I left myself for dead;
Fully realised the gap between the heart and the head,
and the something that surpassed them both.
I wouldn’t call it want,
what I never thought I’d need.
As all they saw was pride
and a stone that refused to bleed.
But perhaps it’s easier to just assume a smile when there is no reason for anything else.
There’s something about the sky that we can all connect with: people as vast and unique as the weather, whether we asked for the warm or the cold.
I’m the kind of guy who will lift you up and hold you there, letting the air carry you as I let go.
And then you’re flying.
But the thing is up there, there’s sun and there’s snow, and the two cannot exist together.
Can you see where this is going?
They say there’s a calm before the storm, but I’m more likely to seek the storm first, as that’s where all the best stories start. Storms of love, storms of passion, storms of anger; as well as storms that can’t even blow away the footprints you never wish you’d left.
Up in the sky, we all want to be flying, but all it takes is a little turbulance and we begin to fall through clouds that have no desire to catch us.
But as the ground speeds up to meet us, I’d challenge any of you to say that you’d have it any other way.
I’m the kind of guy that will hold you down and kick the grit into your eyes, crunching up gravel and bone with about as much care for either.
We didn’t know we wanted to fly until the ground became unsafe.
That’s why the debris were left there.
So here I am, sat at my desk, with a Pantera shirt on my back and a Taylor Swift song on a loop in my head. I think that just about sums up the kind of person I am, more defining of me as a human being than my inability to focus on council reports that are really rather important to my degree.
Oh well, it must be a Thursday.
Not that any of you have much of an interest in what a lazy 18 year old chooses to do (or not do) with his day. This blog has always been more for my own benefit, even if I’m not entirely sure what that benefit is. The whole idea of blogging just brings to mind a phrase that comes up all the time on my course and yet which remains to my mind utterly pointless: Public interest.
There is a general consensus within Journalism that something being in the Public interest is not the same thing as something being “of interest to the public”. Fair enough, you might say. The only problem is, whoever came up with the idea of the public interest was probably a self indulgent gibbon who was attempting to explain why he had just broadcast information about poor old Mrs Jenkins’ secret S&M habits to the Sunday morning congregation. Public interest is one of those terms that is subjective, meaning that people can use it to do pretty much whatever they want, with a more serious real world example being that of the now infamous News of the World in the wake of the phone hacking scandal; a whole newspaper shut down just to make a snide comment about Prince William’s poorly knee.
I feel much the same way about the word empowerment. This word has never been used in any context that hasn’t required the justification of someone being a complete pillok. If you were doing something truly worthwhile everyone would know that it was positive, so just put it away and stop defecating on the flowerbeds.
I guess what I am trying to say is that we just don’t need it as term. No one can define exactly what is in the Public interest, and yet is ever present in the very codes of conduct that newspapers have to follow, and only when someone does something morally questionable does it appear as a defence. Most people really couldn’t care less that a famous person’s daughter was caught canoodling with the entire rugby team, as chances are she probably wasn’t the only one. Maybe if we focused on perfecting practices like basic human decency and respect for privacy we could stop worrying about whether we were being immoral bastards for the right reasons or not.
As the year progresses, I am increasingly certain that I’m not at University for my own development alone; if the attitude of lecturers is anything to go by, I am less a person, and more a bounce pad for the lecturers ego.
I noticed the warning signs almost immediately, when I realised that my core textbook was written by my head lecturer. In some ways I could see the logic, but a bigger part of me was annoyed that I would be giving money to a person that wasn’t actually taking our lectures because he was “away on research”. There’s something about getting the book sale and not actually bothering to teach that seemed insincere.
Since then, I’d say that 9/10 lecturers have simply put their own work on the reading list. I get that they’re supposed to be experts, but that seems a little bit too arrogant to me.
Today something happened that really made me question the logic of some academics. I finished my exams last week, and my lectures do not start until next week. So that means that the University had to fill up this week with something. Their answer was to create a programme that allows students to complete challenges throughout the week with people outside of their department. I didn’t think this was a bad idea, and I went to the introductory meeting thinking that it might be an interesting experience.
