weird and important

Perry the frog

2012-02-27T18:36:00.001Z

Pery the frog, a photo by anxiousgeek on Flickr.

The newest addition to the flat, Perry.

Lent

2012-02-23T16:27:00.000Z

This post is brought to you by pie and chips. And two cans of Diet Coke.

So it's lent. And by Lent I mean Lent, with a capital L, not the slang 'I lent on a wall', or 'I lent somebody money last night', but let's arbitrarily give up the things we like because we all went to CofE primary schools when we were kids and well, that's what were brought up to do, or try. Or at least we were told about and watch our parents so the same. Or not.

At least this is the case for some people.

For some people it's an actual thing. An important thing they put effort into. Which is fair enough. Lent is about the self denial of luxuries, as Jesus fasted for forty days for some reason I'm not entirely sure of. as you might have guessed, not only am I not really religious, I didn't actually go to many of my R.E lessons in secondary school. Or pay attention to the ones I did go to. Or remain conscious through them. R.E was a basically a 45 minute nap in the middle of the day, or a bunk of in the toilets with my mates. I was never Christened. I don't think my mum was bothered either way, and my dad was really against it, cause he's a bit mental. I was always surprised he didn't have us Christened cause it seems to be a good reason for a piss-up (just like Jesus intended...apparently), and he always likes a good piss-up. Though, he's never needed a reason, so never mind.

If anything, I'm a little Agnostic, I like the idea of there being a 'something or someone'; and I believe in reincarnation, but I don't like religions as a whole. I don't like rules as a whole actually. If you're Christian, Catholic, Muslim, Buddhist, Sikh, etc, then I respect that decision; in fact, I admire it, takes a lot to be religious, to have faith in something. It's just not for me. Religion fascinates me, I just don't have faith.

So why am I giving up chocolate for Lent?

I try every year. I have tried something most years since I was a teenager cause I went to CofE schools, before multiculturalism (and lived in rural Wales), and just did, for no real reason. Chocolate seems like the way to go, even though, the real devil in my life is caffeine. Diet coke to be exact. That's what's going to kill me, that's what I should give up; but that's more of a come-down, slow withdrawal kind of deal. If I want to survive it, and if other people want to survive it, coming of diet coke is going to have to be a long process. Like coming off the Seroxat; but that's a different issue.

So chocolate it is.

Now I give it up because, well, because of habit, and because my best friend is Catholic and my girlfriend is Presbyterian and they give up anything remotely interesting every year because they do have faith; while simultaneously creating a shrine of chocolate over the forty days and gorging themselves into a sugar and coaca induced coma on Easter Sunday.

Okay some of that may be exaggeration.

Last year I managed three days; which is no exaggeration, I promise you, and this year I almost forgot twice in one day. I have no will power whatsoever; not just at Lent, or with chocolate, but in general. No will power and no patience. I always try though, and I like to think that counts for something; and if I am wrong, and I'm not reincarnated into a snake (or, hopefully, a fat hamster), and I end up being judged by a God (or Gods), then at least I can say tried.

Right before I'm sent to hell for the sex, drugs, rock and roll and general heathenism.

A hamster on a cat.

2012-02-19T21:02:00.000Z

This post delivers exactly what the title promises.

The cat's an idiot, the hamster is insane.

Productivity (sort of)

2012-02-19T01:03:00.001Z

I'm pretty sure I've made a post about this before, but I am not a particularly productive person. And by not particularly, I mean not at all.

It's not completely in my control. I tend to lose track of time easily, get distracted easily and general don't do things. Less so when I'm ill. Like now. I've got this head cold, which is awful in the morning, and sort of eases up during the day (afternoon), by which time I've settled on the sofa (or the computer, or both) and don't even consider moving cause I'm ill. Or I'm caught up in an internet bubble or a marathon of dodgy action films. I watched Minoirty Report and the first three Mission Impossible films. And these are films I am apathetic about, but are easy on the brain. Well, sort of, they're easy on the brain if you don't actually pay much attention and don't care what's actually happening (I still know what happens in Mission Impossible 2). Also I've seen them a few times now, so it's all mostly gone in.

Sort of.

Anyway, instead of being productive, or even a capable member of society, I've just sort of slumped into old habits and therefore creating more problems for myself. (more mess, mostly).

Basically I have moved as much as the cat has over the past two or three days. Every few hours or so Micky moves from sleeping on the radiator to sleeping on the sofa, then back again. I move from bed to the sofa and back again. Occasionally I go to the Spar for food. I'm pretty sure this was how I lived my life when I moved to Aberystwyth over two years ago. This is not good. Yesterday I was okay about it, because I was ill, today I'm a bit depressed about it, because (despite still being ill), I feel a bit hopeless. The cat was starving (well, if he was he didn't let on) cause I slept in 'til two in the afternoon today, the flat is a mess cause I'm just filling it will junk and I am at the end of my clean socks cause I was supposed to do the laundry.

