(AKA, china prt 1.2)
Location; The Hostel Bar. Opposite Beijing Zahn (Railway Station), in the City Centre Youth Hostel.
Time; Approx 11pm. It was the holidays though, so i was waking between 5PM and 8AM, which meant 11PM was mid-morning.
Characters; Me, Brock Fettes, an 18-year-old English Teacher/Travel Writer, John Something, a 40ish novelist, who was a bit depressed after a girl he had become close to moved out of Beijing. A natural occurance when living in a hostel, but upsetting nonetheless.
Tomtom. That is, two boys called Tom (both 18) travelling the world together. Friends of mine (as was everyone in the bar at the time).
Other Random Hostellers, including a group of 4, two girls, two guys, who... wernt particularly expirienced in life, if you know what i mean.
Leo, the hostel DJ and very good friend to me. A crazy, much-tatooed 19-year-old musician.
And, of course, the drugged-up Californain, whose name i later discovered was Harman.
So, i arrived at bar after waking, showering, having some breakfast and sorting out some random shit. It is about 10 or 11. The bar is quite busy, loads of people milling and chilling and drinking beer and Baijo. Leo is playing some Hip-Hop, or some other such modern shite that i never bother to put in a genre. Decent 'beat' though, for what little thats worth.
I join Tomtom, Mistery-man and Tom and Mik at our little area that we take over every day and we get down to some serious drinking.
Was a fairly normall night, for the start. A good atmosphere. There was one drunk Californian geezer in the background who would occasionally shout some lyrics really loudly and start dancing a bit crazily, but it was rare and easily ignorable.
The night wore on, Tom and Mik left at around 1AM and Mistery-man went to bed soon after. I was at the bar chatting to John, cheering him up and all that sort of jazz, and had moved onto glasses of triple-Bailys, to sooth my way into drunkeness.
I saw the californain out of the corner of my eye talking some shit to the shorter member of Tomtom, but thought little of it - they can handle themselves.
Later, still chatting, i saw the guy go over to the table of 4 and heard something of an argument happening, and around then i started paying attention. It was about 2AM now, and John had been sucssessfuly mollified. We started to discuss the gu y, who was dancing crazily and staring at things that wernt there. Had a little debate over what he was on - not Extacy, becasue he had none of the major side-effects, not coke, not heroin, etc.
Eventually we decided it was either Ketamine, or some hallucinagen. Not good stuff.
I decided to try my luck speaking to him, so i went over with a big smile on my face and put an arm round his shoulder and chatted away. Thankfully he saw me as a friend and was okay, but he was having none of my probing after which drugs he was on. Refused to say his name as well, but at least he was a little pacified.
I sat him down on the sofa and went back to John.
Straight after i left him he went back to what he was like before, going around the bar threatening people. Eventually he chose the group next to me to threaten, so i thought i had better do somethng. They were chinese, and he kept saying he was going to kill them, and that his people would sort the mout and all that sort of shit. I put an arm round his shoulders and steered him away, chatting friendlily, and explaining to him that these were good people. He kept telling me that he loved me and i said "I know you love me man. What i want is for you too love them." pointing at the group of chinese. He looked at me with eyes brimming with tears and said "I do man. I love them."
I left him alone again. 5 minutes later i heard some shouting from the table of four, and the two girls were standing up and it looked like he was going to hit one of them.
Again, i took him away, again i calmed him, and this time i even convinced him to go and apologize.
This was the first time at which i felt sorry for the guy. The conversation whent like this;
"Look, im really sorry for what i said. It wasnt nice, and if you want to punch me in the eye, i want you to p-unch me in the eye."
"I want to stub my fag out in your eye, knobend. Can i do that?"
"Yeah, yeah. You can. Im really sorry."
"Okay dickhead. Can you fuck off now?"
...
I dragged him away quick, with him whispering how he hates all women and he wanted to kill him in my ear. I told him i agreed for once. They were out of order.
That told me the first interesting thing of the evening; that it is wholly, irrevocably true that other people treat you like you treat them. I treated him pleasantly, friendlily, and openly. He reciprocted.
