Sleepwalking my way through life

The End

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Thu, 03 May 2007 13:38:00 +0000

Hello. I'm Joe, a 15 year old geek from Glasgow. Well I don't think I'm a geek but since that's the general opinion of all my friends I guess I'll go with that. What else? I guess that I can start with what I like.

That was almost three years ago, when I first logged on to Blogger and crafted my first and very badly written post. I thought it was brilliant, funny, and that any moment I would be snapped up by a publishing company. It’s amazing now to look back and see what my style was like, when I shortened words and said “itz” instead of “it’s” (I still shudder inwardly whenever I read that). And that was only in the beginning of my quest to plague the internet. Six hundred posts later and here I am, mission accomplished.

They say that one of the hardest parts to writing a story would be coming up with a good ending. To end a story you need a conclusion, or a cliff-hanger, or a resolution of some sort just to bring the arc to a close. But not always. Sometimes the story can go on forever, with infinite amounts of plot twists and revelations, but the narrative has to end – otherwise what’s really important will be bogged down with too much text. In the sea of words the reader will miss the development, the growth of character. All the metaphors, imagery, word choice will be lost in the never-ending story.

When the narrative runs its course, it doesn’t mean the end of the story. The characters will continue to live their lives. They’ll continue to smile, laugh, cry, hate, live and die – they just don’t need a narrative to tell it anymore.

Hello. I’m Joe, an 18 year old writer from Glasgow. Well, I don’t consider myself a writer just yet, but it seems to be the general opinion of a lot of my friends so I’ll go with it anyway. What else? I guess I can write whatever I like really.

And write I will.

The soft whispers of the night

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Mon, 30 Apr 2007 13:15:00 +0000

There was the soft rustle of bed sheets and the mattress uttered a welcoming groan as I made myself comfortable. The room was dark with the scratching of strange creatures and reverberating thuds from downstairs, but the bed was reassuringly warm. She moved beside me, stretching her arm against my chest and lifting her head to welcome my arm under it. Her head rested in the crook of my shoulder, and I breathed in her bubblegum hair with deep risings of my chest. Socks had been kicked off, and pyjamas hung loosely from our bodies. I breathe in and out and feel her head rise and fall with my breath, and I crack a smile I can’t stop smiling. I slip round behind her, wrapping my arms round her shoulder and kissing the nape of her neck, hearing her let out quick gasps of excited breath as I work my way down to her bare shoulder and back up again. Her skin is velvet smooth and seems to shine despite the lack of light, and as I run a hand from her knee up to her flat stomach (over a pair of stylish girl-boxers) it seems to shine more intensely. She twists round and smiles at me – that smile – and I can see teeth nibbling at her lip as long black hair tumbles over her face. She leans over and kisses me lightly on the cheek, the skin on my chest tingling as it touches the skin of her arm, her hand softly caressing my other cheek with fingers dipping slightly into my hair. I can feel her heartbeat through my skin as our legs intertwine and my heart is soon audible, thumping with excitement and lust as she kisses my chest. Her beautifully shining eyes look up at me with a feline twinkle, and the shadow of a devious smile on her lips.

When I wake up I’m back in my own bed, a patch of sun streaming from the unclosed blinds and warming my face. I sit there, unmoving in the blindingly comfortable sun, and take stock of the previous night’s events. Did it happen? Did I imagine it? Was it all pretend? It doesn’t really matter, I thought languidly, not in the end.

I picked up my phone and dialled a long number, waiting patiently for it to be picked up, and when it was I laughed and I smiled.

‘You were right you bastard.’ I said, hanging up.

I put the phone back on my bedside table and let my head become engulfed by the pillow before falling back asleep.

A parting to remember

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Wed, 25 Apr 2007 11:26:00 +0000

“Now,” he said, his upmarket English accent shining through with every syllable, “in English, it’s possible to analyse any text. Whether it be a book, a script for a film, or this…”

He switched on the overhead projector, making the wall behind him light up and a few lines of silhouetted text float in mid air. We read the words slowly before recognition dawned and muffled giggles ran up and down the lecture hall. The lecturer, looking smart in his suit jacket and pinstriped trousers, pulled out a red marker and set to work.

“As always, when it comes to poetry, we mark out how many syllables are in each line; in this one it comes to ten, nine, seven and eight – so we can rule it out as being a sonnet of any kind. However, due to the rhythm we cannot rule out it being a ballad. Now, can anyone well me what we do next?”

The hall was thick with a stunned silence.

“We look at stresses. Starting with the polysyllabic words we can easily determine if there is an organised rhythm. So the only polysyllabic words here are here, here and here,” he said, circling ‘milkshake’ and the two instances of ‘better’. “It’s easy to see that the stress is on the ‘milk’ here, because your wouldn’t get milkshake, and the same for 'better'… but what about this line here?”

He indicated to the third line.

“Would you say it was ‘Damn right’ or ‘Damn right’?” His English accent blatantly obvious at this point “If we follow the pattern, we can see that the poem does follow the pattern of a ballad, as the third line demonstrates: ‘Damn right, it’s better than yours.’”

A few muffled laughs.

