Monday 31 August 2009

Dishes

*note*
to every girl i've ever had the misfortune of knowing
(kidding)
*note over*

Dishes.


dishes dishes dishes,

an endless supply,

dishes dishes dishes,

you wash and then you dry,

a woman's work is never done,

a woman's scorn is not much fun,

dishes


hoover hoover hoover,

sucking up the dust,

hoover hoover hoover,

hoovering's a must

a woman's work is never done,

a woman's scorn is not much fun,

hoover


rubbish rubbish rubbish

taking out the trash,

rubbish rubbish rubbish

it builds up in a flash

a woman's work is never done,

a woman's scorn is not much fun,

rubbish


laundry laundry laundry,

spinning round and round,

laundry, laundry laundry,

the whirry, soapy sound,

a woman's work is never done,

a woman's scorn is not much fun,

laundry


dusting dusting dusting,

the tables and the chairs,

dusting dusting dusting,

dust gets everywhere,

a woman's work is never done,

a woman's scorn is not much fun,

dusting


shopping shopping shopping,

walking round the aisles,

shopping shopping shopping,

the queues go for miles

a woman's work is never done,

a woman's scorn is not much fun,

shopping


babies babies babies

ugly little brutes

babies babies babies

ugly ugly ugly

a woman's work is never done,

a woman's scorn is not much fun,

babies?


D. I. Y.

putting up a shelf

D. I .Y

its not going to stay up

a woman's work is never done,

a woman's scorn is not much fun,

D. ishes


Tuesday 25 August 2009

other things and the search for life. final pt.

"We can't all have the same T-shirt," says Lee. Naomi Laughs.

"What about scarves?" asks Paul. I look in the mirror at my scarf. I want to tell Paul that I, too, have a scarf, but the words won't come out. My mouth is preoccupied with pushing my top front teeth against the bottom ones. My teeth are becoming looser, but all I can do is keep grinding them, almost checking to see how loose they have become. Very loose, it appears. They've started falling out and are filling my mouth and however much I spit them out, my mouth remains full. I want to say to my friends that I need to go to a dentist, but I can't speak. Actually, the whole ordeal is causing some embarrassment.


I go through the hole in the wall into my garden, where my treehouse is. There are wooden slats nailed into the tree to help me get up there, but I keep slipping when I try.


My dad's mowing the lawn.


My dad's mowing the lawn?


Wait a sec. . . My dad has a patio; no mowing required. And I'm dreaming, aren't I. Ah, that's good, I don't have to worry about my teeth. I decide to fly up to my treehouse, where I find that book! There I was looking for it in libraries like an idiot, when all the while it was in a tree, in my subconscious. Or had I found it in a library? I can't seem to locate the memory.


I look out but can't seem to see very far. The clouds are smothering the landscape. I float out of my tree, over the fence and into the road. A car comes towards me at some pace, but I mock it as it approaches - I am dreaming and I will merely rise above you before we collide. It's getting kind of close actually. I start to float above the ground but unfortunately land on the car bonnet and roll up it towards the windscreen.


Bollocks! That wasn't supposed to happen. I dismount the car and push the driver out. Ah, lucid car theft. I drive off and pull up near a young lady by the side of the road and get out.


I'm awake. Reality seems far too real, it lacks the pleasant sheen that dreams possess. I am once again bound by physical laws and it's disappointing. It's mid-afternoon, the house is cold and my scarf is in the other room. My newfound book lies to the right of my pillow. I should start reading this book, I think. Later. There's plenty of time.


Instead, I try to recollect my dream. Something about a garden? And stealing a car? Oh yeah, teeth falling out; nothing unusual about that. But noticing that my dad was mowing the lawn in a garden that hadn't belonged to us for ten years had allowed me to realise that I was dreaming, before that I had just accepted that strange reality. I start to wonder whether I have actually woken up. . . .


Well, no effortless floating towards the ceiling is occurring, I think I'm awake. But I guess the difference between life and a dream, apart from those damn physical laws, is fairly minimal; they're both finite, arguably with no personal consequences, and nothing really means anything, I'd like to think, does it? It's a comforting thought, not a scary one, I reckon. My phone buzzes and Paul, reliable fellow that he is, has invited me to another 'end of day pint'. Of course, I seize the opportunity, happy in my new found knowledge that we're all pointless. This beer will taste extra sweet.


