The Surrounding Area

I'm currently residing at my father's flat since my mother's house is too far away from my place of employment, my University accommodation is inaccessible and my childhood home has other people living in it, meaning that I innately perceive them to be constructed of nay but pure evil. But I've gotten over the loss of that house; being a human, I'm able to adapt despite my lack of liking for the concept of 'change'.

Near to my dad's flat - mentioning something I've already mentioned previously in this blog so that the newfound swathes of people flocking thick and fast to see this can see it, obviously - are situated several landmarks or points of interest. They're not really that interesting or at all landmarkish except for on this little portion of internet, in which every tiny little thing that crosses my brain is a whole mountain of significant. It's quite odd to think, really, that I've stumbled upon several pseudo-landmarks in the surrounding area considering this place (yes, I'm currently at the flat whilst typing this, I'm not floating around inside the computer right now, fun as that may sound) feels so far detached from everything, it takes at least a half-hour walk before one sees some kind of civilisation.

Let's start with the furthest away shall we. Some weeks ago, I erroeously informed any innocent passer-by on this place that a youngster had been violently attacked in a nearby alleyway, leading to me pondering the fragility of life and other philosophical musings that would make Aristotle want to smack me over the head with a bust of Aristotle. Of course, brutal stabbing was a mere local rumour and the true reason for the alleyway's blue and white police tape has since been linked to an occurrence of unwanted sexual acts, i.e. rape. It's unclear whether this particular speculation holds any kind of truth or not and because of this, I wouldn't like to comment further on it. I'd just like to retract my last bundle of paragraphs about a potentially murdered teenager and conclude that bad things do, indeed, happen in life. Besides, the main point of that previous ramble was that I couldn't get through the alleyway to make it to work on time. As it turns out, I did get to work on time and no bad things have happened in the alley since.

Getting slowly closer to the flat exists a cemetery, a graveyard, or as I referred to it last week, an "underground retirement home". Not much actually happens there; as you might expect, the residents aren't as active as they once used to be. Again, going back to last week, I noticed the smell of a barbeque when walking past the place but that's about as exciting as things get near a burial ground. As far as I'm aware, hauntings are not commonplace. Either that or everybody's too busy with being alive to care about what's going on within other spiritual planes.

On the topic of hauntings and the creepy and mysterious, part of the last week has played host to me annoying everyone I know on Facebook with a local story I invented. Of course, everyone I know on Facebook involves everyone I know in real life plus a few thousand others whom I've probably met once, said a jolly friendly "hello" to and now know every aspect of their lives courtesy of social media. This I suddenly realised when my new smartphone (yeah, I also got a new phone this week, it doesn't warrant an entire blog post on the subject though, just accept the fact and we can all get on with our lives) connected to my Facebook profile and proceeded to include every single person into my contact list. What followed was an evening-long bout of sorting people out, filtering them and essentially making it so they don't show up on my phone since I have no need for all those contacts yet keeping them all on Facebook because I like having a bit of a read in the morning, like a personalised newspaper in which nothing at all special happens. Anyway, I started this paragraph promising something creepy and mysterious.

My dad's flat is situated in a small complex of flats all sharing the same dustbin enclosure, which is still not enough information for dad to become paranoid that I'm putting his personal life on the internet for anyone to steal. The dustbin enclosure, called so because I can't think of any other way to describe it other than a dustbin enclosure, sits directly outside the living room window. The binmen come first thing on Friday morning; this I know because the room I'm spending this summer's sleep time in also faces the bins and admittedly, the monotone rumbling of a truck, the steady bleeping of a 'backing-up' warning siren and thunderous claging are a better wake-up call than a tinkling tune coming from a five-year-old Samsung mobile. In their working routine and in my wavering state of consciousness, I vaguely remember hearing the voices of the unseen workers stating they were going to leave something since they weren't sure if it was rubbish or not. Some time later, I managed to make it from the bed to the living room to be greeted by the aforementioned creepy and mysterious sight I've spent two whole paragraphs setting up.

