I should have done my revision, today.
I should have found a place to live
I should have met my friends and rejoiced.
I should have gone to galleries and wondered.
I should have written or read or worked or played.
Instead I sat and waited for your call. Your e-mail. Your message.
I am a shadow.
Saturday 15 October 2011
Wednesday 12 October 2011
Monday 10 October 2011
Stream [third passing]
Dialogue: literary work consisting of a conversation between two or more persons. From the Greek, dialogos, then the Latin dialogus and finally to the French Dialoge. A word so perfect in its construction that nigh on three thousand years of language bastardisation cannot alter it.
Duologue: "a conversation between two persons".
Which would I prefer. The intellectual in me loves the fact that we are being reckless with our thoughts and feelings now. The world and his wife and her husband could be part of our exchange. A literary work created by two minds interacting. It's post-modern, it's exciting; we could package it and sell it. But then I worry that she is holding back, choosing her words more carefully, applying selective topiary to the sprouting thoughts that blossom from her mind. Is she being more open or less, applying different standards to this new medium. The intellectual is over-ridden. I want it to be literary, to be high brow. I also desire her to be exclusively mine. I want her thoughts, her attention. So here is my dilemma - in duologue the conversation will only ever revolve around me and her and us. The dialogue allows so much more - I may observe the varying facets of her personality as she wishes to be portrayed to the whole world and not just to me.
To watch her flirt would be very much the same. I could watch her talents at work, employing the various smiles at will like an master painter selecting the correct shade of red to crest that petal. I could observe her at her sexiest, holding a little back but giving a way at the same time. Engaging, jousting, touching - opening her wit and her charm and her raw sexual musk. I would be insanely jealous of every second that the bright beam of her attention was not illuminating me, but that would have nothing to do with the flirting, or the allure. She could be walking a pensioner to the 4th of July parade and I would feel the same; talking to the other hockey moms across the fence; dancing a swing-dance I could never hope to co-ordinate. It is her attention I crave and I cannot hold that eternally. Knowing that she will not shine upon me, the focus of her attention is irrelevant, I need not know or care, for in the important moments between sunset and sunrise, between kissing and breathing, between songs and between sonnets and between the sheets, then she would be mine and I would be hers.
Indeed, the opposite is true: to know that for all that flirting, for all that focus she would bring to bear upon her victim was in vain, that in the end her mind, and her body, and her cunt were all mine, branded and chained with a single link: that would be a powerful aphrodisiac indeed.
Eat.
So ends the third.
Duologue: "a conversation between two persons".
Which would I prefer. The intellectual in me loves the fact that we are being reckless with our thoughts and feelings now. The world and his wife and her husband could be part of our exchange. A literary work created by two minds interacting. It's post-modern, it's exciting; we could package it and sell it. But then I worry that she is holding back, choosing her words more carefully, applying selective topiary to the sprouting thoughts that blossom from her mind. Is she being more open or less, applying different standards to this new medium. The intellectual is over-ridden. I want it to be literary, to be high brow. I also desire her to be exclusively mine. I want her thoughts, her attention. So here is my dilemma - in duologue the conversation will only ever revolve around me and her and us. The dialogue allows so much more - I may observe the varying facets of her personality as she wishes to be portrayed to the whole world and not just to me.
To watch her flirt would be very much the same. I could watch her talents at work, employing the various smiles at will like an master painter selecting the correct shade of red to crest that petal. I could observe her at her sexiest, holding a little back but giving a way at the same time. Engaging, jousting, touching - opening her wit and her charm and her raw sexual musk. I would be insanely jealous of every second that the bright beam of her attention was not illuminating me, but that would have nothing to do with the flirting, or the allure. She could be walking a pensioner to the 4th of July parade and I would feel the same; talking to the other hockey moms across the fence; dancing a swing-dance I could never hope to co-ordinate. It is her attention I crave and I cannot hold that eternally. Knowing that she will not shine upon me, the focus of her attention is irrelevant, I need not know or care, for in the important moments between sunset and sunrise, between kissing and breathing, between songs and between sonnets and between the sheets, then she would be mine and I would be hers.
Indeed, the opposite is true: to know that for all that flirting, for all that focus she would bring to bear upon her victim was in vain, that in the end her mind, and her body, and her cunt were all mine, branded and chained with a single link: that would be a powerful aphrodisiac indeed.
Eat.
So ends the third.
Off Topic
It's a bit of a random one, and I'm pretty sure no-one reads this anyway but hell, I nominated the guy so I'm using every avenue to promote his campaign.
If you went to Cambridge, and you're around this weekend - vote for Brian.
http://brianforcam.appspot.com/who-can-vote
If you went to Cambridge, and you're around this weekend - vote for Brian.
http://brianforcam.appspot.com/who-can-vote
Stream [second passing]
What next, she asked, knowing that I had no answer that I wished to give. I did not wish to make that thing real. What next, she asked again, pushing me into a corner of admission and submission. There is no next step, physically. We do what we have always done. Share secrets, share thoughts, try and exhaust ourselves on each other, hoping that one day the rough waves of passion will erode down the solidity of ourselves into grains of sand to be washed away.
This is the next step. Each post, each word I share, each thought and emotion laid bare. I will empty my soul into ink, into the void of the internet, pour out every drop of myself until I have nothing left to give, till I bore you and you see me laid out skinned and empty as nothingness. I want you to consume all of me, every scrap of muscle, every spark of thought, it is yours, it is yours to do with as you will. When I am finally spent, when I am bloodless, and without strength or meaning, you may discard me on the winds. I will dissolve into the air and be gone.
I will be dead in thirty years and all I wish is to leave a legacy, to be a page in history, something beyond my mortal corpus. Such a remembrance to be consumed by your mind, to be in your heart always, affecting your choices, your decisions, to be in your bed and your work. To be in every chakra and every book. Take me, take all that is mine, all that I have been and make it one with you. I will entwine myself about your very nerves so that each thing touched is an embrace, each morsel consumed is a meal shared, each breath is my sweetest kiss.
This is my next step. And every step. I only have so many memories to share, such paucity of years, such naivity of experience. Oh, to have lived a thousand years and have wonders to tell of. Alas, one day I will have but the substance of memory and dreams. Then there are no more steps. No more road to travel. Until then, all I may do is give myself to you, utterly and with my own consent.
Toil.
So ends the second.
This is the next step. Each post, each word I share, each thought and emotion laid bare. I will empty my soul into ink, into the void of the internet, pour out every drop of myself until I have nothing left to give, till I bore you and you see me laid out skinned and empty as nothingness. I want you to consume all of me, every scrap of muscle, every spark of thought, it is yours, it is yours to do with as you will. When I am finally spent, when I am bloodless, and without strength or meaning, you may discard me on the winds. I will dissolve into the air and be gone.
