The Perks Of Being A Wallflower

"Do you always think this much, Charlie?"
"Is that bad?"
"Not necessarily. It's just that sometimes people use thought to not participate in life."
"Is that bad?"
"Yes."

Some stuff for your eyes.

The Terminus

Oh god, home. Home… Safe, with food, comfort, warmth, sex, love, media, escape, sanctuary, romanticism, alcohol and quiet to deliciously indulge myself in. The comfort is enormous and I shuffle my way back to 14 South Street, a bedraggled zombie but with soul intact, while that voice soothes away the occasional suspicion that everything is futile. “That thought,” the voice confidently reassures me, “is too enormous for this wet Friday evening, almost definitely unfounded, and cannot possibly benefit its thinker. Just hurry home, hurry home, hurry home, where your dinner, your jazz records and your girl are waiting. Hurry home, Hugo, and drown yourself in their comforts, and these ideas will slide away.” My head nods numbly and I get on the train, as the mental baggage of a week’s work grudgingly slips away into the darkness of the tracks, promising only to return.

Home to my sweet Helen’s where I’ll go. She’ll be there like always with her inner peace and happiness radiating from her warm face, having been blessed with some natural immunity to the shocks and hardships of the nine to five. Thank god for Helen. The face of every rat on this train, drained and damned to do this again next week, wet from the rain, is a million miles from her. I’m a million miles from her. Maybe they all have Helens too.

Brisk and silent off the train and out into the station, no one’s around – but then I notice him. Sat cross legged on the ground and in neat parallel with the wall, well dressed, junky needles all about him.

“You alright?” I ask hesitantly.

Silence. He lifts his head so that I can see his face, shadowed by a bowler hat. We stare at each other. I tell him, “You shouldn’t do that” and gesture to the needles.

More silence and more staring. He’s winning just by looking at me. Well, fuck you. I have my Helen and you have your heroin. I glance down at my watch, more as an excuse to leave this disquieting man than to check the time.

“You shouldn’t do that” he says suddenly, in a wheezing death-rattle. And then starts laughing. A quiet, self satisfied chuckle at first, but quickly building into a full-blown, sneering, throaty laugh. I stride away into the rain, resisting an impulse to run.

“You shouldn’t do that, Hugo!” he cries after me through fits of machine-gun laughter and the now massive, blasting rain. Fuck this shit. Fuck. I run home. I run home through the rain to safety, food, warmth all that shit and, Helen.

I practically burst through the door showering the cat with cold water to her disgust, and she runs away hissing. The lights are off and the usual tones of Joanie Mitchell are darkly absent. I walk into the front room a little dazed.

There she is. My raison d’etre. Sprawling naked on the floor. And there he is. My best friend Martin. Sprawling naked on the floor. Next to Helen. Ridiculous looking ornate bong next to them, the house stinks of weed, doesn’t take a genius. Surreally, none of us have said anything yet.

I say calmly, softly “What the fuck is going on?” and I surprise myself because there’s no crack in my voice.

Helen looks as if she’s about to say something, her beautiful mouth is opening to explain everything and she’s going to put Joanie Mitchell on and we’ll have sex and I’ll go to bed and have no dreams and she’s… giggling. Martin joins in. They’re laughing. They’re laughing at me. EVERYONE IS FUCKING LAUGHING AT ME. These motherfuckers have fucked me what the fuck is going on SHIT. I’m going to kill them. There’s a hammer in the shed I’m going to kill them. Don’t fucking kill them. They’re still laughing. Today is real funny. Oh yeah today’s real funny. Fucking cu-

The door slams shut behind me but I don’t hear it because of the ringing in my ears. Rain washes some blood off my hands and shoes. I can hear my name being called somewhere. At first it sounds like it’s from home – my old home – but now…

By the time I get back to the train station I’m drenched from head to toe, which I’m relieved about because that way no one can see that I have cried my eyes raw. Not that anyone is here. The man in the bowler hat has gone. I don’t really know why I thought he would still be there. I sit down in a puddle and I don’t care. Then I notice a piece of paper on the wall, where the man who knew my name had sat.