A child's toy - a plastic-headed, blonde-haired doll - had been placed free-standing, arms spread wide against the backing of the dustbin enclosure crucifixion-style, like a cross between Jesus Christ and the Bride of Chucky stared directly ahead with dead eyes through the living room window. Call me old-fashioned but it's a little unnerving when you've just sat down with a cup of tea trying to watch Cash In The Attic. It took two-and-a-half days for an overnight rainstorm to knock her off her perch and a further two days for her to disappear completely. Presumably, she was reclaimed by a young child, given a bath and made to have pretty tea parties in bright pink wallpapered rooms with an abundance of teddy bears and miniature plastic horses. Either that or someone threw her corpse into one of the giant bins along with their weekly rubbish, thus making the area in which I'm staying slightly less creepy once more.

There's also a Chinese takeaway nearby so it's not all that bad.

Hypocrisy

The other day, I walked past the local cemetery and smelled a barbeque. Whether the two things are related or not I'll never know, but as far as I'm aware corpses don't long for chargrilled slabs of meat in baking hot sunshine whilst blasting out whatever noises Rihanna's making at the time; it's more of a living thing. Living just down the road from what is essentially a large underground retirement home, though, doesn't tend to bear as much of an enigmatic quality as one might initially expect.

Monotony is the order of the day, and week, and month now as I maintain roughly the same work/sleep routine as a tortoise for whom simply being awake constitutes as 'work'. It's even gotten to the point where any free time I manage to come across involves me lazily dawdling about, staring mindlessly into the television with a slack-jawed open mouth, idly refreshing Facebook every sixteen-and-a-half seconds in the hope that somebody has news to share of a violent spontaneous combustion or picture of beans on toast, and peeing. My existence becomes the very definition of hypocrisy wherein I ponder all the things I'd like to do in my free time whilst complaining about the lack of free time in which to do those things. When such free time comes about, I ignore all previous notions of things I'd like to do and complain about how I have nothing to do and end up rambling about it on this thing and going back to retype words several times and adding neglected letters after some extremely self-embarrassing mis-spelling.

I'll go now. Mostly because I'm finding this one dragging and have resigned to counting this post as a bit of a blip on my continued lifetime, upon which I'll look back and yell at myself through the very fabric of the fourth dimension telling me to stop being "so fucking boring!" However, it might also have something to do with the fact that I have many other things to be thinking about getting on with right now.

The Unkempt General Populace

The seedy underbelly of the world keeps exposing itself to mine innocent eyes and I, being me, keep clasping one hand to them, throwing the other one outstretched, let out a cry of disgust and hope that pure concentrated evil will just cease to exist at the fact that I'm shielded by these two sight barriers constructed from flesh and bone. Maybe I've been wrapped in cotton wool for too long. Maybe I try to project an air of pacifism, peace and unyielding harmony. Maybe I'm just a wimp. Either way, the unruly suburbs of almost-Merseyside are not a place for people like me.

During my (so-far) twenty-three-year stay on planet Earth, a total of about twenty-two years and six months have seen me kept within a thirty-mile radius; forty max. I even decided to enrol at a relatively nearby University so I could just get a short train back if necessary. Of course, the recent hikes in rail fares have made a mockery of my life's plans. But in the year-and-a-half of Uni-life, I've discovered that there are, in fact, places outside of my hometown where folks from all walks of life form close-knit communities and generally get along. Then again, maybe that's just what campuses are supposed to do. Outside of the bubble, however, (i.e. home) the unkempt general populace drag down the reputation of the human race and the scenery of the surrounding area is disgusted at humanity's antics that it doesn't feel like presenting itself as anything more than a series of boarded up buildings and vomit puddles.

Earlier in the summer, I spoke of a midnight spat amongst locals of differing opinions and states of intoxication. Fast-forwarding to a couple of days ago, if that particular syntax doesn't make your brain leak, I set to embark on my regular painfully long walk to my place of employment in the sunshine, whilst wearing enough clothing to turn a simple work uniform into a personal fabric sauna after ten paces. During my journey, I came to a common alleyway shortcut. From my position, through a gap in the railings, my eyes caught sight of a car. But there are never normally cars on this stretch of pavement. Perhaps it's a maintainence-work vehicle; after all, this area has recently been re-tarmacked. Perhaps they're doing some follow-up work of some kind. (My child-like brain doesn't understand a lot of the mechanics of the real world.) As I ventured on I saw a blue and white line blocking the alleyway on both sides. A little closer still and the coloured blockade bore the repeated inscription: POLICE TAPE: DO NOT CROSS.

