What’s the deal with drinking on your own?

Drinking alcohol is seen as this social thing, yes? But growing up, I saw people drinking on their own (how can they be on their own if I was there to see them?). I didn’t only see them drink on their own though, I also saw them drink with people in that normal way: at parties, during dinner, in the pub with workmates, etc. I also didn’t see them drink when they were actually drinking. As in, when I got older I realised they drank a lot more than I had realised. That time they acted strange, was actually that time they were drinking, but I never saw them take a swig from the bottle, take a sip from the glass, take a gulp from the can, but I saw the effect, you see? And now, the point in time I had this revelation, everything before that which I could remember, I had to re-evaluate. It’s actually the same for all the “revelations” not just the drink. You have to stop “Hang on, so you mean, all this time, this was happening? Behind my memories was another story that put a whole other tilt on everything?” So looking back, were they drunk, or were they ill, or was that just the medicine, or was that actually them when sober and happy. All this time I was so ignorant of everything and that was their intention and still is.

Flopping about like a flipper-less penguin.

I am the deity of awkwardness and over-thinking. Pray to me in cringing moments of “everyone knows the secret unwritten social rules but me.” My answer to your prayers will be nothing, because prayer doesn’t work you idiot. However, you believe my answer to your prayers will be to downsize your over-thinking to just thinking. To guide you on the path of not giving a fuck, because I honestly don’t.

People seem brilliant when I barely know them, I get giddy with how brilliant they are. Knowing people gets messy, brilliance is dulled by familiarity and revelations of all the flaws we hold. What to do, what to do, when you think someone’s awesome but that’s the few hours you knew them.

Something About Us

Suddenly feeling incredibly socially apathetic. Feel like I could talk to no one other than the occupants of this house for the rest of my life and live contently. In reality, I know I couldn’t do this. Feel like one thing, know another?
I watched a film and it was the same as all the others. Where were all the female sci-fi protaginists? The ones who enforce a futuristic regime but slowly ask questions and turn away from it. I haven’t done the research so I don’t know if they exist, but I’ve only seen male so far. Fahrenheit 451, Bladerunner, Equilibrium, even 1984. I’ll write it, the woman who rebels, I just need an idea. Robots on the moon maybe.

I’m still atheist.

There’s an unpleasant memory in my mind of a table being tipped over. Last night, reminded of this, I thought of Jesus. Jesus also tipped over tables. Angry at “the house of God” becoming a place for merchants to flog their wares, Jesus went batshit and ripped the place apart. Anti-capitalism! From what I remember of my catholic brainwashing, Jesus seemed a nice guy. Spreading love and equality, all that jazz. I started dreaming about the Jesus stories, sort of listing off the nice stuff he did and preached. Jesus fed the five thousand. Jesus said to love your enemy. Jesus healed the sick. Jesus pointed out the hypocrisy of the Pharisees. Jesus said it was easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven. Maybe there were some not so nice things he did or said that teachers conveniently left out. All I knew were the nice things.
The story of Jesus getting angry in the temple always kind of scared me…since when did Jesus get violent? Destruction of corporate property is not violence! But what if someone’s inside? Anyway, this man, who’s so nice, people love him – snaps and starts wrecking the place. It makes me feel ill.

I have your hands to hold, but mine aren’t empty.

I have your company, your words, your money, your knowledge, and your answers.
But I’m not lonely, I’m not mute, I’m not poor, I’m not stupid, and I’m not fucking asking.

Marxism and a whole lot more

You leave the womb,
Amneotic fluids coating you.
Bathed, they are gone,
But a film remains
Visible to all.
It hugs tighlty,
Clings tightly,
Wraps tightly.
Somedays, fed up,
You try to stretch it,
Peel it back,
Pinch it off.
Always, it slaps back into place
Snuggly into your grooves
Your second skin
Forever ensnares you
Even at death
It clings
Body buried beneath
It clings
Remains rotting
It clings.
I’m only bones now,
Bones and the film
And still they conclude
“Ah,
This one was of this class”

Old poem, just wanted to update.
Some things I want to write on here but I have second thoughts. That or I’ll dilute what I originally planned on writing.

This be the verse

Ok, I’m not being angsty here or miserable or melodramatic but if I were to die tomorrow then this poem has to be read at my funeral or on my gravestone or urn or whatever because it sums up my thoughts without me having to actually sum them up myself (which is also a nice reflection of how lazy I am).