The thing is, the difference is, that this is a blip. That this won't last for more than a few days, instead of a few weeks (or months). And it won't get worse. I'll get to the laundrette, and work on my to do list, it'll just take me a little longer to finish it than I had originally intended.

Which was always going to be the outcome, head cold or not. I tend to work on different schedules to the rest of the world.

Frustration and Light

2012-02-02T18:42:00.000Z

I am frustration and light,
censored by time
scraping through
never sleeping too soundly
always waiting for the next day,
racing.

Those uncensored mere months-
before apathy holds the memories
and the lies are remembered
-are picked apart and retold
in the darkness.

r.l.w

Finishing

2012-01-30T21:44:00.000Z

This year, there are a few things I would like to do; like swim more and other things I haven't thought of yet, but mainly I would like to finish my novel.

I've been working on one novel or another since I was about nineteen years old, and I'm turning thirty this year and I've yet to finish a single one. It's quite a depressing realisation actually, that in all that time, I've finished nothing. When people talk about what they accomplished in their lives, and when I think about what I've accomplished, it doesn't matter what else I have or haven't done, the fact that I haven't written a novel really gets to me. There are so many shit novels for sale, and I haven't even finished any of my shit novels. Nor have I had a volume of poetry published by someone, but this year I feel like focusing on my failure in the novel section of the bookshop.

Most of my novels that I've started, I started for NaNoWriMo and wrote increasingly more words for that every year, but on a new idea every year I did it. The year I won, was 2009, it's now 2012, and since write 50,000 words of that novel I've added about another 6000 words to it.

Depressing.

This is the novel I would like to finish this year, called Displacement, which is a sci-fi novel. Seeing as I'm already half way through, and I've enjoyed writing it, I would like to carry on and finish it. Like I said, theres 56,000-ish words, and a good chunk of the book left to go, and while I have said before that'll I'll work on it, I feel a bit differently about the effort I want to put in to it this year. I want to finish it so badly. I want to finish something.

My other novels aren't all sci-fi. Okay, they nearly all are to some degree, except, Pink Sunglasses, which I started so long ago, it doesn't even seem like the same person wrote it. Though, to be, I'm not the same person as back then. Or as in 2009, but we'll see how this goes. The other novels currently range from about 9,000 words to 20,000; I'm hoping that once one is finished, once I get into this habit of a writing routine (or something like that), I'll be able to finish the others. Cause Perfect Harmony has been an idea I've had since I was seventeen, and I'd really, really like to finish that just for my own satisfaction.

Anyway, we'll see how this goes. Firstly, I have to re-read the already written half of Displacement so i can remember what happened, where I left off, and get back into my characters heads.

Stars Burn

2012-01-28T19:13:00.000Z

This is tattoo number nine. A few years ago I wrote this poem;

Stars Burn

Stars burn your fingertips
and mine,
and I've told a lie
for every star in the sky
with no regrets,
or realisation
of the consequences.

and kinda liked the phrase (words?) and used them for all sorts of things. Including a domain which I still have. So I liked it so much I had it tattooed on my back forever. In a place I can quite reach, so my girlfriend is gonna have to help me take care of it.

My plan, in the long term, is to have stars trailing from my neck down my back, over my hip, around my leg and down to my ankle. That will take a while though, and there are a few more tattoos I want before then.

Aberystwyth

2012-01-26T23:19:00.001Z

The main highstreet.

Aberystwyth is falling apart.

At least it certainly feels like that sometimes.

I've had a few discussions about this over the past few weeks, but have been unable to pinpoint exactly what is wrong, or what has been going wrong recently.

Another shop closed down this week. The Don, which has been in Aberystwyth since I moved here the first time around when I was ten years old. It wont be the last though, I'm sure. A newsagents went just before it, and Bon Marche is closing down, and Peacocks is in jeopardy. On Terrace road, every other shop almost is empty. Some have been empty for years and years. Some were empty when I moved back two years ago, some have closed since then. The National Milk Bar, which was there before I moved in 92, closed down last year. The off-licence has been closed since before I moved back two years ago, longer since. The Air Ambulance Charity Shop, took in a quarter of a million pounds while it was open, but was closed down anyway.

Slowly the town will just be chain shops, massive supermarkets and pubs. It'll have no character what so ever.

These are the just the shop closures. The council is closing down the Day Centre purpose built for the elderly, and the health board wants to close down a lot of the services at Bronglais hospital.