I will be dead in thirty years and all I wish is to leave a legacy, to be a page in history, something beyond my mortal corpus. Such a remembrance to be consumed by your mind, to be in your heart always, affecting your choices, your decisions, to be in your bed and your work. To be in every chakra and every book. Take me, take all that is mine, all that I have been and make it one with you. I will entwine myself about your very nerves so that each thing touched is an embrace, each morsel consumed is a meal shared, each breath is my sweetest kiss.
This is my next step. And every step. I only have so many memories to share, such paucity of years, such naivity of experience. Oh, to have lived a thousand years and have wonders to tell of. Alas, one day I will have but the substance of memory and dreams. Then there are no more steps. No more road to travel. Until then, all I may do is give myself to you, utterly and with my own consent.
Toil.
So ends the second.
Stream [first passing]
Five hours sleep last night. An hour of that after the alarm clock. I take my caffiene in medicinal portions these days - small sugary, caffinated, taurinated drinks. Maximum effectiveness. I used to drink them to ensure maximum performance. Now I drink them just to perform at all. My heart races. Is it sleep-deprivation? Caffiene? Or the thought of her? The first two exacerbate, the last is the cause.
Last night we lay down together again, unable to touch but seperated only by the flimsiest of screens. Like a child I clawed at her, trying to make contact however I could. Telephone, the written word, the video screen - large and small. I stole the intangible, but stole nonetheless, to spend ten more minutes, five more minute, one more minute basking in her pale backlit glow.
I caught her scent for the first time last night. Remembered it. I never told her how she smelt - she would not have appreciated the compliment. Do not smell girl's hair. It is too intimate. As we lay in bed afterwards, she shut me out with fairy-stories, and I held her tight with one arm, enjoying her warmth, her softness. In the pale-light of pre-dawn I put my face in the tangle of her hair, twisted and unravelled by sex. She smelt of smoke, and come, and the sea. She smelt like adventure and coming home and leaving and staying. I breathed in deeply, her ears shut to the sound, safe.
Last night I smelt her again. I remember smells. The smell of my mother on a Sunday morning, porridge and toast on the table, just before she opened the milk and poured on the cream. The smell of my grandfather, tobbacco'd and oiled. The smell of school books, the dust on the gymnasium floor, the putrid canteen. I remember the smell of the first girl I kissed, cheap lipstick, cheap perfume. The smell of rugby is my favourite: the smell of leaves just fallen, the chill of winter coming, the sweat, the salves, the anger, blood, the bitter bite of adrenaline. The smell of war. Every year the smell of rugby haunts me.
Last night I smelt her again and I nearly laughed. She wanted to know. "What? What? Tell me. Tell me." She was playful, but demanding. She always tries to hide it behind her smiles or her laughter or some coy distraction but when she wants something there is always the thin steel edge. Demanding not asking. It arouses me. I think there are few who can resist her in that mood. The edge flashes out like a flick-knife. I try to disarm the passion with a few charming words, to distill some of the tension and lock it away for later. She will not tolerate it: "It's difficult because we love each other." Concise, accurate, pointed, straight to the heart of the matter, straight to my heart. Her words are like rapiers, and each word stabs. There is more pleasure in this pain than all the scented, silked harems in the world.
Awaken.
So ends the first.
Last night we lay down together again, unable to touch but seperated only by the flimsiest of screens. Like a child I clawed at her, trying to make contact however I could. Telephone, the written word, the video screen - large and small. I stole the intangible, but stole nonetheless, to spend ten more minutes, five more minute, one more minute basking in her pale backlit glow.
I caught her scent for the first time last night. Remembered it. I never told her how she smelt - she would not have appreciated the compliment. Do not smell girl's hair. It is too intimate. As we lay in bed afterwards, she shut me out with fairy-stories, and I held her tight with one arm, enjoying her warmth, her softness. In the pale-light of pre-dawn I put my face in the tangle of her hair, twisted and unravelled by sex. She smelt of smoke, and come, and the sea. She smelt like adventure and coming home and leaving and staying. I breathed in deeply, her ears shut to the sound, safe.
Last night I smelt her again. I remember smells. The smell of my mother on a Sunday morning, porridge and toast on the table, just before she opened the milk and poured on the cream. The smell of my grandfather, tobbacco'd and oiled. The smell of school books, the dust on the gymnasium floor, the putrid canteen. I remember the smell of the first girl I kissed, cheap lipstick, cheap perfume. The smell of rugby is my favourite: the smell of leaves just fallen, the chill of winter coming, the sweat, the salves, the anger, blood, the bitter bite of adrenaline. The smell of war. Every year the smell of rugby haunts me.
Last night I smelt her again and I nearly laughed. She wanted to know. "What? What? Tell me. Tell me." She was playful, but demanding. She always tries to hide it behind her smiles or her laughter or some coy distraction but when she wants something there is always the thin steel edge. Demanding not asking. It arouses me. I think there are few who can resist her in that mood. The edge flashes out like a flick-knife. I try to disarm the passion with a few charming words, to distill some of the tension and lock it away for later. She will not tolerate it: "It's difficult because we love each other." Concise, accurate, pointed, straight to the heart of the matter, straight to my heart. Her words are like rapiers, and each word stabs. There is more pleasure in this pain than all the scented, silked harems in the world.
Awaken.
So ends the first.
Sunday 9 October 2011
Do not go gently
It's over.
It's really over.
And it is all my fault. I gave her the means and I gave her the reason.
I told her that until you tell someone a thing you don't make it real. If it's just inside your head, or just a secret between the two of you then it has no independent existence, no life - it isn't real. To become a part of history it must be observed.
And now she has made it real. It is a thing to be read. No-one will know it is us. It will an anonymous tale of two anonymous lovers but it is real now. From beginning to end. All stories have an ending but this should have been an epic novel spanning volumes before coming to some wonderful dramatic climax, not some flimsy novella to be absorbed and discarded.
Two people so much alike, divided. This could have been amazing.
I am undone.
It's really over.
And it is all my fault. I gave her the means and I gave her the reason.
I told her that until you tell someone a thing you don't make it real. If it's just inside your head, or just a secret between the two of you then it has no independent existence, no life - it isn't real. To become a part of history it must be observed.
And now she has made it real. It is a thing to be read. No-one will know it is us. It will an anonymous tale of two anonymous lovers but it is real now. From beginning to end. All stories have an ending but this should have been an epic novel spanning volumes before coming to some wonderful dramatic climax, not some flimsy novella to be absorbed and discarded.