The other people in the bar felt uncomfortable around him, because of his wild singing and dancing, and they were rude to him. He returned it with interest. So much interest, in fact, that it made him look like the bad guy.
And the main proof of this was... well, later in the evening he went back to try and fight the chinese group. I stopped him, but when i took him away he was telling me how much he totally hates the chinese. Not just these people; this was pure racism, in its most ignorant form.I said to him, "Man, this iws not really a great countrie to be in if you hate the chinese. To be honest, it would probably be better if you went back to california, and hated them there if you really feel that strongly."
And then he told me something which made me realsie how much of a hell he really was in;
"Ive got a degree in Chinese. This is the only place in the world i can get a job. I hate them so much."
But, back to the point, even though he really did hate the chinese, Loe proved how true it is that people treat people like they themselves are treated; at one point the californian shouted "I FUCKING HATE THE CHINESE" and Leo, who had been doing a similar thing to me - being nice to the guy, despite his dickery - came over and smiled and said "Do you hate me?" and the Californain said "No man. Of course i dont hate you. Your my brother."
That, i think, proves it. Leo is a great guy, and because he is nice to people, he can even make racists like him. Good man.
So yeah, the night wore on like this, becoming more and more weary in its swings (he would turn from being our best friends (me and Leo and Tomtom) and content with just sitting with us and talking... relativly normally, to wanting to go off and kill some chinese people, or some women (that was how i found out his name, incidently. He was going on about how much better men are than women, and started saying "Har-MAN. Har-MAN. Thats my name. MAN. Har-MAN."). Occasionally he got so worked up that a mere arm-around-the-shoulder-and-a-steer-away wasnt enough, and i had to physically hold him down.
But yeah, in that manner the night wore on till it reached 6AM or so and he vanished. I was content with telling myself that he had probably gone to bed, so started saying goodnight to everyone, had a last Bailys, and started to leave. Just as i got to the door of the bar, in walked the Californian, followed by three security guards, and a manager of the hostel. They stood in the door and started talking to him in Chinese, so i asked what was the problem. They said he had broken a door. I tried to talk to him, but he... he was beyond my help. He was so close to tears that he clearly couldnt talk or he would have started crying. He had that look of "leave me alone" on his face, and he wasnt acepting help from anyone. He was ruined, fucked up, and had at last done something stupid enough to get himself in trouble.
And so, like the gallant cock-sucker that i am, i walked away. Down to the internet cafe to drown my guilt in games.
I dont know if i could have done anything, but i still think i should have tried. I spent the whole night saving him from himself, only to abandon him at the finall fuck-up. And i felt like a cunt for it. I would rather i had just ignored him all night than what i did; falsly befriending him, but not caring enought to help him all the way.
And it was then that i realised something about myself. Something i hate, more than anything else; i love the glorie you get from the self-sacrifice in wasting your evening making everyone elses evening better. The next day, people asked me why i was willing to throw away a night babysitting a drugged-up fuckwit, and the truth is because i enjoyed it. Its so pathetic and narccisistic, so egotistical, so glorifying, but i love it when i help people like that. And not for any altruistic reasons, but simply because it makes me look like a good person. And thats what it comes down to - everything i do is just another way of making me look good. I just hate the fact that i am so pathetically dependant on the opinions of others that i am willing to do pretty much anything to make them like me. I hate the fact that i can never really be altruistic, that every generous act i do is just another way of glorifying myself. Its truley sickening.
Man, i hate humantiy sometimes.
Wednesday, 17 October 2007
Monday, 15 October 2007
China, prt2
A slightly edited version of an exrtact from an email to my darling sister.
"Ill tell you the storie of how we first discovered Rickshaw, in all its glory.
Me and a bunch of Swedes were chilling in the hostel bar one night. As the night drew on, most of them went to bed, and it was only Eric, the lone Swede, and Sara (pronounced Saurah) who is one of the four beautiful Swedes (the ones that convinced me and Tom and Mik to go on a wild mission to mongolia, where we all stayed in a awsome Yurt and me and Tom and Mik spiked the massive 4litre bottle of tea with a good bag and a half of weed. It was awsome.).
