university

The lowdown is that I’ve applied for university.

I am off to finish my degree in Creative Writing in…

Falmouth (1st Choice really, as I do love the place)
Plymouth (Similar location to the first choice)
Liverpool (Because I’m here and set up already)
Bangor (Because its a small place I can hole myself away in)
London (Long shot, but I figure its a good place for the work at the end)

The other posts are going to be kept to myself… they are drafts – they are far too reveling.

I can’t wait to fall into a life of student bliss again. The people, the influence, the partying.

I see it as a way of racking up some more experiences, a chance to lose myself for a good few years. Then an MA and then, teaching. To lose myself in a life of self-indulgence.

Because it is my life, I am free to do as I please with it.

.

All this I give in remembrance of me

All this I give in remembrance of me.

And that is what it was, just an attempt at fame!

This whole blog was a way to give myself away to the masses and wring my hands of responsibly for my actions.

That stops now. This is a new decade.

So, what marks the greatest stretch of the previous year; a year that came on as an enemy and turned out to be a saving grace?

What one moment have I hauled aloft, above all others, to settle on a plinth? The clue is in the question. Its being art and all that, that means. It is a moment I will repeat, come the new year and a moment I will forever remember as the start of myself. Not a beginning, but an aching, stretching, reach back to gather up myself and understand at last that my previous mission was a selfish one.

I meant to open the eyes of the world, yet I have no right to do that. It shows a lack of respect for people and highlights my own ridiculous and elitist view that I am somehow better for knowing the things I know.

Which is something wrong in two ways. I am not more or less worthy as a man for thinking deeply. Likewise I am not better for doing so, because I always fall foul of my own logic.

From last Christmas to this I’ve been running around trying fix the parts of myself to better suit the past, or else – to be a creature that can be forgiven. Except that I’ve been taught by someone recently that I’m not to worry about the things I’ve done, I’m meant to always move forward and better suit the world ahead of me. Change shape to fit the upcoming obstacles.

So, I lament – I have kept my eyes on the past to repair what should have been in the right place at the time.

And yet, the things that upset me most are the chances I did not take, not the world closing down around me, but a world I never had the guts to peek into. So many smiles unchased. So many creative projects that I tipped cap to, because I was preoccupied trying to be the man I should have been to circumvent the tragedies I’ve already been through.

There is no use shifting your center of gravity to dodge something that’s already behind you.

So yeah, I’ve missed out on a lot out of fear and the desire to be a ‘better’ person. But what is ‘better’ – and I have an answer!

‘Better’ in the sense of life is to always be looking forward – which is a tough thing to do, though I have given it a whirl the past few days.

The problem is that when I’m hung-over I tend to mill over the things I’m not proud of.

Oh god, I’ve even pretended to be proud of those things! The brotherhood of man all seated round to hear tales of my sexual misadventures, of the hearts I’ve smashed, the trysts, affairs, fist fights and that moment retold, where you saw a heart break in their eyes and tears began rolling.

I’ve done it to give the men what they don’t do themselves for having a conscience. Mine’s just a little late coming on.

So I’m just going to forget being better.

I am better and will go on getting better and better at living.

Or else I’ll just do what I’ve done for the past few weeks – drink a lot, smoke a bit and flirt without motive.

See, I’m a thinker – but its never gotten me anywhere. So I’m going to get nowhere with a little less wasted energy and a whole lot more fun.

Its your own doing, so do different.

You’ve no need to break out the rack and thumb screw, I’ve punished myself for the lack of updating. It is true enough that I’ve been distracted by life – and that means I’ve been too distracted by its passing to sit down and really think. So here I am, sitting in bed typing away, just as I have done for so many years now. Processing with words.

Where to start?

Why don’t I just bypass ‘start’ and skip straight to lessons learnt?

I know to pick the first Nina that comes along. Do not hold out to make a decision just because the first Nina isn’t putting out and the second Nina is great in bed.

I know that I wasn’t put here to love.

I know that the only words I’ve written on my typewriter are the ones that adorn its case; engraved into a layer of dust. So, by knowing, I’ve cleaned it and written a deeply sinful page of utterly filthy, depraved and transgressive prose.