Two people so much alike, divided. This could have been amazing.
I am undone.
Too Effective
A girl once told me that I was very effective. At the time I took it as a massive compliment;it meant that I was very good at saying the right thing at the right time, that I could make the point I was aimimg for, reach the goal I wanted, efficiently and without goimg round the houses to get there. It meant things accelerated very quickly and we got to a relationship of intimacy and were able to communicate at a much higher level much more quickly than would normally be the case.
Usually the short hand I use to achieve this «effectiveness» is that of literary references, of cultural references, the shared experiences through another medium that allow two people to share a common point of reference without further need for discussion or explanation. I usually find it to be a wonderful conceit that this book, or this quote, or that song, or that poem can express a shared thought in a fraction of the time that the full discussion and agreement would require.
Now I view it as a curse. I am very well read. I take it as a point of pride that I am aware of this reading of such book, and have read that criticism of so film. It makes me feel clever and well-read and well-rounded. Unfortunately, it also makes me very effective. with everyone.
When you have read all books, heard all songs, know all films, it means there is an obvious point of reference for all situations. It creates artificial intimacy with everyone. How do you distinguish between these people, these intimacies? You have to just trust to yourself, I suppose.
But there is a diametrically opposite problem. Now that I know my choice, every lyric, every quote, every thought, every word makes me think of her. There is no turning away from her, no chance of blocking her from my mind, And song piles upon song piles upon song till all music is her. She is everywhere now in my wakimg moments and in my dreams. everywhere but where she should be.
In my arms. In my bed. By my side.
Piece of the puzzle, you're my missing part.
Usually the short hand I use to achieve this «effectiveness» is that of literary references, of cultural references, the shared experiences through another medium that allow two people to share a common point of reference without further need for discussion or explanation. I usually find it to be a wonderful conceit that this book, or this quote, or that song, or that poem can express a shared thought in a fraction of the time that the full discussion and agreement would require.
Now I view it as a curse. I am very well read. I take it as a point of pride that I am aware of this reading of such book, and have read that criticism of so film. It makes me feel clever and well-read and well-rounded. Unfortunately, it also makes me very effective. with everyone.
When you have read all books, heard all songs, know all films, it means there is an obvious point of reference for all situations. It creates artificial intimacy with everyone. How do you distinguish between these people, these intimacies? You have to just trust to yourself, I suppose.
But there is a diametrically opposite problem. Now that I know my choice, every lyric, every quote, every thought, every word makes me think of her. There is no turning away from her, no chance of blocking her from my mind, And song piles upon song piles upon song till all music is her. She is everywhere now in my wakimg moments and in my dreams. everywhere but where she should be.
In my arms. In my bed. By my side.
Piece of the puzzle, you're my missing part.
Saturday 8 October 2011
Freedom now
Einstein said that compound interest is the most powerful force in the universe. Whilst one should not set too much store in the glib statements of Patent Office workers in most circumstance, in this particular instance he was simply wrong.
There are more powerful inevitabilities at work amongst the fates of men. As compared to the nigh insurmountable love between a husband and wife, a few cents in the dollar really has no comparison.
Newton's first law tells us that "The velocity of a body remains constant unless the body is acted upon by an external force." If the fucker hadn't spent so much time afflict his brains with alchemy or buffeting about with mathematics that would be proven more elegantly and effectively by a German shortly afterwards he might have had time to add the rather crucial addendum that:
"Once the external force is excluded the object will return to its initial trajectory leaving barely a trace that the external force had ever been applied at all."
To effect a change, a permenant change, the force must be continuously applied for a significant period. Otherwise the natural momentum of the object will return it to it's initial rut. All objects have easy paths to follow through the universe's fabric, in the end they all return to the path of least resistance.
I do not wish to follow that path. I would rather increase my energy levels and rise out of the lower valence. I want be on the outer ring, to bond with others, to be stolen by other. I wish that I could have broken her out of her existing bonds and bound myself to her. In the end, my attractive forces were low. I was pulled in, and mistook the coming together as a sign tha we were both moving in the same direction.
Everything is relative. Now I am trapped in her electron cloud unable to form a part of her and unable to escape her pull. My force is negligible and her path continues as it ever did.
There are more powerful inevitabilities at work amongst the fates of men. As compared to the nigh insurmountable love between a husband and wife, a few cents in the dollar really has no comparison.
Newton's first law tells us that "The velocity of a body remains constant unless the body is acted upon by an external force." If the fucker hadn't spent so much time afflict his brains with alchemy or buffeting about with mathematics that would be proven more elegantly and effectively by a German shortly afterwards he might have had time to add the rather crucial addendum that:
"Once the external force is excluded the object will return to its initial trajectory leaving barely a trace that the external force had ever been applied at all."
To effect a change, a permenant change, the force must be continuously applied for a significant period. Otherwise the natural momentum of the object will return it to it's initial rut. All objects have easy paths to follow through the universe's fabric, in the end they all return to the path of least resistance.
I do not wish to follow that path. I would rather increase my energy levels and rise out of the lower valence. I want be on the outer ring, to bond with others, to be stolen by other. I wish that I could have broken her out of her existing bonds and bound myself to her. In the end, my attractive forces were low. I was pulled in, and mistook the coming together as a sign tha we were both moving in the same direction.
Everything is relative. Now I am trapped in her electron cloud unable to form a part of her and unable to escape her pull. My force is negligible and her path continues as it ever did.
Friday 7 October 2011
Revision
Online profile update:
"Dominant seeks submissive.
Knowledge of the Story of O preferred.
Breaking in provided if required."
No responses so far; but you just need one.
"Dominant seeks submissive.
Knowledge of the Story of O preferred.
Breaking in provided if required."
No responses so far; but you just need one.
Descant in Flat
I've always been a very materialistic person. Earn, buy, acquire, consume, have, like a good little capitalist-consumerist should. I had all the #firstworldnecessities to go with my #firstworldproblems: tv, ps3, wii, three piece suite with matching luggage, rotting away at the end of it all nothing more than an embarrassment to... Well, stop me if you've heard this one before. Two months before the Event I spent the arse end of £2000 on a dining table.
Now don't get me wrong - spending that amount of money on any piece of furniture was a pretty gratuitous act but you have to understand that I was trying to buy my way through an irreparable crack in my relationship. Good money followed bad right up the end. And, fuck me, this thing was beautiful. It was reclaimed teak, beautifully sanded and put together, timber to timber: no join lines, no raised joints - all solid wood all the way through. It was glorious.
Now I have neither table nor £2000.
