i say, turn that bill to ashes, for fire to dry my tears,

give me a well with water a-plenty - pennies for pails for years.

If only they had contact lenses during the Great Onion Wars of the Middle Ages - where was the mighty Specsaver then? For a true man does not cry in battle.

other things and the search for life. pt.3

Outside, the vultures still don't approach me waving a flyer. Why not? I go to clubs, I have plenty of (the state's) money (at times), and I'm your typical, fun-loving student. It must be the impression I give off, I decide. It doesn't say "give me a flyer and I'll see you at the bar." It says, "You take one step closer and I'll bite your head off!" I turn around and catch my reflection in a window. Haha! Yeah.

Oh yeah? Well, I'll tell you what, if I want a flyer I'll bloody get one. I'm gonna march right up to Dwayne or whatever his name is with his out-of-bed hair and and self-styled t-shirt and demand a flyer or else! Ah, fuck that. I don't want one, I don't want to go to the club, I just want to go into this art gallery and see my friend.

Most people have to work to earn money. Be it retail (where I reside), builder, teacher or thief. It all takes effort. But not everyone, it seems, oh no. Not one, not two, but FOUR of my friends (almost everyone I know) get to sit behind a desk in an art gallery clicking some device every time someone comes through the door. This allows them to get on with other things; uni work, if needed; reading, if your that way inclined; social networking, honing your digital personality. I go though the entrance and Lee glances up from a book, clicking his clicker right on cue.

"Alright, Lee," says I.

"Alright, Lee," says Lee, we're both called Lee. "What are you up to?"

"Just been to the library, but the book I wanted isn't there," I avoid mentioning the paranoid tendencies occurring earlier in the park for various reasons - there seems to be no solution, I am forever doomed to relate that part of the park with Chloe, thus making the conversation pointless - but apart from that, bringing up the Chloe topic only seems to make the Chloe ordeal more real, solidifying the fact that it actually happened. If I don't talk about it maybe I can convince myself it never did, can't do that if I've talked to others about it - what if they bring it up? Nope, don't subscribe to this 'get it off your chest' bullshit, store it away in a corner of your head and worry about the inevitable tumour when it happens and not before.

"Do you need it for your work?" Lee continues, referring to the book.

"Dunno," I shrug, "probably, but maybe not. Not completely sure whether I need that book at all; my essay is slowly becoming less and less focused, any other book would probably be just as beneficial. I've started to question the very validity of the essay, and in doing so question my role and purpose on this course, and as a student. . . "

"Sounds like an existentialist crisis," says Lee with a grin. Everything's an existential crisis according to Lee. It means nothing to me. "Probably go for a pint after uni if your interested," he says. "I finish work at four so . . . ."

I give an approving nod and go for a quick lap around the art gallery. Soaking up some culture, as it were. Art is in the eye of the beholder, I think to myself with a reassuring nod, which means no one is ever wrong and price tags don't mean shit. It's the user-friendly explanation.

Hmm, a pint tonight, that sounds alright. I'm looking at some blood on the wall. Art blood. I head back over to Lee.

"What are you doing tonight then?" I ask.

"Dunno," he replies, "probably do the pint in the bar and then head home, eat, and eh... well, could go for another drink later?"

"Yeah, sure," I nod. Lee nods. I nod again. "See you later."

I leave the gallery and take a moment to decide what to do now. I have four hours or so until I meet Lee and potentially a few other people. I go home.

Nothing exiting happens during these four hours, apart from various acts designed to sustain ones existence; eat, drink, watch Countdown.

a pondering on the existence of high voltage domestic lightbulbs. . . Why do we need high voltage domestic lightbulbs?

the question continues to baffle me.;

the rain that falls on the day we drift,

is apt and poignant,

but with this rain, a glass half full,

and a toast to future and past.

*note*

- to those who left on a damp grey tuesday to partake in this life thing, leaving the rest of us on the cusp for (at least) one more year.