I know that I now have clothes that make me feel fucking wonderful. My new jacket, my new shirts. I’m no longer smart and seemly – I’m down and out and unkempt. Nothing attractive about me because I don’t want it that way.

I have collected a load of DVDs again, at least 30 new favorites. All to quote from, to drag motos from and generally to distract me on those long nights I spend blinking at an unchanging ceiling.

I have also collected new books, so my library has now trebled since I fell from Bath. I’ve read more books in this year than in the last 5.

I know that I really enjoy making my little films each week.

I know what I don’t want anymore.

Then again, I also know that – as with most thinking men – I shall only ever be half-right about everything.

Lastly, I’ve learnt that I create my own problems. I blame myself for things out of my control.

In that spirit, I shall progress by saying that I have made another plan. A plan to be different. I have decided to make a plan to give up on all my other plans and go with whatever feels right for the moment. I have given up trying to find out who I am and I’m back to the task of making myself who I want to be again. To be happy in every moment, whatever shape I have to take on to get there. I don’t care for the consequences, I’ve been more unhappy trying to ‘find myself’ over the last year than I have been in all the other years I’ve spent behind a mask.

Not that, that means I’m going back to being ‘the most heartless man to own a pulse’. Just that it means, I’m going to give up beating myself up for making a wrong move and I’m going to keep up the pace.

See, the thing is… for all the last year I have tried to fix myself because of some stupid notion that I was responsible for what happened back in my old existence and the truth is. It wasn’t my fault.

I’ve beaten myself up over the whole thing, been my own jury – because the real jury never said that I fucked up. Not one of them has condemned me, they all just stopped talking to me. Why should I jump to the conclusion that the problem is mine? I’ve always been a little weak for blame, I love to have some force against me. It keeps me fresh. So I guess they have the problem, otherwise they’d have let me know. Fact is, I didn’t fuck up.

I’m just a guy. I fell out of love and didn’t have the guts to call it quits. Later, when we called it a day and I felt the earth crumble beneath my feet. I got scared of the change and had a mental breakdown. Big deal! Boo hoo!

So I tried to fall in love again with the first thing to come along, that didn’t work because I was just spring cleaning the heart. I was unstable. I needed a scapegoat and heartache felt about right. Something friends in Bath couldn’t sympathize with and when they learnt they had the wool pulled over their eyes and I didn’t really have a broken heart, well… the sympathy stopped short of helping. How can you help what you can’t understand. Who can blame them?

And ever since, and forever hence, and from then on… I’ve been treading water, trying to fix myself so I don’t repeat the same mistakes.

Like the guy who goes back in time to fix it so that he is born, but ends up screwing the future – there is no way to rectify a wrong choice.

Fritz: “You have to learn to grow some balls and say, ‘Whatever, next time I’ll score better.’’”

And you do.

So this is my message to everyone who reads this usually depressing diatribe of crap.

IT IS OKAY TO FUCK UP. Just remember to get up and not question every wrong step, otherwise you’ll get nowhere.

I’m on the mend, at last. I’m geared up and recharged to take on the world in a way I see fit.

No more trying to go teetotal (I have no problem with drink)

No more asking forgiveness (I’ve gotten all the replies I’m going to get and I’ve said all the apologies that I mean)

No more weeping and moaning about not having a purpose in life. Fuck it! I either make a mark, or I’m wiped off the board; either way I’ll never see my own legacy.

Fritz: “Drink up, young Cup. Run your own existence again, stop being such a nervous fucker and get out and live!”

I have my Lonesome Tribe to guide me. I have The Infinitesimal Spirit to sooth me. I have Bella Cope as a warning. I have Dayglo to imagine what might have been. I have Captian Wilco singing me the blues to remind me what I’m running from.

Fritz: “So on, on, on, young Cup. Make life yours.”

Fritz: “Run, run, run, young Cup and remember… be yourself – be honest, be quick, be witty and above all, floor anything that stands in your way!”