In fact, I have essentially nothing. I woke up this morning and put pretty much every worldly possession I own into a kit bat and a satchel. My Best Friend and Wife are, unfortunately, no longer able to play host to their recently single, and recently homeless, friend for a little while. The loft can no longer be his sanctuary, so I am off into the world to thumb through my little black book in search of a place to rest. This book feels dangerously like a pamphlet now that I actually need to use it. All those friends shed during the long lazy autumn of my relationship, now look like the summer wood I should have gathered and kept close. Bad Town Mouse.
And so the point is this - I no longer have a tv to watch, or a wardrobe of clothes to wear, or even a sofa on which to sleep. I have a few hastily gathered shirts and a couple of pairs of jeans. I have my kindle (oh, books, my saviour, my captain). I have my laptop for the occasional blog post when I can find the few stray remaining wireless networks that aren't password protected. And that's pretty much it. Passport, wallet, drivers licence, rail pass. I'm travelling without unnecessary burdens since the first time I had a disposal income and it feels a little bit light.
Now don't get me wrong - spending that amount of money on any piece of furniture was a pretty gratuitous act but you have to understand that I was trying to buy my way through an irreparable crack in my relationship. Good money followed bad right up the end. And, fuck me, this thing was beautiful. It was reclaimed teak, beautifully sanded and put together, timber to timber: no join lines, no raised joints - all solid wood all the way through. It was glorious.
Now I have neither table nor £2000.
In fact, I have essentially nothing. I woke up this morning and put pretty much every worldly possession I own into a kit bat and a satchel. My Best Friend and Wife are, unfortunately, no longer able to play host to their recently single, and recently homeless, friend for a little while. The loft can no longer be his sanctuary, so I am off into the world to thumb through my little black book in search of a place to rest. This book feels dangerously like a pamphlet now that I actually need to use it. All those friends shed during the long lazy autumn of my relationship, now look like the summer wood I should have gathered and kept close. Bad Town Mouse.
And so the point is this - I no longer have a tv to watch, or a wardrobe of clothes to wear, or even a sofa on which to sleep. I have a few hastily gathered shirts and a couple of pairs of jeans. I have my kindle (oh, books, my saviour, my captain). I have my laptop for the occasional blog post when I can find the few stray remaining wireless networks that aren't password protected. And that's pretty much it. Passport, wallet, drivers licence, rail pass. I'm travelling without unnecessary burdens since the first time I had a disposal income and it feels a little bit light.
Tuesday 4 October 2011
Nothing for a Pair
Yesterday I sat at my desk and for the first time in two weeks I was alone. I turned on my e-mails and switched on my messenger. I waited. At 10:30 I stopped drafting an e-mail telling my opposite number at BigButNotAsBigAsUsLawFirm telling him that if he didn't start engaging with us in relation to disclosure we we going to slap him with so many applications for specific disclosure his head would spin. I enjoy that kind of e-mail; it so rare that things are clean cut and you are in the right. Grey lines are my business. But I stopped and watched the clock click over from 10:30 to 10:31.
Sometimes she gets up early to work before yoga classes especially on a Monday with a hangover - but not today.
I stared at her icon for twenty minutes praying for the little button to turn green, but it stayed red. Girl is not available for chat.
The meeting running up to lunch was a write off. Every sixty seconds or so I realised I really couldn't give a damn about the post-application process. Like some coin-operated boy, I flicked the screen of my 'phone, refreshing my e-mails hoping for even a word, an acknowledgement of my existence. Rhythmic hope, automated despair.
"Sitting on the shelf, I am just a toy,
But she turns me on and I come to life."
The only available e-mail was her last. "Please give me some time." I wanted her to know that every second was costing me dearly, that all I had done since I woke was waited for her text, or her e-mail, or her call. Time was all I had to give, but at such a price. I couldn't understand the sudden cut off., I couldn't deal with it. A mere 48 hours ago we had spent a entire day with each other, one of those perfect golden days to be reminisced about in years to come, but only with ones self. A day unshared with anyone else, because you simply wouldn't understand; couldn't. I hadn't prepared myself mentally for the withdrawal - I thought it would be fine, but the sudden introduction of a vacuum distorts the reality around it, sucking and clawing at all the fragile pieces held together by will.
"All the other real ones that you destroy,
Cannot hold a candle...."
By 2:30 I was driven to distraction. I knew she was at work now - no excuse of yoga, or writing classes, or even sex with her husband. No excuse now, only reasons. I don't know if one can register refreshes in the same way as one does unique hits to a web-site but I suspect I may have broken a new record yesterday. It sounds immature and childish - and it was - but I was filled with such hope that I pushed on into the ridiculous, desiring beyond reason.
"I will never leave my bedroom,
I will never cry at night again;
Wrap my arms around her and pretend."
And then, this morning, I received an e-mail, sent in the night. Quoted for truth:
"And I know that I need to not be refreshing my gmail every 30 seconds, and not checking your blog in case you have written something new to break my heart all over again, but I can't stop myself. I have no
will power."
This is the reason for my obsession - the similarity of reaction; the need for attention; the self-deprecation, the self-loathing, even. The want, the need, the obsession. She had sung the break-up songs at kareoke, she had deleted the entire inbox and then restored from trash; she had longed for me. Tick. Tick. Tick.
"This post was written to make you feel smittener,
With my sad picture of boy getting bitterer."
Call me.
Sometimes she gets up early to work before yoga classes especially on a Monday with a hangover - but not today.
I stared at her icon for twenty minutes praying for the little button to turn green, but it stayed red. Girl is not available for chat.
The meeting running up to lunch was a write off. Every sixty seconds or so I realised I really couldn't give a damn about the post-application process. Like some coin-operated boy, I flicked the screen of my 'phone, refreshing my e-mails hoping for even a word, an acknowledgement of my existence. Rhythmic hope, automated despair.
"Sitting on the shelf, I am just a toy,
But she turns me on and I come to life."
The only available e-mail was her last. "Please give me some time." I wanted her to know that every second was costing me dearly, that all I had done since I woke was waited for her text, or her e-mail, or her call. Time was all I had to give, but at such a price. I couldn't understand the sudden cut off., I couldn't deal with it. A mere 48 hours ago we had spent a entire day with each other, one of those perfect golden days to be reminisced about in years to come, but only with ones self. A day unshared with anyone else, because you simply wouldn't understand; couldn't. I hadn't prepared myself mentally for the withdrawal - I thought it would be fine, but the sudden introduction of a vacuum distorts the reality around it, sucking and clawing at all the fragile pieces held together by will.
"All the other real ones that you destroy,
Cannot hold a candle...."
