Time.
There's never enough time.
Now's not the time. When is it ever?
What happens when time runs out?
I never do these things at the right time. It's like I don't know what's happening. Or maybe I do, and my subconscious is so frightened of change that I unconsciously put stumbling blocks in my way.
However, there is still time left...just enough to make a difference. I will make time to come back.
One more time. The Last Hurrah. Two day's time. This is it.
Time.
Lying devalues the truth. Or does it?
White lies...well, maybe not. That's how it goes though.
Bare and shamed faced lying on the other hand, and indeed, looking at the shadows on my cave wall, getting other people to lie for you, absolutely fucking stinks. In a way, I retch, but in another way I don't in the slightest. I no longer feel enslaved, under the thumb, on a leash, or any other similar image you'd like to present. Entries on the back of a postage stamp as usual.
Over the last few months, I really have had my eyes opened as far as character is concerned. There really are very few actual real people round here. I think the final nail in the coffin came earlier today.
The manipulation, the back-stabbing, the guilt-tripping. All of it can come to an end now because I saw what was going off behind the green curtain and realised I'm free. Released. Never again will they cross my path.
You forfeited your right to be my friend when you wouldn't even have the courtesy to look me in the eye. You forfeited the right to speak to me when you started ignoring me. Piss off you stupid hypocritical martyr. Oh, and you forfeited the right to be a person when you got people to lie for you when you couldn't even muster the spine to speak to me yourself. Go, child. Get out. You'll get everything you deserve one day, and not necessarily by my hand either. The funny thing is I'm not upset that I can see you clearly for what you are, but that I couldn't see that earlier.
One of my best and most trusted friends turned out to be nothing short of a disgusting and pathetic whelp. If I never hear your name again it's all the same to me.
"What are you doing here, Peb?" Looks like the real answer was 'wasting my time'.
"What are you doing here, Peb?"
Actually it's a good question. Taken out of context it looks strange, but to be fair in the context it was more than relevant. The unfortunate nature of my badman cyclist tactics (and that means at high speed (speed limits don't apply to cyclists, right?)) means I need a short breather after such distance is traversed, and thus I was still around to be questioned, but to be honest we're straying into less-than-abstract commentary on reality and more into analysing the shadows on the cave walls, so enough enough.
Not only was I asked that question earlier with good reason (my reaction was a little overblown and hardnosed though. In my valiant attempt to not be bitter I have acquired a certain...insensitivity), but recalling the experience reminds me of an episode even earlier in the evening (look at that cave wall go), with the inimitable J of N. During a usual conversation about the poor end of the stall, and I was pretty wound up, I recounted my continual pride of having left the house, and indeed leaving the house every single day. "Pardon?" Utter confusion reigned over my compatriot's reply. Indeed, why should I be proud of such a mundane act? Perhaps you should ask why shouldn't I be proud of it.
Ladies and Gentlemen, you are reading the handiwork an adult living with a disability. SHOCK HORROR NERD HAS CRIPPLING FEELINGS OF SOCIAL INADEQUACY AND WRITES ABOUT IT ON THE INTERNET. Get over it.
I'm not a cripple (not just yet anyway, but I'm heading that way for sure), but rather I "suffer", if you are closed-minded enough to think of it in that way with Asperger's Syndrome, or Autistic Spectrum Disorder. Or if you're really ignorant, I'm some freakish nutjob who can't tie his shoelaces properly. (True fact though) Not only that but I have a list of symptoms as long as your arm (even you, Mr. Fantastic) and also put up with Attention Defecit Hyperactivity Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Dyspraxia, Dysgraphia, and Synesthesia. Also due to my Autism I have an inbuilt disregard for authority short of total disrespect, which can often reflect in my language. No, not my fremdsprache but more the fact that my usual patter is peppered with more expletives than your body has room for, spun off the tongue with the same casual attitude as a simple "how do you do". Well, that and I genuinely believe there is respectable mileage in Anarchism. ANYWAY, ON WITH THE SHOW.
