The lions weep for home

In cruel Zimbabwe,
hot and promising,
(or Southern Rhodesia,
if you are nostalgic for colonial times,)
two lions were born onto a farm
boy and girl
in '87 and '90 respectively.

They weep for home
for how could they not?
Africa,
she needs no romanticising
for she is the land of utter wilderness
of colossal potential
of bewildering failure
of heartaches too numerous to digest.
All the wild and humanity are in extremes there.
Where in other places it is a scratch or a headache
This land hands a deep belly slash
machete
or cerebral malaria
or Rift Valley fever
for which two paracetamol tablets
and a glass of tap water
will simply not suffice.

"Africa." Like wolves
they howl its name out into the night.
Calling for home.
Theirs was the land,
on which to grow.
Say what you will of property,
for I know it to be theft,
but, and in no place is this more true than
Africa,
no person should be denied their home.

One man and the night.

God-damn. He bit the cap off a green bottle and drained the fluid, pulled on his drinking cap and black coat and swung through the door out into the night. The cold wind bit his cheeks and he smiled at the angry fucking night,

pink and starless was the sky.

Unchained the bicycle from the lamp-post and rode North into town, under the intermittent street-lights. Taxis, buses, other cyclists, he cursed them all, and they must have cursed him too, because he was cursed. Auto-mobiles rounded him closely, illuminating his back as he muttered hateful words under his breath. Maybe they couldn't see him; he wore no lights and dressed like the Blitz. Still, they came too close to him. Each car that passed carried the threat of knocking his handlebars and throwing him under its back wheel, or the front wheel of the following car, crushing his human-bones and splitting the white brick of his skull. Or hitting him strongly enough to punch him onto the pavement, spread arms like superman or Evel Knieval,  before clattering in a broken heap. All these images he held in his head. Any car could do this to him.

"Hahaha!" Death was everywhere. Each vehicle that passed without sweeping him from the planet was a reprisal from the grave-keepers. A new lease of life every five seconds. A fresh license to live. How easy it was to think that someone was watching over him, protecting his rotten body, willing him to continue his pointless life.

He swung up out of the traffic abruptly, onto the kerb, stepping deftly from the bike before it stopped, chained it up, had a long draw from his hip flask and entered the bar. The lights and the noise from the hoards of children assaulted him. They drew strength from each other. The boldness of one justified the brazen laugh of another. The music was broken beats and cracked sounds, sound-bites steeped in irony. Our man understood it not at all. A few of the children spotted him as he walked in, noticing something dark about him. The loudness and shouts were gone now, would stay gone until he left, or until they were all too drunk and wasted to care. Or until he passed out of their sight and consequently their minds forever. But for now, at least, he was the little tumour in their bright and happy night. They were the colours, the smiles, the smooth and naive faces of the undamaged. The igloo of their concerns did not extend beyond the state of their wallet, fridge and wardrobe. They were young, and the universe be damned!

With the deliberate steps of a vicar approaching the pulpit, he walked to the bar. The mass of haircuts, glasses and smartphones parted for him. The barmaid was tattooed, pierced and attractive, in a jaded, overweight sort of way. He ordered two drinks; slipped the first one down and kept the second for company. His collar was high up on his weather-battered face as he tried to conceal his presence from the children, who grew younger and unerringly more attractive each minute.

There he sat, his eyes shifting from one side of the bar to the other, searching for someone else who'd find this whole crèche as deranged as he did. Once he had established that there was no-one, he set about the honest work of drinking.

Halves of twos

I am an incomplete being
and will probably always be so.
My friends
they are incomplete also
in their own ways.
Their company makes it better
for all of us,
but we are still unfinished works.
Halves of circles.
Some of us try to fill our empty parts
with work
or exercise
or the internet
or drugs
or television,
which is a kind of drug,
or alcohol,
which is the original drug.
Ultimately, however, we cannot be complete,
not without a partner.
We were born this way.
Destined to seek a North
for our South,
a positive
for our negative,
and so on.
For every force there is an equal and opposite reaction.
I learned that in school
when I didn't think I was listening.

A man who was waiting for something

A young man stood in the garden

dressed in black,

like a funeral goer.

He was waiting.

Silent, he looked at the tree

then at the sky

then at the ground

then at nothing.

Salvation?