“Also, when we’re inferring like this – that’s right, we’re inferring – we can speculate on the meaning behind this poem. It seems to be that this girl makes very good milkshakes, milkshakes that attract a lot of men. And, it seems to be, that she makes milkshakes better than this other girl, who she offers to teach for a charge.”

We all laugh; the lecturer’s naiveté seemingly genuine as he looked at us with his innocently bald head. For a moment I actually thought he believed that the song was only about some girl’s milkshake making abilities, until he started speculating what was meant by milkshake. His gleam of innocence was quickly lost after he gave numerous examples (including felching) as the definition behind it.

Best. English lecture. Ever.

The science of sleep

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Mon, 23 Apr 2007 11:52:00 +0000

I have a Psychology test coming up within the next hour. But, instead of studying diligently, I am being forced to Blog.

I'm having the strangest dreams these days. Little situations and scenes that invade my subconscious and make my eyes dance under their lids. I experience them in complete reality, not knowing their dreams until the sun filters through my blinds and put to light the farce of my late night experiences.

There was an occasion where my brother and I were relaxing on a couch watching Pulp Fiction when we were recruited to find a missing cat. Grudgingly we searched the mansion and found a secret attic full of stuffed cats, when we confronted the owner she pulled out a sleek silver 9mm and popped a cap in Chris' ass, so to speak.

Before I knew it I was on the run, stumbling down Bergen main street in an attempt to flee my pursuer. I lifted an iron bar from the gutter and began hammering at glass door, yelling at them to let me in now. But too late, for when the doors finally creaked open an inch a bullet flew past my head and I shot off at a run.

Suddenly I was in the countryside, running down a long main road. I tried to wave down any and all buses, but they just sped off without giving me a second glance. With hope running out and my gun wielding pursuer closing the gap between us, I stuck out my thumb in the futile attempt to hitch-hike. A blue car, almost magically, skidded to a stop and opened its door. I clambered in, sparks flying from the door as a bullet hit it, and landed amongst a set of antique furniture.

The car drove off and the driver began conversing with me in Spanish. I explained I couldn't speak Spanish and he gave me the dirtiest of looks. That's when I woke up.

Can anyone analyse that for me? Please? Although the late night imaginings provide some form of entertainment, I am beginning to be plagued with their meanings. And they linger for hours, even days, on end in my head, with you fucking pathetic little cunt ringing in my ears as I sit on my couch and try to pierce their meaning.

Yes, Freud specialists are needed.

The settling

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Thu, 19 Apr 2007 14:18:00 +0000

Phone line in the flat is now up and running, now all we have to do is have the internet installed. Ha! I kid. The guy should be around soon enough to set everything up, meaning I no longer have to steal the internet from Uni and mum’s house.

I realise that it’s a bit strange that, after harping on about it for over a month, I haven’t written anything about my new flat. Well the simple answer to that is that I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted everything to be perfectly up and running before I ramble on and on about the freedom and the balcony and the room-so-big-I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-it. But I’ve decided not to bother with that anymore – if I wanted things to be perfect then I would never be able to write about it.

To begin with; my room. This is what it looked like after my first two days sleeping there.

But after many hours of skilled carpentry and hefty rearranging (finally, all those episodes of Changing Rooms have come in handy!) I am left with this;

(click on any image to enlarge to full size)

Beautiful is it not? I only assembled the desk last night (finishing at the wonderful time of 1am). The desk used to house the old desktop all those years ago, but after that blew up we dismantled the desk and shoved it in the garage, where it sat for a year and a half. Now, when something is out of use for a year and a half, something usually goes very wrong with it. And when I set out all the parts in my room for inspection, I realised there was something very wrong with the desk. There were no screws. The desk top, legs and brace were all there, but not a sign of a screw in sight. I asked Mum if she could search out the necessary parts, and she gave me a small bag with about a dozen different nuts, bolts and screws. So me, with my infinite knowledge of desk making (!), set to work and assembled the desk that my Lapdancer is now resting on. And I achieved this by using five – that’s right five – different types of screws. I’m expecting the poor thing to fall apart any second.

The rest of the flat is really nice too. Since all the stuff was moved in when I was in Norway, Chris had to manage and arrange. He did a good job of it too, with the place not resembling a rubbish tip when I arrived home (my room, as you can see, being the only exception). Bit by bit we’ve been tidying things up, moving this and that here and there, and generally making it home.

The whole experience of living in a flat is very exciting indeed. It’s a whole new breed of freedom that I had never experienced before. There’s no adult supervision (yes, Chris and I are 20 and 18 respectively, but we don’t count as adult) and we have complete run of the house. We can have people round without asking, we can stay out all night if we want to, we can have people fall asleep on our couch and play videogames with the next morning. At the risk of sounding too childish here, it’s just so cool.

I had some friends round at some point in the weekend for a pseudo house party, and we sat back on the couches listening to music and chatting about freckled arses. One of them sat on the couch and periodically gazed around the living room before whispering in awe “my mate has a flat”.

And it’s true. I have a flat. Hell yes.