Last I heard, and indeed, as I tell anyone who will listen, when I started at University, in a the clement September of 2008, the drop out rate for students with Asperger's was 80% within the first month. Ok, you can prove anything with statistics, but still, 80%? An almost overwhelming majority feel that the strain is too much, and make a tactical retreat. Now, I don't have a hold on these statistics by any means, so say maybe 20% 0f that 80% choose to reapply...and say within 3 years as well. Maybe I'm right? Seems like a nice figure anyway. Now, stick with me here. This pristine figure that I clasp to my bosom only refers to students in the first year. What about the years after that? How many Autistic students make it through their degrees? How many of them never move off campus? I can confirm that out of a definite 16 students with Asperger's Syndrome (at the beginning of this year), I was the only one who demanded (and I bloody demanded alright) to live off campus. I am proud to push myself beyond all safe limits and try to live as ordinary a life as I possibly can. The repercussions can take their toll though; every so often I need to switch off and get out of the game, but only as a temporary tactical withdrawal. I'm often back in the game before I know it. Yes, I have a crippling phobia of clowns, Yes I need my shopping to be on the conveyor belt in a certain way (I get stared at regularly) and YES I have a black and white view on ethics, morality &c &c. What I'm doing here, is bucking the trend and proving to myself as much as everyone else that I will not be beaten by my labels and symptoms. I will be out there making a difference until the very last second.
"What are you doing here, Peb?" Just trying to do a favour for a friend. There's always another way.
And as you close your eyes for the Big Sleep, I hope you think of me.
You know, I've been searching my whole life for a real hero. Someone I can look to for a lead, to respect and aspire to, whose qualities I can emulate and synthesise into my own modus operandi. Only thing is, having found him, I now only have to come to terms with his fictional nature.
Gene Hunt. Gene Hunt is my hero.
Think about it! As characters, we're not too dissimilar. Gruff, rude men who spend a fair amount of time in the pub with a close knit team of friends and colleagues especially after a job. The Coach & Horses is my version of The Railway Arms. We both love our vehicles, although the Dawes doesn't quite have the same impact as the Quattro(!)
A no-nonsense approach to the job brings us together as well, with our love of duty, and also being an "old school maverick", where not a week goes by at Spamcroft without Madam Director reminding me that the "affected school" of church music is no longer the status quo and being likened to a "fifty year old man" when I sing the lower octave springs swiftly to mind. I'm beginning to wonder whether Ashley Pharoah and Matthew Graham been watching my life? Ok, granted that Gene's not autistic, but still...
You can imagine that first fateful day, when Gene was created...
"Right, we need to think about this. We need this guy to be set in his ways, not so much reluctant but pretty much ignorant to change...He's the boss, but he still throws his weight around to prove it..."
'Well, this kid in Derby seems to be our man! Uncaringly offensive, no respect for any authority but his own, likes to push his mates around a bit. Sounds a bit more northern than the rest do as well'
"Perfect! We'll take what we like and, and errr, yeah, make him a copper...drinker and smoker...make him a bit racist, sexist, anything else ending in ist we can shoehorn in, and take it from there. Oh yeah, let's make him Mancunian. Get Phil Glenister in on it as well. Genius."
Ok, it probably didn't go quite like that, but you get the gist.
Just think about it though. Who am I? I am the Captain. I didn't just pull my twitter name out of my arse you know. The Captain, The Doctor, the Drum and The Bishop all together are our very own A-Division, CID, whatever. I refer to my house as Castle Pebblez, my room, the front parlour, is my Kingdom, a little place for me to call home. Nobody ever waltzes in playing King of the Jungle, I can tell you. In the light of the finale of Ashes to Ashes, we discover that the 'Genieverse' is indeed his creation. A whole world constructed around the indestructibility of Gene's Soul/personality/spirit, his sheer strength of will. A bubble set against the maelstrom of the cosmos, which basically is pretty much how I see my world! My lack of perception of 'the outside' is always surprising, even to me still! Where people go once they leave my line of sight is a mystery, even if I know where they live, or if they're off to a different pub or bar, or I leave them. As far as I'm concerned right now, sitting in the living room, is that outside of the house isn't real, the street's a figment of my imagination, and Norwich is a figment of my imagination. The rest of the world? A fever dream. It helps me cope with my life, just like his world helps himself (and also others) cope with death. The Gene Genie looks after his own, like I try to.