And it's something which I intend to bear in mind when dealing with the trivial difficulties of day to day life. At the end of the day, Lee, you're a dead man; so don't run around in a mess worrying about smiling at everyone or what to do with your hands, or why you haven't been given a flyer. Of all the insignificant bullshit we have to deal with, those things are the most absurd of the lot. And yet, my time is spent contemplating those very things. Scarf in place, I leave the house, a new air of positivity surrounding me.


I decide to take things as they come, and be happy with the little things; the book that I acquired with expert skill, the beer I'm about to have, the roads that I cross with supreme prowess. And at this moment, while incidentally tackling a particularly busy road, I realise that it's the same for everyone. Some tasks are big and some are small, and the size is subjective, but everyone is searching for something; be it a book, or love, or for my keys, or for the answers. What happens during that search is called life, and I've had it all along; it never needed finding.


This epiphany releases the ton of bricks resting on my shoulders, and I express this relief with a sigh, a good sigh. No longer will I be bound to my personality; it doesn't exist, it is created by other people. I am not Lee - inept student, I am Lee - insignificant person. Just like the others. I'm wiping the slate clean and preparing myself for a new day, where I forevermore hold my head high. I have almost convinced myself. The mind doesn't hear the word 'don't'!


I'm in the park, unsure whether I am successfully kidding myself or not. It's half past four and the sun is leaving. A squirrel runs up a nearby tree and I glance to the left at a point on the path where I saw Chloe one day as I was returning from hospital. I succumb to a wave of adrenaline.


---

over

Tuesday 18 August 2009

other things and the search for life. pt.6

And as I'm reflecting on this, the following morning, I conclude that that was probably the highlight of the evening. Not long after we had left and gone home. We never saw the girls from the pub again.


Today, I will journey westwards, over the mountains and plains, to the city library. It's a half an hour walk. This book has evaded my attempts of obtaining it thus far, but today my determination has reached new levels. I will succeed in finding this book. Before leaving the house I find myself looking in the mirror, wondering if I can reduce my hostile appearance which by now I have convinced myself that I have.


I activate a big smile, which I can actually pull off quite easily, with little faking involved. I'm surprised at how genuine it looks at first., but it slowly changes, it disintegrates. My eyes stop smiling. Then my mouth changes shape, like it's struggling to find the smile it originally found so easily. I find myself staring at teeth; no emotion attached whatsoever, a void behind the eyes.


My fake smile reminds me of a big Donkey Rhubarb grinning bear. Well, if it's a choice between 'creepy huge grin' or 'bite your head off scowl', then I guess I'll go for the former. Smile at the strangers, everyone likes a happy student.


The walk to the library gives me plenty of opportunities to attempt this new approach towards interaction. First, before I've even exited my road, I see girl number one. She's quite far away so I have some time to prepare, but this turns out more a curse than a blessing. I now have too much time to think about what I have to do: when do I start my creepy smile? Do I just smile constantly until eye contact is established, or wait and start when she looks at me? That would mean activating that smile pretty quickly, and it takes a long time to get from position A: normal face, to position B: forced smile. By then she could have passed me by, walked to the other end of the road, and designed a new ecologically friendly mode of transport. And I'd be standing at the other end, grinning into empty space.


I've become sufficiently overwhelmed by the time we're at optimum distance and nothing happens, we walk past each other and go on with our lives.


As I walk I pass various places which haunt me with their connotations. They jump out of the shadows forcing unwanted memories to surface and I have to kick them out of my mind with a big mental shoe. I focus on the task at hand, no time for the past. The next important event is Girl 2, who I see a few roads down, near the church. This time it goes seamlessly. I manage to not over-think the situation and this brilliant, but probably creepy(?), smile emerges just as she looks towards me. Her response is of complete indifference, and I find this disheartening.


Why did she not smile back? Surely that's just polite. Was my smile too subtle and she hadn't noticed? Or, did she not have enough time in the moment when we were both in smiling range? Maybe, she's just like me, and she's also going over the situation in her head:

Should I have smiled back?

Theres just not enough time to respond; we're both travelling at, like, 3.5mph or something in opposite directions.

He was quite cute too. . . .


Hold on. Back to reality. Drifting in to an dangerous fantasy world there. Gotta keep standards and expectations low, it's the best way to avoid disappointment.


Occasionally the connotation ghosts which hover on street corners, reminding me of my past, come to life. This happens now; and who should it be? It's Chloe. It would seem that maybe I am still destined to randomly bump in to her on the street after all.


"Hey dude!" I exclaim, convincingly covering up my adrenaline laden symptoms, I think. It's fight or flight, but seriously, am I going to run away? No, it's too late for that, regrettably.