And after that there is this sense of something in the people. There aren't enough houses or homes for the residents, and not enough housing for the students. And there was way, way too many students. There are more students than residents, and while I don't blame them for everything; cause there are certainly enough residents in Aberystwyth that cause trouble(one way or another), but as discussed between me and my girlfriend not all of the students care about Aberystwyth, what happens here. They're kids (no offence), they're here for half the year, and only three years, and then gone again. Caring about the state of the town in the long term is not high on their priorities. And it probably shouldn't be, it's up to us residents to look after the place, but the students could help a little.

And more residents could take an interest. Voting, signing petitions, the protests, letters to councillors and MPs, there are a lot of things that could be done that don't take very long or much effort.

On top of all there, there are other bits and bobs. Like the rubbish. I understand why the country and our own council changed to fortnightly bin collections but at the same time, well, we have seagulls. There like seaside foxes. They rummage through your rubbish and rip apart your bin bags. It's insane. And some people have to put their bins out on a main(ish) road, and the rubbish can get spread a long way by the seagulls or the wind (this is Wales after all).

So there's the rubbish, and building work that never gets finished; library was supposed to be relocated but the refurbishment to the new building has been going on for a looooooooooooog time; by time it's finished we're gonna need another upgrade and don't get me started on the hospital.

All of these things (and some I can't think of right now) have created a feeling that there is something wrong with Aberystwyth.

Which makes me terribly sad because I love this town. I was desperate to move back to Wales, to be closer to my family, and I could've looked for some anywhere to live from Aberystwyth to Aberaeron, but I wanted to like her in Aberystwyth, I have always loved this town, even when I first moved here as a kid. I consider Wales my home, even when I was in Leicester, and it's sad to feel this way about the town.

I hope it things improve. I really do, and I will continue to do my part (like voting, writing letters, blog posts, stopping the seagulls from getting at my bins), because I don't really want to move. I'm settled here.

I'm happy here.

(picture from wales-online)

January

2012-01-25T00:35:00.000Z

So I don't really do New Years, or New Years Eve, or New Years Resolutions.

Or Janurary.

For me the year starts in February, or whenever I start feeling better towards the end of January. I'm sure I've mentioned (rambled about) my thing with new years before; this blog has been going since at least 2006 (on one platform or another).

So as usual, first week or so was awful, for various reasons, but it's picked up. Insanely well.

It's been a whole year since I last self-harmed. Also from a bad new years, bad by it's mere existence. Since then I've managed. I've coped. At least, I've coped without cutting myself. I do cope relatively well with the world, even at it's worst, or my worst. I still like to hide out, though not for as long. I still have panic attacks. It's all manageable though. I get through and I live my life.

I have also been discharged from mental health services.

Now, this is big, I mean, not self-harming for a year is awesome, though I do not quite feel the pride others seem to think I should, but getting discharged is something else. I think I first got referred to a psychiatrist when I was still at DMU, so I was about 20. So I've been in the system for almost ten years. And you don't even realise it, don't even realise how much time goes by, a lot of it without any progress. So much time in the system gets lost to just trying to get the right help. More time is spent trying to get help at all, than actually getting help.

Then sometimes, the strangest thing happens, you're discharged.

It's pretty awesome.

And it's still January.

At Devil's Bridge xvi

2012-01-13T15:20:00.001Z

At Devil's Bridge xvi, a photo by anxiousgeek on Flickr.

Poetry - Refinement

2012-01-02T23:58:00.000Z

Refinement

He used to beat me to the rhythm

of an iambic pentameter

but I never knew which poem

went through his mind as he

bruised mine.

He drank port and listened to opera

and screamed at me in time to

either Bartok or Wagner.

He was refined in his abuse

but I never did appreciate it,

not like he wanted, not the Dante

or the Fouette kicks.

I appreciate books,

now they're not being

smashed against my skull.

r.l.w

I realised I never posted the finished poem I started in this blog post.

Peasant Cat

2011-12-30T21:45:00.000Z

"No, is mine."

My cat is a peasant.

He has a perfectly good life; in fact, considering that a couple of months ago he was living on the streets of Aberystwyth, he has a bloody brilliant life. When I found him he was a skinny thing, with a pinched face, and rotting teeth and a funny walk. Now his back legs are on occasion still a little dodgy, and he's not exactly fat, but he's put on weight and his mouth isn't falling to bits any more. Though his tongue hangs out randomly and he is pretty derpy.

My flat is warm, he has two boxes full of old clothes, he sleeps on my bed, on the sofa. He has food to eat, milk to drink, hamsters to fantasize about. He gets fusses, brushed, treats and hugs.

He lives a good life.

He is still a peasant.

It's not his fault really, none of us would ever really consider him a peasant cat if we hadn't taken him on a cat play date.

Sky also plays the Sims.