And through all that bullshit, through all that swagger, I'm just a skinny kid who just needs fattening up.
Now the series has come crashing to a spectacular end, where does Gene go from here? Well, as we saw, he gets another dying DI from the 21st century to look after, and probably another round with that Hell-Hound Keats. You watch it again, Keats doesn't quite break him. Shattered, maybe but not broken. The way gene gets taken apart is nothing short of heartbreaking, but watching him build it all back again is inspiring. "Still a bit of boyish defiance? Magic." A sterling performance by all involved. I've never cared so much about fictional characters before, people that I know aren't really real. Or maybe their character isn't fictional? The crux of the matter is that these 'characters' themselves are real, but the situations and so on are the fictional element, even though both Life on Mars and Ashes to Ashes are set against historical backgrounds ('83 election in Ashes series 3, for example), and this is what has made it so gripping.
What about this side of the tube though? People will look for another Gene Hunt, another cult figure to hold on to who's out of this world. Me? Won't have to. As long as I hold on to myself, the Gene Genie's always with me. I'm everywhere, Bolly. I was needed, and I was there.
My tribute? This post. The attitude. The dated wardrobe. The lingo. I won't have to try hard for it to sink in, because half of it's already here. As long as when I die, Gene Hunt's my Choirmaster in chorister Limbo, I can pass on a happy man. Or maybe I could be that Choirmaster. Is it just me, or am I talking in another dimension?
Let it be said, "The Quality of Mercy is not Strained". Once it becomes a strain, what is it? Ruined? Or maybe a necessary evil, in and of itself. What truth is in mercy, what mercy in truth?
It is time of the month after all though. I think it's full moon tonight, so the worst of the Lunar effects are about to pass, but the cruelest time is yet to come, I fear. My indestructibility wavers at this most delicate time, and to be honest I'm forgetting how to be a functioning human being. It's more trouble than it's worth at the best of times, but this is getting silly. In my short time on this forsaken rock, I have found out, usually the hard way that communication is the only real way forward. As long as the veil of silence can be parted, dead ends are opened, the crooked made straight and the rough places plain. Silence isn't golden.
But can everything be solved by talking? Sometimes action and good faith are required. Not to mention patience. The way you move is a mystery. But then again, I have, and will always believe that there is another way. What this other way is at the moment is a complete mystery, to use the term again. It will reveal itself in due time.
Why do I have to wait? Because the quality of mercy is not strained. And by not waiting so far, I am straining at the bounds of mercy. There's still time. As long as I don't break completely in the intervening age, there is still time. I will not surrender or give up, not while I'm only shattered. Even then, I think that part of me would survive the reset that looks more likely every day. An immutable part of my genetic heritage, or I would want it to be. I've never given up, and I'll be damned if I start now. Or maybe I'll be damned if I don't give up?
I just can't say anything at all.
I'm hardly done with the confessions by any stretch of the imagination, I mean, ok I can list my nerdish pursuits, but I have far more 'wrong' with me than that. However, as any of you who have been following me on twitter (and of course, the feed is on the side of this very page) will notice that of late I have become troubled, in primarily an emotional sense, which is spilling over into the physical domain. As such, it is time to resurrect an ancient tradition from my MySpace blogging days, the Vignette. Wiktionary defines the word to various degrees, but the one I'm most interested in is that of a borderless picture, or a short story.
The MySpace vignettes no longer exist, I deleted my whole blog thanks to the fact that most of it was tied into a relationship that broke down...badly. I don't want to go into any detail, because that chapter is behind both parties now, I refer only to it in a historical sense for this purpose. But the Vignettes stood apart, mostly built on non-sequitur nonsense, such as the state of my thumbnail. I also distinctly remember writing on in Middle English, which was a good laugh at the time!
Now, I bring them back, not because I am full of happy non-sequiturs, but because of sadness that grips and threatens to break my core apart. If it succeeds, what makes me me will have to change again. Thus, no bit.ly link will be issued for the Vignettes. If you find them and read them, then good for you. These Vignettes are borderless, as instead of being a (scribble on a napkin) planned enterprise, as they slot right into my life. If my life picks up, so will the Vignettes. Until then, it is how it is.