My guardian angel is my own creation, so how can it ever let me down?

on gardens and old mythology

They say that just after the beginning of our race. In fact, right after our exclusion from a certain botanically-themed Auschwitz of our pure origin. They say that there were angels who came down to teach us the ways of living. Those sweet, winged creatures who taught us how to smelt metals, how to use plants as medicine, how to write and the power of numbers. Those beasts that should have taught us one thing above all else, how to survive the god-shaped hole in our hearts.

Now, anyone who knows me knows that my ‘god-shaped hole’ idea (as well as not being original) is not literally a hole awaiting the puzzle piece of the almighty to complete it, but is in fact actually a inexplicably tricky void in my life that seems to contain limitless sadness and depression without source, nor any signs of ceasing.

To the void, I raise a glass. You have not claimed me yet, though you fought admirably.

I’m coming out of a depression right now, which is good, but the transition always leaves me waxing lyrical on the miracle that I managed to keep going. After all, anyone continually in pain would not be altogether unhappy to see an end to it.

The void is a lack of purpose. A lack of meaning. The void, for me, is made of the great unanswered question. The one that I feel needs answering, if I am to make it to a ‘Notebook’-esk ending to my life. The wrinkled splendor of closed-eyes, a spittle-wetted pillow and no further need for breath.

In short, I want to know why I’m here. I want simply to have a reason to go on. I want a flicker of passion for life. I want… nay! Recklessly seek out a purpose to this mess of life. 

Back to the bible, albeit briefly. In the garden of Eden there were two trees. The Tree of Knowledge (from whence we ate) and The Tree of Life (of which we did not partake).

So did the Fruit of Knowledge give us curiosity as a form of stomach upset? Do I ache, like many questioning minds before me, because there is one question we need to find some answer to. Even if it is ‘we’ who create it for ourselves?

The puzzle for me was in the choice presented. Here’s how I see it.

Would one choose the ability to understand the universe (The Tree of Knowledge’s boon) over, say eternal life (granted by The Tree of Life’s fruit)?

I would have chosen The Tree of Life because, simply, I have the long-held belief that we’d all be living in a paradise if we didn’t know anything of the world (or sin) – (We’d still be wandering about like children without a rusty Sword of Damocles above us. Or upturned hourglass, if you prefer that analogy).

Now, I’ve met a fair few who were greedy enough to say both and excepting that there was possibly that choice, I would have to say that would have put us in a worse hell than we’re in right now. With knowledge of the almighty but no way of connecting with him. More logically with this unanswerable question and a maddening progression of days to linger on it. Or in my case, with depression and no chance of parole.

Not that I’m religious. (How many times can I say that before it becomes clear that’s how I’ve been programed since birth?) But I do put things in this format, simply because it helps me form my arguments – I know what I’m saying with these words, so do indulge me.

Not that I’m suicidal, anymore. (Not at this point anyway.)

Anyway. In the beginning angels came and gave us knowledge of very little of value, we learnt a lot for ourselves and still we’re faced with a question that we must become delusional to answer. Only the problem is, I’m not all that delusional right now. I don’t hear god. I don’t believe in anything. Indeed, some of the smartest men and women in history were driven mad by it.

Not that I’m a genius – though I am a thinking man. A man who cares (who has no choice but to) and who cannot fabricate an answer to console himself with.

So that is where I am. Tired after so long holding back an escape from my problem. This is where I’m left. Dropped off with the refreshed attempt to live, but nothing to live for. So on with the parade, until I run out of the energy needed to keep the question at bay. Until the depression looms over me again and I slip back on myself. Until I again have to hold back the cowards way out.

Or perhaps the very answer itself, what if life is a puzzle box and the idea is to find the quickest way out? (Never-mind, I’m being silly)

Anyway this is my cycle.

And… well… what’s more like life?

living with a rock at your face and a hard place somewhere else…

So I’m going to cut to the quick with this and let the marrow show.

I’m not well. I haven’t been for years. Its not a constant illness, a lot of the time I have a hard enough time believing it is there myself – let alone the people who love me, who seem to settle on the idea of my getting better like I’ve got a broken ankle and just need to get the plaster off.