We decided to go on a last trip to McDonalds (which is in the same block as the Hostel, much to my bodies dismay - i end up eating there every other day at least, late at night when food becomes gold (it is 24 hours. We allways have a hugh rush at about 4 am because thats when they start to change over to breakfast, and breakfast there is shit.)).
When we got there, and had our sickeningly shitty (and worryingly delicious) meal, Eric suggested that we go out. Now. We knew that if we went back inside we would never make it out (it was about 2am), so we thought yeah, lets go. Jumped in a taxi to Sanlitun, and headed straight for the glory of Pure Girl.
Now, let me just slightly forgive the other Swedes, and indeed other peoples, who had gone to bed; it was a Monday night, and they were leaving for Mongolia the next afternoon.
And there worries were proved justified when we got to Sanlitun and found it deserted. Thankfully Pure Girl is open whatever is happening, so we went there and settled into a rythm of buying 3 kamikazies and 3 G&Ts per round for a totall of 60 kuai (about 4 pounds). After getting thouroughly wasted we ivited the only other people in the bar - three random chinese - for a few games of spoons.
Now the crazy love triangle going on there would take a whole essay to dissolve, so i will just put it simply; there was one boy. And i dont knw how old he was, but he was clearly a boy. He may have been in his mid-twenties and he would still be a boy.
He was in love with the girl, who was... while not quite beautiful still very attractive, but more importantly she was cool. Really cool. Allmost chic.
She was with the other guy, much younger than her, and clearly something of a toyboy, but still very cool in his own right. So yeah, they joined us and we changed to 6 kamikasies (changing at one point to 6 flaming lambo's, which was good) and 6 tequila sunrises. The boy didnt drink though, he just sat in the corner and moped. He went out in the first round of every game.
So, dutiful as ever, i drank his drinks, which got my highly tolerant body an express ticket to drunkenness. Was good.
We played some awsome games of spoons (the bar didnt actually have spoons, so we played it with lighters, but you get the idea), then they left. The bar closed five minutes later, and us three left as well, holding hands and skipping drunkenly along the road singing "Rickshaw, Rickshaw" etc. Rickshaw is 24 hours, you see.
Here i will interupt the somewhat eratic flow to inform you of somethin that i missed; Eric pulled Sara. This juicy fact may become something of interest in my further tales, if i can ever be bothered to write them.
Which made it all the more interesting later in the night when Eric was in the toilet and i had to rescue Sara from falling down the stairs by lifting her into my arms, carrying her to the sofa, and gently laying her down before coaxing her into taking a sip of water, heheh.
But yeah, we were skipping along, holding hands (a detail which will again become of interest later, if i tell that story), and eventually arrived at Rickshaw. We settled in, all alone in the bar, and had a few more shots and some gentle pints, to slow down the intake a little.
Now, again, i must stop for a moment to apologies; i just realised that this was the second time i had been to Rickshaw. Which makes the next part of the story redundant, so i will skip it and just recount it along with the full tale, if i ever get around to telling it.
Eventually we stumbled out after a few mini adventures and got in a taxi back to the hostel.
Arriving there, Eric bought his ticket to Mongolia (it was only the four fine Swedish girls at first, but they convinced me and Eric and Tom and Mik to come too), and i went to the bar and bought myself a bottle of Bailies to welcome a new day.
Now, i dont normally go that far - have an insane night out then go back and down myself a quick bottle all alone in a bar, but i was leaving later that day so i thought i might as well wipe myself out and sleep for the whole train journey.
And anyway, i wasnt all alone in the bar; about halfway through the bottle Eric joined me, and soon after an awsome Russian guy came. This Russian geezer is absolutly amazing, and he is going to take me out on a wild trip into the vast Russian areas of the city soon, but thats yet another story. The argument he had with Eric is yet another. So, around 11AM i finished my bottle (we got back around 9) and started calling Tom and Mik arranging the train to Mongolia.
7 hours later me and Mik were chomping down 2 or three grammes of hash each, and the train left Beijing.This was followed by the best stoned time of my life, then an amazing trip into the grasslands, which included spiking some Swedes, stealing a motorbike and resuing Tom from a Mongolian, meeting a guy called Hash, running away from bulls, crashing motorbikes on lake-beaches several thousand feet above sea-level, and several degrees below zero. It also includes the aquisition of a Mongolian police-baton, a mannequin, and three baby terrapins, but that, as i have grown so fond of saying, is another story."