Sadly, I wasn’t actually told anything about the project. Instead, I got a politician telling me about HIS research into different cities, and name dropping other MP’s left, right and center. I got an academic telling us about HER experience on a similar project in Greece. Weirdest of all, they decided to try and connect with the youth by hiring a poet and an accordion player to turn bits of their talks into songs in the intervening periods. This was so bizarre that I believe it trended on Twitter today.
So basically, my point is that I wish that lecturers could remember that we know that they have a PHD. You don’t need to bring it up every 5 seconds, and I expected something that called itself an “introductory session” to actually tell me a little about the project. I am becoming increasingly skeptical of academia, as it seems to benefit everyone but the student. This wasn’t the most engaging post, but frankly I’m just confused.
Train journeys turn me on. And before you jump to conclusions, I don’t mean because of the forced close proximity to other members of the human race. In reality that is actually quite unnerving at times, especially when the bastards attempt to talk to me. What I really mean is that train journeys turn me onto me. That’s right, put me in a confined space full of strange people and even stranger smells and I become one narcissistic son of a bitch.
This is because the lack of external stimuli means that I have to find other ways to entertain myself, and apart from rekindling my love of reading and writing (spoiled somewhat by years of monotonous Eng Lit lessons) I find that trains really spark my imagination. If I have a seat that is. Standing cramped near the toilet should never be romanticised or engaging, and if it is, I wish to know how; possibly people come up with narratives about a network of train operators who solve mysteries around rural England, but only when the waft from the WC influences their detective skills. Come to think of it, I’m sure I can write that and make it a best seller, assuming that no one has published any erotic slabs of fan fiction that month.
But the above is an example of what I’m talking about. When I’m sat with a tray table, an ipad and a styrofoam cup of coffee that has had the Starbucks brand dubiously pasted all over it, I feel like a proper writer. I can turn anything into a story, if only to block out the announcements of the driver who has just tried to give me a complete history of the midlands just because we’ve pulled out of Birmingham, in a way that reminds me of one of those tour guides on the open top buses: “if you look to your left you will see another sodding field, if you can see round the passanger sat next to you who seems obsessed with suffocating you with their broadsheet”.
Sadly, I’ve realised that these stories are never as good once I leave the train, possibly because I can no longer imagine myself as an author or a dishevelled reporter chasing a lead. I go back to viewing myself as a teenager who is only writing because he’s bored of the video games he brought with him, and because it’s apparently not sociably acceptable to play Wonderwall on guitar very loudly to try and connect with any northern people who may be onboard. I realise the extent of my self absorbent (is that a word?) when I consider exactly who I am writing this for, as I can’t see it being of much relevence to anyone. If you are writing for yourself, you probably shouldn’t do so in a way that addresses other people, especially if you’ve already burned any social bridges by suffocating the person next to you with their broadsheet.
Guess that’s why I’ll probably just post in on my blog.
Paper houses, too much glue; these are the New Years dreams of cowboy builders playing with fireworks.
The sun rises upon them in the morning, shedding light on the pristine models and perfect shapes that haven’t survived the transition into daylight. The rays of light reveal the jagged edges, the rushed colours and the structural differences of a village that cannot work together. A picture is always perfect in the head, but this one is ruined by the hundreds of adjacent villages that have been abandoned as mere slums of the year before. And with every new attempt, the houses move closer to a flood plain.
The worst bit is that the slums are the ones I would rather live in; they have had time to be worked at and improved, and while the residents may feel that starting again is less effort for more reward, the structures previously created may well survive the fireworks that will burn the the latest ones to ashes.
They say Rome wasn’t built in a day, and a person similarly cannot change in just a year. So Happy New Year everyone, and take everything that life gives you. But don’t commit to a trial year and decide that you can always change your mind the next time we spin round the sun. It shouldn’t be a get out of jail free card, and I’d rather believe that I’m me for a lifetime as oppose to a shell that needs to be upgraded once a year.
Oh how I wish it was me:
Written under my skin are the thoughts of my dreams,
To put to paper what I feel as we fall below.
It’s too much to chance, on a fickle Romance, born into lust for all that remains unknown.
As so far I’ve shown
Just how little I’ve grown.
But oh I still wish it was me.
I’ve looked for a compromise
A dirt splattered boy with the stars in his eyes
Who grabs at dust turning to Gold.
Though I will admit, that if this is it, the gold that I’ve found is my own.
Enough to bring me home,
But oh how I wish it was me.