Simplicity of a sunny day

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Wed, 18 Apr 2007 12:28:00 +0000

The sky was a colour I had never seen before, which is a bold claim for a former art student. Never in my life could I mix enough paint to concoct such a brilliant display of azure, purple, blue, indigo, and sparkling sapphire. Clouds that look as though they had been made from a bizarre hybrid of silk and cotton drifted by, their ice cream shapes floating in a cerulean sea. I could easily become lost in that sky. I’d be happy to let myself drown in that vast expanse of infinite.

The sun tumbled from the sky and landed on a hill of verdant grass and sleeping students, each person languidly laid out in the relaxed sun. Usually Glasgow is a cold place, with the towering buildings casting a shadow over the streets, but not here. In this clearing, this little hill of grass and trees, there was warmth that shone through to the bone.

We were taking full advantage of it. We flocked to the dried up water fountain, to the hardly used wooden benches and even to the precarious ledge that overlooked it all. We sat and we talked and we ate cocktail sausages – for these are things we do when it’s sunny. We smile. We smile more than we smile at any other time in the year, because when the weather is this perfect, even for a singular afternoon, we cannot help but smile. For a fraction of a moment, life’s problems, big and small, seem to flutter away in the breeze – the suns rays filtering through the black clouds hovering over people’s heads, giving them a flicker of light and happiness in a dark time.

I leaned back on the stone steps and lifted my legs off the steps below me. I gently swung them up and down in the serene air and closed my eye, letting the sun sink into my face and rest in the soft tissue around my smiling cheeks. I could feel the cold stone under my hands, little rocks working their way between my fingers, and a bush reached out a branch to stroke my ankle.

It reminded me, suddenly, of my very first day in Norway. Elisabeth and Marie took me on a tour round the village they lived and led me up a huge hill that served as a boundary to a fjord before leading me down the winding road on the other side. At the bottom, when we finally reached it, sat a large yellow hotel that fronted a very small stone beach populated by a few families with their kids waddling into the water – trousers rolled up to their knees and skirts tucked into their underwear. The beach, despite it being tiny, served as the gateway to the wide open fjord in front of us.

It was cold out, but there was no cloud in the sky and the sun shone brightly on the perfectly still water in front of us, except I don’t think I should call it water. It was as if the water had been replaced with nothing, and what I was gazing at was as solid as the tiny rocks moving between my fingers. The coast and the mountains on the far away shore, peaked with perfectly white snow, sat in the depths of the fjord, their summits balancing gracefully on another infinitely blue sky. There was no ripple or disturbance in the reflection, and I felt a small sinking feeling of vertigo.

The sounds that surrounded that beach were musical; the swish of a breeze, the pure ring of children’s laughter, the soft trickle of running water, the slow steady breaths of Marie beside me. These were the types of sounds you find on relaxation CDs, where you listen to calming birdsong or soothing waves to unwind after a stressful day. This was different. With those CDs there’s the ever present knowledge that the stress is still out there, that when you press that Stop button the noise of the cars and the TV and those screaming kids will magically come back. But not there; it was only the relaxing sounds to return to, only the crisp air to breathe, only that eye widening sight to see.

My phone vibrated in my pocket and I picked it up, the smile playing even more on my face as I answered. I took a deep breath, absorbing the summer air whilst having that same feeling in Norway; a feeling of complete awe with total relaxation.

If only life came with subtitles

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Mon, 16 Apr 2007 12:57:00 +0000

Lack of updates are due to connection difficulties in my new flat (ie, the complete lack of phone line), but they’re well on their way to being fixed and we’ll have the internet up and running in no time.

-The sun shines happily down on the breezy street; the trees singing and the birds swaying in the near-summer weather. My footsteps are solid and sure as quietly ignore

[Long pause where I delete things and start again]

-Ignorance is bliss, is it not?

Out of sight, out of mind as the old proverb goes. Once upon a time the world sparkled with shining pennies and vanilla ice cream, I didn’t see the broken weeping needle on the ground, I looked away from the beggar holding his Big Issue in one hand and his dripping guts in the other, I blatantly ignored the good old buddy the pal as he dug a knife into his wrist. I was like Lily Allen in my retarded naiveté.

[Another pause. Lets start again.]

It’s like peeling off old wallpaper. Not the new kind that slides off in satisfyingly uniform strips, but the old papier-mâché wallpaper that was glued to the wall in the sixties. This wallpaper looks good to begin with, its intricate flowery patterns and little figures staring out at you – but bit by bit it begins to flake off with little suspicions of scrapes and hints of failure. Soon great gashes will score across the wall, but you ignore them. The wall is still as pretty as it always has been. But then, one day, someone comes along with a giant fucking steamer and tears the whole thing apart piece by fucking piece.

[pause]

I HATE FUCKING BLOGGERS BLOCK.

Closing time

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Sat, 07 Apr 2007 23:48:00 +0000

We are dotted around the dimly lit room, each doing individual things whilst listening to a compilation of slow melodies. I am sitting on the double-bed, the Lapdancer balanced on my lap as I choose the next song in line; Kiwi is beside me, playing with my watch on her wrist and occasionally pulling out her phone to text as she writes another line in her diary; and Elisabeth is on the floor, her attention wrapped up in Foamy (which we introduced to her). We are mostly silent, speaking only in the most hushed of whispers as we sit and wait.