I can’t sleep again. I know the signs. I’m going to wake up one day soon convinced (like never before, but just the same as every other time) that I’m different.

Just like the million times it has happened before. I’ll take my head from the pillow and a new adventure will begin, one where I change my name, my loves, my taste, my friends… everything is thrown out and I just linger on the hinge of sanity.

Fuck it.

Truth is. Every few weeks I’ll have a down spell and I’ll feel worse than hell. Every now and then (Once or twice a year) I’ll wake up and do something about it. Delusion will push me into a new skin.

Right now, I’m in the grip of this nasty, evil, vindictive and destructive emotional state. I could, in this way, be very well described as bound and gagged by life.

I’m so distraught with the way I live. I’m always compensating for one or other element of my fractured character. Who the hell am I?

Am I Ric, the boy who wanted to be a grown up so bad that he sold innocent years trying every sin he could. Who was so in practice by the time that adulthood arrived he was driven to new and lower levels of sickness and depravity to get kicks, so desensitized to intimacy that he still now feels nothing from a kiss. That a fuck is a handshake to him.

Am I Richie, who traveled to many cities with a few people on his mind. Who got so close to giving in to a feeling that he jumped ship and escaped back to the city that was small enough that he was noticed, but big enough to get lost in. Who broke as many hearts as he did because love was meaningless – not least of all because its easy enough to kill it when you first feel it stir up. Who shaved his head to ditch a girl and met another the same afternoon. Who took out his upset at being ditched by his first university love, because she left him wanting more of her, on everyone he met who fell for his innocent looking blue eyes.

Am I Young Cup, the kid who had two dates lined up and shacked up with the one he got to fuck first. Who went out of his way to be a loving partner because it was easier to live with a happy woman than an unhappy one. Who two years later cheated on her out of spite and then went on a drinking binge out of guilt for something she never actually found out? The kid who knew she’d done the same to him, but he never spoke a damn word of contempt for it. Never treated her any less. Who had a down spell at the wrong moment and had the rug pull from his feet. Who fucked things up for trying his best to keep them going.

Am I Old Cup, the kid who being single and lonely found an anarchist to fuck senseless in the grip of such a life of senselessness. A girl who his best mate fell for (who she didn’t like). Who was outed by so-called friends for tearing an  Anarchist’s heart out and then (not one month later) fucking the same girl in my hometown because she was anything but heartbroken! She was a firecracker and sure she wanted more of me than I wanted to give, but that’s no-one’s fault! No friends left in the place he’d loved, because they didn’t have the good courtesy to ask me how it went down? A lost boy, who’s ex got the city and he got the boot.

Am I Jensen, the boy genius, who became an artist and traveled to the height of traffalgar square in support of some ill-thought out agenda? The boy who determined to surround himself with artists and writers of liverpool. Who went to every writers night and hippy hang-out and made friends with so many bands he was heavy with demo cds. Who’d live without a penny in his pocket, without a voice if he could wing it. Who wouldn’t eat for days because it mades him superhuman, and it still does. Who made a promise not to lie again and kept it.

Am I Richard, the friendly bookseller and lark-about who has no trouble making friends. If friends is what you call it. Who can deal with work for as long as it lasts. Who can just about shut out the noise of the rest of his life for the few short hours he’s in work?

Am I The Boyfriend? In a relationship where there’s never been a single crossed word, where we respect each other and anticipate most everything the other needs ahead of time. So in tune its a shame its anything but upbeat. The guy who can’t lie, so he just doesn’t tell her how bad he’s feeling. The guy who can’t hide what’s hurting, so he gives up the name of the lesser stress to hide the larger. The guy who still now doesn’t want to love, for the guilt and agony it causes him in his darker moments.

Am I The Fractured Man? Who wants so much for the world to melt away. Who is in agony for wanting the world to stay the same for just one day, to get to grips with the pace of it. Who can’t deal with an ounce of stress. Who buckles and flays his wrists at the first sign of depression. Who wants to shave his head, don rags, drink bottles and bottles of whatever booze he can conjure up. Who he has been since his second university year, where he gave up on living, but didn’t have the guts to finish his own sentence.

