Chasing Amy? Chasing Any, more like.

Holden McNeil. He does something which no man, either in film or real life really does. He has feelings for an open woman. I mean, come on! Yes, he still shows love for a gay woman in a way, but that's not the point. He does this in such a god damn boring way, as in he pours his bleeding cliched heart and actual metaphorical soul out to Joey Lauren Adams's character in true horrendous style, sitting moping and sighing away inside the shell of a dilapidated car, whilst it pours down with tepid rain.

His speech, although a brilliant Kevin Smith monologue, still makes any member of an audience feel cringe-worthy. In essence, the message is one that rings true. The angst of any true man is to never display his emotions in any ways shape or form to a woman, especially one which he is head over heels in love with. God, that word, love, makes most people I know laugh at. The man I met today waiting for a kebab made the word look as disgusting as an enema when his lashed compatriot got in with a girl the size of a truck outside Ali's.

Anywho, the main point of the story is unrequited versions of this so called existence of a thing called love. I'm almost sure it exists. I'm sure I've got plenty of time to find out about it. But, I'm stuck in a rut. I cant express myself ever fully to any girl around here because I know I'm repulsive to most women I've even managed to chat with. Not the face, but the personality is about as charming as a toxic fallout. For the past three months or years I've not held a successful relationship due to either reality or naivety.

Feeling more than stupid, I decide to do the same old thing. Play the shy guy. I should be that dickhead rude boy that so many people love to hate, yet can't keep themselves away from. I fall for the worst people, or the people that in retrospect would be better than myself. The self deprecating ways in which I portray myself, well it gives people the opportunity to utilize their inadequacies and attack me.

In fact, all I do is whine. Why the fuck can't I just be happy?! God; for once in my life, I just need someone important, say like Mr.T to just come into my room and utter "Shut up fool! All I hear is whining, stop with the miming, man up! Get some nuts!". Yet honestly, I can't think of a man who wouldn't want a Mr.T moment once in their own life.

I guess I'm still waiting for my Holden McNeil moment.

Just a feeling

What a day. All I've done is write. Not just on paper, on a computer, on a phone, but I've just been writing constantly. Conversations, phone calls and skype chats. I've been on an overload of noise, and today I've decided to take it easy. The luxuries of a bed are the best, bar none. So, here I am, watching the Fifth Element, and ignoring pointless people.

I'm coming up with ideas for the portfolios due in, and also my reviews. I'm also thinking about what Alison said, about muses. For the better part of three months, there's been several muses calling to me. Not just the muse of tragedy, and not just the muse of music, but yeah the muse of history, also the muse of comedy.

It's been a term now, but they have spoken, and somehow I've managed to carry on writing. Inspiration is everywhere and somewhere here. I do believe that once in a while I'll meet a couple more along the way.

Sometimes

Sometimes I regret saying the things I said, sometimes I regret sleeping in this bed, sometimes I forget how lucky I had it, sometimes I lie to hide my own personal shit, sometimes I wonder if there's still that thought of me, sometimes I know we're never meant to be, sometimes a text can mean much more, sometimes you try to ignore, sometimes you make mistakes, sometimes you want to break, sometimes you live and you learn, sometimes you'll crash and burn, but sometimes you can actually remember, sometimes you learn to love in December.

Maybe vampires is a bit strong...

Considering the whole picture, and giving it some time to think about what's actually happened, I'm happy with the situations I face currently. Seeing my past be happy, and myself actually happy is a good sign. I've managed to show maturity and also less foolishness which many would have seen or had been part of two months ago.

Its only been what, 8 or 9 weeks since I arrived, but that amount of time at uni can change any person for either the better or most likely, the worse. Take my drinking for example. I used to hit like the vodka a lot with compadres, too much I think. But now, I only go out once in the weekend, and maybe once in the week.

To be honest, it's not the end of the world if I develop an addiction, most likely to Snickers Ice Cream bars. Still, the one thing I'm most worried about is my lack of production. Unusual that I'd be so caring over a subject, but it's the next three years of my life we're talking about. It's quite substantial.

