Newbold Street: The Arrival

I don't mean to brag, but I have a lot of friends. Unfortunately, I'm a near-adult human with trivialities, frivolities, a mess of principals and an organisation of whims, as are we all; thus, each friendship is heinously complex, relying on the personalities, commitments, geographical location, disposition and a plethora of other properties, including but not limited to gender, of all concerned parties. These complications are what make everyday so interesting; how bored would you be if every person really were a faceless brick-in-the-wall?

Despite the variety in detail, every friendship is principally the same: two people who mutually enjoy one another's company and care for one another, mutually. This lengthy prologue, then, is simply a declaration that many a person cares about me and me about each of them, which, again, is not a mere bragging exercise. It'd be a complicated and time-consuming endeavour to contact everybody I'd call a pal in turn; most would be busy at the time of calling, were I to make the necessary century of phone calls; my love of lengthy texts is likely not shared, nor is SMS really the medium for such an endeavour; letters are a little more direct, appropriate and a little less intrusive, but sending a forest in parts to mostly unknown addresses is just plain silly; email matches letters for the lack of intrusion and the availability of words with which to express myself, but its informality and the frequent disregard with which people receive emails strikes me that it would not be such a great medium for informing all caring buddies that I'm alive and well. In fact, some aforementioned complications are in such severity that direct contact is not strictly the best approach. What, then, should be the medium for my communication?

As you're no doubt aware, this is the chosen medium. It's personal, far-reaching, non-intrusive; its apparent formality depends upon my register. It's perfect. With this prologue thankfully complete, I'll begin my message.

 

Saturday gone, I arrived in the quaint and royal Royal Leamington Spa. What makes it royal? I don't know. There's a tourist information office a two-minute walk away, so I may ask them. Alternatively, I could ask Wikipedia, but Jimmy Wales' Guide to the Galaxy is not as friendly, human or even as sentient as a tourist information office person. It has been raining pretty much since I got here. I left my wallet on the train. I've moved my stuff into my room, including my bicycle Amanda and my unnamed record player, which is currently blasting Dark Side's beautiful finale Eclipse. Quel chanson! Lily the Japanese peace lily is over by the window. A whiteboard, a second monitor, a lamp, a bed, a bookshelf brimming with ingenious narrative: they're all here and keeping me happy. I even have a set of scales which sends an electrical signal through my body and uses this to calculate my percentage body fat and percentage body water. I'm all gadgeted-up.

We don't yet have internet. To answer your question, I'm using the mobile internet from my phone – named Prometheus – and its "WiFi Hotspot" capabilities. Like I said, I'm all gadgeted-up. Virgin Media are sending their dogsbodies round on Thursday, so hopefully Prometheus can rest then, and cease having his liver perpetually eaten by the vulture of my laptop. The boiler boils hot water, but neglects the radiators. I have a fierce collection of one whole jacket/jumper thingy, so I'm warm and snug. Actually, I'm currently sat in my boxers; even for a Geordie, I wear little in the winter. So, the heating is failing to bother me while its inexistence is saving me money on that first dreaded bill. We have water, a brand new bathroom, a gorgeous kitchen and a nice big yard. We've got everything a growing boy needs, so hopefully I'll be six foot tall when I return to Whitley Bay at Christmas.

This is perhaps the most structured thing I've ever written. I once wrote a paragraph which told the story about a witch who placed a curse on a sports hall, then decided I'd hit a dead end, put the entire paragraph in quotation marks and appended "Or so the legend goes." I then continued a fruitful description of invigilators and of my desire to use the toilet, frequently making references to that story to make it look deliberate. That was my English GCSE and I got an A for that paper. I would sincerely love to know exactly what the examiner thought; I especially wonder whether the non-gender-specific he thought my shark-jumping witch was deliberate. Anyway, that cacophony of imaginative drivel was accidentally structured, in the end; much like this. I've covered my stuff, the house's stuff, and now it's time to discuss the people who live here.

They're all smelly and I hate them. Ha, just kidding! There's Josh, Mike, Hugh, James and Roland. To put it another way, there's Roland, James, Hugh, Mike and Josh. Hopefully none is too offended by the order. In any case, they're all lovely people, and besides them, we seem to have already become the social centre of Warwick University, which is fantastic because it took best part of three terms to get more than one person to hike to the far-off land of Lakeside in which we – Josh, Hugh and I – resided last year.