Truth is… there is far more of me than this.

Fact is… I fucking hate the lot of it and I don’t want to keep being so many shades of myself. Because I’m not stupid enough to think that I’m actually many different people, just I find it deadening to try to squeeze all of me into this tiny little slip of a body.

I’m tired.

I want to wipe the slate clean.

I want to hit reset and go back to year dot. I want to forgo love in favor of lasting friendship. I want to ditch desire for the better elements of feeling.

Here’s who I want to be.

The guy who cares enough and is courageous enough to say so. Who doesn’t hold back his feeling because he wants to look like he’s a tough guy. I want to be anything but a tough guy. I want to be a guy that doesn’t lie, because the truth is hard enough. I want to be calm, content and able to challenge myself. I want to be able to deal with a pinch of stress now and then without getting ulcers, quivering hands and headaches. I want to make friends and not worry that they hate me, because that’s what I’ve been faced with up till now. The sudden removal of faces from my life. I want to be able to rely on people, not just myself (barely). I want to make friends and not get paranoid about them changing team, becoming the enemy. I want to admit that I loved people. Not lie to myself and everyone because it means I failed at staying in that great way of being. I want to be the guy who doesn’t just chuck about ‘sorry’ but that adds a little weight to it with some honesty.

‘I’m sorry, I was sick’ just doesn’t cut it. Truth is, sickness is no account for action. I did some horrible things because I chose to do them, because I wanted to feel something, or I wanted to prove that I didn’t. I did things because if I didn’t do something I’d have lost the fight a long time ago. I have done awful things, but I need to bury them and I need your blessing to do it. Everyone should know that I suffer for my sins, if you read this blog at all then that much is clear.

I just roll the pattern over and over in my head. Or it is a bitter pill on the tongue. Whatever cliche works best.

I’m the cause of most every one of my troubles, yet I can’t seem to turn things around. I feel like a time traveller, like every mistake I try to fix causes a bigger one. I feel like everything I do just brings its own troubles.

I’m still here, a month away from the anniversary of my first real attempt to get some help, to get better, to change. I’ve not had any appointments because the NHS is shit. I’m not a woman and I haven’t actually tried to kill myself, so in the eyes of the medical world I DON’T EXIST!

Except, I’m still here aching. I’m no better, though I am better off. I’ve a great life, except I still don’t think I deserve it. I still want to end things before they’ve even begun. I’m 23 for god’s sake!! I should be half as experienced at life as I am. I know people who are 10 years further down the road of life and haven’t had 1/100 of the life I’ve had.

Except it isn’t a matter of pride. Its just disbelieve. I can’t understand why I’ve not cracked the code of life. I’ve gone through a run of combinations and still don’t know a single way that works. I want to have it easy, but easy is hard to find.

I don’t want to start my life 9 years from now, when I enter my own Rosy Crucifixion saga. (I’m reading Miller)

Either I’m a better man now, or I’m just not worse than I’ve been so far.

Only time will tell, but god help me! I want some sort of sign – I want some idea that what I’m after is achievable. Otherwise it’ll just be another few years of holding on, before I work up the courage to let go.

I’ve never held anything back from this blog.

This is truth, this is me (all of me), laid bare.

(This was written at 3am 09/12/09 – please forgive the typos and the lyrical style is just because I’ve been writing a lot of poetry recently.)

Margin:0.0px or maybe ?0.o?

“  City of Birth

Much of the place is now just a flourish of the mind. Rivers and streets have altered position and where you might follow one in real life and come out at its proper exit, in my mind it turns about and you arrive elsewhere altogether. The whole city is a fading dream, less and less factual as the months wear on.

Except the truth is that I do not strive to remember, the death of it suits me. Rather than not leaving me at all, gradually is an accepted evil. However I lament that it could not have been torn away in one swipe. I wish the whole place burnt away, its ash caught and carried off by a wind of forgetfulness. I wish nothing ill on the inhabitants of that city in its real and present form, but its form in my heart is a solid lump that runs to the throat if I consider it for too long. I mean it not to remind me of my own failures.