So yeah, thats the latest installation in my wannabe travel journal. Hope you enjoed it. Hopefully il get round to telling some of the other storys as well.
"Ill tell you the storie of how we first discovered Rickshaw, in all its glory.
Me and a bunch of Swedes were chilling in the hostel bar one night. As the night drew on, most of them went to bed, and it was only Eric, the lone Swede, and Sara (pronounced Saurah) who is one of the four beautiful Swedes (the ones that convinced me and Tom and Mik to go on a wild mission to mongolia, where we all stayed in a awsome Yurt and me and Tom and Mik spiked the massive 4litre bottle of tea with a good bag and a half of weed. It was awsome.).
We decided to go on a last trip to McDonalds (which is in the same block as the Hostel, much to my bodies dismay - i end up eating there every other day at least, late at night when food becomes gold (it is 24 hours. We allways have a hugh rush at about 4 am because thats when they start to change over to breakfast, and breakfast there is shit.)).
When we got there, and had our sickeningly shitty (and worryingly delicious) meal, Eric suggested that we go out. Now. We knew that if we went back inside we would never make it out (it was about 2am), so we thought yeah, lets go. Jumped in a taxi to Sanlitun, and headed straight for the glory of Pure Girl.
Now, let me just slightly forgive the other Swedes, and indeed other peoples, who had gone to bed; it was a Monday night, and they were leaving for Mongolia the next afternoon.
And there worries were proved justified when we got to Sanlitun and found it deserted. Thankfully Pure Girl is open whatever is happening, so we went there and settled into a rythm of buying 3 kamikazies and 3 G&Ts per round for a totall of 60 kuai (about 4 pounds). After getting thouroughly wasted we ivited the only other people in the bar - three random chinese - for a few games of spoons.
Now the crazy love triangle going on there would take a whole essay to dissolve, so i will just put it simply; there was one boy. And i dont knw how old he was, but he was clearly a boy. He may have been in his mid-twenties and he would still be a boy.
He was in love with the girl, who was... while not quite beautiful still very attractive, but more importantly she was cool. Really cool. Allmost chic.
She was with the other guy, much younger than her, and clearly something of a toyboy, but still very cool in his own right. So yeah, they joined us and we changed to 6 kamikasies (changing at one point to 6 flaming lambo's, which was good) and 6 tequila sunrises. The boy didnt drink though, he just sat in the corner and moped. He went out in the first round of every game.
So, dutiful as ever, i drank his drinks, which got my highly tolerant body an express ticket to drunkenness. Was good.
We played some awsome games of spoons (the bar didnt actually have spoons, so we played it with lighters, but you get the idea), then they left. The bar closed five minutes later, and us three left as well, holding hands and skipping drunkenly along the road singing "Rickshaw, Rickshaw" etc. Rickshaw is 24 hours, you see.
Here i will interupt the somewhat eratic flow to inform you of somethin that i missed; Eric pulled Sara. This juicy fact may become something of interest in my further tales, if i can ever be bothered to write them.
Which made it all the more interesting later in the night when Eric was in the toilet and i had to rescue Sara from falling down the stairs by lifting her into my arms, carrying her to the sofa, and gently laying her down before coaxing her into taking a sip of water, heheh.
But yeah, we were skipping along, holding hands (a detail which will again become of interest later, if i tell that story), and eventually arrived at Rickshaw. We settled in, all alone in the bar, and had a few more shots and some gentle pints, to slow down the intake a little.
Now, again, i must stop for a moment to apologies; i just realised that this was the second time i had been to Rickshaw. Which makes the next part of the story redundant, so i will skip it and just recount it along with the full tale, if i ever get around to telling it.
Eventually we stumbled out after a few mini adventures and got in a taxi back to the hostel.
Arriving there, Eric bought his ticket to Mongolia (it was only the four fine Swedish girls at first, but they convinced me and Eric and Tom and Mik to come too), and i went to the bar and bought myself a bottle of Bailies to welcome a new day.