*note over**

other things and the search for life. pt.2

I'm on the other side of the road now, walking towards the park. This is the way I walk to university and it serves many a purpose: it's the fastest way - an important factor when deciding any route from A to B; and no one else seems to walk this way - an even more important factor. I guess you could argue that it's more scenic, I don't know, fewer kebab shops but no wartime memorial.

But it is the slightly less concentrated number of students on this route that attracts me to it. Oh, how they laugh and play as they skip down the road towards another day of keen learning. Only one week ago I had seen my friend Katherine in full student guise skipping and laughing and playing as she headed towards Uni with her friends, almost unrecognisable amongst a sea of identical beings. On this occasion the obvious choice was to dart behind a dustbin and continue down the adjacent path, narrowly missing the inevitable mid-morning conversation.

It was a conversation in which I could see no positive outcome; I haven't talked to her in at least a year and nothing had happened to me since then, on any level. But that's not an acceptable answer to "So, what have you been up to?". You have to say "Well, . . . (insert activities here)." This part of the conversation would remind me of my inability to live and the connotations of the era during which I knew Katherine would only serve to remind me that life is out there and I am merely failing to find it. To escape down the magical back alley of tranquility was the only option.

Today is Tuesday and I am going to the library. My slow watch says 11:38 and the air is misty. I am hoping to pick up a book which may or may not help with my work. I turn into the park and see a pleasant icy sheen covering the grass, which I spoil as I trample over; the path goes the wrong way. Squirrels here and squirrels there. It's cold but I have a scarf.

11:38 is reasonably early to be in this position on a day during which I have no set responsibilities. The thousands and thousands of pounds I pay for higher education is spent less on lectures and seminars and more on the privilege of advice and book-borrowing as and when I need it, and the so-called 'university experience'.

My experience of this day so far started, for a brief while, when my housemates went to university a few hours before I came to life. This activity woke me from a fine dream, and although I can't remember much of it, I do remember explaining to my friend that cleaning our house was pointless and meaningless as I was dreaming and he was merely a character therein, and then promptly flying over him and away. When reality was thrust upon me, mid-flight, I certainly recognised it.

Our house is cold in the mornings, especially, it seems, in the area surrounding my bed. The shock of this inescapable temperature change combined with the knowledge that it is a long time before I can return to the bed's comfort creates a big ball of dread in my mind. I usually go back to sleep.

However, today I am in a park, outside, before midday and without obligation. Check me out, I think with some pride, unable to work out whether I'm being sarcastic or not. I can see the library peeking over the evergreens and a few people are scattered around heading in various directions. I glance to the left at a point on the path where I saw Chloe one day as I was returning from hospital. It was becoming weird because for some reason I was bumping into Chloe everywhere, each encounter resulting in the appropriate awkward conversation. The thing is, I should have been seeing Chloe this much - she was supposed to have elevated to 'My Girlfriend' status, but something hadn't been quite right and, sure enough, she had managed to get away. I never randomly see her these days but the possibility of such an event does linger in the back of my head, causing a quiet concern.

Especially in this area of the park. But the coast is clear and I'm on the final stretch leading up to the library. One more road to negotiate but I handle it with ease, experienced road-crosser that I have become. Some students are lingering like vultures outside the library clutching flyers for local clubs. Two things can happen: the vulture tries to give me a flyer while he/she unleashes a stream of encouraging and persuasive small talk designed to convince me to hurry off to the club in question post-haste, leaving options A. Force Smile and Accept Flyer, B. Do Not Force Smile and Accept Flyer, and C. Do Not Force Smile and Do Not Accept Flyer. Or, the second option, he/she looks me up and down, judges accordingly and decides I am not an appropriate target, hence I am not required to pick one of the above choices. This could be because of looks and attitude deemed unsuitable for the club or the possibility that I am unapproachable because I'm giving off an ill-tempered impression.

But, hey, today's going well and I'm feeling amiable so I think I'll go for option A, should it present itself. Wait, I'm in the library foyer, sans flyer, and I realise I have already passed them. I assume scenario two played out. I walk through the turnstile and ascend the stairs. The library is a busy place, even this early in the morning, and fellow students with bags and books circulate enthusiastically, mental sieves at the ready.