In truth the city is merely the scapegoat for my own shortcomings, for my own mistakes. It is a laden creature, cast out and laboring under the burden of blame for injuries I’ve suffered. The city did nothing directly, supplant me and my life to another with the same set of circumstances and I’d be sure of similar results. The same progression of cruelty, neglect and eventual isolation. The same reasons for the breakdown of relationships with almost everyone. My own ego and lack of humility. My envy of other people’s talents and embarrassment at my own lack of courage.

No, I cannot blame a city for what was my own doing. The truth is that I lost my sight, my judgement clouded. Or, more rightly, my vision was distorted by a thin film over the eyes. An idea of how the world looked, except that in that way of seeing I could not perceive the slow corruption of my life. Each time I rallied myself and thrust forward with my creative projects, I was in fact just shuttling along in a blinkered, eager rush. I shut out the distraction of friends and lovers. Then, when I’d collapsed into the sense of futility that seems to run through me like a core, I was surprised that they’d moved on to better things.

It is a great and painful process for a man to learn of his own failings. More-often he might bury the facts under a layer of disbelief. Or else under the debris of the facts themselves; as he picks each apart with lies and self-justification. Delusion is the tonic for most things.

Myself, I’m no less the fool. Even knowing what I do I cannot bring myself to believe I was to fault. I too ignore these things and move on with what I do agree to take with me. So from these lessons comes the genesis of a new self. I do not wish to remember my sins, though I will learn from them. It is hypocritical indeed to ignore the legitimacy one’s crimes and yet still take wisdom from them; though to have the position reversed would be far worse an error.   “

—-

The above is the beginning of the novel I was speaking of, not too long ago. The tale of my life. A way to purge myself of the old crimes and explain how things progressed and perhaps absolve myself slightly through showing how I’ve bettered myself. It will however be ‘warts and all’, I hope – if I have courage enough to paint myself in my true (past) monstrous form. All names altered, no great revelations about the other people involved. I will stay in the bounds of my own head, the things that I saw and thought – I will not attempt to second guess the people around me, nor anything of their opinions of me at that time. What I do not want it to be, is a way of explaining away the evil I have done, but rather to seek to hold onto it – lest I forget – and remind myself of how far I have come so that I do not retrace the same steps. I also don’t want it to hurt anyone from the past, hence the only alterations will be to the unsavory portions of lives of others and not to my own life, wherever possible.

The NaNoWriMo novel is far more accomplished, though I do wish to return to the previous novel soon. I’m a little behind in terms of the monthly goal – though it has proven itself as necessary and so I will be moving forward with it. I’m not all too bothered about the NaNo win because NaNo has been a bit of a joke as far as I’m concerned. There’s been no proper management or communication with those involved, so the community fun was sucked dry long ago. I’m just glad that I’ve got a wonderful manuscript out of it and I can break on through with the knowledge that I can write about 2,000 words a day with very little hassle, so long may it continue. Fuck NaNo.

Nevermind.

I’m loving quite a few bands at the moment.

1) The Bicycle Thieves

2) Cocoon (‘Hey Ya’, ‘I don’t give a shit’)

3) Soko (‘I’ll kill her’)

4) The Thermals (‘Now we can see’)

5) Fresh body shop (‘My artificial sun‘)

And in terms of poetry?

1) Derek Walcott (‘Elsewhere’, ‘For Adrian’)

And I’m reading…

1) 2666 by Roberto Bolano

2) Omeros by Derek Walcott

3) The Book of Shadows Don Paterson

4) Fugitive Pieces by Anne Michaels (again)

In other news. I’ve made a promise with myself to write a poem, take a roll of photos (34 photos), make a short film and read a book every week from now on.

Further updates will follow.

a break?

I’m going to take a break from my novel to write this. I’m doing well with the NaNoWriMo challenge, I’m on target for my 100,000 word personal target, so I’m more than able to hit the standard 50,000 word mark. I’m not stressing too much about it because I know that whatever I get out of it is something in the right direction.

At least I’m putting pen to paper with an aim in mind and I can stick at it. In the past I’ve been distracted by lots of things, but this time I have a focus that I can really only put down to maturity and real determination.