It’s our last night here in Norway. A week has passed since I landed amongst the sparkling fjords, and soon I’ll be climbing a sickly plane to leave them. That’s why we’re silent. It’s our last night together in Norway and none of us really want to admit it. We’re just sitting up, all night, and doing whatever it is we’re doing. There are hundreds of pictures stored on my hard drive that chronicle the past week, each pixel shining with energy and happiness. Now we’re subdued. Not even half as much life shines out of us now.

I’m sad to be leaving. Really sad. I’ve had such a good time, and I really don’t want to leave all those memories behind in the past. I want to make more, and keep living them, and wear out the batteries on Elisabeth’s camera. I want to go to more parties and have more late night discussions and I want to find myself again in these verdant green hills. I want to drink in a log cabin, smoke while looking at the stars, and wake up to find pure and utter silence.

Not too long ago, when asked what my perfect house would be, I described a small lonely wooden house near the edge of a high cliff that overlooked the sea. The house would almost be a bungalow, with the attic being used for my bedroom, and a desk sat in front of large bay windows that held the sea; stretched out in all its glory. I always thought that that place was a myth, that there was no such place in the UK that could fit my specifications, even slightly, but Norway has it. Norway has it everywhere.

This place is fantastic, but my experience is not all due to my surroundings. Elisabeth and Kiwi have been indescribably more amazing than I could have imagined. We’ve grown so much closer in the past week, so at ease and comfortable with everything. I now read their blogs differently, and I know our online conversations will never be the same as they were. They’ve been incredible beyond words. I feel a sharp pang in my stomach when I have the sudden realisation that I won’t see them everyday. They won’t be there with chocolate toast when I wake up or there to attack me with avocado face mask when we’re getting ready or there to chide me when I pull a cigarette out of my pocket at night.

I’ll see them again eventually, but that really isn’t soon enough. God, I’m going to miss them.

Elisabeth highjack's a blog ++ dirty confessions

elisabethic@gmail.com (Elisabeth) — Fri, 06 Apr 2007 17:21:00 +0000

Dear Flumpy

How are you? Everything mighty good and spongy? Glad to hear it. Is this thing working? Am I really guestblogging for Joe? It feels a bit strange, writing for the person you have read for about a year and stalked via MSN, emails and comment spot. This would be the time for you, the reader to think "Elisabeth is not very well preserved" (like pickles). Well, jolly good; I want you to think that, that's the charm. What charm that is I have NO idea, its just charm. Bundled up in the corner somewhere talking about that heathen TV show with Witches with demonboyfriends and babies being all magical. That's charm for you dear reader (now called Flumpy), and I'm in it.

Anywaaay, I have no idea what I am writing, Flumpy. I think I was supposed to write about Joe and Kiwiqueen being in Norway and us smothering his face with avocado, but then you got me babbling about this charm think and now you've just ruined it. I shall not forgive you, go wallop up in tuna or something.

Did you know that in one day we've had 4 seasons of weather here? Sun, Snow, Rain and Wind. One for each season plus plus. I hate it. I HATE it. I do not like to take my coat on because of the heat, then take if of because its so frigging cold and my glasses are so we and covered with rain and now my hair is all messy!!!!!1111 and so on. I hate it, they like it. This crazy stalking Scotsman likes the weather, the fjords, the hills (are alive with music ha ha ha), the little houses on tiny islands etc. The kiwieating "take it easy" girl is also adapting the Norwegian sleeping habits which warms my heart and all that jazz.

So Flumpy sweetie, is this scary you think? 3 bloggers who (almost) have never met, suddenly travels over boarders and painting each others faces with green goo and drinks coffee from a vending machine? Is that scary? Psssh. This is 2007, deary, not 1992.

Im off now, I am not good at writing to my Teddybear; so I'll just live you here, filled with questions about dirty confessions and the rumoured highjacking. I know, I am evil. Just ask Joe.

Toodles! Love ya my lovely sugarpie honeybunch coffeecanoodle!

XxXX
Elisabeth Ice Cream, oh yeah.

Jack the whore

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Thu, 05 Apr 2007 11:51:00 +0000

Things that have happened in the past twenty-four hours:

My desire to own a penguin has increased dramatically.

My music collection has also increased dramatically.

I have marvelled for a full fifteen minutes at the view from someone’s window.

I have discovered that Norwegian people can’t buy hard alcohol until they are 21.

I have discovered that Norwegian people have never tried Jack.

I have discovered that Norwegian people thoroughly enjoy my friend Jack.

I have experienced my first live lesbian kiss.

I, once again, kicked ass in a theological debate.

I experienced my second live lesbian kiss (documented via photos).

I had a very deep and meaningful conversation in someone’s hallway.

I drunkenly rambled about things that I thoroughly wish to forget about.

I have decided to quit smoking before I properly start.

I listened to my first bagpipe duet.

I discovered that foreigners find Scottish accents devilishly attractive.

I discovered that I really really really hate having a hangover.

