Here it goes again…

when I was enchanted by books. I’d get lost in the prose and find myself in a place that even the author couldn’t have imagined. Characters half formed themselves in the sleepy shadows of my mind and sceneries melted in the watercolours of the inside of my eye.

But then I started reading for sport. You know, speed reading. I’d read a page as fast as I could and test myself on its content. Due to this I have the innate ability to see only a mere flash of a road sign and know every which direction it was pointing to, but I’m not one to brag.

(Although, once, I read the entirety of Lord of the rings in under one week and received full marks on a test my teacher gave me as a little extra study. I even picked up the names of sub-characters that were only restricted to a few paragraphs of text and the underlying themes of racism and borderline sexism).

But now it’s different. A lot different. I read solely for pleasure. I see a good book or I hear about a good book, and I read it. But I’m so utterly selective in my readings that coming across a truly unique book is a rare occurrence. I’m extremely judgmental about what I read, damning it to the three categories of Worthy, Easy, and Shit. If a book is exceptional, thought provoking, maybe a little bit weird, it’s Worthy. If it’s a good read but nothing too hard or stressful, it’s Easy. Lacking any of the features above, and it’s Shit. Naturally I see most books littering the front doors of major bookshops as Shit before I even read them.

This mostly came about due to my awakening into the writing world, when I became a writer. Now, I use the term “writer” loosely here as I am in fact not a writer. I just write. Sure, what I write are masterpieces of our era, but I still just write. If anything I’m more of a hack than a writer since my works usually consist of pulp satire and I insist on wearing a fedora hat when I type.

But I digress.

Whenever I see a book displayed in the window of a bookstore, I automatically assume that it is generic, available, ordinary, simple… Shit. It’s mainstream and I don’t do mainstream. This may eventually be one of my greatest downfalls as a writer/hack/human being, but I don’t. do. mainstream. Sure, I’ll listen to a popular band, I’ll watch the latest block-buster, but I’ll be damned if you ever find a chick-lit or serial crime thriller on my bookshelf. The books I like are obscure, random, maybe even hard to find, possibly no longer in print; anything but mainstream.

And before you ask; no, classic pieces of literature, cult-mainstream, and books studied at schools do not count as mainstream.

The whole idea of mainstream annoys me. Sure, there’s the chance of picking up a book that says things that no other mainstream book has touched on, that says something different compared to the endless lines of racism, sexism, terrorism, love, relationships, historically accurate characters or mishaps in taxis. Maybe there’s a gem somewhere out there in the front row along with all the other colourfully decorated front covers where the name of the author is bigger than the title itself (another factor that’s always bugged me), but really, I cannot be arsed playing Russian Roulette with books that I know will offend me and everything I love about this manipulative little language of ours.

And it’s not just because of my smug, pompous attitude when I regale you with the stories of an obscure Canadian/African/Russian/Czech author, there’s a wholly deeper level to this altogether. You see, when it comes to reading books, I have a nasty habit of becoming the books. The florid writing and intriguing characters are absorbed into my mind and ebb out through my skin as the story unfolds. This is why when I read a depressing book, I feel depressed. Or when I read an anarchistic book, I want to create anarchy. Some of it passes, true, and I return to normal, but some of it stays with me and lingers in the cavity of my chest where it very well becomes a part of me as much as my organs.

And, as such, I don’t want some twenty-something secretary polluting what may very well be my soul with musings over boyfriends. I don’t want some shit little story that works itself out in the end with charming, happy little coincidences. I want tragedy. I want epiphanies. I want intriguing characters that develop in my mind and become me as much as I become them. I want to feel the world from my couch. I’m too cowardly to have these feelings for myself, so I read books to grasp every nurturing drop of emotion that inflames my senses to a feeling I never knew I could experience.

So please, I beg you, if you recommend a book for God’s sake make it memorable. Otherwise there is a very good chance that I will move myself away from you for your poor taste in life.

(Also, on a completely separate note, when the hell will I write a post that stays on bloody topic?)