'Great, now I'm gonna be late for work!' came my brain's initial response. The rising level of frustration from within my body's core turned the sauna into a paddling pool by the time I made it to work at a time that was, in fact, earlier than normal, even after stopping off for a polystyrene cup of tea on the way. The reason: the train was just about to come.

So you sit there and ask 'why would you put yourself through a torturous walk when there's a train right there?' and I respond by saying it's only one stop and I'm supposed to be saving every morsel of currency for the student year ahead. Plus the walk does me good. Now shut up and stop judging me.

As the grand railway carriage arrived, my time to purchase a ticket was short and I'd have to risk the three-minute journey without a valid ticket, thus putting me in a questionably legal state of petty thief. Still, I suppose that as I'd already mentioned the mockery of prices going relentlessly skywards, I feel that it's only right that I mock the National Rail with this in return.

During the day, I recounted the events of the sweltering morning to my boss as a piece of idle chit-chat, only to be told that local Facebook rumours have pinned the alleyway closure and police involvement on the fatal stabbing of a youngster in the early hours. Multiple things happened within my mind at this time, all of which I'll present now in no particular order:

Shock in the form of an 'oh, my God, really?' response. 

Loss of faith in humanity that one or more humans would and, in fact, do, carry out such acts on their fellow kin. 

Woeful anticipation after a colleague suggests that 'this'll be on the local news tonight then, won't it?' and the fact that this probably isn't the last I'll hear of the local incident. 

Guilt that I thought about my own problems of how I'm specifically affected when the ramifications of the events have proven worse for one person and their respective friends and family members. 

Horrible realisiation that, while corruption and brutal maiming occurs on a daily basis all around the world, a person who has once walked on the same patches of road that I have has been physically attacked by way of a sharp implement being unwillingly thrust into the body causing immense pain.

That last one seemed to get me more than the others, even guilt. Then again I've mused about the notion of ego before and, therefore, feel it's mostly out of my philosophical system and just exists as another part of life. But imagine being stabbed. I know you don't want to, it doesn't seem very pleasant. I don't want to either but once my mind's come up with a thought, it can't just simply unthink about it and instead just sits there waiting to be noticed. Again, I direct you to the notion of ego; even hypotheticals get narcissistic from time to time. But really, the thought of a blade or some other unwelcome visitor gatecrashing your insides genuinely terrifies me. The only comparison I can personally make to such a situation is that I've pricked my finger on some pin or needle or something before now. Rather than falling asleep for a hundred years or contracting hepatitis, however, I've just cursed or run it under a tap or yelled at the pin whilst throwing it across the room in the hope that I banish whatever evil currently possesses it.

I'm generally a nice person who keeps himself to himself and often seeks to help out others if necessary whilst wishing good health and fortune upon those who deserve it. But fuck that. The rest of the world doesn't care for nice. The rest of the world is a corrupt evil bastard, particularly 'round these parts. Even though I'm taking the world day by day, I keep finding myself wondering where I'll spend these days as a stable living environment and as each day goes past, this place seems a less and less likely candidate. The only problem is, where else do I have? Sure, there's the rest of the world, but the rest of the world is unknown, unexperienced according to my particular view of it, and as I've already mentioned, the rest of the world is a corrupt evil bastard. At least until proven otherwise.

The above incident never did appear on the local news that night, meaning even horribler things happened in other nearby places. May every deity from Allah to Zeus have mercy upon us all. Well, those who deserve it.

Real-Life Crisis

Well, it's official. I'm going to die around fifty. How did I come to this sudden realisation? Well, I currently feel as though I'm living through my mid-life crisis now... at 23. It actually might not qualify as a mid-life crisis, as such. Maybe more of a real-life crisis what with the sudden impending monotony and less of the extravagant purchases of Ferraris and band tattoos.