The Bloggers Three

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Wed, 04 Apr 2007 14:52:00 +0000

The secret is out

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Mon, 02 Apr 2007 20:26:00 +0000

Dudes, I’m like, totally in Norway.

After two whole months of keeping it a secret, I can finally let out a long sigh and tell you all about my dastardly plans over Easter. It began a while back when it was decided that I should meet with my fellow bloggers, KiwiQueen and Elisabeth, and we desperately searched for a good time to accomplish this feat. We agreed that the best time to achieve this would be during the Easter holidays, and while Elisabeth and Kiwi made plans I consulted my university handbook and returned to the conversation with dismay; my holidays were completely different from theirs!

After a few accounts of “oh no” and “NOOOOOOOOOOO”, Elisabeth and Kiwi decided to meet up in Norway without me. I was very upset at this and proceeded to wallow in self pity. It was during my wallowing that a sudden realisation came over me… that there is in fact no such thing as the 31st of April. Overjoyed by the university’s mistake I ran back to the computer to inform my friends, but only Elisabeth was on, and I told her with a flurry of garbled words that I could come to Norway (although I think that she only understood “Norway!” “coming” “woo woo”).

And then an evil idea hatched in my mind.

Kiwi was offline. She hadn’t stayed long enough for me to inform her of the amazing news. Well, my little mind thought deviously, what if she doesn’t find out?

Oh ho ho, I thought, I think you’re on to something there old chap.

That’s because I’m you, idiot.

So I booked a flight that landed a whole day earlier than Charlotte. Elisabeth and I kept the secret from her for two whole months whilst pretending that she was the sole visitor to Norway. It was a lot more fun than I let on.

Two months and two flights later, I arrived within the fjords of Norway, gazing out the window at the scenery below.

I wandered around the Duty Free shop for a bit, picking up my good friend Jack along the way, before being searched for drugs at the gate (later I was told that I ‘fit the profile perfectly’). I stepped out into the airport and was immediately accosted by a beaming Elisabeth, who ran straight towards me and encompassed me in one hell of a bear hug.

Now; a little note about Elisabeth. If you’ve ever had the pleasure of running into her on the internet or on someone’s blog, you’ll know what I mean when I say she’s… exuberant. And I have to admit, this exuberance is not restricted to the confines of the internet – in the real world she is just as bouncy and smiley and obsessed with coffee. It’s awesome.

We exchanged pleasantries (‘Oh my god! You are real!’) and headed home in the car. They took the boring route which resulted in me gazing out the windows in awe at the rolling mountains and verdant trees. And the houses! There are houses dotted about everywhere! Climbing up and down hills, hiding between trees, surrounded by the most silent, still waters; everywhere! They’re made from long slats of wood (mostly yellow) and sport stylish balconies and come free with a homely feel. Looking across the Norwegian landscape is like looking back in time, but modern. And reading this blog is like reading something that makes sense, but is nonsensical.

And now I sit in Elisabeth’s house, leeching off her wireless connection. It’s all kinds of awesome.

KiwiQueen arrives tonight. Elisabeth and I have spent hours planning how to surprise her with my presence. Do I wait with her beside Elisabeth? Do I hang back and wait for her to spot me? Should I wear a moustache and pretend to search her bag?

Only time will tell…

What, no fool?

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Sun, 01 Apr 2007 16:03:00 +0000

Just as a quick one before I head off again. Blogging over the next week may be a bit… more sporadic than usual. But not to worry, I’ll be back in business in no time, and there’ll be a nice bonus to make up for all my down time…

See you around folks.

This devils workday

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Fri, 30 Mar 2007 02:05:00 +0000

The evening was slow, and I languidly clicked from page to page in an attempt to find something. Jules stepped into the room, floating about aimlessly before falling back into the couch opposite me. She picked up a magazine from the coffee table between us – some how to spice up you sex in three days gig – and leafed through it lazily.

‘So how have you been spending these unprofitable hours?’ She asked me, her eyes not rising from the glossy pages.

‘Talking with Elisabeth on writing things,’ I replied. ‘We had a long one sided discussion about vengeance.’

She laughed slightly. ‘How'd that one go?’

‘She failed to understand the beautiful power behind it.’

‘I’m afraid I'll have to agree with her.’ She turned a page.

I sighed ‘I won't try to convince you to my side of it then.’

She tossed the magazine on to the table, leaning forward to look at me more directly.

‘No no, go on. It will amuse me.’

I smirked at her and placed my Lapdancer to the side. I had a challenge upon me. ‘Okay, since you asked for it.’

I paused for a moment, gathering my thoughts.

‘The thing with vengeance is that it's so... good. It holds an entire spectrum of emotion under one very focused canopy. Love, hate, joy, sorrow, animalistic rage, human calculation; it’s such a contradiction of feelings and emotions.’ I counted each point off with my fingers as if listing the number of things I needed for food shopping. ‘It results in murder, but the murder is insanely cold and calculated yet filled with insurmountable passion.’

‘It doesn't have to be cold and calculated though; it can easily be done in a blind fury.’