No.

Redemption?

No.

Flightless bird

waiting for a train

to somewhere

else.

But a garden is not a station.

So he ended up

getting really old

waiting for a train

in the garden.

Someone should have told him.

Eventually a train came

despite the odds.

He boarded it

and his friends watched him go.

Sometimes they talk of him,

but mostly they let his memory be.

Chicken battery farm manager

I should like to be given the chance to work in a battery farm for chickens. Currently each chicken lives a few weeks in squalor, and death must be a relief from such a life. When they are too heavy for their legs they must drag themselves about by their elbows, wading through their own collective faeces. Look out for chicken meat with stained brown elbows.

So these chickens, who know nothing of the world and die still  knowing nothing, I wish to help. I do not wish to set them free; people would be angry. "Where's my chicken, boy!" they might shout. They would be disappointed if I set the chickens free. It would be an abuse of power, and I would be fired, no doubt. Also these chickens have been chemically evolved so that they cannot even walk or breed, and would stand no chance in the wild. Starvation is worse than being cut, I suppose.

So what I would do, as my last and final gift to these chickens, is give them flight. If there were windows in their cages they would possibly look out at the sky, and a ghost of a memory would cross their little chicken brains. Their wings would ache with a biological longing for freedom. Maybe. Who knows. I am not a chicken scientist. Anyway, there are no windows, just permanent lights, so the chicken may never encounter such thoughts. They do not long for flight, but maybe only because they were never told about it.

So, as they reach critical mass, and are ready to be killed and eaten, I would put each one in a cannon, an automatic one so that the system runs as smoothly as a post office (can't have inefficiencies; profit is still paramount). They would be fired out into the sky, where they may enjoy ten or fifteen seconds of flight -I have not decided which; tests ought to be done first- and then crash into a wall, into which they will explode like a red firework and then slide down into a bucket to be processed and eaten. Yes, the meat would not be of as good a quality as current systems give us, with blood and shit everywhere and mixed together like instant, lumpy soup, but people do not usually seem to mind poor meat.

And besides, it is worth it. The chickens will get a few seconds of beauty to make their little lives worthwhile. They will be fired, and feathers will be left behind in the space they occupied, like in cartoons, and they will begin by wondering what is happening, and why, and they will no doubt be scared. Then, they will recognise their impending doom and become more scared. Then they will realise that their whole lives have been leading to this point, and so they had better enjoy it. They will open their small, beady eyes, smile in their little chicken beaky way and be at peace with the universe. The wind will rush through their feathers, their little hearts will go wild in their rib-cages. These chickens will become Confucius, Buddha, Jesus, for a few beautiful moments.

Then they will splat, as we all must. And then they will become someone's cheap dinner and complete the circle of life.

Image: Getty images

Smartphone

I remember my old phone.
It was remedial,
unintelligent.
It did not have the brain capacity
to resist me.
I was its master.
It did what it was told.
It had buttons
which my fingers
learned to love
so that they were
an extension
of my thumb.
A tool.

But this phone is smart,
as it often reminds me.
It finishes my sentences,
because I could not
possibly manage them.
It uses words
I typed once,
when drunk,
and assumes these words
are better than those
I use every day.
The word pdmgmdp
shows up when I type
'reminds'.
I do not know why.
It presumes to know me
but it does not, because
it does not listen
carefully
to my instructions.
My nan used to tell me
"If you had a brain
you'd be dangerous."
which, with hindsight
was quite rude.
My phone has
a brain
but it is only
big enough to be annoying,
insolent.
It is not as big as mine,
though it would disagree
if I was not in earshot.
It thinks I am a stupid
fleshy human
with no memory
or decisiveness
and will not be taught otherwise.
It smiles patronizingly
(with a Z, not an S)
like a nurse caring
for a patient with
severe head trauma,
trying not to upset me
by reminding me of my
afflictions and shortcomings.

But look at me!
I am a human being!
Complicated! Magnificent!
Hopeful and infinite!
It is a black oblong
and because it
was made by humans
it will never be
as complete
as us.
It has limitations
wherever I look.

I am walking

Tomorrow, I think
I will be free.

