Almost Midnight

I got back from the wilds of Suffolk early this afternoon…forced holiday with my parents “as it’s the last time we’ll all be together.” (Mum). Not that I didn’t enjoy it – middle of a forest with no internet access or even mobile signal is surprisingly peaceful once you get used to it – but I hated the way she was, trying to guilt trip me for having a life of my own. It wasn’t until almost the end of the holiday that she stopped acting like me leaving home was some kind of joke. That’s always been her way of dealing with me, though – “oh, he’s just joking,he doesn’t mean it, he’ll come round soon enough.” My dad’s better – he doesn’t say anything. I’m hopefully signing the tenancy agreement on a flat Monday morning. I’m still awake cos I’m franticly scouring ebay for furniture – I’m not usually such an ebay junkie, but it kind of matters now. Sleeping on a camp bed and sitting in a fishing chair is ok when it’s just you in student digs or some bedsit dive, but when you’re raising a family, telling the world you’re an adult, not having at least proper chairs is a bit pathetic.

I suppose what’s REALLY keeping me awake is “can I do this?” can I pull off being an adult, with adult responsibilities? Almost everything I’ve done in my life I’ve screwed up somehow – I’m scared this won’t be any different.

I know I’ve got to make a go of things sometime, but it’d be easier if my parents were dead, in a way, just so I wouldn’t be trying to second-guess their reactions to everything all the time, which I’ve kind of got into the habit of doing over the years. Hopefully moving out’ll cure me of it.

More News From The Asylum

Going to look at a flat this afternoon – nowhere spectacular, but it’s reasonable rent & a start on the journey of adulthood & supporting a family of my own. Also there’s more places with potential for work there.

I keep getting the voice of an old – as in former – friend I haven’t spoken to for about 18mths cos he’s an arrogant tosser saying “why pay someone else’s mortgage and end up with no capital of your own at the end of it?” Answer, because we’re not all trust-fund babies who get a discount on house price cos both you & your wife are deemed “key workers”. Note to any overseas readers, in the UK “Key workers”, which includes things like doctors and teachers - get up to 50% of the purchase price of a house paid by the government, i.e. the rest of us, which pisses me off, because firstly they earn quite a lot of money anyway, and secondly, why aren’t people like dustmen and care workers included in that? I accept we need doctors and teachers, but there’s a lot of low-paid people who do essential jobs as well. But to hell with him. Like I said, he’s an arrogant tosser who doesn’t understand that not everyone got the start in life he did.

My fiancee can’t come with me to check this place out (no one to look after her kid, who’s too young to be dragged house hunting) and couldn’t think of anything she had to have, apart from the obvious thing of it not being too near busy roads in case said kid runs out and gets hurt, so it’s up to me, which is a dangerous thing, since all I want from a house is sound foundations, four solid walls, a roof that doesn’t let in rain, windows with unbroken glass, somewhere to sleep, somewhere to shower and enough kitchen space to make tea and toast.

Generally I don’t like things that involve me smiling and being polite to someone in the hope that they’ll think I’m a suitable person to give whatever it is they’re offering to, but I need a place of my own, need to get away from my parents, and so will go through the motions.

News from the Asylum

I haven’t updated this for a while, as I’ve been house-sitting and had no internet access. Back now, and with good news – I just got engaged to my g/f, Leanne, on Sunday. Very happy, as she’s definately the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. It doesn’t bother me that she’s got a little boy, Dexter, by a previous relationship – his father isn’t interested in him, so I plan to just act like he’s mine, as far as possible. Only downside is I now have to give up my plans for a motorbike, and look to taking driving lessons and buying a family-friendly car, but the exchange is worth it! Living in UK means I have to go through a load of hoops, with no guarantee of a licence at the end of it, but I don’t have an option now. If anyone wants to buy a pair of 38″ waist motorbike trousers (not leather), size 10 (UK) Frank Thomas boots and a blue and silver open face helmet, large, leave me a comment – UK only. Trousers and boots are both black, and in good nick, few scuffs on boots. I’m open to reasonable offers, and am willing to sell as a job lot if you like, just to get a bit more cash towards lessons/car. Maybe I’ll get a “mid-life-crisis” motorbike when I turn 40 – at least then I’ll hopefully have the money to buy a decent one. As someone a lot more intelligent than I am said “now I have put away childish things.”

Reflections

Just been reading and replying to a couple of “existentianal angst” blogs (no offence intended here), and found that such thoughts are contagious.

A little over a year ago, I had to make a major decision, one which would impact on the rest of my life. I thought about it for a long time before I made my choice, a choice which other people – including my mother and some close “friends” – couldn’t accept. My mother treats me with this kind of forced cheeriness, which turns to frost if I make even the slightest reference to the choice I’ve made. She treats and refers to me as the person she wants me to be, rather than the person I am, which makes me feel sometimes like I’m having to live two lives. The so-called “friends” were more candid. They made it clear that they didn’t approve of what I’d chosen, and so wouldn’t be able to give me any kind of support if I needed it, then stopped talking to me. They won’t even respond to emails or texts, so I stopped bothering a couple of months ago. I know how tough it is when someone you’re close to makes a decision you disagree with – I’ve been there – but if you really cared about them, you wouldn’t walk out, at least I didn’t.