It would hardly be a blogpost of mine if I didn't throw in some cynicism, and so I have to voice my frightful opinion that University will be shit this year. I can do mathematics fine. I hit 77 last year, so I'm fairly certain I can maintain a First for the length of my degree. However, the University is a massive trek, and though I had a lot of fun on campus last year, there's only lectures to be had on University land this year. The saving grace is, of course, living off-campus. Last year, the University was all-encompassing. We were stuck in a bubble, cut off from society. How the blazes anyone is supposed to think about a future in a society with which they have no connection is beyond me. I think I just explained recidivism in a sentence.

We're off-campus this year. It's fantastic. I live in a home, not an office-block. That's exactly the point. It's a bloody wonderful house, but it's so much more than that. This is home.

Photograph

A Quick Edit

Before today's wondrous post, I'd like to plug my new blog. It may be best you don't read the first and only post if you haven't read The Great Gatsby, but nonetheless, my bibliocentric new blog can be found at the pretentiously titled Fire Or Freshness. Enjoy, and pray comment if you've something to say on The Great Gatsby or subsequent books. Anyway, let's go. The following is my opinion and not a statement of fact. If you like photographs, then say some kind words in a comment or go take a few. I like photographs, but there are things I dislike about photographs.

Photograph

I've remembered what I dislike about photographs: they're too impersonal. Yes, they're very clever and I congratulate the inventors of every last piece of the current technology. You've done well. An SLR camera can take pictures that appear more real than real images. However, I quite like real images. As crisp as dewdrops on a leaf look when the focus is right, when there's incredible depth of perception and a lens several times larger than my own, it's still not a dewdrop. As Magritte astutely observed of his painting of a pipe, "ceci n'est pas un pipe." It cannot be held, cannot be stuffed, cannot be smoked. It is an image of a pipe.

Posed photographs are even worse. I've just flicked through a mental scrapbook of photographs and memories, comparing the smiles of a given person in each. The memories win. When viewing a posed photograph, with everybody staring intently into the same spot, grinning with the wrong muscles, occasionally succeeding with creasing the skin around the eyes, am I the only one who is a tiny bit afraid that these predators are about to attack me? A dozen faked friendly faces are staring at me intently, frozen in their position with far too much intensity in their gaze. A painter can at least filter out some of the oddity of a human statue; an instantaneous capture of light cannot account for the absurdity of a held pose.

An action shot is a little better, but even then, they're mostly unkind. You have a man in back of shot, midway through a change of facial expression, with distorted features akin to those of Victor Frankenstein's creature. In the foreground, a temporary hand gesture appears to be held, now abstracting that to levels of absurdity. Half-open mouths and inappropriate surprise, or a fake smile clear in the record but unnoticed at the time, all preserved for the scrutiny of men who were never there.

Holiday snaps? What are they? "Look at the fun I was having when you were driving in the rain!" Yes, except you weren't really having fun. You had time to pose for a photograph.

My protests aside, I far too often pause while viewing something incredible or looking at something beautiful just to share it with someone else, but at those moments I only further believe in what I've just said. I'm stood on the beach, looking out at across a sea lit up by a full moon and a billion stars. I can take a photograph, sure, but there's no way I can capture that beauty. I can get a close approximation.

Maybe taking an easel and a canvas to the beach with me is the solution. Perhaps a poem would better encapsulate the moment. I doubt it. At least, however, with those art forms, the masses are well aware that they're getting a snapshot, laden with the prejudice of the artist. It's curious, then, that a photograph – the most literal snapshot of them all – can so often be mistaken for a slice of reality. I have two eyes. I have depth perception. I can move my head; I can change my perspective of something in reality. A photograph is a great approximation, but it is infuriatingly nothing to do with me. The man in my memories ceases to be me about six months after the event. The man in my photographs ceases to be me instantaneously.

Open Your Eyes, Look At The Day

I woke up, rolled out of bed, did nothing with a comb and didn't catch a bus at all because the nearest bus stop to my house is about 20 yards from the newsagents in which I work from 6 until 9 every morning at the moment. Sundays are the worst of days because paperboys will invariably cancel and the Sunday Times takes a large crane to construct. I'm hoping to get a new job with more pay and I'll be okay. There was just enough time after my shift for breakfast, before the ever reliable Bob picked me up in the Bobsleigh. Disappointingly, it's actually a car, but off we headed, rowing-club bound.