My bride is not here, now.
I sit on steps
bottle in one hand
phone in the other
reading electronic letters
we sent each other
via space
when often we were
in each other's plain sight,
careless.
I arch my back
stretch shoulders
crack knuckles
and stand
stiffly.
Pick up my coat
pull on my cap
drain the bottle
hurl into a bush
and walk out to
the road.
Cars go past
laughing and coughing
but I go on foot.
Worn out shoes
keep walking.
Broken throat
keeps choking,
dry.
Tired mind
keeps thinking, burning.
Restless, it tosses
like a boat
in a storm
in a skull
seeking safe passage,
calmer days
quieter winds.

The stars are out tonight

The stars are out tonight
and I am sorry.

Sorry because men
who love their women
have eyes that watch
other women, still
unsatiated.
Sorry that tonight
dreams will be ended,
stories will be cut up
and stored in
an old photo album.
Sorry that before these
stars fade
with the morning light
words, small words
will be heard
that will cause tears to fall
and fragile hearts to
ache and buckle
beneath their weight.
Sorry that truths
will be told.
Sorry that, for all the love
that exists, some people
will sleep alone tonight
in wide, cold beds
for the first time
in many nights
and I can do
nothing.
Sorry that I
cannot tell them they will
survive until daylight,
that tonight is just a night.

Tonight, beneath the stars
I am sorry that
someone I love
sleeps with someone
else.
Sorry that I
could not keep her
warm
enough,
that my heart was
not round enough
and smooth enough
to be pure.
Sorry that there
were crevices within it
where half-secrets could hide.
Sorry that I was
small, after all.
Sorry that this night
is here,
that it does not know
it is not welcome
any more.

Tonight I am sorry
that these stars
must stand quiet watch over
a fool such as this
when somewhere else
black holes are swallowing galaxies
and stars are imploding,
and all I can think
is how I must look
to them now.
The trees are still,
cars move on infinite roads,
children, birds and mothers sleep
and here I sit.
Tonight, beneath the stars
I am sorry that life
is carrying on,
that the universe
(and its stars)
do not pretend to care
or even acknowledge
our struggles.

The stars are out tonight,
and I long for clouds
to cover them.

Boring young people

Give me age before beauty, any day. Those delicate and perfect folks, who have never been broken and smashed across the rocks, they are incomplete beings. They do not know the hardships of life; they still believe their parents' stories of tooth-fairies and charming men in shining armour. Still think life is a game, and that they are winning. I have little time left for people such as this. They bore me, and their flawless faces do not justify their company. Their conversation is of mundanities, of details too insignificant to warrant mentioning: American TV series, getting too drunk too often, endless pop-culture references, bloody Facebook. They do not yet know who they are, and if they do then they are boring, unfulfilled people.

It is for this reason I wear my wrinkles, which deepen gently each year, with a sense of pride. When I was eighteen I wrote:

Every time I see my old reflection

I want memories carved in every imperfection

and I stand by those words. Often-times, a person will arrive at thirty years of age and feel old, as though their life is slipping from them. This is because when they were young thirty was a great distance away, and a point by which they would have their life in order. Yes, by the time they turned thirty they would be married with a mortgage and an established career, maybe even a couple of children (though they are thankful this is not so). "By thirty," they reasoned, "I will have done all I wish to do, and by that point I may continue on through my life, reaping the benefits of having done so."

This, of course, is naive. Very few people have 'completed' life by thirty. To do this you have to actually put in the leg-work. The problem is that in this modern age we place such a high value on youth and beauty. There is an African proverb:

If the world burns

You got out of bed, waddled through your routine, had your day. Bought the things, used the things, ate the things, watched the cat-videos, day-dreamed all the while. You did a day, just like any other day. Just like too many days in your life. Never thought for a second it couldn't last. We like routine, we like continuity. We engineer our lives so that everything just works, no fuss. The things that don't just work aggrieve us, and so our lives become placid and we no longer prepare for unlikely events. Unlikely events are so 20th century.

So let's suppose it all ends tonight. Let's pretend that today is the last day of existence as we know it. Pretending's fun. We used to do it a lot, back in the day, pretend that we were bigger, faster, richer. Now we still pretend, but with much greater restraint. We'd rather we had a little more free time. Rather our bed was a little bigger.