Anyways enough ranting. Back to the matter at hand. What the hell is going on with my taste? Musically, I seem to have jumped off a ledge into the great unknown, emerging with dubstep, drum and bass, hip hop, metal and a mix of indie and alternative. I need to broaden all possible horizons. Not saying I'm sick and tired of hearing the same old sick and tiring songs, but yeah, maybe a little choice apart from club music'll be a godsend.

A whole term has been and gone, and what can I say? it's always been seen as a barrage of cliches, a mixture of euphoria and trauma, of joy and rage, of sad and moments of lust, a commotion of emotion. As many a generic face or person would state, "I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world."

I wanted to destroy something beautiful.

Luscious, inebriated we stumble across words inside.. Unbelievable, a stir of our drunken hearts here, and now we portray our motions. The heart doesn't make sense, it makes a pulse. We derive move from basic instinct. A sense of well-being. something unheard of, becomes second nature now. I save myself from utter and total embrarrassment, the throw of disappointment from my peers is a piercing cacophony. "Fuck you" is now a general consensus. Left with dispersing groups, I latch and bid a goodnight to side to side. Good nights indeed, I land hard on cushion and sleep will follow

Last night, she said..

So many questions filled up inside my drunken head.

Did I leave the building? Did I walk up the stairs? Did I get a kebab? Was there a Jeremy? Did I press all the elevator buttons 20 times? Was 4-11 a smoking bazaar? None of this matters. I had an awesome night.

Right...

Tired. It's three in the morning, I can't sleep. She's left this void of a space inside my head. Time seems to have multiplied since I last spoke to her, and she doesn't know what she's done. I need to be able to be creative. All that I'm left with is a head full of meaningless moments and shitty mundane motions. I know nothing at the moment matters, the conversations really are inconsequential and the way people act is small talk. The pointless text with one word sticks out like a thorn on a dying rose. The delayed silence uttered through waiting for response signify her feelings. I sit endless, uncomfortable for ever opening my eyes. God damn this generation, for independent ours has become on labelling relationships via Facebook and love becoming a word unused and enter new terms of friends with benefits. My own kind has lost its way along the second or third bottle of Smirnoff vodka. I would cry but I'll throw up instead at the disgust we portray.

Review: Fenech-Soler at Kraken Wakes

Wow.

The Kraken Wakes saw its small gig area get a sonic barrage of music, courtesy of a great start by Watashi Calcutechs, a band only possibly summed up as a hybrid of Biffy Clyro and the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Performing just for the third time and for only four songs, the trio still managed to get a small yet appreciative crowd going, warming up the ice cold place with some heavy, machine gun paced rock.

Next up, another trio, but definitely with a whole other beat were Sheffield-based Shake Alletti, known for the Toddla T remix of their song ’Hold Me Down’. Catchy songs such as their new and infectious single ‘Dancefloor’, you’ll be hearing a lot of this song in places quite soon.

Last, but definitely by no means least were the brilliant and upcoming stars Fenech-Soler, who tonight brought the house down. Suddenly, the crowd at the Kraken Wakes shook off the cold and turned the heat up as they blasted into ‘Battlefields’, a new personal favourite of mine.

Kicking through a set with great pace and nearly playing a whole album, including the singles ‘Lies’, and the upcoming ‘Demons’, they ended with a spectacular performance of ‘Stop and Stare’. One band which no doubt you‘ll hear at various festivals and on radios this year. Watch out Friendly Fires, Fenech-Soler surely are the new contenders for electropop’s throne.

That old thing you used to do, you know, smile?

Happiness isn't an illusion.

She just makes me smile with a thought, a mere glimpse of her smile gets me happier than anything before. I know the way she kisses and touches, well, it's more than just a quick thing. She holds me tight, as if nothing else matters but this moment. She's breathing harder than usual, because she knows what day it is. It's only a few more hours before she sets off, and she just wants to hold on for a little more before getting back in the car and driving to the other side of the water.