It is a while since I’ve blogged and I feel like I need to, to get some stuff out.

I got a job! I’m working at Waterstones and I have met new friends and everything on that side of things is great! I’m pretty good at selling books and helping people out. I’m very well read, so whenever people come to the till and ask about something I’m like… ‘oh you mean X, sure – just follow me’ or I’m like ‘I’ve read that actually, can I recommend this?’ Its lovely to have a job where being who you are really makes you good at it.

I’ve more calmness now, my character has altered and I’m able to see it clearly now for one particular reason.

I’ve quit my medication, both the fluoxetine and the sleeping pills.

I’m in a better place, so I don’t need them to keep me still anymore.

I’m starting to get back some of the old feelings again, but that makes me feel more like myself. There is the old nostalgic sense of a lost life and a part of myself that has fallen away. That had been hidden from me by the pills, they sort of alter you into a more carefree and less concerned creature. That’s not me, I know who I am and it is okay for me to dwell slightly. It is where I get a lot of my strength from.

I’m more focused, have more regard for people. I’ve done well. It’s almost like enlightenment, but not as sudden or significant really.

I’m getting back into the swing of being okay with being me again.

And just in time for new year.

My Hour as Art: The calculations of a Soft Machine.

One must always bare in mind the often overlooked power of a single thoughtful person. Though we are often unaware of the impact we can potentially make, we must attempt to prepare ourselves. This thought was brought to me from my recent experience as a plinther. That is, being a lucky participant in One and Other, Antony Gormley’s new art installation.

Being up on the Forth Plinth in Trafalgar Square was one of the most unprepared moments of my life. It was like approaching one of the seven wonders, or the peak of a mountain; there is simply no way of knowing how you will react.

When confronted by such opportunities, a more refined soul might have gone up with a speech prepared. I might have preached, screamed, recited or otherwise constructed some form of sentiment that would have undoubtedly taken the moment away from me. I might well have run for an hour like a robot, speaking words that I’d pawed over for weeks in advance. Not so for the willful creature that I am.

Instead I listened a little too intently to a small voice from within that said ‘you need only ‘be’!’ I decided to go up, no props, no gimmicks – just a lone soft machine, held aloft for an hour.

I would say even now, that was/is enough.

Art itself (for the most part) cannot alter its form to better suit the audience before it. Once it is produced it is cast in that form. The painting cannot gain another few brushstrokes, to add more colour here or focus the eye there, just because the person seeing it would find it easier to understand. It can but assume a lasting posture and only stand by and weather the praise and criticism it receives with equal solemnity.

I went up there to ask the world questions more directly than most art does, to be a mirror that might allow people to see something of themselves whilst speaking a language they themselves spoke in. I went up there to do what art does, not interact with the audience around me, but to get the audience to engage with itself.

The truth is we make art to remind us of what will always remain important. We don’t make it as a target for our insults, or produce it so that it will locked away. We want it to be shown to an audience, to tell a story, to make a point, to request more of ourselves than is polite to ask in person. We use art to crack open the human spirit.

Of course I am referring to art as generalized art, that of the gallery displays (paintings primarily, or perhaps music also, certainly the photograph), rather than the more innovative methods that artists now engage in. I know full well that art does not stick to its definitions, by definition it is endlessly re-educating us of limitless features.

So, I got up on that stone pillar with the idea that I’d more clearly do what art does. So that I might connect more directly with people and get the message across. My mission was to Raise Awareness for Awareness. I wanted people simply to start asking themselves questions.

Back to the experience itself, once up there I lost my words and almost my balance.

We cannot know our qualities until we have been tested to our limit. So all I could comfortably expect of myself was that I would continue to breathe and that my heart would beat (albeit madly).

When I got up there I had no idea that I would lose much of myself to nerves. There is a lot to be said for the written language (and much has been); however, I more admire anyone who can stand to speak and explain their message with clarity. I do not have the ability to speak easily in public, though I do now intend to improve.

In any case I am happy that, with that small sight of my limits, I was inspired.