By 2:30 I was driven to distraction. I knew she was at work now - no excuse of yoga, or writing classes, or even sex with her husband. No excuse now, only reasons. I don't know if one can register refreshes in the same way as one does unique hits to a web-site but I suspect I may have broken a new record yesterday. It sounds immature and childish - and it was - but I was filled with such hope that I pushed on into the ridiculous, desiring beyond reason.
"I will never leave my bedroom,
I will never cry at night again;
Wrap my arms around her and pretend."
And then, this morning, I received an e-mail, sent in the night. Quoted for truth:
"And I know that I need to not be refreshing my gmail every 30 seconds, and not checking your blog in case you have written something new to break my heart all over again, but I can't stop myself. I have no
will power."
This is the reason for my obsession - the similarity of reaction; the need for attention; the self-deprecation, the self-loathing, even. The want, the need, the obsession. She had sung the break-up songs at kareoke, she had deleted the entire inbox and then restored from trash; she had longed for me. Tick. Tick. Tick.
"This post was written to make you feel smittener,
With my sad picture of boy getting bitterer."
Call me.
Monday 3 October 2011
Withdrawal
"I wanted to tell you that it's over. Really, this time. It's been a long romance - and you have left me with a lump in my throat and maybe a hole in my heart. You are always there waiting for me I know but you're killing me and each kiss leaves me gasping for breath. There is hardly anywhere we can go together now anyway and without you they say things will be better. Serge Gainsbourg, Bill Hicks, Humphrey Bogart, every French film I ever saw, every 1940's film I ever saw will always remind me of you. Clerkenwell and London will never be the same. Post coital langour, the drinking dens, the end of the evenings, waterloo bridge, Paris will never be the same.
We took drugs together, made love together, sung together. we even managed to dance together. You kept time through all those conversations about life, love, lust, longing. I shared you with friends, took you to business meetings, introduced your guest appearances on stage. I hid you from my family for so long but you forgave me. You always forgave me. You were always there waiting.
You make me burn. I can catch your scent - right here, right now
Will you forgive me this? For I am leaving you. Will i miss you? I hope so and I hope not.....
Yes, i really must give you up."*
And afterwards. Leaving is easy. Staying away is where the real courage lies. Each time I leave my mistress, Nicotene, I say it is for the last time. Everytime is for the last time. Yet, inevitably, I return. At my weakest, at my most vulnerable, it is she who I can always turn to.
This weekend I flooded myself, immersed myself in her. We were never apart for more than a few minutes from each other. She has become more expensive to maintain in recent years, but she's always worth it - giving more than she takes. I filled myself with her poisions over the weekend and now I am coming down - I feel sick, and dare not eat; sweating and shaking. I have no focus and I long for one more damn moment to relieve this feeling.
All said, this is not a good day.
We took drugs together, made love together, sung together. we even managed to dance together. You kept time through all those conversations about life, love, lust, longing. I shared you with friends, took you to business meetings, introduced your guest appearances on stage. I hid you from my family for so long but you forgave me. You always forgave me. You were always there waiting.
You make me burn. I can catch your scent - right here, right now
Will you forgive me this? For I am leaving you. Will i miss you? I hope so and I hope not.....
Yes, i really must give you up."*
And afterwards. Leaving is easy. Staying away is where the real courage lies. Each time I leave my mistress, Nicotene, I say it is for the last time. Everytime is for the last time. Yet, inevitably, I return. At my weakest, at my most vulnerable, it is she who I can always turn to.
This weekend I flooded myself, immersed myself in her. We were never apart for more than a few minutes from each other. She has become more expensive to maintain in recent years, but she's always worth it - giving more than she takes. I filled myself with her poisions over the weekend and now I am coming down - I feel sick, and dare not eat; sweating and shaking. I have no focus and I long for one more damn moment to relieve this feeling.
All said, this is not a good day.
Sunday 2 October 2011
Transatlanticism
There something acutely sad about crying in public that transcends the normal levels of misery and maudlin and cuts to the very heart of what it is to be sad; the polar opposite of ecstacy and joy - the deep heartbreaking sadness that is perversely a pleasure to experience a few times in one's life.
Like all people I have wallowed in unhappiness from time to time, taking situations where I was permitted concessions of behaviour to moan and whine and be the centre of attention or to glut myself on alcohol and nicotene to beyond excess on the excuse of unhappiness.
Twice in my life have I truely experienced the thrill of true sadness. Both occassions were incredibly similar in occassion, motiation and location, but it is not the kind of scenario one can concoct on a regular basis. It's addictive and compelling and heartbreakingly beautiful to experience.
The first time was after I had left the German. Despite all the circumstances we had left each other with words of love rather than recrimination or regret. The day before we had both come back from the Fusion festival in Neustrelitz together, hands held on the train, mostly wordless and expressed ourselves through last touches and longing pathos-laden looks through a sleepless night. I left in the morning, the word "love" unspoken but unrequired, and with the thought that I would never see her again. I landed in Paris Orly in a fug of sleeplessness and climbed on board a busy commuter train into the centre of Paris.
I was still coming down from Fusion, packed with stimulants and depressants, my mind over-flowing with recent memories, and smells, and thoughts unspoken, and words mis-said. It was a perfect storm waiting for a sudden lightning crack to bring down the rain. At the first stop from the airport, a man came aboard with a guitar and a long patched coat. He immediately began to sing a chanson of such aching beauty that it took barely a few notes before the tears began spilling from my eyes.
He must have sung all the way from Orly to the Gare Du Nord. By his second or third stanza, I was unable to keep my tears to myself. Even with my head plunged between my knees as I sat on the floor, arms wrapped around my knees, the shaking of my shoulders would have made it to obvious to everyone that I was wracked by sobs. The tears did not just run river down my face, they flooded. I could hardly breathe from the effort of forcing out the individual sobs, and my sleeves were soaked with salty water.
After a while I became embarrassed by my public display of emotion but this only made my anguish worse. I could not have stopped crying for anything; every moment of tension, of unrequited and requited love for the German poured out of me.
But no-one stopped to ask me if I were okay, no-one but the Chanteur even looked at me - and he took it as a sign to sing get sadder chanson d'amour. No-one looked at me, they all tried to ignore my suffering and that was the essence of this sadness. I could have cried at any time given the right stimuli but I had not - I could have cried alone and in private, keeping my misery a secret thing. Instead, I was unable to stop myself showing everyone in that carriage my exquisite sorrow. That no-one acknowledged, that all those other human beings saw one of their own in the deepest, most painful place one can be and did nothing, said nothing, to comfort him. That was a sadness beyond all others.
By the time the train pulled into the Gare Du Nord I was done. I was cleansed.