Sky is a queen of cats.

She's also a rescue, she was in really bad shape when she was found, but now is back to full health and is looking great. She's also a Ragdoll, which is apparently a posh breed of cat. She certainly acts that way.

She has lots of toys, and posh food, and worshippers who bow down before her while she sits on her cat-tree throne (honest).

Compared to her, Micky is a peasant.

Hell most people and animals are peasants compared to Queen Sky.

The first couple of times I took Micky over to Sky's flat, she wouldn't give him the time of day. Hell she wouldn't even be in the same room as her. Micky didn't really notice, he did a circuit of the living room, ate whatever food she hadn't eaten and then went to sleep on the carpet. Same thing both visits, he went straight for the food, then the catnip (he has catnip toys here) and then to sleep and Sky avoided him like the plague.

He then had to return to the wicked witches flat (i.e, my flat), with the laminate wood floor and inferior food.

Initially, the 'dates' were just because I needed Micky out of the flat, but we decided to continue to try and get the cats to make friends. And while it's probably easier than getting Micky to make friends with my hamster She-Ra, it's not too easy.

There has been mostly staring, Sky gives everyone the same look she gives Micky. It's the 'you are scum compared to me' look. She's bigger than Micky, and younger, and fitter, and shouldn't really be afraid of him. So they did a lot of staring, it's a work in progress. Micky jumped on sky and they screeched a bit for like two seconds, but mostly...staring.

Anyway, we will see how things progress. Now we have started our cat integration, we will probably continue and perhaps the Queen will allow the peasant an audience.

Graffiti Artist

2011-12-22T17:22:00.001Z

Aber sticker art 2, a photo by anxiousgeek on Flickr.

Meh-rry Xmas

2011-12-17T23:34:00.001Z

The following video will sum up how I feel about Christmas:

Yes, I have an intense burning indifference to it. Which is an improvement on how I used to feel about it. I used to hate it, dread it, and now I just feel apathetic towards it, and just dread new years eve instead, for reasons I won't go into right now.

I assume I liked it as a kid, a little kid, I just can't remember that far back (or as far back as last week), but from the ages of ten to eighteen, it got a bit depressing. It was always the same, got up, presents, chocolate, nan cooked dinner, dad went to the pub and was late for dinner, gramps washed up while dad and nan feel asleep and we watched the Eastenders xmas special in which someone died, and all the other specials were all the same. And we never got to see mum.

Then when I turned eighteen and spent xmas with other people, I just spent it drunk. From about eleven to midnight I drank. Even when I worked on Boxing Day. Though I usually chose to work on New Years Day so I wouldn't be able to drink New Years Eve and wouldn't be drunk, depressed and dangerous. Didn't always go that way, but anyway; beer, chocolate, beer.

The last few years have been better, much better. I spent on xmas eve with my sister, stayed over night and was with my nephew when he opened his presents. It was like five am, but totally worth. I've spent xmas with my mum for the first time in over fifteen years. Actually enjoyed it. Actually had xmas decorations up in my flat, before the last week of December. Volutarily had xmas decorations up.

It's a work in progress I think, like everything else in my life, slow works in progress. Two steps forward and one step back, and other clichés like that. Apathy's better than dread anyday.

When I'm up to like, I'll deal with my issue with New Years.

Questions

2011-12-04T22:06:00.000Z

Gramps couldn't swim.

He told us he was in the Navy, but never mentioned how he was in fact in the Marines. The fact that he was in the Navy but couldn't swim was a running family joke for years and years; though it didn't keep him out of the water. He would take us swimming regardless, standing up to his waist in the water and watching us from that point.

There is so much to my granddad that is lost now he's dead; I know more than most, having spent most late nights sitting up and drinking tea with him while we suffered with our insomnia.

What I do know is that it didn't matter that he couldn't swim.

He did his training with the Royal Marine Light Infantry in Portsmouth at just nineteen, and he'd trained as a fitter's mate before that. And he was short, for a man, for the man I remember, just five foot five back then. He must've had a final growth spurt during his time in the marines. Portsmouth was also home to the RM Artillery Division; and up to two thousand men were stationed during the second world war. My granddad was just a face in the crowd in the barracks, but became a mystery to his family, and one of the most important people to me, how strange it seems, that everyone probably has a granddad like this, that served in the second world war, perhaps without distinction, but I find these pieces of information about him fascinating. I knew so little about him when he was alive, even though I knew more than the rest of my family.

I find it hard to think of my granddad that way. I find it hard to think of him a young man, with hair. Healthy even, without his mild hypochondria, or with the feeling in his right hand, and all his hearing. It's hard to imagine the strongest man I knew, as a short teenager, with a thick cockney accent. Was he shy? Was he a joker? Did he sign up with friends? Did he sign up to the navy because his own father was in the navy? So many questions still unanswered.