I was livid with myself for failing to complete 2000m on an Ergo, especially since I'm rowing 25km on the 29th July, which is three weeks from now for those of you who are mathematically challenged. That's the Great Tyne Row, starting at Newburn and ending in Tynemouth. I did it last year when I was much fitter, so the worst affected area of my body was my bottom. This year, I expect to ache all over. Following the aforementioned pathetic 6-minute stint on a rowing machine, I moved some weights up and down in various different motions, which apparently builds various difficult muscle groups. If you're interested in that sort of thing, Google phrases like "shoulder press" and "bicep curl." In the end, I was quite contented with my workout and I left under blue skies in pain. More of an ache, really.

After frivolities and workout-ities in ye olde clubhouse, it was time for some delicious refreshment. As ever, I wandered through Tynemouth to that most lovely of chocolatier's, whose staff are delightful, if I can be so biased as to say so. White hot chocolate trumps the regular kind in every respect of which I can think. That is to say, it is more delicious and creamy and there are no other criteria for hot chocolates in my experience. My lovely friend Becky was working, fortunately, so we had our first chat in nearly three months and the entire trip to the chocolate factory was a pleasant one, with not a fizzy lifting drink in sight.

I vacated sooner than I'd have liked, but I had plans. A plan to travel to Royal Quays in search of a new bicycle failed. Now, Nexus are malevolent, psychic and have a vendetta against me. So, instead of travelling by Metro to Royal Quays, I wandered about the market at Tynemouth Station, eventually buying the third instalment in my vinyl collection of my favourite albums. Led Zeppelin IV now makes a triumvirate of musical bliss with Rumours and Wish You Were Here. I have in mind three more albums to acquire. The incredibly astute amongst you will know them simply by reading this post. Mr Perry, I'm looking at you in particular. Anyway, a bit more wandering around and a sick realisation that I had to walk home in time for the Wimbledon Men's Final ensued.

The walk was enjoyable, though tiring after the weights and rowing and wandering about a market. And as I wound on down the road, I listened to Rumours as is my wont, my mind quizzical of the pataphysical, just as I like it. I arrived home with ten minutes to spare before the brilliant display of sporting talent on Centre Court. The result came as expected, but the play from Andy Murray was phenomenal. Unfortunately for him, Federer is the greatest player — on grass at the very least — of all time. To quote Forrest Gump: "that's all I have to say about that."

In conclusion, I had a great day. It was filled with stuff that I like, including the roast dinner I didn't mention, and I thoroughly enjoyed my second Sunday back in the land of a very old and mostly destroyed castle that we still call New.

Second Best

First of all, I'd like to thank everyone who gave me advice, sent kind words or even just took the time to read my previous post. I cannot begin to describe how much you all helped me rescue myself from the abyss in which I had spent far too much time dwelling.

I actually had other thoughts I'd like to put into words, so, without further ado, here are today's ramblings.

I'm a writer. I love words. I enjoy making riverine sentences that flow from source ideas through meandering phrases before making their final point at sea. I'm also a mathematician. I'll see a "735" on a number plate and spend a second or two finding its prime factor representation. I'm a botanist and I have to know every tree's every detail. I'm a physicist forever knowing my actions to be limited by Newton's laws. I'm a chemist, picturing the structures of each listed ingredient on a toothpaste tube. I'm a pianist tinkering on the ivories. I'm a politician representing his people. I'm a chef perfecting his recipe.

Granted, I'm not many of the above in any great way. I'm yet to contribute to the world of mathematics, so cannot count myself among the mathematicians. I've not published a novel and so I'm not a writer. I don't work in a restaurant. I cannot remember winning an election of any sort, except as a class representative in sixth form. Nobody ran against me, according to my memory. The point which I have made incredibly poorly is this:

I cannot be all of me at once.

To devote oneself entirely to a cause is to sacrifice any loyalty to any other cause. This is a concept which I could not accept for a very long time. Now, I know that I can't be the best at everything; realistically, if being the best in one field matters to me, I would sacrifice for it any time which I would have otherwise spent on becoming great in another field. As it happens, there is nothing in the world which I care about enough to disregard everything else. For the first time in my life, I can say that I don't mind being second best.

Confession

I'm so alone. I worry that nobody genuinely likes me; I worry nobody cares about me. Often, I question whether people want me to go away, to disappear, to be elsewhere or simply not to exist at all. I am terrible at reaching out to people. I alienate old friends and idealise new ones, hoping that perhaps they will be able to cure me of whatever mental ailment I have. Even now, I can't properly express anything in terms that seem human. When given the chance to express or to explain myself, I fall silent. I fail to ask anyone for help, ever. For some idiotic reason, my childhood self decided he never needed any help from anyone, ever; he decided that there was nothing he couldn't do; he decided there was no problem he couldn't fix. Well, I can't fix me. I hate being me, but I don't know how to be anything else.