Now, i dont normally go that far - have an insane night out then go back and down myself a quick bottle all alone in a bar, but i was leaving later that day so i thought i might as well wipe myself out and sleep for the whole train journey.
And anyway, i wasnt all alone in the bar; about halfway through the bottle Eric joined me, and soon after an awsome Russian guy came. This Russian geezer is absolutly amazing, and he is going to take me out on a wild trip into the vast Russian areas of the city soon, but thats yet another story. The argument he had with Eric is yet another. So, around 11AM i finished my bottle (we got back around 9) and started calling Tom and Mik arranging the train to Mongolia.
7 hours later me and Mik were chomping down 2 or three grammes of hash each, and the train left Beijing.This was followed by the best stoned time of my life, then an amazing trip into the grasslands, which included spiking some Swedes, stealing a motorbike and resuing Tom from a Mongolian, meeting a guy called Hash, running away from bulls, crashing motorbikes on lake-beaches several thousand feet above sea-level, and several degrees below zero. It also includes the aquisition of a Mongolian police-baton, a mannequin, and three baby terrapins, but that, as i have grown so fond of saying, is another story."
So yeah, thats the latest installation in my wannabe travel journal. Hope you enjoed it. Hopefully il get round to telling some of the other storys as well.
Saturday, 15 September 2007
Story of the street
So im in China, in Beijing, and ive started my gap year. Everything is going supertastically. On the stop-over in dubai i met two cool english guys doing the same as me - the only difference being they have a relative out here, while all i have is a week-long booking in a youth hostel and 300pounds to my name. So yeah, they are good guys, coming out here to do the same as me (teaching english). They have some qualifications that i dont have, but people tell me that that dosnt really make a differnce. They are gagging for teachers over here, apparently. So yeah, got two god contacts in Dubai, then on the plane i get sat next to some gorgeouse girl (at which i am of course overjoyed just on base merit - i generally get stuck next to some fat dude that sweats when he stands up to fast and eats so many of the free munchables that both him and me are drowning in crumbs by the end - but then i realise that she too is doing the same thing, english teaching and thats great - another contact. She is a bit older - mid-twentys or so - and has a bit of teaching expirience, and a friend in beijing with whom she is stayin.
So yeah, befire i even hit the ground i had three new friends, and am really looking forward to spending a year in comparative heaven.
Then, at the airport, i get hassled by traditional scams, and the exchange rate is shit but i make it to my bus and tube on over to beijing zahn, then walk to the hostel. Nice place. Shit food, but a cheap bar that is open 24 hours a day, and in which, since arrival, i have drank untill 6 on a good few nights with various friends who have been passing through.
I have been here a week now. Well, 9 days. I have, i think, failed to register at the university, but fortunatly this was becasue i was busy teaching a class of 7-year-olds for some random director i met in the university. So i am now a teacher at beijing foresty university (well, not really but thats what he tells me to tell everyone i go to teach. I am also 23 (not 18) and have a degree. I dont mind at all, and am actually quite enjoying taking on this persona fully - it gets boring having people tell you all the time how impressive it is for a 18-year-old to travel the world on his own. I think 23 will suite me nicely), and also part time at the local kindergarten. Tis cool. And at 100Yuan an hour (about $13(im actually british, but they dont have a pound symbol on this keyboard and im considering changin my base currency into dollars anyway since china is a dollar market.)) i am getting more than all my friends back home are getting ofr their shitty jobs, plus the fact that $13 an hour is worth so much more over here. So yeah, tis great. And with a wee bit of expirience i can easily quit my job and get one for double the money when i feel ready, so tis actually great.
So yeah, thats my life. I have 4 other contacts now who are staying in beijing for about 6 months or more, and i have organised a couple of drinking partys on the town as well so far. Life is good.
And that, my friends, was my first beijing post. Of which, i hope, there will be many.
So yeah, befire i even hit the ground i had three new friends, and am really looking forward to spending a year in comparative heaven.