Dearest Hugo,

You got off more than one train today. Don’t deal with the fuckers anymore. Meet me at The Honest Lawyer inn, bring your head.

Love, Me.

PTO

Strapped to the back of the letter was one of his junky needles, full up and shining in the street lamp-light.

Originality

Back in London.

I was sad to leave everyone again. That said, I think coming here has been the right thing for me. Good old shake up. New life. :)

I saw a vague acquaintance on the train from theatre, and spent the journey talking to him about the responsibility of each generation to it's successor. It was pretty cool. Tomorrow's dubstep takeover down my student union bar, whoop whoop, and I think Rowan will be here. :D

This is not really gonna interest anyone else, but I'm really enjoying Richard Evans book In Defence Of History which is discussing the extent to which we can find out historical truths as opposed to just best-guess story-telling and subjective speculation. It's intensely academic, but well, I really like it so yeah. I'm a loser. ;)

Rave on, campers.

Drinking with strangers

Subtle nerves and slightly euphoric anticipation
Still in my own head, really, but with
Bags packed, ready to leave
Not-quite-stunted conversation -
Flows fine ya know, but
We all still adjust our sleeves
Occasionally wonder what the time is

1st beer, sinks down smooth quick liked it
Doesn't really matter if this event's shit
I think
Talk to this man and these girls sat near me
All smiles and interest in eachother's situations
Slightly rush-released conversations
But that's fine, yeah, understandable

2nd beer, take my tiiiime on this one... yeah
'Cause I like beer you know I can savour it
Either I pretend, or just forget it tastes like shit
Starting to offer insights now
Jokes, commentary, witty quotation
The odd probably misinformed topical observation
And gone that hold-back shrinking sensation
Gone that awkward socio-desperation
And let the good times roll, 3rd beer
Laughter and irreverence and existential cheer
If I wasn't taken now I spose I'd be flirting
But it's alright everything's cool man nothin' is hurting
We're all together here, there's grinning faces all around
And ten thousand acres of precious common ground

6th... beer I, pleurghh,...
I DON'T KNOW I
Fall down I spoooooooozee......
Oblivion and the holy attitude,,,, fuck it.
Happy days.

We believe...

...that as a people living in the United States it is our responsibility to resist the injustices done by our government in our names.

Not in our name will you wage endless war.
There can be no more deaths.
No more transfusions of blood for oil.

Not in our name will you invade countries, bomb civilians, kill more children, letting history take its course over the graves of the nameless.

Not in our name will you erode the very freedoms you have claimed to fight for.

Not by our hands, will we supply weapons and funding for the annihilation of families on foreign soil.

Not by our mouths will we let fear silence us.

Not by our hearts will we allow whole peoples or countries to be deemed evil.

Not by our will and not in our name.

We pledge resistance!
We pledge alliance, with those who have come under attack for voicing opposition to the war or for their religion or ethnicity!

We pldege to make common cause with the people of the world to bring about justice, freedom and peace!

Another world is possible - and we pledge to make it real.

Bullshit art quote?

Byebye. <3

Today, I stood, and walked away
I'm never coming back this way
I've got my things, I'm here to stay
I'll try to walk another way.

New Poem! God why do I keep putting this crap on my blog, go read jess's or molly's. =p

Peter Pan has fucked off

Don’t, don’t disillusion me yet

The illusions are far too wonderful and wild

The adult world is beckoning me with problems unmet, just

Bury me in fiction, let me remain a child, just

Let me dream a day longer

Let me live for free

Let me indulge and love and fantasise, and

Ignore what I’m supposed to be

Take back your shackles of responsibility,

Turn back them hands of time

Take me back to an age when I

Was enthralled by sweets, and pantomime

Give me my long lost innocence

Make me naïve and pure

Growing up’s a subtle disease, I’m

Subtly SCREAMING FOR THE CURE

Hey, hey man. Calm down. It’s all okay.

