“The sole exception to this would be MacMillan speaking of a Muslim community being subjected to discrimination for their different practices (2000 in Devine, 2000).
This is a gross oversight by current social scientists, as it has left out so many things to research! Wooo research is fun fun fun, which is why we do it so much. But watch out! Our research pens could chafe!
Calamity!”
I have a lot of drafts. My blog is a drafty place. Here they are.
-Untitled
So you see there’s this guy, right, and he’s with his girlfriend on the bus (where I seem to encounter a few interesting people these days) and they’re having an argument or a discussion or something. I can’t tell from where I’m sitting. What I can tell, right, is that the girl’s mad at the guy or concerned at the guy or something. Basically she’s the one that’s in some form of distress. Now, this damsel is doing the works; concerned frown, short, quick gestures with her hands and a little bit of hope lingering on her lips. The guy though – this swooping knight in shining armour that’s supposed to rescue her or something – he’s just like sitting there confused. He’s got a little frown too, right, but it’s a frown like he doesn’t know what to do.
I can sympathise.
Anyway, so this girl who’s talking to him about her parents or her problems or her choices or whatever, she gets a little mad. Like, angry mad, right?
—
-Untitled
So, I’m a room. It’s a big room, a little too big for my
—
-Because anything else I write is riddled with too much feeling
Films! I’ve been holed up in the flat sick as a dog for the past few days so I thought I’d recount some of the films I’ve watched. And other things. Like TV.
First up is the much too short Afro Samurai which I will let people borrow as soon as I make my way through the special features. The only problem that I’ll highlight first would be the appalling lip-syncing. It’s as if Samuel L Jackson looked at his characters and said “Fuck it, I don’t want no mother fuckin’ restrictions on my mother fuckin’ lines” so there’s the occasional weird jarring when the character is shouting and good old Samuel is whispering something. Other than that everything was seamless. I watched it over two days and I really wished I could’ve watched it in one. The animation was seamless, the action was perfect, and I only saw a single example of a reused scene. And the teddy bear! I liked him better when he didn’t take off his mask but still he was awesome all the same. It was brilliant.
Another on the anime list would be the second series of The Big-O which I’ve laughed at so many times just because it’s slang for orgasm. It’s a classic series, made by the same people and (roughly) at the same time as Cowboy Bebop, and it’s occasionally very ridiculous. The age on it shows in its story and characters, but it’s made up for by the style and the overall feel. The main guy’s car is pretty awesome, and Big-O itself thankfully spirals away from the generic design of most mecha-suits. It’s surprisingly easy to get into for a second series. Usually shows require in depth knowledge of the previous series before moving on to a new one, but this one sits you right in without missing a beat. Though, saying that, I do wish I had seen the entirety of the first series; I have vague childhood memories of watching it and becoming perplexed at the surreal stage sets at the beginning and end. Still, it’s a good show.
Took another bash at Lucky Number Slevin the other day and by God I forget how much I love that film. I think it’s the amazing cast really (with the exception of Josh Hartnett, but he actually manages to pull off a good show this time round), but just the overall art nouveau style and Noir-ish sentiment going along with whip crack dialogue makes it phwoar. I know that previous sentence made no sense but hey ho.
—
-Untitled
Right now I’m a little annoyed and very tired but mostly just feeling annoyed at myself for making the silly promise of not stalking people. See if I stalk people then I can justify feeling sad right now, because then shadowy thoughts are confirmed and
—
-Untitled
I have a new bus now. It’s better than the old one, in that it’s ten minutes faster and doesn’t go through the area that makes me ashamed to be human.
The part I like most about this new bus route though would be the walk I get when I step off it. My old bus deposited me in the centre of Glasgow, right beside a newsagent that sold my brand and a cash machine if I was low on change. And a bakery. That was nice too I guess. But this new bus deposits me a good five minutes away from my old stop, right in the middle of the merchant city.
—
-You’re barred, mate
“That guy is a fucking wank!” he yells, slurring but eloquent. He takes a drink from his glass (his ninth pint that night, lying to his girlfriend beside him when he whispers it’s his third) and slams the bottom back down on the table. He’s a dick. He’s a complete and utter dick, but somehow I like him. He was at least more interesting than anyone else sitting at the table.