‘True, but if it’s done right then it’s cold and calculated. And if you want the perfect vengeance, you have to do it just right. You have to wait and wait and let your rage and anger cool off until it resembles a cold shining knife. That’s when you strike and achieve your perfect revenge.’

Jules shifted in her chair, her eyes focused on the table in deep thought. ‘So… vengeance is a good thing,’ she looked up at me, ‘for everyone involved?’

I smiled broadly. ‘Of course not, vengeance is horrible. The whole idea of vengeance is pointless.’

‘Ah, but now you’re contradicting yourself. You just started off with vengeance is good.’

‘I did, and I stand by it. Though, what I’m trying to say is that the emotion, and the act of vengeance itself is intense and amazing, but vengeance is not good for anyone. The reason you even took the vengeance in the first place isn’t going to change – whatever spurned you into abandoning everything else for this goal is not going to fix itself.’

I raised my arm and moved my fingers into a gun position, my forefinger and middle finger acting as the barrel and my thumb mimicking the hammer. With my left hand I loaded six imaginary bullets into the chamber of my gun before snapping the chamber closed with a quick motion. I aimed my fingers straight at Jules who laughed with amusement.

‘You kill the guy,’ I say, and fire off a three bullets into Jules’ shoulder, neck and gut, ‘and he’s dead. And then what?’ I flipped out the chamber and reloaded the three shots I fired. ‘You’re left with all this hatred and sorrow inside you, with no one to aim at.’

Jules nods along slowly, looking me up and down. ‘Okay, so it’s the passion behind it that you’re satisfied by, not the act itself.’

‘Yes and no.’ I reply. Jules groaned and I smiled again. ‘Yes because the passion is indescribable, and no because I am still deeply fascinated in the act. I’m fascinated at what makes a fair vengeance, what is better; a ruined life or a horrible death? I’m fascinated at how, even after you take your vengeance, you aren’t satisfied. You shed all your humanity to wreak your vengeance and the feelings are still there – pumping through your body like an untameable snake.’

‘That's interesting, even though it may appear to be the best most satisfying idea at the time; it turns out to be hollow.’

‘Yes. Exactly.’

‘That's actually really interesting.’

‘It's become a little obsession of mine.’

'So it's not so much the act itself, but the expression I’m finding interesting. It's such a basic instinct, an eye for an eye, a death for a death, but ultimately dissatisfying. So what does that say? Is the animalistic side of mankind ultimately disappointing? Or is it just man's struggle to appear civilised, better than animals?’ She laughed suddenly, sitting back into the cushion of the couch. ‘See Joe, don't get me started, I'll bore you to death with it.’

‘Don’t worry; I’ll get my own back eventually.’

I wonder what I would do if I found myself in that situation; to have my perfect revenge on someone who has wronged me so intensely. I have often had daydreams about it, little fantasies that invade my thoughts and leave me with my heart thumping and my tongue crooning for blood. Would I fulfil these fantasies? Would I look into his eyes with stern determination before bringing a clenched fist down on his greasy face? Would I smile my most genuine condescending smile and make her feel like nothing more than a piece of shit on the bottom of my shoe? Would I put her to shame with cutting remarks and the quickest of tongues? Would I smile as sweetly as possible, shaking his hand before sinking my knee into his solar plexus? Or would I do the most hateful thing I can do and forget all about you – your name, your face, your phone number, your post code, your everything.

Would I? Could I?

Eye for an eye, watch me go blind.

Bit by bit

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Tue, 27 Mar 2007 00:54:00 +0000

As I sat in dismay on my bedroom floor, surrounded by a mountain of junk and several boxes, my mind flitted deliriously back to my birthday when I was having dinner with my family. We were discussing the intricacies of moving house, and I think my cousin put it most eloquently when he said to me;

“You never know how much shit you have until you have to move it all.”

And indeed I did not. I spent many hours rifling through my wardrobe, transferring books and DVDs into large cardboard boxes. Everything sat snugly together, and soon I had three boxes – weighing a ton and filled to the brim – with books, DVDs, CDs, notebooks and sketchbooks. Now came the hard part; the random tat that filled my wardrobe.

It is suffice to say that I’m a little bit of a hoarder. I keep the strangest of objects from the strangest of times. An example of this would be a small quartz rock which I picked up in Wales after I climbed Mount Snowdon. Another example would be the Lego race car I received after completing my week’s worth of work experience. I have accumulated a large amount of knick knacks and (as Phillip K Dick refers to as) kipple over the years – and I have felt the need to store them in the deep dark recesses of my wardrobe.

And so came the agonising decisions. Do I keep my old PlayStation and my library of games? I’ll probably never play the thing again, and all it’ll do is take up space.

But it’s our PlayStation. We used to spend hours on this thing levelling up in Final Fantasy. Remember when we got the golden chocobo?I want to keep it.

But when will I play it?

When you find it again. Come on, it’s good for nostalgia. You know how we like nostalgia.

No. Bin.

Aww man.

This to and fro continued for over two dozen items, including my old school notes and my small collection of Oor Wullie comic books. I was relentless with some items – the 2000 edition of the Guinness Book of Records was dropped into the bin without a second thought – but some sentimental took a great amount of time to mull over.