But let's pretend that tonight, while all is calm, all are asleep, humanity falls apart. It begins with a decision, or the lack of a decision, and through a series of compounding events society is unravelled. By the time you awake tomorrow it is already too late. War has been declared. Resources have been hoarded. The oil, the water, the tinned food are all in someone else's hands. The internet is dead. You have nothing. You have no-one.

The question is, "How long can you last?" I want to know how long you think you could exist on this planet, when all around you people lose their heads. When the roads are blocked, buildings are stripped and ransacked and the guns are loaded, where do you go? What do you eat? Where do you sleep?

And do you even want to carry on? Everything you ever loved is gone. Your life will never be the same again. You have grown fat and lazy, and now that it is time to hunt and struggle do you still have the will to exist? What are you fighting for? What is the point of your life now?

Love: the blood-sport

I never knew love was a blood-sport. If I had I would have brought my armour, instead of running round the pitch with my arms open, getting hacked and sliced and wondering if I'd not been properly explained the rules.

But now I see the rules, and I see that it is a game I do not wish to play. So here they are, so far as I can make them out, for anyone else who was not properly explained them at school:

1. Be mean.

If you like someone you must put them down, especially if you are not sure if they like you. This is to make sure that they are on your social level. Usually the person you like is slightly out of your league and so needs convincing that you are their equal in order to go with you. So you chip away at their self-confidence and self-respect until they need you around, because you're the only person they'll find who likes them. You feed off them, make yourself feel better and them feel worse. If you treat them as though they are beneath you they will feel grateful for the fact that you continue to spend time with them despite their perceived inferiority. Conversely, if you like someone who is socially beneath you, and treat them as an equal, they will likely come to believe that they are superior to you, for why else would you be interested in them?

So be mean, because we all love danger. All sports can be made more exhilarating by the increased risk of physical or emotional pain. And what could be more dangerous than falling for someone who might one day break you in two? Emotionally, if not physically. The danger that your opponent might not actually like you, and may forget about you and move on makes you strive to keep them, to prove that they themselves are interesting and compassionate. So be mean. I have heard this referred to as negging. Find your own balance. If you are naturally charismatic or attractive you can neg to a much greater extent before you drive someone away.

2. Be aloof.

Approach all romantic engagements, or battles, carefully. Do not be open. A mysterious person is more attractive. This is because the mystery is part of the game. It is no fun going with someone who hands it all to you on a plate. This is akin to telling someone the punch-line to a joke before giving the set-up. It spoils the surprise. Finding out that someone is interesting, engaging, compassionate after getting to know them a while is fun, like playing pass-the-parcel. So be silent, so that your opponent will have to plot their plays more carefully. Let them have to figure you out.

The beat: a cautionary tale

I blame myself. Of all those that were there, I had seen most clearly the effects when a beat becomes too strong, had happened just two months previously in fact, to my horror. And on this night the warning signs were all there. There was a despondency hanging in the air like a baby on a washing line left out to dry, forgotten. It was brought on by the continuing cold weather, as well as the government's newly announced Let's Be More Racist campaign. The mood was that people wanted to party, but could not lift their emotions manually. They were waiting for someone or something to release them of their daily boredom, pointless trials and tribulations of young adults in the city. People wasting their days in jobs where the best they can do is underachieve. Relationships long since turned vinegar, eyes turned from love and adoration to a strained affection, impatient and snappy as one can only be with a partner, or sibling perhaps.

And in this fertile ground of jaded souls the beat grew strong.

It was supposed to be a party, just a regular gathering of people taking place in our house. It was snowing, which was a little odd for March, but we thought little of it. This meant we didn't bother making a fire outside, and smokers did not gather by the back door. Instead they'd light up in the door way, step out into the biting wind and choke down as quickly as their lungs would allow. So the party never fractured and split off into smaller groups. No-one in the kitchen, my bedroom or on the stairs waiting for the toilet.

We sat together in the lounge, chairs encircling the coffee table, which was not a coffee table at all but rather a TV stand being used as a coffee table. I noticed the beat was a little stronger than usual that night, but not enough to alarm me so I carried on drinking and hastily smoking until I'd loosened up enough to be gregarious, in my own way. Two more beers and I'd have started towards becoming obnoxious, but at this level of inebriation I was laughing.

It wasn't the kind of party where people danced. Usually the conversation at our parties was too engaging to bother with physical movement, but I noticed that heads were bobbing a little more fervently than I had anticipated. Still, I thought, it was of little concern. Our guests were enjoying themselves, and the situation was under control.