This Be The Verse – Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
 

One of those well-known-ish poems and has one of the best and truest opening lines I have ever read. Because they do, they fuck you up, and you fuck up. And you’ve gotta get out of this fuck up without going “This is your fault” because that gets you no where. They may have fucked you up, but when you fuck up, it’s your fuck up, not theirs. Does this make sense? Basically, I’m in a question of “Is this your fault? Or would I be like this no matter who you were?” I watched a documentary and the woman described her childhood as being scared of everything and that was me. I was scared of everything and I don’t know whether it was their fault or mine. Whatever it was, I’m proud I’m not scared now. I’m not fearless, but I’m not frightened by all. Just about. Anyway, that line “Deepens like a coastal shelf,” how amazing is that. I really like it, it does deepen, it deepens massively, as massive as the coasts, the plates, the largest movers on this planet and it just slowly, slowly pushes. Deeper. And there it remains, you have a tectonic plate of misery pushing through you and the generations. And what does “Get out as early as you can” mean? Leave life (die) or just move out from your folks? That last line is such a zinger, but I’m not so opposed to the idea of having children (later in life). I’d kind of see it as my mission to give them an incredibly, incredibly happy childhood. Ok, I wouldn’t be crazy and controlling, all making sure they’re happy every minute of the day. But I mean, shitty things that happened to me that could’ve been avoided, or solved earlier, yeah that crap ain’t gonna happen to them. I don’t know, things don’t go to plan, but it’s all in the future and I’ll deal with it when it comes. For now, I just love this poem.

PGMG

You know a really good song? Blue Lights (Link to Spotify)by Pretty Girls Make Graves. It’s my song of the moment. You know, that song you love right now, it’s on loop for a few hours, the whole day, maybe a week and then maybe you’ll never listen to it again. I love this song. First words are, well no, I say give the song a listen first then read them. No real reason, I just think it feels good to hear the words as they come instead of expecting them. And that only works once, all other times you know what’s coming. Anyway, I hope you’ve given it a listen now. The first words are: “Hello, I’m neurotic, creating problems that don’t exist. Don’t believe me when I say it’s alright.”
I don’t love this band, I only like one of their albums, the only one I’ve listened to. I’ll get round to listening to the other two someday. This album The New Romance is one of my favourite albums. I’ve never really had favourite albums because I’ve never listened to albums. I never had a taste in music, but now I do and I think I can actually form a strong opinion on music now. So The New Romance is one of those albums I’d take on a desert island.
It’s the lyrics:
The Teeth Collector (Spotify)
“I’m unfolding little scraps of paper, dotting “I”s and crossing “T”s”
“This tooth is rotten, yank it out. Your words are cancer in my mouth.”
The New Romance (Spotify)
“Restless, fed up tough and clever
Wishing this would last forever
Is futile when, you know it won’t”

What do they even mean? I dunno, they just sound so good to me. Sad thing is, I first heard one of their songs (All Medicated Geniuses [Spotify]) in about 2004, but never listened to more than about 5 songs until a year ago when the band were no longer together. Looks like I just missed them.

This is now a tumblr

I find this image amusing. I will not write more than two sentences about it.

Obtaining Books

My source of books has been my family, buying and reading books to me. Primary school made us all bring home a book to read, the small school library, one room with a few stacks of shelves, became my source. I hit secondary school and I’m back to reading what’s in the house and given to me. Slowly, my dad is recommending to me books he has read. Slowly, I remove one or two books from the “family” bookshelves and into my room. Slowly, I actively look for books in shops. At birthdays and Christmas, I send an Amazon wishlist of books to my dad, those are my presents. Now everyone in the house has they’re own little collection of books. A bookcase in my room, a couple of shelves in my brother’s room, shelves in the sitting room where the largest amount sit in rows, collapsing against each other, all read by my dad, some by my mum. My dad: “inherited” these from his dad, was given these by friends, bought these in a big chain book shop, in a charity shop, at a fair, online, found these in a pub, on a plane. I don’t know, they’re just there and always have been and sometimes I like to just look at them all and wonder what they’re about and sometimes I pick one out and read the blurb or the first few pages but then put it back and promise to come back and read it when I’m done whatever I’m done reading at the moment but I never do come back. Well I do, but it’s always just to look at them again, always picking a new one. Sometimes I lie in the couch beneath the shelves, head back and eyes up, scanning the spines. I did this the other day, daydreaming, there’s so many of them, sitting there for a while. I had a thought, now that my dad has moved out, they’ve been left here. Doesn’t he want to bring them with him? He’s fine with leaving them here, without instant access to them? (I’ve seen he’s already started amassing a new pile) But now they only sit there under dust. Yes, they were doing that before, but they would get the occasional shuffle around and just felt like they had more of a purpose with my dad there. Now what? Well here it comes, there they were yellowing and curling and crinkling and absorbing while I sat beneath them admiring them as a piece of furniture, part of the home. Why was I buying more books when I already had so many unread ones lined up for me to pick out as I will free of charge. (Which also reminds me of the library, but I’ve begun using that to borrow comics). So, when I’ve ran out of things to read, I’ll pick up one of those books I never returned to. Maybe I’ll eventually read them all.