The big wide world is scary, yes

But trust me you’ll find your way

And it’s not all about dodging bullets

Or working to stay alive

The world can be a magical place

A place where you can thrive

A place where you can do your own thing, like

Start a career

Make friends

Join clubs

Snort cocaine

Have mid-life crises

Cook your favourite dinners

Go for long walks

Philosophise

Make art

Get paranoid

Discover new perspectives

Fall hopelessly in love

Fall hopelessly out of love

Realise that ultimately nothing matters and

Make endless cups of tea!

So you see

And I’m sure you’ll agree

Adult life is a diverse tapestry

Spose you’re right mate. Here goes then.

Here comes the world, with independence and depression,

With boredom - and ecstasy - and many chaotic storms,

I’m going from security - and domestic oppression,

To a world of freedom… and council tax forms.

READ IT YOU SCHLAAAAAGS

THE FUTURE OF HUMANS

Which reminds me that I have to show Jacob some essays...

Love you all, so much. x

Paul Aitchison - Mind The Gap

the carriage
sits heavy at platform lines
two minutes early
rushed deadline faces
march in black trouser suits
leaving offices empty

they board together
minding the gap
sucked into this carriage vacuum
as shuffling raced paces force the doors
first come first served seat selection
leaving those left panting to stand

fume heavy breaths fill the space
as the doors slide and fuse shut
the engine hums and hisses
leaving the passing station viewed
behind evening edition news

the air is stale with coughs and sighs
awkward glances followed by
small advances for the paper
which rises dividing eyes

they sit confined in domino rows
waiting for the first to fall
decision makers and no.1 fakers
folding dreams neatly away to make room
for mortgages and schools

the carriage reels off destinations
counting down the track
leaking commuters at each station stop
squeezing me the last drop
as I make my leave from this repetitive drone
minding the gap
between work and home

Stars Amongst The Gloom

Stars Amongst The Gloom

Just another boy who hates things

Striding without purpose, into the heart of our town

A down-trodden denizen of Hastings

With special brew in his hand, and a long-learned frown

To his mother a misunderstood hero

In a world beset by urban decay

To the papers, a social menace;

A benefit fraud; a church-starved stray,

To his mates jack-the-lad, a diamond kid,

A party animal always ready to play,

To himself an elusive phantom…

A ghost, just finding his way.

As he strides into town though none of that matters

It’s Saturday night – leave the philosophy at home

But as he hits the club, his composure shatters

‘Cause his girl’s kissing his dealer and suddenly he’s alone

…

And then his fists start flying with sickening speed

No thoughts of consequences or how he might plead

Just a perversely sweet oblivion, an ecstasy of revenge

He picked the wrong target though, that dealers got friends

And no one saw our boy again.

To his mother, a source of endless pain

To the papers a story for profit gain

To his mates a tragic reason to pray

To himself an elusive phantom

A ghost, just finding his way.

This is all we’d normally see of the story

The sad surface angles of inescapable doom

But his life had some beauty and a humble glory

There were stars amongst the gloom…

…A fact not captured by any home-office tally:

That boy found joy in The Hastings Arms

And confused young love in Bottle Alley.

Listen to Come On Coma Victim.

Seriously they're really good. They get better the more you listen. Why are they just local, who knows?

Shit son.

I just had a fucking HORRIBLE dream. Not even a nightmare, just a really savage dream. Not scary, but just bad bad bad bad bad bad bad. I spent like 10 minutes after I woke up literally sighing with relief that it wasn't real. I'm still feeling pretty relieved. It seemed like life. Maaaannn.

Talking to Rowan about her caravan and her magic mushrooms growing outside the caravan is cheering me up. :) Can't you just imagine her? Little Rowan? In the caravan? With the mushrooms outside? It's somehow kinda sweet and faintly ridiculous as an image.

My parents are leaving for the weekend. Yay. :)

I love you all. x

Howl!

Oh my god I have a new found hatred for bureaucracy. It's such a fucking stress man. Jesus. That said I've got the internet back now YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY communication and absorption of the world's media can now resume, bring on the puppets and dragons and let the ceremony begin, I wanna join the circus.