He never actually served on a ship, and never went over seas. After his time at Portsmouth, he served at HMS Proserpine, which was the main navel base, situated in Orkney, Scotland. He didn't need to swim, he wasn't never in a position where he was going to sink. He was in the Royal Marine Engineers, probably due to him being trained as a Fitter's Mate when he was younger and would've worked on artillery, machinery and aircraft.

Is this where he got his tattoo? Which was just the word Cymru written on his right forearm; he was born in Newport. As search more and more into his time in the Marines, I find more questions I wish I had asked, more I wish I could remember from our late night talks. He was injured was given a medical discharge, but he never told me how he felt about that, or even what happened. He didn't like to talk about it at all, even with me.

Those fantasy dinner parties? Those questions of the one person you would like to talk to dead or alive? I rarely think of famous people, I would like to talk my gramps again, I have so many more questions to ask, and now I'm older I want to take it all in, instead of half-listen like I did sometimes when I was a teenager.

When did he lose his cockney accent? Why did he move to Coventry after the war?

Why did he never learn to swim?

At least I know some things, at least I know some of the whens and wheres of my grandfather.

Poetry - Make-Up

2011-11-30T21:50:00.001Z

Make-Up

Beige plastered over pale skin
it's disappointing,
no blush of cheek,
no stretch of smile,
no wrinkles at your eye.
Blemishes gone, with freckles
and so are you.
Eyes black under layers of colour
something's hidden, almost lost
that you might not get back.
The morning comes with
smudges and smears
and we're left wondering
what it is you regret
when you put the mask of make-up
back on again.

r.l.w

Semi-Colon Conundrum

2011-11-27T11:20:00.001Z

I swear I learnt nothing in school, or I have forgotten everything and in the eleven years since I left school (though, to be honest, I'm not sure those last two years really count either), I haven't really learnt much new either.

Nothing academic at least, I've learnt lots of other stuff, that well, is good for parts of writing, the imagination and information and the likes, but less so for the technical parts of writing.

My example? The semi-colon.

;

I don't use enough of them, and when I do use them, mostly I'm bluffing and hoping that's where you put a semi-colon. Which is how I tried to get through my physics A-Level, but apparently bluffing only works at G.C.S.E level, because I'll be dammed if I actually knew enough Biology to get a C grade. Or enough Welsh Lit. to get a C. Anyway, back to my point, I use a lot of commas, and apparently, this is bad, cause sometimes I should be using semi-colons. Which is fine, I'm learning, I will learn and there will be less commas in my essays, portfolios, fanfics and blog posts as time goes on I'm sure.

That's the point, because I can learn about comma splices and semi-colons and other grammatical thingamabob's (technical term), the point is, I do not remember any of this from school. I really don't remember being taught this in school in English. I remember doing Macbeth, and the Lady Of Shallot, and making jokes about the song 'Hit me with your Rhythm sticks' and little else. And that was the G.C.S.E years. Even less from before then.

I swear I'm not going senile at 29, I've just always had a bad memory. I've blocked a lot of bad stuff out, and in the course of doing that (subconsciously at least), a whole lot of other stuff is just a black wall as well. That's how I see it in my head, this black wall of nothingness. Where I'm missing a whole load of stuff.

Like when I was taught about commas and stuff. If I was taught about that stuff. I do wonder about my education sometimes. Especially when I moved to Wales and fell behind in somethings, like maths in particular because three days a week for six months, I was taken out of primary school to go to the secondary school to learn Welsh.

I get that learning Welsh is important, I'm glad I knew Welsh (I forgot most of it living in Leicester), and it is needed in this part of the country for school (and life in general) but I'm pretty sure maths is important too. At least that's what they kept telling me in school. And I'm not a dunce at maths, I have this weird thing where I used to be able to manage equations and some complicated maths but struggle to 5+9 in my head. Anyway, so I'm not an idiot, not a maths dunce, but I missed a lot of maths and can't do division on paper, which annoys me, and a few other things I was just behind on. I remember that quite clearly, and while maths is far from my favourite subject, when every maths teacher you have in school bleats the importance of pointless equations to you (it's all lies kids) and all that bollocks (oh the lies!), you kinda take note of the fact you missed a shit load of maths and while you're forgetting bad stuff, you remember other less important stuff instead, like how you were screwed out of some of your education even though you don't actually care, cause you never liked maths, it just helps with the story.

Anyway, I've lost the thread of this slightly haven't I?

I must've learnt somethings in school, I'm not a gibbering idiot, I just can't remember much of it. I remember not wearing shoes for the last few years and wearing black trainers. I remember talking about the X-Files during most of GCSE Biology. And other inconsequential things like that (well, inconsequential depends on who you ask). I don't remember any bloody grammar lessons though.