I tell this story now because this morning the same thing happened again. After a largely sleepless night, after a full twelve hours of exchanging thoughts and emotions and words of love, love expressed in that most ineffective and useless of little words - "love" - she had left me. Left me to remain with her husband. In the last she admitted he feelings for me, and elicited the words I had not wished to say from my mouth and from my heart. I feel briefly asleep with a smile on my face, and awoke a mere two hours later to find her gone. Gone.
I stalked the house for a few hours, trying to rationalise it, trying to justify this act. I blamed myself, and I blamed her husband, and I blamed her. Mostly, I hated myself for allowing myself to fall for a woman who was so patently unobtainable. "The distance is quite simply much too far for me to row; It seems farther than ever before." I was full of dispair: I had shared too much with her - she held a small piece of me and I either wanted it back or to give her the rest and neither was possible. In the end, I decided to come to work to bury my emotions in disclosure statements and bundle indexes.
I had not felt like crying at all. I was sad, but not like that. This time, no drugs, no excess, and even a little sleep. I sat down in the carriage and watched the woman sat opposite put in her earphones. Almost without thinking I mirrored her and pressed play on the song last played. Inevitably, unavoidably it was Her song:
"The Atlantic was born today and I'll tell you how;
The clouds opened up and let it out."
And there it was. The same moment, the same feelings, everything. This time there was no chance of keeping my tears to myself. Aching sobs, jerking spasms, eyes streaming, nose running. No chance to breathe, no chance to stop, no desire to stop. For an hour, I cried, spilling my feelings onto the floor of the carriage. For an hour I cried and not one hand rested on my shoulder, not one voice tried to console.
It was exquisite.
But this time there was no finish. There was no release. I tried to squeeze her out of my soul one tear at a time and yet still she pervades me, still she consumes my mind and crushes my heart.
I need you so much closer.
Like all people I have wallowed in unhappiness from time to time, taking situations where I was permitted concessions of behaviour to moan and whine and be the centre of attention or to glut myself on alcohol and nicotene to beyond excess on the excuse of unhappiness.
Twice in my life have I truely experienced the thrill of true sadness. Both occassions were incredibly similar in occassion, motiation and location, but it is not the kind of scenario one can concoct on a regular basis. It's addictive and compelling and heartbreakingly beautiful to experience.
The first time was after I had left the German. Despite all the circumstances we had left each other with words of love rather than recrimination or regret. The day before we had both come back from the Fusion festival in Neustrelitz together, hands held on the train, mostly wordless and expressed ourselves through last touches and longing pathos-laden looks through a sleepless night. I left in the morning, the word "love" unspoken but unrequired, and with the thought that I would never see her again. I landed in Paris Orly in a fug of sleeplessness and climbed on board a busy commuter train into the centre of Paris.
I was still coming down from Fusion, packed with stimulants and depressants, my mind over-flowing with recent memories, and smells, and thoughts unspoken, and words mis-said. It was a perfect storm waiting for a sudden lightning crack to bring down the rain. At the first stop from the airport, a man came aboard with a guitar and a long patched coat. He immediately began to sing a chanson of such aching beauty that it took barely a few notes before the tears began spilling from my eyes.
He must have sung all the way from Orly to the Gare Du Nord. By his second or third stanza, I was unable to keep my tears to myself. Even with my head plunged between my knees as I sat on the floor, arms wrapped around my knees, the shaking of my shoulders would have made it to obvious to everyone that I was wracked by sobs. The tears did not just run river down my face, they flooded. I could hardly breathe from the effort of forcing out the individual sobs, and my sleeves were soaked with salty water.
After a while I became embarrassed by my public display of emotion but this only made my anguish worse. I could not have stopped crying for anything; every moment of tension, of unrequited and requited love for the German poured out of me.
But no-one stopped to ask me if I were okay, no-one but the Chanteur even looked at me - and he took it as a sign to sing get sadder chanson d'amour. No-one looked at me, they all tried to ignore my suffering and that was the essence of this sadness. I could have cried at any time given the right stimuli but I had not - I could have cried alone and in private, keeping my misery a secret thing. Instead, I was unable to stop myself showing everyone in that carriage my exquisite sorrow. That no-one acknowledged, that all those other human beings saw one of their own in the deepest, most painful place one can be and did nothing, said nothing, to comfort him. That was a sadness beyond all others.
By the time the train pulled into the Gare Du Nord I was done. I was cleansed.
I tell this story now because this morning the same thing happened again. After a largely sleepless night, after a full twelve hours of exchanging thoughts and emotions and words of love, love expressed in that most ineffective and useless of little words - "love" - she had left me. Left me to remain with her husband. In the last she admitted he feelings for me, and elicited the words I had not wished to say from my mouth and from my heart. I feel briefly asleep with a smile on my face, and awoke a mere two hours later to find her gone. Gone.
I stalked the house for a few hours, trying to rationalise it, trying to justify this act. I blamed myself, and I blamed her husband, and I blamed her. Mostly, I hated myself for allowing myself to fall for a woman who was so patently unobtainable. "The distance is quite simply much too far for me to row; It seems farther than ever before." I was full of dispair: I had shared too much with her - she held a small piece of me and I either wanted it back or to give her the rest and neither was possible. In the end, I decided to come to work to bury my emotions in disclosure statements and bundle indexes.
I had not felt like crying at all. I was sad, but not like that. This time, no drugs, no excess, and even a little sleep. I sat down in the carriage and watched the woman sat opposite put in her earphones. Almost without thinking I mirrored her and pressed play on the song last played. Inevitably, unavoidably it was Her song:
"The Atlantic was born today and I'll tell you how;
The clouds opened up and let it out."
And there it was. The same moment, the same feelings, everything. This time there was no chance of keeping my tears to myself. Aching sobs, jerking spasms, eyes streaming, nose running. No chance to breathe, no chance to stop, no desire to stop. For an hour, I cried, spilling my feelings onto the floor of the carriage. For an hour I cried and not one hand rested on my shoulder, not one voice tried to console.
It was exquisite.
But this time there was no finish. There was no release. I tried to squeeze her out of my soul one tear at a time and yet still she pervades me, still she consumes my mind and crushes my heart.
I need you so much closer.
Monday 26 September 2011
1000 characers or less to heartbreak
Well, today, I decided to make a bold statement of intent and signed up to a well-known on-line dating web-site. Don't get me wrong, I don't intend to use it, and in any event you have to pay for a subscription to contact other members, which I'm not going to do so the whole exercise is entirely academic. In fact, the whole point was that it was academic - describe your perfect match in 1000 characters. A challenge beyond the tasks of Hecules surely, but it went a little something like this:
"Someone who likes talking about things: discussing them and analysing them.
I want to meet people who cry in films because the music is just "so", and read books that they hate and want to talk about them any way.