In the end I found it much too stressful to sort through my old memories, one by one discarding them. So I left my room in a tip. I move in under two weeks, and my room is still entirely unpacked.

Oh dear.

From now on, no more cheese before bed

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Sun, 25 Mar 2007 22:58:00 +0000

-Ok Joe, you can see first

What?

-You can see it first. I trust that you’d understand it

Oh. That’s nice of you. Where is it?

-Over here, behind this door. She would’ve wanted you to see it

Is this where she…

-Yes

Oh.

There was this fantastic emotion welling up inside me. It was as if a waterfall was crashing down into a small glass, filling it up with such speed and intensity, and my chest felt as if it were about to burst, but I tried to remain as emotionless as possible. She led me down a small corridor which ended in a single white door. She leant over and reached for the golden shining handle – my stoic reflection warped by the curve of the handle.

-Are you ready?

Does it matter?

I felt something snap inside me. Some deep down muscle or sinew or something just gave in. She opened the door.

-Well?

Yes?

-Well?

-I’m sorry, what is it?

The door slammed shut and she stormed off down the corridor, a fierce animal scream erupting from her chest. I stared at the reflection of the door handle as my body twitched and writhed out of shape, yet my face remained impassive. I could feel the glass tumbler inside me shatter under the pressure of the waterfall, and the raging river flowed off into nothing.

And I woke up.

Innuendo!

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Fri, 23 Mar 2007 16:10:00 +0000

"This is why I hate musicians, it's always easier for you guys to get laid."

"What?"

"Think about it. A girl comes up to you and asks 'What do you do?', you tell her you're a musician and then bring out your guitar. She'll be all over you in seconds. Musicians are so much hotter than writers, you and your bloody instruments. What do I have?"

"You have a pen."

"Oh, that's rich. I tell her I'm a writer and I bring out a pen. She'll stare at me for a few seconds before wandering off and finding a musician to talk to."

Pause.

"I think you have a very nice pen."

Lost in the moment

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Tue, 20 Mar 2007 23:55:00 +0000

Happy Birthday Chris, you old git.

---

She continued to stare. Then she said, ‘Do not doubt your turn shall come, Compé Anansi’s child.’

‘Why do you want him?’

‘I don’t want him,’ she told him. The she said, ‘Why would I want him? I have an obligation to another. Now I shall deliver him, and then my obligation shall be done.’

The newspaper fluttered, and Fat Charlie was alone.
[Extract from Anansi Boys, by Neil Gaiman]

Startled, I looked up from my book. The barista hadn’t noticed my sudden distress and continued cleaning up the table beside me, unaware of my anxiety. I closed my book and slipped it into my bag. I pulled on my jacket and watched the barista wipe down the table, his black apron flapping in the breeze. I left the shop as fast as I could and drank in the frozen air of Glasgow, shuddering – not from the cold, but from the haunting vision that passed through my head; the black flapping of feathers and the shining twitch of a raving eye.

I walk down the road and take a left to avoid the flock of pigeons in front of me, their eyes watching me as they stabbed their beaks at pieces of bread. I rounded the corner – checking down that alley way – and froze. Perched on a bench in front of me was a solitary black crow.

It cocked its head and shot a look straight at me, those beady eyes blasting through my skin. The oil black feathers ruffled with electricity and the rock hard talons scratched into the wooden bench. The face was impassive – the beak closed in a shining, stoic blade – but it was those eyes that pinned me to the spot with terror; those mad eyes that showed the only intent behind the night black body.

As I stood, paralysed on the spot, it spread its wings wide and took a few steps to balance itself. The crow remained still for a moment, its wings open like a demonic angel – welcoming the pitch black that dripped off every tingling feather. It sprung into the air and flew towards me, the eyes gleaming with malice.

---

And it flew over me. It cawed slightly as it went by, the wings beating a wind that sifted my already messy hair. It landed behind me and scoured an empty crisp packet for the remnants of food. I laughed, shaking off the chill I had felt moments before, and walked on.

I sometimes forget that I need to give myself a break after reading books or seeing films. I find that after I’ve become absorbed in a story, I lose myself in it. I become so wrapped up in the characters, the plot and the imagery that when it’s time to pull out, to return to real life, I become tangled. I tear parts of the story out with me and, for a while, incorporate them into real life.

This why after seeing Mission Impossible when I was a child, I skulked from doorway to doorway hunched over in cautious paranoia. This is why after I watched Fight Club I was relishing my feelings of violent anger and resentment. This is why after I read Do Androids dream…? I felt the crushing hopelessness of meaningless existence. This is why I am sometimes subjected to funny looks when walking down the street.

I’m weird like that.

Emotionally Unavailable Anonymous

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Sun, 18 Mar 2007 13:59:00 +0000

So I broke up with Jane yesterday. Again.

This time it was mostly on mutual terms, with only a few upsets on either side. Apparently I’m more of a bastard than I give myself credit (note: am working on that). Well, it was definitely a memorable break-up to say the least.