Though I don't remember any history (I've learnt more since leaving school), geography (I know the route from Aberystwyth to Leicester off by heart though), chemistry (though I have finally learnt how to spell it), physics (except "Oh gravity, thou art a heartless bitch"), biology (well, the boring kind anyway), art (only been able to draw, etc, over the past couple of years), and I can't remember what else I did in school aside from learn to play pool, poker and sleep through physics (though that was mostly the anti-histamines).

Anyway, I will learn to use semi-colons (not today, it's Sunday, I can't learn anything on a Sunday, less so when my eight-year-old nephew is here demanding my attention. Tomorrow, I'll learn about semi-colons tomorrow.

And how to format my paragraphs properly, more important than when I'm writing fanfiction. Apparently.

Cat vs. Hamster: Score Draw

2011-11-25T13:15:00.000Z

Er....Cats and rodents do not mix. You know this, I know this, the cats and the rodents know this, yet...I have a cat (half a cat) and two hamsters.

Like nothing happened.

Last week, Micky, the cat, had absolutely no interest in She-Ra what so ever. None, he was interested in sleeping and milk, which I quite like in a cat (if there is anything in a cat to like at all). I showed him She-Ra, they sniffed each other, the hamster wanted to bite the cat, the cat wanted me to give him some fuss. Excellent. The cat has no teeth anyway, what the hell is he going to do with a hamster, suck it to death?

Sort of.

He's got a bit more energy, but still isn't interested in food much (he had some fish, but doesn't even want that any more). He's been sitting on one of my chairs, and my computer tower, so he can look in on Small Fry's cage, to watch him running around. She-Ra sleeps more and is not quite cat-accesable.

(Remind me again why I have a cat??)

Anyway, so, I got She-Ra out for some fuss, and dropped her.

Wait, don't panic! I've dropped her before and she's jumped from higher heights than the four feet she went flying. Because she's so small, her terminal velocity is a lot smaller than that of a human. In other words, hamsters are fine when dropped accidently. Actually usually this is a good thing, cause all they need to do is get their bearins before making a run for it, which is what She-Ra usually does.

Usually.

Like nothing happened.

You know, when there is a hungry cat a few inches away.

In an impressive show if speed that I hadn't thought the cat capable of, he had the hamster in his mouth.

Thing is, Micky has two teeth; his front two canines. He looks a little bit like a vampire cat. So while he could get the top teeth into the hamster, well, one of them, there was nothing else to use to hold onto the hamster, and nothing to kill or chew on it with. It was pretty easy to pull the hamster free. Make that really easy.

The hamster didn't squeak or squeal like it has done on the odd occasion, like Small Fry has done when hurt, she was just the same as always. Except with a hole in her side, just underneath her right fore-leg. A hole that didn't even bleed, was just a bit red, and mostly I got the impression just made her want to bite the cat ever more than she probably wanted to do in the first place.

I put her back in her cage, she got a treat.

The cat got a smack on the head. While the Engineer's Guide To Cats, advocates Corperal Cuddling, I'm pretty sure that annoying the hell out of a cat is not punishment enough when a cat has tried to eat your hamster.

Neither animal has really learnt anything, or is really acting like anything has happened, bad or otherwise, despite any wonunds, but there have been wounds. Definitely a Score Draw*.

I have learnt to keep these animals away from each other before someone looses a paw. And between then they only have three good eyes and one whole set of teeth as it is.

* N.B - Score Draw is a reference to football, when a game is drawn, and but both teams get at least one goal in. Also a reference to the Pools, where you would bet in the outcome of matches every week, like my gramps and dad did, unsuccessfully for the most part. When matches were cancelled or postponed, an educated guess would be made on the outcome.

Crisis Care?

2011-11-23T22:18:00.001Z

This week, Mind publishes its report and recommendations on acute and crisis mental health care and promotes them to Parliament and the Welsh Assembly.

For the past year, Mind has been investigating the state of crisis care for people with mental health problems, whether it's good or bad (the care, not the mental health). I say bad, every time. Well, I did before I moved back to Aberystwyth. My mental health hasn't been in crisis really, just once, but I know what outlets are available to me. Once in the past few months there was talk of having me referred to the crisis team, but I baulked at the mere mention and I improved over the next fortnight or so without them.

I baulked because my own experience with the crisis team in Leicester has been less than stellar.