With one year of degree-study left on my personal horizon, I've become accustomed to a heightened sense of social life, swathes of free time to fill with leisurely activity and mostly having my rent paid for by the Student Loans company. The one thing that worries me the most is my poropective living situation; mainly boiling down to the question: "where will I live?". The cost of living is ridiculous at the best of times and the depressing thing about this is that I'm only just realising it now, as I stare the relentless ongoingness of real life square in the face. As it stands, I'm already fearing a future of dwindling monetary funds, frozen microwave meals and all work and no play making Jim a dull boy.

Even over these last few weeks as the Olympic Games trundles on in our dear capital, I can't help but flash back to 16-year-old me watching the 2012 host city announcement voting thingy on a rare Spring-Term day off, probably because I didn't have an exam that day but some of my peers who'd chosen double science or geography or something else useful did. Paris were the favourites, the news pundits knew it, the committees knew it, cameramen apparently knew it as they were ready to capture the moment that the French capital was announced the host of the 2012 Games and then, BAM! Curveball! London. Take that, world! Although I didn't know it yet, I had experienced a dream coming true.

I remember spending the rest of that day watching constant news coverage of the announcement, doing the maths to figure out how old I'd be when the Games came around, realising I'd be 23 and old enough and rich enough and socially popular enough to travel dahn sahff and experience the entire fortnight. I even proudly announced this to my mother multiple times with the words: "Oh, I'm going. I'm so going to it." I'm now 23, currently on leave from my student house and living as a temporary lodger at my father's flat working five days a week in convenience retail for a penny or two over minimum wage. I also haven't been to London at all in the past week and have no time or money to feasibly go during this one. Still, ah to be young and full of dreams.

Without wanting to ramble on too much but fearing I've done so anyway - thus only serving to make me want to shoot myself, the readers want to shoot themselves, the readers also want to shoot me and all of us wonder where we're going to get all these guns from - I've had, what a classmate of my Creative Writing sessions feels is a staple of good character development within a dawdling story like this; an epiphanic moment. If I carry on wondering what I want to do with my life rather than doing it, I'll freeze in the path of oncoming headlights in some three or four decades time reliving my entire life in the space of five seconds, and if the oncoming vehicle doesn't hit me first, I might as well die of boredom thinking about all those times I thought about what these times should look like.

Therefore, after thinking of the glum monotony I want to avoid, crying into a lukewarm cup of tea and watching endless repeats of episodes from My Name Is Earl, I've produced a list. A sort of bucket list, if you will. For me, it's more of a to-do list. Either way, the concept's the bloody same. Here's a bunch of things I'd like to do/achieve/experience with my own pathetic existence here before it gets snatched away from me and I have to watch endless repeats of episodes from My Time Being Jamie in the unholy underworld. As a rule, though, I'll only include things that are achievable within my own control. That way, acts of chaos and blind luck like "win the lottery" or "decide sex of own child" can't be added. I've also decided to put the list here, on the internet, as (a) proof to the world that I want to do things with my life, and (b) so I don't lose it.

As with the list from my 22nd birthday, which happened on the 22nd and consisted of facts about the number 22, this list primarily contains 22 things. More can be added as and when necessary.

1: Have a book physically published. This can encompass any form of writing: fiction, short story collection, biography, cookbook, mindless scribbling or otherwise.

2: Take part in, and complete, a London Marathon.

3: Read certain books I've wanted to read for a while.

4: Record an album or small collection of music, whether orinigal work or covers.

5: Learn and eventually be able to animate using Flash or equivalent.

6: Visit Japan.

7: Be sufficiently fluent in a language other than English.

8: Volunteer or work in a major crowd-pleasing event.

9: Write a small collection of scripts as a series of sitcom, even if unrealised.

10: Learn to drive.

11: Learn to play the violin.

12: Finally buy that PlayStation 3 I've been wanting since 2007.

13: Finish this pseudo-inspiring list of stuff... and by finish, I mean hit 22 things.

The list can never truly be finished though, can it? New dreams and goals are born every day...