I sit in the car anxiously, with a sense I'll see her again, but to leave now it would feel so right. To not have those strings attatched, to realise that things are not permanent but as temporary as the way the wind blows. She tells me not to tell anyone, and I promise her, with everything that I won't, and she believes me. ":) x x" she texts. I reply likewise, and lock my phone. She's worth any time to wait for a text.

I'm realising now on the way back home, that I won't see her for a long time. And yeah, that things will happen in between the next time I meet her, and I know that she'll mature and realise what a waste of space I truly am. But still, sitting here under the stars, the cold and the flickering business lights, I know that the old saying "Good things come to those who wait" is a true statement, and whoever came up with it was a genius.

My Muse

A heart collapsed in a sea of pain
never to be heard or seen again 
now I have these never ending dreams
the water's always much deeper than it seems

I feel the everything in my life has just slipped away
no matter how much you try, you can't buy back yesterday
for once I wish I could just see past the illustrious lies 
replace them with something better and someone undisguised

I could scream about the false mask you hide behind
keep on replaying events which never were, in my mind
you're such a beautiful muse to me with all that misery
can't describe how much time I've used to write your litanies

I don't have a single emotion for you nowadays
it's strange not to have to rely on your pathetic ways
because for some odd reason, people actually like me
they see me for me and they don't have a sordid mental history

Oh, how I truly used to adore you,
now frankly my dear, I abhor you
sorry if I managed to bore, I must admit you're so easy to ignore
you to me, are as irritating and frustrating as a cold sore

Honing my skill at throwing vicious words your way
I found out that the secret is not to what you say
but how to use words like you use all these men
and make sure they're pure venom then

...

Every week in, week out, I find myself once again opening up my heart to another person who I think I can trust, someone I can care for, someone I can listen to and be able to talk to as well. And at the end of every week, something happens.

The something that happens is I scare them away. Or at least that's what I think it is, I seem to have a knack of self sabotage. It's a number of things probably. I just seem to have this skill of cocking up a perfectly good situation, and then expecting to find out some horrible thing which caused it not involving me! But every end of the week, it is me who messes it up.

I'd never say it's entirely my fault, I'd never say that the way I act or speak has anything to do with it, I mean I'm not terrible in bed, I don't hit women or for that matter hit on women, I act polite, not gentlemanlike, subtle, not blunt, but still, it's not enough I reckon.

Some people I know are just too messed up or consider themselves to be in the midst of a situation with an ex where they've corrupted their minds so much they can't accept there's a decent bloke out there, who is fluent in the language called English, and actually not too weird. They want change, but are afraid to accept it, so therefore stick to the same old 'bad boy' formula, trying to change them but inevitably failing.

I happen to be honest about it, I know at times it's hard for the right words to come out, but the gestures I make are nice, they're not dickheaded like some. Some would say this is just a rant or a whine at his pathetic attempts of love in life, but no, it's actually a self evaluative outlook on things.

When looking back at my relationships, I've noticed one pattern. No matter what, I love to see people with bleeding hearts, with hearts of hurt and emotion, because I've always been and will always try to be a sympathetic and emotive man. I don't give a damn if that in your opinion's pathetic, but still I respect your opinion.

No, I'm sure that near everyone I've shown a glimpse of emotion I've connected with because they too suffer the situations. I was in love, once, but that was a hell of a long time ago. Now, I've matured enough to see that the word is irrelevant at 19. What would be nice though, is if people were less worried about showing emotion.

Any, just show me something. Happiness, depression (but not too much, ok?) anxiety, joy, euphoria, pain, guilt, lust, anything. Along the way, I'll also try to too. But please, just consider this. It's not the wisest of ideas of playing around with heads and hearts, mine included. I promise I'll try not to do the same.