"Hey, Lee," she says, and we come to a stop.


She tells me about work. I tell her about university. It's all rather bland and meaningless.

"I'm going to the library. . . "

"I'm going to the train station. . . "

But another, unspoken, conversation is occurring, in body language and eye movements:

Her: Why do we have to keep bumping into each other like this?

Me: I know! No offence, but you're killing me!

Her: Sorry, but that's your fault, 'cause you're a bit of a loser, aren't you?

Me: Yeah, I should be walking you to the station, boyfriend style, shouldn't I?

Her: Can we go our separate ways now?

Me: Gladly.


"See you soon," she says, pleasantly.

"Yeah, have a nice holiday," I respond.


The library is of medium busyness and it's quite manageable. I home in on the area where my book should be. I can't remember the author's name, so I scan the shelves, head lopsided. And there it is! So, it turns out I am relying on public libraries more than the university library, and the significance of my tuition fees continues to baffle me.


But this is good; mission accomplished. I'm quite happy. The trick is, I conclude, to set yourself small tasks and bask in self-glorification when you achieve them.


I join the queue for the issue desk somewhat elated. There are five others awaiting 'library staff approval' before being allowed to leave; a process which consists of a stern judgement (based on the book(s) being borrowed), a barcode scan and return date stamp, and a wry eye. In front of me is an elderly chap who catches my eye as I join the queue.

"Hi," I say, with a genuine smile. He smiles in return. "Here we are," I continue with a contemplative sigh, " . . . in the queue."


The elderly chap gives a murmur of acknowledgement, and I decide to go on, " . . . funny isn't it? There's the six of us, all unified by the fact that we are the people in this queue, know what I mean? If nothing else, we have this in common. And our little group is part of a wider group - 'the queuers of the world!' All of us doing our bit to keep queuing alive and all of us hating every minute - united in our impatience for the people in front of us, united in our indifference towards the people behind."

"Ok mate, settle down," the chap says, and I hint a trace of impatience. This man, I am happy to realise, is immersed in the role of the 'queuer', and he's doing a sublime job. I don't talk to anyone else for the remainder of the proceedings.


I leave the library and walk home, stumbling across a man in the park sleeping half in and half out of a bush. Actually, is he sleeping? He looks quite lifeless. He must be sleeping. 'Drunk man falls asleep in bush' is a regular headline around here. One doesn't come across dead people in parks in real life, it just doesn't happen. On the back of this convincing argument I conclude that he is sleeping peacefully and checking on him would be rude and discourteous.


Down the road I round a corner to find some guy walking straight towards me, we are on course for collision, and action must be swift. I ease to the right but he mirrors the action. Our eyes lock. I dart to the left only to find he has done the same. We both laugh and somehow the third attempt allowed us to pass. All obstacles effectively overcome, I reach my house around the 1:30pm mark.

splattered gems of the day

- a dispassionate barrage of inconsequential semi-sentences captured and recorded as they travelled from bearer to recipient, but never to me.

- "i like it when you sing, it means something good."

- "they don't like stress do they, fish?"

- "the Germans would do it."

- "yeah, like gold stars."

- ". . . ranted at me, ranted at Per."

- "I used to call it West Kway!"

Tuesday 11 August 2009

some light pondering on the somewhat tenuous existence of Cash in the Attic - why do we need Cash in the Attic?

the question will continue to baffle me for at least one more episode, after which maybe all will become clear.

other things and the search for life. pt.5

All pints are at an end and we decide to go home. The never ending, slightly ironic (but with serious undertones) conversation about us three chaps being involuntarily committed to a life of solitude and emptiness continues, tongues firmly in cheek. We round a corner and who should we see, thats right, blond girl, glasses girl, and the other one! But they are not alone. They are in mid-party splendour, in the front garden of a house, smoking with various other party goers.


And whats more, they remember us! It's only been half an hour but their alcohol intake combined with our apathetic natures can't have made it easy for us to have left any kind of lasting impression. Well, apparently it did! We are being given a second chance! Going quietly into the night is an option that is slowly being clawed away from us. Damn you, Powers That Be!


"Hey! So you decided to come after all?!" It's blondey, right on cue. We slow down a bit.

"Well, we actually live down here, so . . . " laughs Lee. He's got a point.

"You have to come in for a drink, a least one," she decides, "otherwise you're not allowed past."


Ever the ones to follow instruction, we agree and go through the front door. It's a pretty healthy party. The music is of optimum volume and quality, paper cups are scattered everywhere (always a good sign) and theres loads of people. I'm leading our small group though the masses with no apparent idea where I'm going or what I'm hoping to achieve. My eyes are wide and alert as I search for some kind of clue to tell me what I should do.