Leicester's a big place, lots of people, lot of people in need of care, whether in a crisis or not. So it's never going to be perfect, but it should be better. Regardless of the need, care shouldn't be so hit and miss, whether it's for physical health or mental health. But then, we're lucky to have any health care at all, so should we be complaining at all. I find it a bit of a double edged sword, but then, when I'm sitting in the corner of my flat rocking back and forth and crying and considering cutting for the first time in months, none of it matters; all I need is help. Care.

I didn't always get it.

A lot of the time I just got prescriptions from the crisis team, for medication I was already taking, so basically they were making sure I was actually taking my meds. Which is fine, except at that point I was mostly using my meds for non-fatal overdoses (my psychiatrist at the time called them para-suicide attempts) and helping me get to sleep after a lot of beer and some self-harm. So not quite what I needed.

What else I got from the crisis team were threats of thepolice if you don't answer the door, and hospitalisation. The crisis team are only involved for two weeks, and then, if you're not 'better', not out of the crisis, then, to hospital with you. And that is not always the most conducive of environments, not even the safest of environments. People still hurt themselves while on mental health wards, still kill themselves. Hospital wards can do more harm than good. Even before the stories I heard, even before my friend killed herself, I was aware going to hospital was a bad idea.

But that was the choice I had, more drugs or hospitalisation. Of course, this is just my experience, and my experience with the crisis team. I've been to A & E a few times, never a brilliant reception there, but I feel that's another post, for another day.

I guess the point is that I didn't feel like this was 'care' but more the bare minimum to keep me alive, before I'm passed on to someone else, and I had to fight to get the help I needed to improve my mental health and live without self harm. We should get more than the bare minimum that the NHS decides we need, that the doctors decide we need, because so often they're not motivated by the right things. The NHS is motivated by money, too many doctors are motivated by targets, and all I ever really wanted was some help in those moments when even breathing was difficult. That's all anyone really wants, no to have to jump through the hoops.

Anyway, check out the campaign here.

Tattoo Number Eight

2011-11-17T23:54:00.000Z

This is my eighth tattoo, a little tv-heart, that I drew myself, as a doodle, and had tattooed cause I'm a geek.

Do you think that eight tattoos is a lot? I don't, mostly, I suppose because I've seen a lot of people with a loooooooooot more tattoos. Not just arm sleeves, but full body tattoos, guys with tattoos covering their entire heads. Eight is nothing.

I do have more planned, at least another five in the pipe-line, including a big one down my back. So I know I sound addicted, and maybe I am. It's hard to tell anymore. Not just the tattoos, but addictions and obsessions in general. They've become the norm in some ways, so it's hard to separate it all out. But that's another post.

I got my first tattoo at 19, when my friends had to walk me to the tattoo parlour. And by walk, I mean drag me, in a scene reminiscent of when I had to get my meningitis jab at 17. I had a huge needle phobia back then, and didn't see the difference between the two. Needles are needles basically. Or at least they were. For a while I went through a confusing period (confusing for others, not for me) of having no problem with tattoo needles, but the mere thought of a blood test causing me to run and hide.

Anyway, those days are past and I have no fear of either.

Between 19 and 29, I've had another seven tattoos. One I got today, one I got not long after my niece was born last year, and the others...well, sometime before that. I got one just before I moved back to Wales, and one when I was back in Wales, but the other three, well, I'm a little sketchy on the details.My time in Leicester, like everything else, is become one long blur of events that I can put into order, but can't quite tell you the exact when. Or even the rough when really. My mind is a shocking place, mostly mush, and a lot of my life isjust blank. Black. I could do with a Tok'ra memory recall device from Stargate SG-1 (click the link for an explanation of that one). It would be really good in exams. And generally in everyday life. For me at least.

We've moved away from tattoos and onto my appaling memory, which I'm sure I've written about before but don't remember. I will, in time, make a page with photos of all my tattoos (so far), but not tonight. Now I'm going to sleep, cause well, that was my intention when I got in, but figured I would finish this post (I started it around 4pm), with a brew, and then sleep. Or try to sleep, I know I've written about my insomnia before.

Sweetpea

2011-11-12T13:03:00.001Z

Sweetpea, a photo by anxiousgeek on Flickr.

Cat News

2011-11-10T19:28:00.000Z

Cat returning from Narnia.*

Micky, the cat my girlfriend and I found on Saturday had a successful day at the vets yesterday.

Well, successful in that he's okay, but he's only got two teeth left, his front two canines, so his miows are particularly toothless and hilarious now. He may gum you to death.

Anyway, we're calling him Gummy Mick, which, while being a reference to one of the pets from My Little Pony but also sounds like a mobster. Like he was an illegal cat fighter and general hard man for some sort of cat gangster boss. That's kinda how the conversation went yesterday as we walked home with him in the cat box.