Sonnets

It's not as easy as it seems,
to play foolish games with a heart,
so let yourselves go and fall apart,
and run away go chase your dreams,
days become nights whilst you open your eyes,
the choices we make and actions we take,
can always be coincidence or fate,
once your wishes now become white lies,
some say just pure human mistake,
but ask yourself if love is all,
before you start to fall stare at the drop,
then remember never to stop,
just realise you're here and now,
before you start to disappear somehow.

Portsmouth week 7?

I've found it harder to blog. Why, I don't know. My creative muscles are getting tense again, and that isn't good at all. I've got deadlines coming, I've got to get physically and mentally back in the game, and somehow find the perfect day to get smashed, then spend the rest of the week sober.

Wow, time's managed to run away again. Seems like it's only been a few drunken nights, a lot of unlucky and retarded events occurred and definitely not enough sleep. But all in all, here's a brief account of the previous week: Work, work, work, creative messy social beyond the point of ridiculous, stupid broken heart, then broken phone, Nando’s, recovery, Jack Daniels, fall down the spiral, Half-Life 2, curiosity, then rebirth via Domino's Pizza and a kiss.

Now it's Wednesday, I don't know what to say except that for every reaction and equal and opposite reaction occurs. My example: Play the nice guy and some Touch-Cup with a bunch of Geography students, find the psycho girl of the group and get verbally and physically abused for zero reason. Buy a new phone, get wasted and break the new phone.

I am my own worst enemy, and my greatest muse it seems.

A Lost Saturday in Portsmouth, thoughts of occurrence and travel...

As I traipsed around the corridors of another bleak yet neon-lit bar, I wonder how I came to be here at this stage. 19, not yet a man yet certainly past the stage of young child, now living in an entirely different city, speaking another language to some doe-eyed girl already gone past the stage of comatose.

A cold wintered scene, I shovel my tattered shoes across the slush and mire, and fall drunkenly to my next direction. Now, the toilet bowl seems a void where I can escape for some moments and get my thoughts all rightly aligned. Ok. Eject, reject and then repeat process.

Back to the noise, that ever-penetrating phallic throb, which pounds through the sides of walls and into the cubicle where me and my stomach once were located, and I find myself back on top. Now, sounds all burst as I pry open the doors. Then, at the exact same moment of the drop, I position myself into the centre of the dance floor and let go.

It seems so euphoric and equally terrifying to see such an array of sound and movement connect as I totally get enveloped in the midst of it. Music seems killer serene to my dilated eyes. I can't believe the unity of all. The high I feel is as if an electric charge punched its way into my cerebellum and ejaculated pure adrenaline everywhere on my lobes.

The surge remains at its peak, I remain on the ceiling and somehow find reality via a game of coat grabbing and a brisk walk into the nearest bar, where my compatriot and I seem to find time and space stand still for us. A major warning, I need some form of numbing, not time to wake up. We take more delicious drugs, ease off this scare and return to a loosened sense.

Now is not a reality. When is. We both get onto the streets flawlessly and attract many attentive eyes that converse and subjugate us in modes of intense knowledge of the city which I know nothing of. We say nothing yet somehow telekinetically acknowledge these people need to relax and find their own way back.

I envision myself sitting on a pavement returning back to my vague form of structure. The bed awaits, and my home, begging for a second chance, allows me safe passage minus run-ins with blood-thirsty police or any machete wielding avengers of the morning. I feel at one, and at the same time, completely and utterly destroyed. It's good to be away from the world.

The Window (exerpt)

He doesn’t know it, but I live across the street from him, and he doesn’t even know it. I wish he’d just shut his old smelly curtains once, but secretly I'd love it if he caught me looking at him when he tries to turn on his gas for that every day shower he has at 10. I mean, I have work at 10.30, but by the time I get to work and the first meeting starts with the whole administration is around 11.30, and it only takes me half an hour either by my bike or the train to get there.