-Condensation; the collective water, spit, sweat, bacteria and life of everyone in that room.

-A huge red blob of a woman. A sweating, hulking stinking cherry space-hopper that would find perfect employment if they were looking for a nose for a 50ft Rudolf.

-There’s an unfamiliar scent in my room and I place it on my new shampoo until I notice the bulge in my bed. I throw back the covers and find a beautiful blonde lying there as naked as God made her. I’m too tired to move her so I sleep on the couch and when I wake up she’s gone. These things always happen to me.

-Girl: Don’t hit me!
Hero: You’re lucky I’m not a feminist.

-The tattoo that spread from the inside of his elbow to his wrist depicted a blue skinned woman writhing in pain with sagging flesh hanging off the bone. Her mouth was screaming and her eyes were open wide and glowing violent red as they watched, painfully, the fiery dragon erupt from her spread-eagled legs. Her mouth was curled into a twisted utterance as the dragon smiled and winked at me, a thin tongue licking the flames sprouting from its nose.

-I currently have four novels on the go, one graphic novel, one film and one adapted screenplay. Why can’t I ever seem to finish anything?

-Is it possible to write in black and white?

-An idea for motivation; record people cheering and clapping, then repeat it over and over when writing.

and oh dear god titles look ugly.

What pisses me off more than anything else is that despite all my plans and epiphanies and promises to myself, I’m still sitting here doing nothing. No. Less than nothing. I’m fucking blogging.

But this post is probably going to be overshadowed by OH MY GOD TITLE.

I ran into myself at a bar last night. It was an unsettling experience to say the least.

“Hello!” he said, quite cheerfully.

“Hello,” I replied, trying to look busy with my phone, “how’s it going?”

“Pretty good actually!” he said, annoyingly cheerily. “I’m just having a few drinks. Care to join me?”

I tried to shuffle away but he wrapped a strong, snake-like arm round my shoulders and guided me to a table. We sat across from each other and he slid a beer towards me, which I sipped grudgingly. A group of girls walked past and he eyed them up with a lofty little smile on his face. One of them glanced at him and he raised his glass in a toast, to which she giggled and returned to her friends.

“You have a girlfriend,” I reminded him.

“I know, but there’s no harm in being friendly,” he laughed.

This was getting on my nerves now. I was ready to stand up from the table and just leave right then but… well, he was irresistibly handsome. I couldn’t do anything but stay.

“So what’s up? You seem a bit weird lately. Not bad weird, just weird weird.”

I sipped on my beer while contemplating the answer. “True. I’m just a bit disillusion at the moment. Don’t worry, give it a month or two and I’ll be normal.”

“Why’re you disillusioned? Watched the back of a magic show again?”

“Smart arse. Remember that party?”

“Oh God yeah. What an awesome night. And morning. Not the best afternoon though.”

“That’s not the point. That walk-”

“-and that epiphany.”

“Yeah, I tried to recreate it.”

He paused in mid sip of his drink. A smile spread across his face.

“You cock. You know how it works. A moment’s all you can ever expect from perfection. Anything else is greedy.”

“Yeah, I know it was stupid. But the feeling’s gone now. I just wanted it back.”

“It’ll come. You know it will.”

“Yeah, I know. Like I said, I’d be better eventually.”

We clinked bottles and finished them off. At that moment a girl wearing a short, thin white skirt came over to our table and flashed a pearly smile at us. Her fingernails were tinted pink and a waft of flowers emanated from her soft blonde hair.

“Excuse me,” she asked, “do you have a cigarette?”

In less than an instant we had both produced cigarettes for her.

“I only need one.” She smiled.

“Yeah,” I said, “but you might need one later.”

“Oh, it’s not for me. It’s for my friend over there.”

“Oh,” my counterpart commented, “take two anyway. As a gift.”

“Thank you!” she giggled. She walked away a few steps before turning on her heel and coming back. “So, tell me, why did you start smoking in the first place?”