Then, at the airport, i get hassled by traditional scams, and the exchange rate is shit but i make it to my bus and tube on over to beijing zahn, then walk to the hostel. Nice place. Shit food, but a cheap bar that is open 24 hours a day, and in which, since arrival, i have drank untill 6 on a good few nights with various friends who have been passing through.
I have been here a week now. Well, 9 days. I have, i think, failed to register at the university, but fortunatly this was becasue i was busy teaching a class of 7-year-olds for some random director i met in the university. So i am now a teacher at beijing foresty university (well, not really but thats what he tells me to tell everyone i go to teach. I am also 23 (not 18) and have a degree. I dont mind at all, and am actually quite enjoying taking on this persona fully - it gets boring having people tell you all the time how impressive it is for a 18-year-old to travel the world on his own. I think 23 will suite me nicely), and also part time at the local kindergarten. Tis cool. And at 100Yuan an hour (about $13(im actually british, but they dont have a pound symbol on this keyboard and im considering changin my base currency into dollars anyway since china is a dollar market.)) i am getting more than all my friends back home are getting ofr their shitty jobs, plus the fact that $13 an hour is worth so much more over here. So yeah, tis great. And with a wee bit of expirience i can easily quit my job and get one for double the money when i feel ready, so tis actually great.
So yeah, thats my life. I have 4 other contacts now who are staying in beijing for about 6 months or more, and i have organised a couple of drinking partys on the town as well so far. Life is good.
And that, my friends, was my first beijing post. Of which, i hope, there will be many.
Thursday, 22 February 2007
A world of control beyond our reckoning
Its pretty fucked how much of our lives are beyond our controll. I dont just mean that in a deterministic way - that all our life takes a path that is determined entirely by our surroundings and genetics, rather than a fallacy like 'free will' - but also in a more simple and mundane way.
Such as; sex. Our hormones, pheremones, and simple animal instincts in the depths of our brains determine just about everything to do with sex. We all think we have controll over all that shit, but in reality it is sex that is controlling us. It has ingrained itself to such an intrinsic degre into our basic make up that it is fairly close to impossible to ignore it. Sure, there are religious people who seem to manage, but even god isnt infallible; some of his beloved priests and bishops excetera have been known to break the guidlines in rather drastic fashions. I wont speak of the incidents in question, because im sure your fairly aware of them.
Dosnt it piss you off that we are so hardwired for sex that it is so unavoidable that people would rather rape than just go without it? And surely it would have been possible for the one true diety - lady luck - to construct something more viable than a system of such twisted despiration that people are know to fornicate with just about anything - animals, corpses, inanimate objects, relations, children. I mean, how important was it to reproduce? How much of a rush must nature have been in to produce such a fucked up instinct as that?
Dont it distress you that our bodies are so constructed that sex is the most pleasurable thing? That we are constructed, within the womb of our mothers, to have huge concentrations of nerve endings in just the right places, to have glands which basically drug the human into a sex-obssessed frnezy, to have this ingrained, intimite desire to ejaculate all our meaningless, forgotten little bastard offspring into some appropriate vessel? This fucked up nature that causes all the horific sex-acts mentioned above is the very same one we trust to guide us to our appropriate other half, to the spare set of genes that we will hand to our offspring.
Where do we draw the line? Where does sex end and pervertion begin? What is pervertion? And how far can we trust these bodys of ours that punish us for storing up our seed, and which showers us with sensory gifts when we choose to indulge it? How do we know that our bodys know what they are doing, if there are so many others out there that do what is clearly 'wrong'?
Sex is fucked. The whole system is based upon the centurys-old idea that procreation is the most vital thing we could do with olur lifes. This view is unnecesarry in a world rent with overcrowding, and so is this ingrained obbsession with the most beautiful and most harmful thing any person can do.
Of course, there are other examples of the exreme controll our bodys have over our supposed, and frankly laughable, 'free will', but sex is the most interesting and most prevalent.
Fuck sex.
Such as; sex. Our hormones, pheremones, and simple animal instincts in the depths of our brains determine just about everything to do with sex. We all think we have controll over all that shit, but in reality it is sex that is controlling us. It has ingrained itself to such an intrinsic degre into our basic make up that it is fairly close to impossible to ignore it. Sure, there are religious people who seem to manage, but even god isnt infallible; some of his beloved priests and bishops excetera have been known to break the guidlines in rather drastic fashions. I wont speak of the incidents in question, because im sure your fairly aware of them.