The beat grew steadily deeper throughout the night, driving harder, affecting the conversation. Minds were turning primal, and no-one seemed to care. In hindsight I should have seen it coming. I should have recognised that the beat was getting out of control. There was that one lonely girl who, looking back, I'm not sure if we invited. A friend of a friend, but one who seemed always to be at these sort of things without us ever asking her to be so. She had the laptop and was hopping between youtube and spotify, and she was good, surprisingly so. She built it up so gently that we didn't even notice she was doing it. And that's not to blame her; I doubt if she knew what she was doing. Most likely she'd never been left to the reins like this and DJing had given her a micro God-complex. I wonder if she blames herself for the way things went.

Thoughts of an aging wallflower

I used to be bothered when I stood alone at a party. I used to feel unloved, as though no-one valued my company. Let the record show that I never actively engaged with the other party go-ers. I stood waiting for someone far more comfortable than I to notice I was islanding, wander over and strike up a conversation with the awkward boy in the clothes his mum bought. But nonetheless I felt that, as a spectator, it was not my responsibility to be one of the 'partiers' until I was invited to do so.

Time passed and I grew a beard, of sorts. Other things happened too. I learned, with the introduction of alcohol/drugs and life experience, to enjoy parties and the opportunity to visit the lives and minds of other people. Some might say I grew sociable.

And in growing into a sociable beast I lost my lonerishness. This lasted for a white, but eventually I grew bored of the party chatter, whether it was inane or actually quite good, and also the fronts that the partiers wore. Making conversation with strangers is like having sex with them. It's frightfully stressful, and is unlikely to yield positive long term results. Much better to know a few people who know other people, so that they may introduce you, saying, "Oh you know __________, he's the guy who does _______________," and thus, all banality is circumvented. Cut right through to the meat, and spare the small talk.

So really what I require is a good party buffer, who may keep the repetitions away from me, those people whom you have met before. Different faces, names and occasionally stories, but the same old-new people. The ones who say, "Well I did this for a while because it really is the thing one ought to do," not that modern people use such parlance, or, "I honestly don't know what to do with my life; I was thinking about buying a car or moving to London."

And I know that I am getting old and grumpy and turning into the cynic I always imagined I'd be. And there's nothing worse than a fucking cynic.

These are the days (four and a half years of wandering the Earth)

I have spent long enough here in this city, and it takes some of us longer to figure it out I guess, but for me these days are almost over. Beautiful days are behind us, and beautiful days are before us.

For four years I have lived in Manchester, and come to know and understand myself much better. And student days are easy, like school but with autonomy, so you have the time to figure yourself out, to find out what drives and inspires as well as angers you. Having the time to do exactly what you want is integral to understanding oneself. And, for me, an art and design degree has been invaluable for  forcing me to look inwards. With each project it was necessary to ask myself, Who am I? What do I want from the world? What does the world need from me? and in asking these questions, and writing them through on this blog I have armed myself with a basic knowledge of the world.

The temptation to remain a student indefinitely is great; if I have learned so much in these four years, I can delude myself into thinking I will learn just as much here in the next four. But ultimately I must accept change as an inevitable part of life, that this part is over. I will look back fondly at my early twenties and Manchester as the time and place where I started to know myself, spent mostly with my 'twin', to whom I owe a great deal of my understanding. But to stay would be to hold myself back. This is what makes life great; the way it swells and rises, falls and breaks around us, lifts us up and carries us away like a rip-tide. We may be the captain of our own ship, but we do not control the sea. If I may carry this analogy further, student days are spent paddling in the shallows, where if it all gets too wild and real you can pick up your lilo and head in for a beer. I wish to paddle out into the middle of the ocean and see where it carries me, see if I will be guided off the edge of the world to islands of unimaginable beauty, where my mind may be calmed, or instead be dashed on the rocks for being childish and woolly-headed.