There was a pause as I looked at myself, and then, almost synchronised, we both chorused “He has a girlfriend.”

“Oh, ok,” she blushed, “have a good night then.”

And she left.

“My round?” I asked, and left the table to buy more drinks. When I returned he was gone.

This is probably why I’m going to fail psychology. Ha ha ha I don’t really care anymore.

As the results have shown, gender is a significant attribute in a person’s spatial awareness whilst handedness is not.

The gender section of the experiment has showed that men are, characteristically, more aware of their surroundings and navigation than women are. This may seem of little use, but it could help the leader of an expedition choose who to entrust the map to, or to help a blind woman understand why she is finding it hard to cope compared to her similarly blind counterpart.

The handedness section of the experiment might not seem like it was worth it, but it does add knowledge to the list of things that is known about the mind. By doing this experiment and knowing that handedness does not affect spatial perception, another psychologist has been saved the time and effort to find out for themselves. This does not sound like much, but by knowing that this experiment has already been carried out, that psychologist will no longer have to do it and will move on to another subject of spatial awareness that will help further understanding of it. Again, this does not sound like much, but psychology cannot be filled with breakthrough after breakthrough, it has to be filled slowly and incrementally, with little segments of information gently increasing our knowledge of the brain like rain increases the volume of the ocean.

A problem found in the experiment would be the effect that the gender of the participant could have upon the handedness section of the experiment. By using two groups that have been proved to affect spatial ability in different ways, the results of the handedness experiment could have been skewed. However, the handedness experiment was not significant at all, so it is doubtful that the gender of the participant could have affected it to such a serious degree. Yet, it is something to consider in future iterations of this experiment, and in any experiment using two factors to govern an outcome.

Hypocrisy
- a poem by Jonathan Mercer

Sleepy headed fires that scorch smiles
into lush green landscapes.
Hairs sprout from carpets that groan and
heave with
unheeded desire.

Thoughts and secrets are told and retold
in the soft serenity
of a screaming ballad.
The heart thunders a whisper which
refuses to stop no matter
how
hard
one
tries.

Naked in its most clothed form
amidst thread bare skins
of fears and woes.
The charmer is the thief
of the thoughts
and the soul
and the soft, supple flesh.

The prisoner is the prison guard.
The falcon is the falconer.
The sinner is the saint.

And in the distance, a saxophone screams.

I know there’s no reason, rhyme or madness to make me feel this way. No, wrong, FUCKING WRONG, because there oh so obviously is. It’s just in my head. And not in my head.

There’s a difference between thinking the whole world conspires against you and knowing the whole world is conspiring against you. I learned this years ago. Thinking breeds hope, knowing breeds death.

But despite all this hope and promise and delusion and dejection, I feel as if I am slowly and surely going completely insane.

- and the enigma of the book is one based solely in its name, where it gives all the information you need but, no, wait, not quite enough it seems. Chapter after chapter, word after word it becomes more and more and more confusing and you think that there has to be a point to it, there has to be a point near the end that sums it all up in one glorious epiphany and the world will be a better place for it. And the ending comes and goes and all you can think about is how there was no point, how all you’re left is with the same confusing, sadly poetic lines. So you read it again, to try and see what you missed, and again, and again, and aga-

and you stop

because, you suddenly realise with a slap on the forehead and a goofy smile plastered onto that supermarket face of yours, that it’s not supposed to make sense!

so it’s read and it changed you, because things don’t make sense. things have never made sense, but there was some force in your brain alight with nuerons that convinced you there was a bigger purpose. but it’s not true
and the best part is tha
t rules don’t apply

to you

2 u

the rules don’t apply. because the rules make no sense.

so you refuse to use grammar, punctuation speling and u live ur life the way u wnt and fck whoever else decieds different until u decide to take all the power you have and condense it into a razor blade to tattoo your veins with shining silver strips that pulsate with every ocean of red and-

but it’s all ok. really.

because it just doesn’t
make
sense

It swirled in tornadoes of dust and ash round your worn out socks and frayed ankles.