Dosnt it piss you off that we are so hardwired for sex that it is so unavoidable that people would rather rape than just go without it? And surely it would have been possible for the one true diety - lady luck - to construct something more viable than a system of such twisted despiration that people are know to fornicate with just about anything - animals, corpses, inanimate objects, relations, children. I mean, how important was it to reproduce? How much of a rush must nature have been in to produce such a fucked up instinct as that?
Dont it distress you that our bodies are so constructed that sex is the most pleasurable thing? That we are constructed, within the womb of our mothers, to have huge concentrations of nerve endings in just the right places, to have glands which basically drug the human into a sex-obssessed frnezy, to have this ingrained, intimite desire to ejaculate all our meaningless, forgotten little bastard offspring into some appropriate vessel? This fucked up nature that causes all the horific sex-acts mentioned above is the very same one we trust to guide us to our appropriate other half, to the spare set of genes that we will hand to our offspring.
Where do we draw the line? Where does sex end and pervertion begin? What is pervertion? And how far can we trust these bodys of ours that punish us for storing up our seed, and which showers us with sensory gifts when we choose to indulge it? How do we know that our bodys know what they are doing, if there are so many others out there that do what is clearly 'wrong'?
Sex is fucked. The whole system is based upon the centurys-old idea that procreation is the most vital thing we could do with olur lifes. This view is unnecesarry in a world rent with overcrowding, and so is this ingrained obbsession with the most beautiful and most harmful thing any person can do.
Of course, there are other examples of the exreme controll our bodys have over our supposed, and frankly laughable, 'free will', but sex is the most interesting and most prevalent.
Fuck sex.
Im on hunger strike.
Well, not really, im just seeing how long i can go without food. I havnt eaten for... 41 hour now, but i have been drinking lots of milk, so im feeling fine. My muscles feel like their staring to eat away at themselves, but that may just be after-pain from the rugby match yesterday.
Yeah, this whole not eating thing is interesting. Its like, ive never realised how much i eat before now. Seriously, try eating nthing for a day. Youll be amazed at how often you fine a banana sitting in you hand that you could swear you didnt pick up, or a piece of chocolate floating towards your mouth seemingly of its own free will. Food has some crazy controll over us.
Tomorrow im going to try and drink nothing as well. Its gonna get pretty wierd, methinks.
Anway, just thought id fill you in.
Well, not really, im just seeing how long i can go without food. I havnt eaten for... 41 hour now, but i have been drinking lots of milk, so im feeling fine. My muscles feel like their staring to eat away at themselves, but that may just be after-pain from the rugby match yesterday.
Yeah, this whole not eating thing is interesting. Its like, ive never realised how much i eat before now. Seriously, try eating nthing for a day. Youll be amazed at how often you fine a banana sitting in you hand that you could swear you didnt pick up, or a piece of chocolate floating towards your mouth seemingly of its own free will. Food has some crazy controll over us.
Tomorrow im going to try and drink nothing as well. Its gonna get pretty wierd, methinks.
Anway, just thought id fill you in.
Tuesday, 20 February 2007
Shall i compare thee to a piece of classical writing?
A question about inter-textuality in love;
When we tell our darlings that they remind us of Shakespears 131st sonnet, or Byrons "To a girl, upon recieving a lock of her hair" (or worse, when we quote them with no admittion that this is not our writing at all!), to what extent should they feel... cared for? I mean, William doubtlessly didnt write the piece for them, so the only actual action that you, the quoter, have done is to read a sonnet, and presume its excellence upon someone else. In fact, you may have initially stumbled across the writing in question when perusing for your own pleasure, so all you have done for your girl is take the effort to rmember it, eloquate it, and bask in the reflected excellence. Basically, nothing.
Dont get me wrong - i (as a shit poet) can sympathise with a person who finds it hard to express just how one feels for the other, but i would never presume my literary knowledge upon a girl in order to impress her. It just seems like cheating.