I think the problem is that, in making my choice, I’ve chosen to take off my mask, to stop playing the part I was handed, and be honest about myself, to be what I am, not what people around me think I should be. To be real. That’s the problem – people keep going on about how sick they are of people being “fake”, and just doing or saying things because other people do or say them, or to make people like them, but then, when someone says “this is me, this is who and what I really am”, they turn on them and say they can’t be part of “the group” anymore.

On the other hand, I’ve had a couple of people I wasn’t particularly close with before tell me how much they admire me for what I’m doing, and making an effort to spend time with me. It’s made me realise that there are two distinct types of people. The first, which includes those who rejected me, are people that think the human lifespan is a long time to live with people not liking you, so they have to develop an “avatar”, as it were, that can keep other humans happy by saying and doing uncontroversial things, by saying that they agree with the majority, even when they don’t, just because it’s easier that way. They’re always focussed on how things make them look, and what they need to do or say to get ahead.

The other group is comprised of people who look at the bigger picture, who see life in terms of millenia rather than years, and so realise how pathetically short our lives are, too short to be spent repressing our real selves in order to please others and “succeed”. Because the time we have is so short, those in this group feel that it is a waste to spend it in the conflict and misery that comes from trying to be something you’re not, from lying about your opinions, from betraying individuals in order to appease “the group”. They believe, rightly, that you should savour what life you get, and live it in the way that feels natural and right to you.

The people in the first group are usually better paid. The people in the second group are usually happier, and more accepting of difference.

Snapshot

one-twenty-four, p.m, on a bright and sunny day.

Breeze blows strong and subtle scents, birds relay

Territory. Availability. Threats and compromise.

Cool shadows surprise

The heat of hiding-places.

Longings awake.

I put down my drink, stand up, shake off old restraints

And step outside, into the light that paints

All as good, good as perfect, saints as holy. Sinners as saints.

Step into the light

And start again.

At the end of a closing day…

So…

I did manage to get some studying done today. Then I had to go and endure the hell that is trying to buy decent stuff to eat for a week for £20 (I never said I was rich, did I?) Main problem is there’s no freezer here, so I’m trying to find stuff that’s not going to go off in the fridge before the whole sodding thing has to be gone through again next week.

I hate supermarkets. Especially on Fridays or Saturdays, when they seem to be full of chavettes who’re more interested in their mobile phone conversations than controlling their kids. But I survived, so I won’t whine about that. And I got change from my £20, too.

Moral dilemma; the place I was shopping had an offer on beer; £5 for a case of 18 bottles. The offer limited it to 3 cases per customer. I saw a guy and his wife/girlfriend, who were sharing a trolley, pick up 3 cases each, put them through as though they were 2 separate people, then blatantly put all 6 cases in the same trolley once the woman had been through the till. Ignoring the fact that if they’ve got £30 to spend just on booze they’re either alkies or have an enviable amount of mates, is it honest? I know technically it’s “okay”, because it said 3 per customer, not per group of people shopping together, but it seems…cheeky. Or maybe that’s just me. Joys of growing up with the kind of parents who make a big deal out of how you have to be honest, whatever the situation, but tell you that santa and the easter bunny are real. I’m with Larkin on parents.

I should be studying now…

But I’m starting a blog instead, basically because my brain hurts from trying to remember weird symbols, the difference between “who” and “whom” and how headings are weighted. I’m (foolishly) studying proofreading and copy editing, basically because words are the only thing I’m remotely good at, and, not having come up with the idea of Harry Potter first, I’m unlikely to make much money from my own. I wouldn’t mind ghost writing, purely because, as a Goth, the idea of saying “I’m a ghost” when twats at parties ask what I do for a living makes me smile. (There. Goths do smile. Just at strange things.)

Having just thrown a short story and a poem to the wolves of competition judges, I’ve discovered that my “thing” is vampires and werewolves, but not in your typical fantasy setting. I’ve also found that my mind makes strange leaps. The short story, for example. The theme was “office party”. The first thing that came to me was a bloke being told by his girlfriend that his tie didn’t go with his shirt. Fine, excellent. Good start. Then I got the idea that he didn’t care about his tie, or his shirt, and that he didn’t really want to go to the party. So far, so normal. So, next thing, why doesn’t he want to go to the party? Because it’s a full moon and, if he stays for the whole thing, his boss and colleagues’ll find out he’s a werewolf. The link? Answers on a postcard, please. The only good thing is that I don’t think anyone else will have tackled it from quite that angle.

Anyway, time to step out of the exciting world of blogging and back to the one where I have to keep checking my “cheat sheet” while I’m marking up test extracts. Don’t laugh. I have to have the rankings next to me when I play poker, too. Anyone know of a sure-fire way to improve long-term memory?