorrow, and all he could think about was dying. I knew what I had to do as a youth worker. Detatch myself and be practical about it. So instead I sobbed and felt that he was my responsibility. The decision was made for me that we had to ring his mother who then took him home. I can't shake it off though - the look of acceptance in his eyes. Right now I honestly don't know if I will see him again.
Life Shouldn't Have To Be This Hard
Those words, the ones in the title of todays blog have been said to me twice in a fortnight. They're right too, life really shouldn't have to be this hard. My tutor said to me today that if life is that hard then you need to stop and look at what's causing it. Because life shouldn't always be like you're pushing a barrell up a hill where either you die from exhaustion if you keep pushing, or if you stop for a rest it wipes you out as it plummets back down the hill. Either way you end up screwed.
I love to people watch. Not in a pervy way but a curious way. I make up stories in my head of what there lives may be like. Inevitably they're rose tinted spectacle type lives where they have the perfect job, and the perfect home with the perfect partner and the perfect family support behind them. And of course the perfect bank account! Nothing is grimy in their worlds; nothing upsets them and they never feel unfullfilled by what life deals them. Lucky bastards. Or are they? Because if they never feel pain and a complete overwhelming feeling of dissatisfaction with life, are they ever really compelled to get out of their little box of comfort and shake the world up a bit? To make this place better, or to open peoples eyes to what's really going on?
If you do feel this pain though and the sense that nothing is quite enough, and that you can never quite reach happiness (by you, I mean me) will life ever stop being this hard? I long for a life where I feel satisfied and comfortable, and overall I feel trully happy. But I'm terrified of that too. Of a life where I don't push for something better, or to make someones pain slightly easier. I'm scared that if I let go of my pain that I won't recognise myself any more and that I will become one of them. One of those people who settle for second best and an easy life.
I love to people watch. Not in a pervy way but a curious way. I make up stories in my head of what there lives may be like. Inevitably they're rose tinted spectacle type lives where they have the perfect job, and the perfect home with the perfect partner and the perfect family support behind them. And of course the perfect bank account! Nothing is grimy in their worlds; nothing upsets them and they never feel unfullfilled by what life deals them. Lucky bastards. Or are they? Because if they never feel pain and a complete overwhelming feeling of dissatisfaction with life, are they ever really compelled to get out of their little box of comfort and shake the world up a bit? To make this place better, or to open peoples eyes to what's really going on?
If you do feel this pain though and the sense that nothing is quite enough, and that you can never quite reach happiness (by you, I mean me) will life ever stop being this hard? I long for a life where I feel satisfied and comfortable, and overall I feel trully happy. But I'm terrified of that too. Of a life where I don't push for something better, or to make someones pain slightly easier. I'm scared that if I let go of my pain that I won't recognise myself any more and that I will become one of them. One of those people who settle for second best and an easy life.
We Are Scientists
Today has not been my best day. I have for the most part been in the most vile of moods. The kind of mood where you should have a health warning because most of what comes out of your mouth could stop a man in his track at 50 paces such is the ferocity of the venom pouring uncontrollably from you. Tonight I went to see We Are Scientists in Southampton Union with my best friend. I did not want to go. I wanted to see my best friend - naturally. However, I did not want her to see me given the aforementioned mood. I was also worrrying that taking an evening out to see a band whose track listing I could not name a single song on rather than continuing with my coursework was not a good plan. Not wanting to let her down though I gritted my teeth, shut my book on Good Breast Bad Breast and braving the weather went to the gig. Neither of us had been there for a good 7 years, back in the day when crowd surfing was not only legal but expected of you. Girls did not wear sparkly silver pumps with little tartan skirts, and boys did not spend three hours before leaving the house straightening their hair. It's a tiny venue, the ceiling is about an inch above your head and the acoustics make you dizzy the way they bounce off the walls around you. But it's great. It doesn't matter that I know none of the songs, or that the wierd boy behind me has just bored a pint of Jack and Coke down my back (which actually, given the heat of the room does cool me down). I relax. I smile. I laugh. I even dance. For the first time in weeks I forget about my work and all the other rubbish I seem to be carrying with me and live for the moment. The evening is all in all a huge success. I feel better and more content than I have in ages. Getting out the car I did well up as my best friend drove away. I always do. She doesn't live near me anymore. She hasn't lived near me for a long time now but I'm still not used to it. I guess that's what makes us friends though: that when we're together we pick up where we left off and that distance doesn't mean anything. She knows me implicitly and loves me despite everything. I don't think We Are Scientists will ever really set the world alight; but for those few hours this evening dancing with my very best friend, they were magic.
I Love You
They're such small insignificant words by themselves, yet put together and they have the power to destroy people. By people (and in the spirit of me trying to tell the truth) I mean me. I had a conversation with someone last night who said something about love and relationships that was so honest and simple it made me cry. It wasn't a fancy hallmark comment filled with slush that's garunteed to make you feel unworthy if you're alone on Valentines Day. Or that Hollywood romance that is so idealised and over the top that it surprises me daily how anybody finds happiness in love because nothing can ever measure up to that image on the big screen. It's about the basics. For me it's about having someone to curl up with on the sofa. Or to play unconsciously with my hair. Or to hold my hand during a scary movie. I'm a poet. I have work published. But I've never been able to write a poem that encapsulates what is for me the real meaning of love. All the words I've put together and agonised over to try and write the perfect poem. Yet this friend floors me with half a dozen words which are just so raw and true that it topped anything I have ever been able to write. Who ever is lucky enough to end up with them really will know what love is in it's truest form. They will be the luckiest people in the world.
Awards Ceremony
I've been to an awards ceremony tonight. Although to call it that makes it sound far grander than it actually was. Picture a slightly run down office block in inner city Southampton with a big sheet of paper stuck to the wall acting as a white board and mix'n'match chairs and that's the scene for tonights activities. It was the annual AGM for company I do youth work with. Part of the evening was dedicated to giving awards to young people who have coped well with a tragedy, or overcome an addiction or held down a job for a while, or simply have managed to keep their heads above water and stay alive. Several of them were people I work closely with and felt so proud to see them there recieving their awards. What was special was that they genuinely were so happy and grateful to have recieved them. It was like we had given them a million pounds, not just a piece of paper with their name and a shiny sticker on them. I said before that my life is tough at the moment, but compared to these young people my worries are nothing. I felt pretty guilty to be honest of feeling the way I have been when I know what they've gone through - and are still going through. I know everyone has their cross to bare and it's unique to them. But I can't help thinking I shouldn't be finding mine so hard when compared to the young people I was with tonight.
Breaking The Silence
Okay, so here goes. The truth is blogs scare me. I don't quite understand the point of them, but for some reason feel compelled to have one! So that's me: one big mess of contradictions. I also don't know the etiquette around what should be said in your first posting so am likely to get it wrong somewhere along the way. Right this moment I am at work. I have a generic job title and work a generic job. I could be in pretty much any County Council Office across the UK and wouldn't be out of place. On a good day it's dull. On a bad day it's unbearable. I have fulfilled the biggest fear I had as idealist sixth form student and become one of the grey suited masses who murge into an abyss of polyester nothingness. So in an attempt to make a mark on the world I am also a Youth Worker. For those nine hours a week I feel alive, I feel like I have a purpose and that I genuinely matter to this world. Life at the moment is pretty tough. Which, I guess, is probably why I felt the need to write this now. I don't know where to start with that though. So there's another contradiction for you: I feel I need to write it down, but can't manage it at the moment. Laying myself out there scares me. Keeping it in though and feeling like this forever scares me too.
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