I have a great many theories about humanity, mostly focused around the inherent goodness which I believe resides in most of us, but which is not nurtured by society. That we are encouraged to fight only for ourselves, I believe, runs contrary to our human nature as sociable and loving beings. And I believe that money is not evil in itself, but rather the tool of the Devil (a representative rather than a literal character to me) which divides and will most likely ultimately conquer us. I believe that truth, compassion and constant questioning may set us free from our greed-conditioning, that somewhere in the world there is a place where people still care for each other more than they care for themselves. Perhaps I am naive, and certainly I have seen evidence that both supports and contradicts these thoughts, but as I move into the next chapter of my life I intend on testing my theories out on the world, and seeing if I can learn enough to bring back home and help us to help each other. I wish to spend four and a half years, from summer 2013 until my 30th birthday at the end of 2017, wandering the Earth.

This summer I will cycle with a few friends from Manchester to Morocco, a trip I have dubbed The African Hobo Bicycle Adventure, much as I did with my friend in 2011, but with a less rigid time frame and no  definitive ending. Perhaps, on arrival, I (or we) will choose to stay and work a while, or disappear into the desert or mountains. Although all the maps of the tangible have been drawn, the future remains magnificent and uncharted. The following four years I intend on spending half a year in each country, returning home only for Christmas. It is my intention to travel by boat, train and thumb and thereby save money on travel costs, as well as couchsurfing for a bed and a friendly face when I am not static. By doing this, as well as working whilst I am out there, I needn't save up money before I leave, which tends to be the critical barrier to people going travelling. In reality, I will be spending only a tiny amount of money, given the way I live, and this frees me to travel longer and further for less. A potential plan I have outlined is this:

The beast, the twin and the unknown voyage

There's a beast in me, has always been. I used to believe it was a Devil, so dark were its thoughts and so great was its capacity for violence. As a boy it fed on my anger, jealousy, resentment and the loneliness I felt, and it grew fat. I believed I was one of a kind, that no-one alive would understand my pain and beauty. I struggled with my own self-importance and how my peers did not value me, and so I fought against the world. And the more I fought the world the more it fought against me, and it is far mightier than I am, and so my spirit was pinned down by the weight of failure, and the beast, knowing that I was hurt, snarled at anyone who came near.

But then I met a girl, and in hindsight she was my twin. And because either she or I recognised this right in the beginning we let each other close. And she loved me, even the beast, because she knew that the capacity for anger is a magnificent thing, which when angled away from the self and petty concerns can be used as a critical weapon in the struggle of Good versus Evil. She helped calm the beast in me, and we never broke it in, but started to learn how to harness it instead. She made sure we were valued, and I did the same for her and her own beast, twin of my own, and in understanding we found contentment. In recognising that we were not unique, that we had found each other and so there must be others like us, we found a peace. It was not a complete peace in which one may reside indefinitely, but rather a starting peace, a platform from which we might dive forth into the unknown, armed and ready.

Having learned our lessons from each other we parted, as deep down we always would. There is a strong urge to cling to your twin, believing that having found each other you may achieve happiness together, but in our case we could not. We had learned all we could from one another and it was necessary to undertake our lone voyages, to utilise our experiences, values, love and hatred as a club and shield as we ventured away from home. She and I were always loners, and would always be. That we had chosen to walk a while together is a beautiful thing, but it never could have lasted. It calms me to know that somewhere in the world she exists, even if not with me. It is enough.

So now the beast does not wear a leash; it stays freely beside me, its great black lion head peaceful, and gently we walk together. And although now it is calm, its eyes remain sharp, carefully watching the world. And if it ever spots injustice, an underdog being beaten with a stick, its eyes flash hot with hatred once more, its lip curls back to expose its fangs, and we smile together. And I pull out my club and it unsheathes its claws and we are savages once more, alive because we are fighting, for if we are not fighting then we are dead, dead or might as well be, for all the use a man or woman is to the world who will not fight for the weak, the sick and needy.

Image: source

Non-circular clocks

A 12 or 24 hour clock does not tell the full story. The hands go round, fingers are pointed and then at the end of the day time is reset. If you balls today up you can have another go tomorrow.

To me, this encourages lethargy. What if we had clocks that, instead of kidding us into thinking that we can keep repeating until we get it right, like a video game or in Groundhog Day, we had clocks that reminded us to burn whilst we still may? This is my intention with my latest creations. I am making linear clocks; clocks which age or grow, which remind us that days, months and years have passed, rather than mere hours and minutes.