He still looks derpy, which I'm happy about, and smells better, so I'm not completely against him sleeping on my bed. I'm still against it, just about 1% less than before. Ahahaha. So far he's just a sleeping ball of fur. Like a big hamster. I can live with that. I think. The actual hamsters might not though.

(*joke stolen from fb friend)

Off With Her Head

2011-11-09T17:04:00.001Z

Off With Her Head, a photo by anxiousgeek on Flickr.

Don't ask, cause I don't know. It was just sitting on a wall at Devil's Bridge.

Half a cat.

2011-11-08T13:54:00.001Z

Micky

I seem to have aquired a cat.

Well half a cat.

I don't actually like cats, I fear them and think them evil. Ever since I was about seven or eight and my neighbours cat had some sort of feline break down and turned on us. I think it was called Smudge, I can't quite remember, and it was a perfectly nice cat, let you pet it for ages, was nice and docile. And then one day it swiped at my sister and scratched her forehead.

I had never seen anyone bleed like that before. Very little is etched into my memory from when I was living in Coventry, but that is and it's obviously had one hell of an effect of me. Especially as the cat continued to be a little fucker after that and would try and attack us at every chance it got (according to my mother).

I was left with this dislike and distrust of cats. And they do actually scare, and they are evil, and working on world domination. Most of them at least.

For all my jokes about putting cats in curries, turns out I don't want to see them suffer, cause on Saturday we found a cat in the street and it was in bad shape. Filthy, dodgy back legs, teeth and gums are so bad that it can't even close it's mouth properly. Which actually makes me sad. We cleaned him up, took it vets, and found out it was a boy (we were working under the assumption he was a she), and he's got to go under anaesthetic and have his teeth and gums sorted out (whatever that entails).

We're calling him Micky, which is short of a longer word I can't spell (but can just about pronounce) which means doing a good deed that is hard work. And I suppose there is nothing harder than carrying a reluctant cat across town.

I am going to have to time-table the animals in, cause I have two hamsters, one of which is used to a lot of freedom. If I'm at home, She-Ra is on the sofa. Now the cat is on the sofa, so I'll have to figure something out so all the animals can get what they want.

And I will try not to be scared of my own cat....

Iambic Pentameter

2011-11-04T16:38:00.001Z

Firstly I love poetry. That's probably pretty obvious. I read it, I write it, it's all over my life now. I've written all sorts of poetry; freeverse, sonnets, sestinas. Poetry about my family, my life, sex, politics, animals and aliens.

Secondly I'm not an idiot. I'm not a genius, maybe I'm not even that smart, but I'm certainly not an idiot. I manage well enough at university. Hell most of my problems with education aren't because I'm stupid, but because my mental health problems get in the way.

Anyway, the point of this was to make sure you're aware that I love poetry and I'm not an idiot. But, but, if there is one thing in this world that makes me feel stupid it's iambic pentameter.

For those who don't write or read poetry, iambic pentameter is basically the rhythm of the poem, five stresses in each line, usually ten syllables (but that's not a fixed rule), the rhythm of the line going 'ta-tum, ta-tum, ta-tum, ta-tum, ta-tum'. It's actually the perfect meter for the English language, as it naturally fits the way we talk, a lot of poets use it. A lot.

I don't.

Now, it's not because I don't understand this concept, actually, I've been taught about meter and feet a couple of times, I get it. I really, really get it.

I can't write it.

Like, really, really can't write it.

I get the concept, I promise you, the problem I have is the stresses. I don't hear a lot of them. Some are obvious, I can hear them in the sounds and in my head, like ham-ster, pen-ta-me-ter, though I could be wrong on that, cause I'm just not sure at all. If the stresses are really 'effing obvious, then I just can't hear it. Like the word obvious; where is the stress in that word? And how comes everyone else seems to know and I can't figure it out? I just don't see it, hear it, know it and it makes me feel really stupid.

I can't remember any physics, I always have to think when I have to tell the difference between left and right, doing a sudoku seems to render me incapable of counting from one to nine, small sums seems to trip me up a bit and I can't tell the time on a watch without all the numbers on the face, but none of that makes me feel stupid. But trying to write iambic pentameter makes me want to huddle up in the corner cowering in fear of my own idiocy.

I've yet to find someone who's successfully managed to explain to me how they know which stresses are which and where in every single bloody word. Because without knowing, I just can't write an iambic pentameter.

Instead I started writing this in my lecture on poetry this week:

He used to beat me to the rhythm
of an iambic pentameter
but I never knew which poem
he was reciting in his mind
as he bruised mine

Unfinished, but that's kinda how I felt on Monday, beaten around the head with iambic pentameter, especially as one of the tasks this week was to write some blank verse (un-rhyming iambic pentameter). I don't think I'll even bother trying again, I'll just go to my seminar with my anti-iambic pentameter poem.