I have to walk across a room lined with tables, chairs and people to get to the book I need, a task equally as daunting and dangerous as crossing those roads. My style of walking comes into question, as does the dilemma of what to do with my hands. My eyes shift from person to person: hot girl, hot girl, bloke, hot girl, etc. I reach the bookcase I will be dealing with today only to find the book I want is not there. I activate 'indifference mode' and leave the library.

a ponderning on the existence of pot pourri. . . why do we need pot pourri?

the question continues to baffle me.

other things and the search for life. Pt.1

I'm in the middle of reminding myself that our brains don't recognise the word 'don't' when this train of thought is disrupted by a man falling off his bike, a result of his collision with a car. Far as I can tell he figured that he needn't slow down to join the main road as the car coming to his right was going sufficiently fast so as to pass him before he made his exit. However, my input on the situation had changed matters, for I had just started my short journey over a zebra crossing and the speeding car was entitled to stop to let me pass. This was something the cyclist had not planned for: the hasty deceleration of the car.

Sure enough, the car had stopped in time - allowing me to cross the road safely - but, alas, the bike hadn't. Neither had the guy on the bike who felt the full brunt of the car's glossy steel and then the concrete.

I carry on over the crossing but my attention has shifted from theories of 'positive thinking' to a slight concern for the fallen cyclist, a concern which I assume is shared by the the driver of the car. He promptly exits his car and circumnavigates it, although apparently not checking on the cyclist but checking for dents. Turns out this is his foremost concern.

Ah, but the fallen comrade is fine and he has risen looking more embarrassed than injured. My journey takes me in the other direction and I lose track of the developing situation. Did the driver find a dent, and if so does he blame the cyclist for said dent? Would the cyclist contest this judgement? And what about the woman with the dog on the corner, what did she think?

Another good point, I realise, is "What do I think?" I saw the whole thing and was arguably partly responsible - although not in any way wrong, let's establish that fact. Blimey, this whole thing could go to court and my testimony could be paramount in finding justice!

But by now I have rounded the corner and I am reaching for that button which summons the green man who will guide me safely across another road. I have become sufficiently impressed with the system we pedestrians rely on for navigating the busy roads; it works for us, maybe not so for cyclists. . . . Oh yeah, the cyclist! Well, I'm sure my contribution to the 'cyclist hits side of car' dilemma would offer no solutions and I commit it to my short term memory, hopefully to not linger around for much longer than a few hours - I may need the mind space for other, more important, memories.

The road I am crossing now was a road I attempted to cross a couple of weeks ago only to find myself stopping halfway as a car skidded towards me. In retrospect, stopping was less wise than carrying on. Had the car not skidded to a halt then my stationary position would have put me right in it's cross-hairs, if I'd carried on it may have only clipped a leg. Didn't matter; he stopped, my pride was hurt, everyone saw - the green man had not been present.

In fact, a couple of weeks ago was a bad week in terms of near misses of the automobile variety. If memory serves me correctly I totalled up four near-death experiences; two cars, one bus and one bicycle (admittedly not an 'automobile', as such) occurring on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday respectively. On Thursday I didn't go out, but did have a run-in with a cupboard door.

In terms of 'me almost dying' this had been a week of unparalleled proportions and had led me to wonder why it was happening. Was it 'meant to be'? Nah, I didn't buy that. Did I have an unconscious death wish? It is more plausible, but I wasn't convinced - I didn't want to die. At least consciously I didn't want to die. Were my enemies co-ordinating an intricate plan to terminate me? That question posed more questions - what enemies? And would I be worth the amount of effort it takes to effectively remove someone? It was a strangely flattering idea, but one not to be taken seriously.

That left me with 1. Coincidence - very likely, and 2. Mind On Other Things - also very likely. And my mind had been on other things, other things which I will try not to talk about in any detail whatsoever.

Oh, Other Things, how thou bends mine mind into shapes unrecognisable.