We barely give clocks a second thought in our day-to-day lives. True, we live our lives by them, but now time is just a number in the corner of a screen which reminds us to rush from one place to another in the name of productivity. It used to be that clocks were giant, somber things like Grandfather clocks that bonged sadly away once an hour, taking up as much space as a bookshelf and occupying a central position in our house.  Magnificent things, objects of importance and beauty. Now clocks are placed high up on the wall, and we barely register them at all. They do not chime, cuckoo or even tick any more, so great is our will to deny the passing of time.

And suddenly another year is gone, and we do not know where to. Perhaps if we look at a clock that has wizened and deformed we might realise that time is indeed passing, and that we should not be taking it so lightly and spending it so frivolously.

Are you in love with yourself?

This is a bizarre question, granted, but as Oscar Wilde once said, "To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance."

A relationship (and this can be a partnership, a close friendship or with a sibling,) forms around a mixture of security, mutual entertainment and teaching. That is to say we form close relationships to solidify our position in life so that we are stronger than we are alone, or to enjoy our time on this Earth or to further one another's development as people. We become a protector or a protectee, a teacher or a student, or else perhaps the relationship is purely for fun. Often relationships are slanted in one of these three directions, though the best ones tend to be a balance of the them all: the people with whom you grow, learn, share and eventually come to love completely.

So we form relationships for these reasons, and if we choose to become close with someone it is usually because we have identified a part of ourselves that needs fixing/improving/salvaging, or else we see in the other person that they require the assistance that we are able to provide. We find someone who will fill our weak spots, or who will help us to grow, or whom we can help to become stronger. Or we look for someone with whom we can grow and understand the world. But if we use others in these ways can we not use ourselves in the same manner?

I realise, looking back, that when I was in a relationship I did not write a great deal about love. I didn't understand love songs, couldn't comprehend the depths of emotions. I thought that you found someone, fell in love with them and that was simply that. But the world is never black and white. Since having  had almost a year on my own I have come to realise that we are never in a relationship with just one person, and if we are then it is too much and is bound to fail. We require different forms of relationships with different people. Some help us learn and grow; in others we must impart our wisdom. Others are purely for enjoyment.

But what about the relationship we keep with ourselves? When we start a relationship with someone it steals time away from our other relationships. A new girlfriend might suck time away from old friends who, although are understanding, still feel as though they have been dropped. And it is just the same when we  go from being single to being in a relationship: our girl or boyfriend will suck time away from our relationship with our-self.

I would like you to imagine for one moment that you are a separate person from yourself. If you have a mirror to hand please look into it. Study carefully the lines of your face. See the person looking back at you as a separate person, but one whom you know unfathomably well. You know this person's every secret. They know yours. They remember all your memories, and you remember theirs. The wrinkles, scars, blemishes and hairs, you know them well, far better than you know your own mother's, son's, wife's or sister's. And as you stare at their imperfections, they stare at yours. You realise that you are your oldest friend. You were there in the beginning, before you understood the world, staring out through bewildered eyes at a peculiar situation and trying to make sense of it all. You were there in the times of pain, when you realised that no matter how close you could get to someone they would always remain in their body and you would always remain in yours. You will be the last one there as you fade from the world, as consciousness slips and you face death alone. You will not be carrying your wallet, your phone, your keys or wedding ring. You will have no pockets. Just before you become nothing you will have nothing, only yourself, and so you had better be comfortable with your own company.

The value of my heart

I used to try and love everyone; now I am reserving my love for those who deserve it.

Over the past few years I have been bringing myself out of a state of mental isolation, which I have maintained from an early age, in an effort to integrate into society. And along the way I learned how to love people and in the process almost forgot how to hate.

I became too passive. When the woman I was in the process of marrying began an emotional affair with a mutual friend I smiled and accepted it. Part of me knew it was because I had spent too long already fighting for her and I couldn't take it any more, but the other part was my internal voice saying, "These things happen pal and it's nobody's fault. Life goes on, people change and the decisions we make are based on the lives we have led and the values, perceptions and morals we have accumulated. No-one's fault, just a thing that happened." I forgave them both immediately, and not least because for my part I was far from guiltless in the breakdown, and then tried to get on with my life. I also tried to carry on loving everyone, naively assuming that people were good unless they proved themselves to be otherwise. I gave all of myself away for free.