“Yeah, but why is he a wank?” I ask too flippantly, too casually, realising as soon as I said it that it was the wrong thing to say. I had mistaken him, just in that single moment, for someone else.
—
-Untitled
Lets take a second here, shall we? Just a second.
I had a good day yesterday (if you take away the sole reason which made it not a good day, but we won’t go into that)
—
-This post definitely isn’t about you
Unless you’ve found me somehow which I doubt
How do you do it? How do you creep under my skin so easily?
I’ve complained about my bad memory before. I’ve been so angry at myself for saying things and then forgetting them so I can’t apologise. In a sense it gives me the ultimate freedom, that I can say and do pretty much anything I like and within a week I’ll forget I ever thought about doing it. But it comes at such a cost when someone reminds you of you’ve said and done, when they tell you meaning to be a funny little anecdote and it sounds like something you would say and so it’s likely that you did say it (but sometimes you are reminded in hot headed revenge, which sucks really).
So I have a horrible memory. Truly horrible. But then why can’t I forget on command? No, lets be specific, why can’t I forget you on command? Yes you
—
-This post probably is about you
If you still read here
I’m gonna pull you in close,
Gonna wrap you up tight,
Gonna play with the braids
that you came in here with tonight.
I’m gonna hold your face,
and toast the snow that
fell.
I can’t remember the last time I got high. I just have this one memory of one fantastic time. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe from laughing. I danced and some people faced my selotape. I woke up with cotton mouth and a cut on my forehead.
—
-Tiredness kills
And maims and injures and hurts. But mainly it kills. It kills a lot of good people.
It’s worse than alcohol really. Alcohol is bad, I know, but it’s not as bad as being tired. When you’re drunk you’re loud and obnoxious and you do things you wouldn’t usually do, but when you’re tired your mind shuts down. Completely. The biggest regrets I can list in my life are things I’ve said or done when I’m tired.
But let me define this tiredness. It isn’t the eyes burning sluggish tired. It’s a whole different tiredness altogether. It’s a tiredness that takes hold when you’re about to fall asleep, or when you’ve just fallen asleep, and someone disturbs you. You say and do so many things because you are so tired. You can’t think. Images blur in lust.
—
-Untitled
Oh lord oh lord you’ve made it.
You wanna drag your hearse in? You wanna rush your-?
Be my fucking guest.
“‘I often dream I’m falling down from lofty rocks, my stomach goes, but I never touch the ground, and my fear changes to freedom. When I wake up, I see I’m covered with bruises.’ She again kicked the dog.
“The dog: ‘Such are the bruises of love.’”
from Don Quixote: which was a dream.
All in all, six of us survived. That’s, of course, unless you want to be picky. If you’re the type of person who believes that personality is all to do with nurture then you might say that all of us survived, in one form or another. Each individual personality honed and crafted through all the personalities met in our existence. But sadly I do not have the luxury of theorising whether my thoughts and words are based upon genetics or experience. I already know the truth. We were created on the side of nature; we are rigid, two-dimensional, and limited. But, luckily for you, this is the story of how we try and change that.
To begin at the beginning would be irresponsible of me, for most of the story would be consumed by detailed descriptions of people who only existed for the fleeting of moments. Their lives were like shadowy thoughts that play on your mind; fleeting images of smiles, speech inflections, and personality quirks. So instead I’m going to begin at what is probably nearer the end of the story. Don’t worry though, you’re not missing out on much. Think of it like a download from the internet. You wait so long for that little bar to inch its way across the screen so you can finally listen to that song or play that game or masturbate to that movie, but it’s in the final one-percent that it really counts. You know that that final one-percent is the percent that holds the most power. In that one-percent, you could tell a book’s worth of stories.
I love the smell of my urine after I’ve had a few cups of coffee.
The thought of a girl having an orgasm makes my stomach twist and my mind cloud pink.
I once ripped my banjo string during sex. It hurt.