Someone articulate and well read, and learned and enthusiastic and talented. Someone who makes me feel inspired everyday to get out of bed and be amazing.
Someone who know how to hold hands properly (see Franny and Zooey), and who doesn't care that the initial infatuation is just the intent interest in another's life (see The Heart of the Matter). I want someone who knows which vegetables that Tess pulled, and the reason why Room should have been a novella. I want some-one who watches films with respect, but knows when they don't deserve it. Someone who is not afraid of being aggressively intelligent, or heart-breakingly vulnerable.
Someone who will get up at 6 in the morning to go for a run, or go to bed at 3 in the morning because there are still important things to say. Someone who is an idealist and a realist and doesn't see the contradiction.
Or failing that, I want someone who this that all of the above sounds amazing and wishes that's the way they had lived their life all along. "
Someone articulate and well read, and learned and enthusiastic and talented. Someone who makes me feel inspired everyday to get out of bed and be amazing.
Someone who know how to hold hands properly (see Franny and Zooey), and who doesn't care that the initial infatuation is just the intent interest in another's life (see The Heart of the Matter). I want someone who knows which vegetables that Tess pulled, and the reason why Room should have been a novella. I want some-one who watches films with respect, but knows when they don't deserve it. Someone who is not afraid of being aggressively intelligent, or heart-breakingly vulnerable.
Someone who will get up at 6 in the morning to go for a run, or go to bed at 3 in the morning because there are still important things to say. Someone who is an idealist and a realist and doesn't see the contradiction.
Or failing that, I want someone who this that all of the above sounds amazing and wishes that's the way they had lived their life all along. "
I stopped and put down my metaphorial pen.
I already know this girl and she is a thousand miles away, figuratively and literally. I already have this woman in my life. She's already at the end of a telephone line, or the click of an mouse. I already know this girl's merits and her flaws, her strength and her weaknesses. I can flatter her and lie to her and tell her painful truths about her and about me and about us. I can climb inside her mind and nest there feeding on her ideas, and I know the warmth of her skin and softness of her heart and the steel in her mind. I have encompassed her and she has devoured me.
She exists, she exists, my heart screams.
I know this girl, and I know that she is already married.
And so we come back to the girl.
I already know this girl and she is a thousand miles away, figuratively and literally. I already have this woman in my life. She's already at the end of a telephone line, or the click of an mouse. I already know this girl's merits and her flaws, her strength and her weaknesses. I can flatter her and lie to her and tell her painful truths about her and about me and about us. I can climb inside her mind and nest there feeding on her ideas, and I know the warmth of her skin and softness of her heart and the steel in her mind. I have encompassed her and she has devoured me.
She exists, she exists, my heart screams.
I know this girl, and I know that she is already married.
And so we come back to the girl.
Sunday 25 September 2011
I am surrounded by amazing people, and in ignorance I pass them over as mere friends. Because of my recent "Event" I have been spending morre time talking to my friends than I bothered to do so for years. Having removed a huge part of my life, I suddenly have a huge amount of emotion whip-lashing around and more importantly, a huge amount of time in which to think and reconsider and doubt.
To avoid the inevitable self-reflection and regret, I have been trying to fill my hours with everything I can. So far, this has meant calling as many of the friends I have never spoken to for months as I can, and sleeping on the sofas of all those who are close even to let me at short notice. The wonderful thing is that - having given a definitive negative to the query as whether to I want to talk about "it" - I spent more time talking about my friends, showing interest in their lives, than I have for far too long.
Being in a relationship makes you emotionally selfish; you spend so much time investing in one person, and opening yourself up to one person, that the need to share with everyone else becomes secondary, even tertiary. Suddenly all the little relationships - the friendships nutured over years, or the ones that need nothing but a rugby match and four pints to sustain - all those smaller human interactions are suddenly crushed by this enormous Relationship. I never even noticed I was doing it.
So in the last few days I have discovered that one of my friends in the Director of a School of Governers in Hackney; another is the author of an award-winning Food blog; a third is on the committee of a governmental financial regulatory advisory board.
And, I have a friend who is an award-winning film maker. Last night, for the first time, she showed me her movies. Six shorts, all of varying quality and style; some shocking, some placid; all touched by genius.
These films ranged from tense sci-fi to rom-com; surrealist to harsh-lit reality. They were incredible little snap-shots; really perfect. I was astonisheed and humbled by the quality of her work. I have seen full-length movies that didn't have the emotional depth or dramatic, narrative arcs of these 5-10 minutes image paintings.
It completely changed the way I view her: I know she is whip-crack intelligent, and charming and enthusiastic but for years, I have seen her as a bit free-spirit and ditzy. Maybe I'm just patronizing and chauvanistic but I never realised there was anything so "solid" behind this front - maybe she cultured this facade, maybe I assumed it myself.
It was humbling. I'm looking forward to debasing myself further. I love my friends. I'm looking forward to loving them more.
Saturday 24 September 2011
Game Plan
You've got to really want it. If you don't really want it, it'll never happen.
Mental preparation is key. You've got to visualise the whole thing, every eventuality. Don't get bogged down in trying to memorise every different angle you'll never do it. Too many ways it could go. Prepare; don't over prepare.
This isn't going to be easy. However far in advance you start, by the time the last week ticks down your stomach will be in knots; it'll be difficult to keep food down. Try but don't force it down: enough to keep you going. Any more will leave you sick.
In the days leading up, make sure you get the right advice. Talk to your mentors, get the right coaching. It's important not to get inside your own head too much. Even just chatting with friends to distract yourself. People might try and change or plans, or get over-exited and give too much encouragement. Don't let yourself get over-confident. This going to be hard and it's going to hurt. A lot.
When it comes down to it. Go with the obvious plays first. They've been used time and time again. There's a reason for that. If she gets hysterical, that's perfect. Let her build up steam then cut her down. If she tried logic that will be tough. Remember this isn't about pro versus con; this is a fight for your life. Stay strong, hear her out then make it clear, make it final and go.
This is how you break up with some one.
Mental preparation is key. You've got to visualise the whole thing, every eventuality. Don't get bogged down in trying to memorise every different angle you'll never do it. Too many ways it could go. Prepare; don't over prepare.
This isn't going to be easy. However far in advance you start, by the time the last week ticks down your stomach will be in knots; it'll be difficult to keep food down. Try but don't force it down: enough to keep you going. Any more will leave you sick.
In the days leading up, make sure you get the right advice. Talk to your mentors, get the right coaching. It's important not to get inside your own head too much. Even just chatting with friends to distract yourself. People might try and change or plans, or get over-exited and give too much encouragement. Don't let yourself get over-confident. This going to be hard and it's going to hurt. A lot.