Catching him set on his gas heater sadly enough is my pick-me-up. And he doesn’t ever get ready until 10, so I wait to see him hum and sing into the bathroom. But, then as I get a mere glimpse of his existence my dickhead of a hubby grabs my stomach, tickles and makes grunting noises in front of the kids. “Troy! Stop it, you dipshit!” He then asks me the most moronic question so many husbands across the country do every fucking morning, as if I’m some sort of a slave. “Hmm…What’s for breakfast, hun?”

I sigh, pick up my iPhone, keys and bag, tell him to make it himself, and try to finish my already cold cup of coffee. Ugh. How I detest the non-existent sludge that is decaf. How it’s so bland and tasteless I never know, but anything that can wake me up from this futile life nowadays is considered a good thing. Also, husband fucking dearest will probably and deliberately forget to get the groceries, so I guess that means I have to drive and I have to pick up a bag which he could easily get within twenty minutes of walking distance of his work place. What a total and utter loser. Why I married him, i never will know.

So, still looking for my keys, I spot a small glimpse of a shutter sliding upwards and then get what I wanted: my wake up call. God, that’s a good body. Glad I got to see it for the last time. I get in the company car outside my drive, find a bunch of empty latte cups, and just sift my way through to the wheel. Then when I get inside fully, I turn the ignition on and reverse, parking it inside the car garage.

I close the garage door with the button to the right side of the wall, then get back inside and close my car window with the pipe inside it. It’s time to leave, but I can’t for the life of me see myself putting another foot on the pedals again. I stifle a little cry, surprised as how easy it was to look at myself in the car mirror and then I see: It’s too late. But I don’t care anymore, I’ve been numb for quite some time. Some bitch, who’s sick and tired of being sick and tired, of being stuck in my own little perfect world. This life is no life. It’s time to breathe in and tune out.

Throw Me

Throw everything and yourself away
Into the vortex again,
Be ready the rush of pain,
Yours is nothing but a memory of yesterday,

I need to lose this life’s dress
So, rip me apart by the strings
Of my precious fallen wings
And make something of the bloody mess

To be destroyed and reborn,
By something beautiful
Is remarkably horrible
And grotesquely scorned

The first month.

What a month.

That’s the one phrase I can think of right now to describe what really has happened. Truthfully, most of it wasn't a blur, or a haze, it was as vivid as the sunlight starting to creep inside my room as I blog. I've managed to already secure a nickname known by a majority of people inside two or three halls, I've managed not to throw up in any toilet, sink or bed, I've been seen in places I for the life of me wouldn't have been seen dead a year or two ago.

I've successfully evaded the homesickness that over 60% of students have suffered, I've had Fresher’s Flu, I've been seen wandering and running around in toga and boxers around 4 o’ clock in Southsea, I've chirpsed girls I didn't see the next day, and I know I'll attest to Tesco's Microwavable meals for the next year or so.

So, five weeks now have passed since I dropped my bags and banana boxes inside my room, and near every night something remarkable has happened. I’ve witnessed the weird, the funny and the emotional. The drink, the kebabs and the chunder. I’ve become a journalist, I’ve worked at a fast food restaurant, I’ve washed clothes, cooked meals, and most importantly, I’ve started to write a lot more.

It’s been a hell of a long wait to start, but from the get go, I’ve endured and enjoyed near every moment. I recently mentioned to a course mate that the structure of an atypical Portsmouth student’s conversation goes as follows, in three stages: Sex, alcohol, and Fresher’s Amnesia. She laughed a lot at my Venn chart analogy, but agreed on the spot.

It’s hilarious how structure of time is sort of lost as each day an intake of nicotine, coffee or drink causes the generic student to forget the smallest of things, like milk, bread, or their keys left in their flat door. Of all these things, I know I’ve done at least one. And names! So many people’s names to remember, I don’t think I would be able to tell you who from who if Facebook didn’t exist.

Fire

A source, of life, of death

Unstoppable at times, power it emits

Of beauty and devastation

A mesmerising sight of something uncontrollable

Its passion should be met by caution