I can’t work a condom.
I often smell of shit.
The slightest thing can put me into a horny frenzy. An example of this would be glimpsing the top of some girls stockings.
I think about my ex’s when I masturbate. Sorry to any of them who read this.
I love the word cunt.
My Dad is ashamed of me, and I am ashamed of him.
I lie about things before I can stop myself.
I use people as a means to an end.
I learned how to do this from TV.
I know my dreams will come true.
I, on occasion, watch pornography. Or look at it, depending on whether my internet connection is good enough. My likes usually revolve around amateur lesbians, amateur threesomes, great asses and fantastic stockings. I’m a sucker for stockings, among other things. If a girl walked up to me wearing a skirt with a corset, stockings and suspenders, sporting a black eye and burst lip and holding a leather bound notebook and handcuffs I would probably die with joy. And if there were two of them side by side with a glint of experimental lesbianism in their eyes? Oh I’m flustered just thinking about it.
But back to reality. I look at porn. I get turned on my it and sometimes masturbate to it, but I never really enjoy it. Yes, a horrible cliche to fall into but I don’t. Yes wouldn’t it be awesome if you could get a girl like that, ain’t she so hawt. But I don’t like hot girls. They annoy me. I like girls who have certain things that are hot about them, but I don’t like through and through hot girls. I automatically think that they are so empty because every hot girl I’ve met has been empty. I like cute girls, I like interesting girls, I like girls with tattoos and I like girls who are just plain nice. But not funny looking girls. Oh no, I stay away from them.
Yes I judge people by their looks, and that includes if you’re too hot. I won’t have interested you then. I like the modest girl, I like the damaged goods.
And there are no damaged girls in porn. Well, maybe there are. If you look at some bizarre stuff where they’re enjoying it then maybe you’ll find damaged goods. But not in regular porn.
In the words of John Campbell
“do you have any pornography that stimulates a significant relationship? that is my fetish”
I can find nothing to blog about anymore. Yes, this is a phase, yes, it will be over. But will it be over in twenty-one days?
I like making things cyclical. Whenever I start a notebook I try to finish it a year after it was started, or after some big event. Notebooks signify a beginning and end for me. Blogs are the same. Things begin, things end, and I like recording when they do.
I have a notebook lasting my entire first year of university. One page at a time I budgeted and doodled and left myself scathingly witty comments. And a year to the day I started it I finished it. Another notebook was started the day before my relationship with Charlotte began, and I finished it the day after it all ended. Four previous blogs also stand testament to this.
And so I have twenty-one days. What should I write about?
Last night I sat down and wrote a short story and a poem. I don’t usually dabble in poems but I’ve been listening to so much music recently that I just had the biggest urge to try it out. So I wrote a poem about Humphrey Bogart. I even made it so that the lines matched in syllables.
But it’s rubbish. As is my short story.
I always try and bring something to the writers group. I like having my writing read and for people to either tell me the mistakes or unduly praise me. But I’m having trouble thinking of new subjects these days. So far I’ve only written two new pieces for the group’s consideration, the rest have been redrafts of previous works. I had put off writing a story for this week, so when I went to my harddrive last night I realised that I had used up my stock. Every good story I had in there has been shown to them before or redrafted and critiqued. I had nothing new to show them.
So I wrote a shit story and a shit poem. And I think I’m going to get praise for at least one of them because the group’s like that. One of my biggest complaints to them is their trepidation at recognising when a piece is rubbish; or maybe recognising it but not actually saying it. I know we all used to be rubbish, but most of us never went to a writers group where we were told we were good.
So this is where I step in.
Over the past two months or so, I have been given – from different people – five stories to critique and two opening chapters (i consider this a compliment that people trust my judgement with writing enough). Out of all of these, I have only thoroughly enjoyed three. Three stories/chapters out of seven is not good. And I told them that. I told them if I enjoyed them, I told them if they were crap, and I told them if they had potential. I hate being molly-coddled when it comes to writing. I send off so many stories to be published and sometimes it feels great to have them rejected. It gives my ego a kick, it justifies my pessimism, and it tells me that I’m not good enough yet. People need to know that their stuff is rubbish so they can fix it and not be stuck in perpetual pubescent fantasies of glory.