Well, that was a fairly inconclusive rant.
When we tell our darlings that they remind us of Shakespears 131st sonnet, or Byrons "To a girl, upon recieving a lock of her hair" (or worse, when we quote them with no admittion that this is not our writing at all!), to what extent should they feel... cared for? I mean, William doubtlessly didnt write the piece for them, so the only actual action that you, the quoter, have done is to read a sonnet, and presume its excellence upon someone else. In fact, you may have initially stumbled across the writing in question when perusing for your own pleasure, so all you have done for your girl is take the effort to rmember it, eloquate it, and bask in the reflected excellence. Basically, nothing.
Dont get me wrong - i (as a shit poet) can sympathise with a person who finds it hard to express just how one feels for the other, but i would never presume my literary knowledge upon a girl in order to impress her. It just seems like cheating.
Well, that was a fairly inconclusive rant.
Sunday, 18 February 2007
The two loves of my life, and a girl.
This is my valentine;
I wake, dress for school, then have a cigarette on the walk to the bus. On the half-hour journey to school i write the first stanza and a half of a love poem. It is the fifth i have written in two days, and like the other is a perfectly cliched degree away from perfect. Still, this one will have to do, since school is almost started. I get off in the square and buy 40 Lambert and Butler before walking to a bench outside school, lighting up, and finishing the poem.
Then its into school, do my last prelim, skip the rest of the morning classes and, at lunch time, search for the girl - lets call her Gloria, since i like that name and it isnt hers. I dont find her. Instead i find a duo of girls, one Londoner who is nice, and a local who is also nice, but can be extremely tedious. They are freinds of mine, so i give them two of the failed love poems i wrote for Gloria, and they seem happy.
Then its home, and away to a singin lesson.
Home, that evening, and im sitting in the kitchen listening to Gary Moore and playing Civilization IV on th house computer, and on MSN with my mums laptop. Then one of my 14yr old brothers friends come through and invites me to join a drinking game. Well, as the man of the house i felt it my duty to show them how a real man drinks, so i joined them. While getting supremely drunk with them i kept talking on MSN, and by the end i was flirting quite extravagantly with Gloria (I rather get the feeling i embarrased myself). Then, when she left MSN and i won the game we all went up to the barns (this was at about 2AM) and got totally wasted on Mikes hash.
As a story of me breaking my self-imposed hash embargo i feel i must do it duty some other time, but merely as a story of my valentines day, i feel i have said enough.
So, my valentines day romance was one with drugs, rather than the heady strength of love, but a romance it was, and i regret not one moment of it.
I wake, dress for school, then have a cigarette on the walk to the bus. On the half-hour journey to school i write the first stanza and a half of a love poem. It is the fifth i have written in two days, and like the other is a perfectly cliched degree away from perfect. Still, this one will have to do, since school is almost started. I get off in the square and buy 40 Lambert and Butler before walking to a bench outside school, lighting up, and finishing the poem.
Then its into school, do my last prelim, skip the rest of the morning classes and, at lunch time, search for the girl - lets call her Gloria, since i like that name and it isnt hers. I dont find her. Instead i find a duo of girls, one Londoner who is nice, and a local who is also nice, but can be extremely tedious. They are freinds of mine, so i give them two of the failed love poems i wrote for Gloria, and they seem happy.
Then its home, and away to a singin lesson.
Home, that evening, and im sitting in the kitchen listening to Gary Moore and playing Civilization IV on th house computer, and on MSN with my mums laptop. Then one of my 14yr old brothers friends come through and invites me to join a drinking game. Well, as the man of the house i felt it my duty to show them how a real man drinks, so i joined them. While getting supremely drunk with them i kept talking on MSN, and by the end i was flirting quite extravagantly with Gloria (I rather get the feeling i embarrased myself). Then, when she left MSN and i won the game we all went up to the barns (this was at about 2AM) and got totally wasted on Mikes hash.
As a story of me breaking my self-imposed hash embargo i feel i must do it duty some other time, but merely as a story of my valentines day, i feel i have said enough.
So, my valentines day romance was one with drugs, rather than the heady strength of love, but a romance it was, and i regret not one moment of it.
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