Sometime around December, however, I started to become angry again. I used to be an angry kid, would fight everyone for everything. Most people in my life now don't know how twisted I was, and I would like to keep it that way. What was at the heart of my anger was the fact that my ex, who through our collective naivety was now living with my sister, and this other guy whom I was now also living with, began seeing each other in earnest. At once I wondered how I had been so passive, how I had let this beautiful creature fall into the hands of such an undeserving weasel. So he moved out, and being as my sister had never even gone through a stage of premature acceptance, so did my ex.

I'm thinking we should be using this tense less frequently...

The present continuous tense's invasion of the English language began, I believe, in 2003 when McDonalds began their, "I'm loving it" campaign. At the time I remember it sounding clunky, and it was no doubt used in preference to "I love it" because it fit the jingle better, the one that in German and French reads, "Ich liebe es" and "C'est tout ce que j'aime". And the jingle which as it relies on your inner voice to finish the phrase, irritates me, which should be of little surprise. I doubted it would catch on, given how alien it sounded. That was obviously naive of me.

Not only was the campaign a success, but now I often hear people using the tense, and occasionally do so myself, to my annoyance. For example, someone might say, "I'm thinking we should do such-and-such later," or, "I'm loving the new album by _____." It seems to me that the reason this has caught on here in the U.K. is because it lacks certainty. It is the hedging of one's bets. Saying, "I'm thinking we should..." rather than, "I think we should..." implies less force. It says that although my opinion is this, it is highly changeable, and if you aren't in agreement I can easily by swayed. The same can be said for, I'm loving vs I love. "I love the new album by ____" means that I have listened to it and have formed a solid opinion. "I'm loving the new album by ____" means that although I have listened to it and formed an opinion, there is a good chance I will not feel this way forever. It leaves scope for wavering. Should it be decided (by external powers) that this album is no longer good then I have left myself enough room to drop it without a conflict between my language and my actions. Language, of course, influences habits. For example, if you are speak about someone in a derogatory manner, even if not directly to their face, you will likely treat them worse when you are around them.

So in hindsight it is no surprise that the British, a people already uncertain and apologetic about everything, have now merged this temperament with the immediacy of American throwaway culture. We are trumping ourselves, unwittingly becoming a nation that apologises for everything and stands increasingly for nothing.

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In defence of Daydreamers

Those kids who stare into space, their eyes seemingly dull and vacant, let them be. Do not try to bring them back to the world of blinking lights and tinkling alarms, for they are some place far more beautiful. They are meandering through the cobbled streets of their minds, purposefully searching or gently ambling, taking in the sights. And in waking them from their part-slumber you are saying, "Don't go there, that place is unworthy of your time."

You do not know the damage this could do to your child. He or she will likely grow up to believe that the mind is a less useful place to explore than the physical world and will lose this part of themselves, perhaps forever. But if you allow them the freedom to visit this place, and to stare (seemingly vacantly) into space, they will learn not to chase the blinking lights and cacophonous noises of the 'real world', but rather to find contentment within themselves.

So few people take the time to think. We are too busy, and it feels as though a deliberate decision might have been made to keep us so; busy at work or busy at leisure, staring into a screen or a pint glass. Our brains silenced, too busy to think. When someone realises only on their death bed, when all is lost, the things they should have done differently, when they have had many years to modify their behaviour and live the life they wanted to, it illuminates the extent to which we have stopped thinking.

But the kids don't stare into space any more do they? They stare into screens, big and bright, or down at little hand-held screens that they tap and poke and giggle at. Those screens that suck the eyes in, even when they do not wish to view, so that a conversation is side-fucked by the eyes that keep darting back to the screen, the screen. Oh, their friends all live in the screens, and all their favourite things live in the screens, and who needs a window when you can look at a screen? A screen can be anything.

But we're forgetting what it's like to not have a screen, and they are a larger part of our life than we realise, and do we really understand the sociological implications of it all? See something beautiful, capture it on a screen, watch it through the screen without ever seeing it with real eyes. And so the moment passes and we have captured it without appreciating the original, now lost forever. Have we any idea what a world without screens would look like? Would we have to blink a few times to make sense of it?

Next time you stare into space or into a screen you will realise that there is a choice, and one is more addictive and one more satisfying than the other.

Picture: thunderbloke! on flickr.