Oh, I read over my novel again today, and by God I am a fucking genius.
You have ten messages.
Message one. Tuesday nine-fifteen p.m.
“Hey Jonathan it’s mum. Just wondering what time you’d be round on Sunday?”
Message deleted.
Message two. Tuesday ten-twenty-two p.m.
“Hey Chris it’s Martin. I was going to be round in ten but I guess you’re not in. I’ll see you later.”
Message deleted.
Message three. Wednesday twelve-nine p.m.
“Hey boys it’s Dad here-”
Message deleted.
Message four. Wednesday five-fifty-seven p.m.
“-already won. If you would like to claim your weekend for two in Bergen then press one now.”
Message deleted.
Message five. Friday eleven a.m.
“Hi it’s Tommy McClean here. I’m calling about the motorbikes? I haven’t heard back. [pause] Bye.”
Message deleted.
Message six. Sunday ten-twenty a.m.
“Hey guys it’s Dad-”
Message deleted.
Message seven. Sunday one-thirty-nine p.m.
“Jonathan! What’s up? Haven’t talked to you in a while. Gimme a ring back.”
Message saved.
Message eight. Monday two-ten a.m.
“Shit, Jon. It’s just… You know. Shit.”
Message deleted.
Message nine. Monday two-twenty-two a.m.
“Mercer! You have failed me for the last time!”
Message deleted.
Message ten. Monday ten-fifteen a.m.
“Did I call you last night? Where were you? It doesn’t matter. I’ll see you on Thursday right? Bring food.”
Message deleted.
You have no messages.
Lets be frank, for once.
I was in a bad place for a while. Lets not go into much detail in that, but lets say that it was just a low point. The past two months have been shaky to say the least, but they’re over. Now I am here. Hello.
I made a conscious decision on Tuesday. It happened when I woke up at six-thirty instead of eight and I had almost two hours to do nothing. I decided that I don’t really want to be fucked up anymore. It’s a good image I’ll admit; sitting in bars with friends having drink after drink and looking all the more haggered because you did the same the night before. And then the night before. But image isn’t everything. Last weekend I had so little sleep and so much alcohol that most of my memories of it are gone. I can pick bits and pieces, but they’re hazy at best. I felt like I was destroying myself a little bit. Maybe I did, I don’t know, but I decided to stop.
And that’s what Tuesday was about. Tuesday was about setting things right, with everything. And it worked to an extent. Of course not everything was fixed and who knows maybe more problems have arisen, but things felt a hell of a lot better. I think it had something to do with caring. I never used to care about things. I’m failing university at the moment (by the way), and I didn’t care. I didn’t care if my writing was shit or worthless because to me it was brilliance (i still read my own work for entertainment). I didn’t care that I was practically pushing away my best friend and the people close to me. I would just get so angry at all of it. I would be furious at my laziness, enraged at everyone for not appreciating my work and just pissed off at the people around me for not realising what I was going through. And not many people did, but I didn’t tell them. I’m not one to broadcast my emotions really.
So writing this is hard for me. I used to have a group of friends who would compete with each other in their conversations. No one would really listen, we’d just wait until it was our turn to top their story. After a while I began to hate them for that. I hated that when my camera, my car and my girlfriend were stolen from me on – near enough – the same day, no one turned round and asked “How’re you today Jonathan?” No one asked about me or my day, they just launched into a rant. No one knew until about three weeks later, when someone else had heard from a source other than me. So I don’t share my emotions. I feel like it’s making something public that should be private. Anyway, my emotions are my own and you would be bored by them. Maybe like this entry? Maybe like this entry.
Anyway, I thought I’d break with the tradition of my usual veiled entries and just come out and say it; I am alright. I’m not over ecstatic and I’m not down and out. I’m doing fine. This means that you don’t have to leave me alone anymore or shower me with protection, but it doesn’t mean you can abandon me or stifle me with affection. I am OK.
So there we go, lets resume regular programming.