I’ve come off the plinth with a renewed acknowledgment of myself, but also of the influence and inspiration I have to offer. I met and spoke with many people and the reactions have been incredible.

People do want to talk, people do want to learn why things are the way they are. Even those who initially became hostile in the face of art, grew later (after conversation/explanation) to understand. They too added their own voice and perspective to the endeavor.

I may have been alone, an example of a young man with a lot (perhaps too much) on his mind; but no-one was unworthy of a place there on that plinth and those who asked questions took their place alongside me.

Now uniquely aware of how much impact a single soft machine can make when placed in the right location. My plan is to go on putting myself in challenging places, to do what I think is good and right and just. To ignore the voices that want me down on their level and to use my own to lift others out of the flood of indifference.

I’ve shaken a dozen hands, hugged people who were strangers, dealt with the irrepressible masses and I have come out of the experience; not better, nor worse, but different.

oneward and upward

Okay. RIght. Testing, testing. Hope this is working.

It is.

Right.

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to this whole One and Other thing. I’ve done my smart thinking now, I’m over that. I’ve reasoned out things and I think I’m going to be okay. Just going to get up there, pose my ideas and then breathe it all in.

Been having a few emotional tantrums recently – my heart all a flutter.. ex-cetera … It all comes from me putting too much stock in this thing.

The truth is, I don’t need to get it ‘right’ or do anything to ‘please’ anyone. I’m smarter than needing to take my level from other people’s figures.

I wrote a little piece last night for my novel – “Feel bitter, feel like you want to hit me; but don’t deny the fact we made each other pretty happy. In the time we had.”

That’s what all this means, it is getting up there and just saying ‘This is me. What are you?

I am the art that can ask questions of itself, as much as of the observer. Now that is a revolution!

This morning I got a call from a mental health team member and they have invited me over to get checked over on Wednesday. I’m going to go along and tell them everything. I will write a little something for them first. A little history maybe. Something to explain better than I might be able to.

Oneward and upwards with things.

One and Other: All Just Soft Machines

One and Other: All Just Soft Machines.

www.askyourselfaquestion.blogspot.com

There is a certain weight applied to the spirit when one engages deeply with the process of consideration and analytics. There are questions that will send you mad with wondering. Questions you will waste away trying to answer, so I’ve made a loop-hole for myself. A safety rope of sorts.

‘The answer never matters as much as that you asked the question.’ (I hope I’m quoted for saying that, though I’m sure it is an unoriginal sentiment.)

That is my attempt to save my sanity. That is the line that will console me, through the darkest moments of my journey.

That is what this whole Raising Awareness for Awareness idea is all about. It is about getting people merely to consider the question, if only for a moment, of who and what they are. It is what Gormley is asking us 2,400 to do. It is the question that many will have asked and many will have simply bypassed and said ‘what can I get up there and do!’ I’m not convinced it is a point of ‘doing’, but of ‘being’. I am still more intent that the aim of this whole thing is to ‘ask’.

I hope people will say – ‘What am I?’ Who am I?‘ ‘Hey, what is my politics?’ ‘How do I feel about justice/death/religion/charity/piety/immorality/sexuality?’

In some it will prompt the asking of more questions, in others it will awaken the certainty that they do not wish to ask anything further of themselves.

The safety rope will hold me back from being lost in questioning for its own, energy-draining, sake. I will keep my focus on the idea that I am struggling forward, but forever secured by my belief in my chief aim. To tone my mind, like any other muscle. One step toward being fit in mind, body and human spirit.

My ‘loop-hole’, as I put it, isn’t to wriggle free from the responsibility that comes from my starting this quest. I will not shirk away from the fact that there will be people who will reach out for an answer and gather up some objectionable theories. There will always be people who think their truth must be imposed and world should suffer its implementation. However, I feel knowledge of ourselves will lead to knowledge of a great many things. I believe that with knowledge and consideration comes empathy; and with that, unity. We are One and we are Other.

The answers may differ, but the soft machine that calculates is always of the same construction; mind, body and human spirit (or whatever you call it).

@jensenwilder

Jensenwilder@gmail.com