We find ourselves in the kitchen, drinkless, amongst a good ten people we don't know. The girls from the pub hadn't followed us in, they are still puffing away outside. No one makes an effort to talk to us and we make no effort to talk to them. Everyone's in such heated conversation that I expect our our recent appearance has gone unnoticed. Do these people all know each other already? Or have they met tonight? They're getting on like childhood friends. Every time someone new comes into the kitchen he or she is adopted by the many and brought into the core of the conversation. I spot a book hanging out the pocket of a pair of jeans and wonder if it's some kind of rule book explaining how to interact with other humans at parties. Everyone here seems well read on the matter.


Then everyone leaves the kitchen, leaving the three of us. We start to laugh.

"This always happens!" exclaims Lee, "are we supposed to follow? Or what."

"Dunno, man, I think they all know each other, probably gone off to play Twister or some shit," Paul says.

"Well, maybe we can find something to drink," I say with some desperation. I head over to the fridge and open it. The little light flicks on revealing. . . ahh, you can always count on students. . . dirty cheap vodka! Paper cups at the ready I pour three vodkas and top them up with some nearby lemonade. Not one of us feels a twinge of guilt during this act of mindless theft, and the drink provides some much needed support.


"So, what are you up to this weekend?" says Lee to both of us.

"No plans," I reply. Paul shrugs. "You?"

"Nothing planned," says Lee, "could go out on Saturday?"

"Yeah, be a shame to end the weekly tradition." We do seem to end up in the same club every Saturday night, just us three.

"Maybe we can get a few more people to come," I say.

"Yeah, right!"


The party has come back into the kitchen. The chatting and laughing continues for another twenty minutes or so, until I find myself without a drink, opposite the fridge which now has a lone girl standing next to it. She's standing with a plastic cup staring slightly vacantly into thin air. I should say 'hi' to this girl, I think. That's quite a normal thing to do; we are at a party, after all.


I go over and open the fridge door. But, what do I say? As I unscrew the vodka I contemplate various questions or introductions - ask her why she's alone? Offer her some vodka? Each idea goes though a mental process lasting split seconds during which my brain examines it and provides quality control, omitting all items that could be considered provocative, offensive, arrogant etc.; removing all risk and leaving everything neutral. As a result, I come out with the blandest thing anyone has ever said to anyone.

"Hi, there . . . so do you, like, live here?" I amaze myself with this profound question.

"Oh!" she replies, suddenly becoming animated, "no, I know Katy who is friends with Lisa, and Lisa's boyfriend lives here. But I think the party is for someone else who lives here, it's their birthday, apparently. But I haven't seen Katy in ages, we were trying to steal other peoples' drinks and then she kind of just went away with some guys, I think there doing bongs in the other room or something."

I am in shock. This is going brilliantly! Such a committed response to the blandest question in the word. She loves me! I am on fire!

"Ah, right," I respond with infinitely less enthusiasm than intended. I am desperately searching for something else to say, anything, dammit, even the weather, come on, man. The girl looks me in the eye and executes a half smile. "I'm gonna go get another drink," she says. She stares at the floor as she walks away, through the corridor and out of site.

The inevitable sigh ensues, coupled with a strange sense of self-satisfaction. Hey, that went pretty well.

Tuesday 4 August 2009

other things and the search for life. pt.4

It's 4:30pm and I'm walking into the bar. I fall into line, purchase a reasonably priced beer and take a seat next to Naomi, one of my housemates. One table has been pushed up to another to accommodate for the growing number of drinkers, and one and all are engrossed in various art based discourse. Someone's work is rubbish, a lecture was good, and so on.


" . . . nah, didn't see that, far too post-structuralist for me."

"Yeah, but that's incidental; the Nietzschean undertones concerning religion were far more significant."

"I quite liked the detritus nature denoting industrialisation which seemed to form a more liberal view of equality than he previously presented."

"It lacked creativity, though, when you take in to account the fact that . . . "


I sit there enjoying a strange mix of awe, interest, and boredom.


My phone buzzes, Lee has sent me a message. It is 7:30 and I'm back home. We are to go to the pub at nine p.m.. Each of us in a different house, we try to recruit a few other drinkers. I initially target my housemates. Naomi gives a guilty rejection, complete with apology; Anna is on her way to bed; but Paul musters up some enthusiasm. Additionally, I send a message to Beth and wait anxiously for a reply.