So yes, I think I’ll stay away from relationships for a while until I’ve figured out what makes me tick. That’s right ladies; I’m still off the market. Don’t worry, It’ll be ok. It’s all right to cry.

I’ll be normal again, eventually. Maybe. Eventually.

Inspiration? Dry as a bone

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Sat, 17 Mar 2007 02:39:00 +0000

Goals in life:

Write a cult novel(s).

Perform the Ok Go video for Here it Goes.

Own a bookshop.

Write a screenplay/direct a film.

Learn how to read a book/watch a film without analysing the crap out of it.

Speak with such conviction and fluency as the characters from Clerks.

Find a suitable hairdo.

Write better blogs.

When in doubt, blog about blogging

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Tue, 13 Mar 2007 00:22:00 +0000

A word! I have written a word! Oh, there are more words now. This is good. This is very good. This blogging nonsense is easy as pie! I don’t have bloggers block at all. Yes yes, this is going swimmingly.

Oh.

Crap. I’ve lost it.

And so I bring my fist down on my knee with blazing frustration and I cast aside my Lapdancer with a resenting shove. I sit on my bed, fuming at my inability to write, before I think better of myself and retrieve my beloved computer. The rest of the night is spent scanning page after page of useless junk while the Word document is hidden away out of vision.

I hate it when this happens. When I sit at a computer and all I can feel is the pointlessness of writing another post. Why bother talking about my day at university, do people really care so much about my mundane life? And besides, there’s no point in writing it if I don’t have a clear cut conclusion, or at least a witty remark to finish off with. I should just forget about it and try another night. But I ignore my own advice and try anyway. I slip on my earphones and close my eyes as my fingers hover over the keyboard, swishing to the beat of the music that’s immersing my brain with ideas and my hands with thoughts. I type the first few words, the song building up and the beat quickening, before I find myself a standstill. The music continues to flow into my mind, but seems to leak out through my eyes as I stare hopelessly at the empty screen.

I blame my recent spurt in creativity. Finishing two stories and starting half a dozen more seems to be taking its toll on my blogging ability. An over abundance of energy is being poured into my pen and notebook; energy that, I bet, is being redirected from the chunk of my brain devoted to blogging. Soon the balance will be restored and I will write and blog as regularly as I always have. Or maybe, God forbid, the scales may swing in the other direction and I’ll be stuck with no creative drive but my feed will flood with the amount of posts I’ll be updating.

Going out and getting drunk. The crushingly abundant horrors of university. The warmth of rekindled friendships. Pages upon pages of books. The astounding amount of new ideas forming behind my darting eyes. Insomnia. Relationships. Bad backs. Birthday gifts. Passports. Gut numbing countdowns. There are so many things that I should be able to sit back and pour my heart out about, so many ideas that scream out and wish to drown me in their topical goodness. But (despite this immensely successful breakthrough) I am still suffering from the block.

And until I fix it, I guess that you will have to put up with my sporadic updates and constant whining about university. Hopefully, I won’t be too long.

And since I don’t think my text sent properly – Happy Belated Birthday Dad.

Ink splurge

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Thu, 08 Mar 2007 13:09:00 +0000

Two new stories and a random brain fart now up on my DeviantArt page.

The Fall of Arda

The Incident

Brain fart

The Fall of Arda may be a tad long (weighing in at almost five thousand words) but I think it's one of my best pieces of writings, character wise. The Incident is my entry for a short story competition in Uni, and I really really like it. And the brain fart is just something I came up with in the throes of non-sleep.

The first two will only be kept up for a period of two to three weeks before I take them down and add them to my private collection. So, if you can spare ten minutes or so, I'd very much appreciate it if you read them and gave as much feedback as possible (don't be afraid to be harsh).

More will probably follow in the coming weeks. I seem to be having wave after wave of decent stories to write about. Stay tuned for dancing junkies and hearts that beat people to death.

Edit: Due to an error at DeviantArt, The Fall of Arda didn't show right. However, you can find it at my wonderful FictionPress account, here.

Bankruptcy, here I come

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Tue, 06 Mar 2007 21:40:00 +0000

Finally, it’s within sight. After months of planning and gut numbing anticipation, it is finally here. We have a flat.

We had wandered around about a dozen flats, examining the properties with a meticulous eye. How big were the bedrooms, could we fit a freezer in the kitchen, where was that smell coming from? Each carpet was subtly pressed with the toe of my shoe, searching for creaks or unevenness. Each wall was scanned for cracks or damp. Each defect in the laminate flooring was tsked at.

But we have one. Four floors up, four minutes from the supermarket and four seconds from a bus stop (which is a forty minute ride into Glasgow). We have one.

I feel like stepping outside into the cold, icy night and yelling. I feel like tilting my head back, letting my hair fall from my eyes as I fix the moon with a steely gaze, and erupting in a long animalistic roar. My fists would be clenched, my veins throbbing with excitement, as I bellow one singular word.

Freedom.

You spin me right round baby, right round

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Sun, 04 Mar 2007 00:46:00 +0000

You know, for a second there, I almost forgot about all about it.

Damn.

Drumroll, please

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Thu, 01 Mar 2007 23:52:00 +0000