There's no performance poetry society at my Uni - I'm gonna start one. We WILL have a vibrant, anarchic, revolutionary and family-like spoken word scene in south-east london, if it kills me. Here's Maya Angelou:

The highway is full of big cars
going nowhere fast
And folks is smoking anything that’ll burn
Some people wrap their lives around a cocktail glass
And you sit wondering
where you’re going to turn
I got it.
Come. And be my baby.

Some prophets say the world is gonna end tomorrow
But others say we’ve got a week or two
The paper is full of every kind of blooming horror
And you sit wondering
What you’re gonna do.
I got it.
Come. And be my baby.

All that glitters is not gold, Or an uninformed Ranty McRantRant

It's the hope of slaves sitting around a fire singing freedom songs. The hope of immigrants setting out for distant shores. The hope of a young naval lieutenant bravely patrolling the Mekong Delta. The hope of a mill worker's son who dares to defy the odds. The hope of a skinny kid with a funny name who believes that America has a place for him, too. Hope! Hope in the face of difficulty! Hope in the face of uncertainty! The audacity of hope! - Barack Obama 2004

Great, cool. We at least get someone who won't be a part of the problem. But then:

During his first week in office he sanctioned two missile attacks in Pakistan, killing 22 people, including women and children.

Yayyyyy more killing of innocent poor people that can't defend themselves! The reason for the attack was possible al-Qaeda activity in that area. Anti-terrorism, then. A noble attempt to defeat some evil terrorists that want to destroy us all. Okay. Let's have a quick look at the consequences of that action though, those missile attacks that blew up those women and children, and see what we think the consequences are for global terrorism. The problem, I guess most people would agree, is that 'the west' and particularly the USA is held as a symbol of oppression and imperialism; responsible for all their myriad woes - this drives some people to think that it's legitimate to blow themselves and other people up in resistance. So the solution, surely, is to try to heal those myriad woes of the middle east (economic instability, wars, loss of land etc.) and to make sure that 'the west' is not seen to be the villain of the piece. It is these factors that have led to terrorism, through the conduit of fundamentalist Islam, only to eager to fuel that anger and hate with its old and poisonous ideas. Bearing that in mind, did Obama's missile attacks help stop terrorism?

Or did they, in fact, amount to chucking petrol on an already massive fire? If you saw your family, your neighbours, or fuck it anyone really get blown up in front of you, or even if you heard about it second hand, how is that likely to make you feel about the people who launched those missiles or dropped those bombs? Could it be hatred so powerful it drives you to insanity? yeah I reckon so.

If killing those who kill our sons is terrorism, then let history be witness that we are terrorists.
-Osama Bin Laden

Benjamin Zephaniah.

Here I stand, court-jestering on infinity.

I feel pretty Zen lately. Kinda unaffected and immune. Right now, I feel like art and creativity are very important things and that they are what rises out of the water and transcends and matters. Everything else is whipped around by the slings and arrows of time (yay for quick and obvious shakespeare references) paled by context, the meaning muddled and confused in a pool of subjectivity. But, Omar Khayaam will have always said this:

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

Jazz/Funk Social Commentary. I like it,.

A rat done bit my sister Nell.
(with Whitey on the moon)
Her face and arms began to swell.
(and Whitey's on the moon)
I can't pay no doctor bill.
(but Whitey's on the moon)
Ten years from now I'll be payin' still.
(while Whitey's on the moon)
The man jus' upped my rent las' night.
('cause Whitey's on the moon)
No hot water, no toilets, no lights.
(but Whitey's on the moon)
I wonder why he's uppi' me?
('cause Whitey's on the moon?)
I wuz already payin' 'im fifty a week.
(with Whitey on the moon)
Taxes takin' my whole damn check,
Junkies makin' me a nervous wreck,
The price of food is goin' up,
An' as if all that shit wuzn't enough:
A rat done bit my sister Nell.
(with Whitey on the moon)
Her face an' arm began to swell.
(but Whitey's on the moon)
Was all that money I made las' year
(for Whitey on the moon?)
How come there ain't no money here?
(Hmm! Whitey's on the moon)
Y'know I jus' 'bout had my fill
(of Whitey on the moon)
I think I'll sen' these doctor bills,
Airmail special
(to Whitey on the moon)

Yes. Yes.