Once upon a time I was inundated with messages from Beth, I was woken up with "Good Morning!" and I was left with "Goodnight xx" and a steady flow would continue in between. It was nice. Meant I could get much done for all the replying, but it was still nice. Then one day her prayers were answered and a boyfriend was sitting under the Christmas tree. Now Beth only says "Hi!" when she's alone, which is rare, and she is missed.


Still no reply from Beth. It's been ten minutes - an unthinkably long time in this modern age. Paul and I go to meet Lee at the end of the road and we see that he has also failed to convince anyone to join us.

"Hey, man," says Paul, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

"Alright, guys," replies Lee. We go to the pub. I tell Lee that I asked Beth to come for a drink, but she hadn't replied. The same thing had happened to him. We come to an interesting conclusion that we all hope is not true. It plays out as follows.


With three beers sitting comfortably in front of us I ask Lee why none of his housemates came out.

"Well, John was sitting in front of the TV and couldn't be bothered to move. I think Sarah is coming over later to see him," Sarah is John's girlfriend, "and Lee (that's right, another Lee) was in his room with Jackie, so I didn't bother them."

"I think I feel a theory coming on," chips in Paul. Lee and I look round at him with expectation. He continues, "it's almost as if everyone who has secured a partner no longer feels the need to socialise any more, they're quite happy to stay in with them instead. Like the only reason to go to the pub is to put themselves in the public domain, wait until they are chosen and job done - no more pub required."


The response is stunted. This isn't a particularly attractive idea. But, dammit, it just makes too much sense!

"Yeah, but what about Anna and Naomi? They're boyfriends aren't with them," says Lee.

"Yeah, but they're out there somewhere, allowing them to rest at ease, with no pressure to go out. It's like they're not alone even when there's no one around, because someone's got them on their mind." Paul pauses. "There's obviously exceptions, but as a general rule..."

"John and Sarah come out every so often," I counter.

"But they go home by midnight," Paul effectively argues. This is true.

"I'd like to think that if we had girlfriends then we'd still go out!" says Lee positively.

"Yeah" Paul and I respond in unison.

"But we don't need to worry about that," says I, "...never gonna happen."

We all laugh but die a little inside.


This pub is not very nice. It's the McDonalds of pubs; standardised throughout the country, an efficient machine allowing customers to pay next to nothing if they're willing to settle for low quality food and drink and no character. But it looks like it works, for here we are sipping cheap watered down beer, and Lee is contemplating a burger which contains a highly suspicious amount of beef. We walked past two quite nice looking pubs to get here, and I don't know what's going on.


Various small groups of similarly aged people are floating around, their painted on smiles exposing their shiny white teeth. Lee and Paul are quoting various TV programmes and I zone out for a second and notice a small group of girls a couple of tables down. They have three jugs of florescent toxic juice occupying most of the table. The girl with the glasses happens to glance in my direction granting me a huge smile. Sounds good but she was already smiling, it wasn't a smile intended for me.


"...Stop getting Bond wrong!" The guys are still quoting the TV, Alan Partridge by the sounds of it. This carries on for a while, various themes and subjects are discussed, with most points made taking the form of another quote. Although, the quoter rarely actually explains where the quote is from; it should be common knowledge.


The giggling girls rise to their feet around the 10:30 mark and walk past us towards the door.

"Hey, you guys should come to our party tonight!" says blonde-haired girl.

"Yeah! We're going to a party!" glasses girl joins in, "it's our party but we're not there yet!" They erupt into an ecstatic roar of laughter, and we exchange dubious glances. Lee speaks first, although their attention is not easy to maintain.

"Ah, I'm probably going to just go home after this. Got uni tomorrow and all that."


It's a pathetic response. He knows it, I know it, they know it. But I'm pretty happy with it. Getting invited to a party by three attractive girls may seem like a good thing, but. . . Wait a minute, what am I saying?


Well, they've gone. Nothing to do about it now. Just another regret to catalogue under M: Missed Opportunities. It's getting busy in there.


"Y'know," Paul begins, "I feel we have some kind of obligation to seize those kind of opportunities." The same thoughts had been going though all our minds. Lee and I give a murmur of agreement. Here we are in the pub searching for life and when it presents itself, as blatantly as it just did, we scarper away like scared hamsters.

"Yeah, I don't actually have uni tomorrow." says Lee, rolling his eyes in disappointment.

"But I'm pretty happy we're not going," continues Paul, "would have been a bit intense." Another murmur of agreement.