When it comes down to it. Go with the obvious plays first. They've been used time and time again. There's a reason for that. If she gets hysterical, that's perfect. Let her build up steam then cut her down. If she tried logic that will be tough. Remember this isn't about pro versus con; this is a fight for your life. Stay strong, hear her out then make it clear, make it final and go.
This is how you break up with some one.
Friday 23 September 2011
Everybody gets one
There's no good time for a mid-life crisis. I mean, there are better times than others. Like when you are 35, have lots of liquid cash and no dependants. No-one wants to realise they've wasted their youth at 55 - because, frankly whatever the New Yorker's been telling you, life does not begin at 60. It begins as soon as you work out that getting good grades means a good univesity means a good job means disposable income. Or the chance to help people. Or be a photo-journalist. Or a hippie. Or whatever this particular decade's arbitrary aspiration of choice is.
I've decided to go early. I'm young, money to spare, and still in good working order both in terms of infrastructure and software.
The world's my oyster (apparently). Despite being a quote which most take to imply open opportunity, the phrase actually originates (like so many other pithy phrases) from Bill Shakespeare.
Merry Wives of Windsor: Act 2, Scene 2, Line 2:
Pistol: Why then the world's mine oyster/Which I with sword will open.
The oyster cannot be merely taken, it must be prised from its shell. With force and action only may the world be opened to you and its pearls harvested. I think I have taken the world and its treasures for granted too long. It's almost certainly only child's syndrome but I've been reliant on things being handed to me for too long. My sword is unseathed - but where to place it.
Career? Relationship? Country of Residence?
Everyone gets a chance to make a change - to pursue their dream, to fulfil themselves, to write their Booker prize winner. Some people get lucky and have more opportunities, but everyone gets one.
The problem with writing a book is, you actually have to write a book.
The problem with writing one book is, you really need to write another one.
I've decided to go early. I'm young, money to spare, and still in good working order both in terms of infrastructure and software.
The world's my oyster (apparently). Despite being a quote which most take to imply open opportunity, the phrase actually originates (like so many other pithy phrases) from Bill Shakespeare.
Merry Wives of Windsor: Act 2, Scene 2, Line 2:
Pistol: Why then the world's mine oyster/Which I with sword will open.
The oyster cannot be merely taken, it must be prised from its shell. With force and action only may the world be opened to you and its pearls harvested. I think I have taken the world and its treasures for granted too long. It's almost certainly only child's syndrome but I've been reliant on things being handed to me for too long. My sword is unseathed - but where to place it.
Career? Relationship? Country of Residence?
Everyone gets a chance to make a change - to pursue their dream, to fulfil themselves, to write their Booker prize winner. Some people get lucky and have more opportunities, but everyone gets one.
The problem with writing a book is, you actually have to write a book.
The problem with writing one book is, you really need to write another one.
Thursday 22 September 2011
Step One of Twelve
My moniker is grey-eyed-lawyer and I'm a blogoholic. It has been two years, thirty-seven days since my last post.
I stopped blogging the last time round because I felt I had shared all I wanted to share - my blog had served its purpose and I was starting to become self-indulgent and write in poetry rather than prose. I'm sure we've all done it from time-to-time, us amateur bloggers. I think its the sign of a proper journalistic blog that you don't write that kind of a post - or, at least, you don't take the fatal step of clicking "Post." I made that mistake and it ruined the timbre of my blogging. So I stopped.
[So why are you back, Grey-Eyes?]
Well, I met a girl.
[Oh, for god's sake, I've read enough tedious blogs like this].
Wait - let me explain.
[*click*]
The thing about science-ficition novels is, that they aren't about science-fiction. They're not about aliens, or spaceships, or warp-drives. They're a conceit to allow the author to explore the human condition, putting mankind outside his normal frame of reference to discuss the more interesting parts of his humanity. Let me re-state, good science-fiction novels aren't about aliens, or spaceships, or warp-drives, they are just frames of reference.
This isn't a blog about a girl. She's just a frame of reference.
[Well, sounds a little bit interesting, but I'm not convinced].
That's a fair point, but the chances are, if you're reading this, then this isn't my first post. It'll take a while to get momentum, show up via links to other blogs, be large enough to appear on search engines. Hell, by the time anyone finds this thing, I'll have written about the best part of a year of my life.
[So what's with this Grey-Eyes, thing anyway? Is this some sort of Watership Down goes to Court?]
Ah. No. I have grey eyes. And I am a lawyer. That simple I'm afraid.
So let's assume this is the first track on the difficult second album. I've broken the ice, I've spilt my drink a little trying to shake you hand, and laughed too loud at your first joke. Point is, you think I'm weird, but I'm quite cute and I'm obviously trying to impress you so maybe you'll let me buy you a drink. This time, I promise, no Rohypnol.
Seriously, it gets better from here on in.
I stopped blogging the last time round because I felt I had shared all I wanted to share - my blog had served its purpose and I was starting to become self-indulgent and write in poetry rather than prose. I'm sure we've all done it from time-to-time, us amateur bloggers. I think its the sign of a proper journalistic blog that you don't write that kind of a post - or, at least, you don't take the fatal step of clicking "Post." I made that mistake and it ruined the timbre of my blogging. So I stopped.
[So why are you back, Grey-Eyes?]
Well, I met a girl.
[Oh, for god's sake, I've read enough tedious blogs like this].
Wait - let me explain.
[*click*]
The thing about science-ficition novels is, that they aren't about science-fiction. They're not about aliens, or spaceships, or warp-drives. They're a conceit to allow the author to explore the human condition, putting mankind outside his normal frame of reference to discuss the more interesting parts of his humanity. Let me re-state, good science-fiction novels aren't about aliens, or spaceships, or warp-drives, they are just frames of reference.
This isn't a blog about a girl. She's just a frame of reference.
[Well, sounds a little bit interesting, but I'm not convinced].
That's a fair point, but the chances are, if you're reading this, then this isn't my first post. It'll take a while to get momentum, show up via links to other blogs, be large enough to appear on search engines. Hell, by the time anyone finds this thing, I'll have written about the best part of a year of my life.
[So what's with this Grey-Eyes, thing anyway? Is this some sort of Watership Down goes to Court?]
Ah. No. I have grey eyes. And I am a lawyer. That simple I'm afraid.
So let's assume this is the first track on the difficult second album. I've broken the ice, I've spilt my drink a little trying to shake you hand, and laughed too loud at your first joke. Point is, you think I'm weird, but I'm quite cute and I'm obviously trying to impress you so maybe you'll let me buy you a drink. This time, I promise, no Rohypnol.
Seriously, it gets better from here on in.
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