Dear Reader (yes, I know who you are), it is time to get a little piece of information out of the way. If I am to continue with this ridiculous "writing about life/myself/other people" schtik on the internet, I must get this off my chest.
I am a nerd. Like, hardcore.
ZOMG shock horror lol!!!1!! Blogger admits to being a nerd! Who would have seen that coming? Isn't the internet solely populated by cartoonists, nerds, gamers and porn? I'm playing Fire Emblem: Path of Radience on my Nintendo Gamecube as I type, with Jeph Jacques' Questionable Content open in one of my tabs, in Opera 10.51. Next to me are 3 books: Star Trek Concordance, Star Trek Phase II the lost series and A.B.C WARRIORS The Volgan War volume 01. Not 3 feet away from me is a bag from Tombland Books, containing a KJV Bible complete with Apocrypha and a book of the Complete Letters of J.C.W.T. Mozart. It formerly contained a book of psalm chants and a Critical and Biographical study of Thomas Weelkes.
This is the thing. I am a nerd about so many things at once that it boggles the mind. Like, seriously. One often wonders how I can go without wearing a shirt with my entire pen collection stashed in the pocket every day...
For instance, I just sent dear old mummy home (after her quick trip down for the opera) with my VCR and DVD players, alongside my video collection, which included the first 8 Star Trek Films and Episodes IV-VI of Star Wars, in the gold special edition box set released in...1998? Also, my £400 Great Coat is safely back in Derby. Who the hell just casually owns Star Trek films anyway? Especially on video? Next year I'll bring my Hitch-Hikers Guide to the Galaxy with me as well. Not the ponderous film adaption, but the classic BBC series. And if I'm questioned, as I obviously will be, I'll just say it's an integral part of this country's Science Fiction Heritage. Because it is. Reading that back, I must have typed that with milk bottle glasses and a massive overbite.
And thinking about it, my overbite is pretty substantial, but I feel I manage to get away with it.
Ok, so being a Trekkie on the quiet is pretty standard for a nerd. Let's take this to the fridge. I've followed Questionable Content more-or-less since it started (I joined early but went back to the start as well), so that's 7 years of dedicated reading, 2 days, then 3 days, then 5 days a week for 7 years. I haven't bought any of the Merchandise yet, but don't think I won't. I also follow Commissioned, Dresden Codak, Sam & Fuzzy, XKCD, PVP, Reprographics and Least I Could Do religiously. If I miss a few days I'll backtrack. Not only that, but I follow the artists/creators on Twitter, and I even follow Yelling Bird because god help me it is so funny. Eventually, I'll improve this blog post when I learn how to HTML code again, and get all the links in so you can click on the names instead of googling them, or whatever.
I buy Transformers off eBay, and while preferring G1 rather like the movie designs even though they're horrifically impractical for toy design. I am salivating wildly at the prospect of purchasing War for Cybertron and actually being Optimus Prime, if in a figurative sense. IT'S GOING TO BE OFF THE HOOK. I actually cannot adequately describe how much I love Transformers, right down to the last 'bot and 'con, but especially Grimlock. He IS Badass in physical form. As is the Batman! Man, this gets worse. Should I keep going? Hah! If you're reading this anyway you must have some sort of inkling of my unholy geekdom.
I enjoy Chess, and actually miss playing regularly. I have problems with Tetris addiction. I own my own Dice bag, and know enough D&D basics to fight my corner in a quest. I used to collect Warhammer 40K (Dark Angels). Terrible, isn't it?
Musically, I'm just as bad, which is once again, pretty standard for a music student. Equal Temperament is for suckers, and Valotti is for the weak. Johann Sebastien Bach got thrown into prison in Weimar for getting into a fight in public. Orlando Gibbons died of a stroke, Nicholaus Bruhns could improvise a bass line on the Pedals and play solo Violin over the top. Samuel Pepys was a Flageolet player. Handel learned to play keyboard on a Spinet in his attic. Blah blah blah...
I could go on. In a totally specific way about absolutely everything. All the time. So I just thought I'd let you know, I'm a bit of a nerd. How the hell do I show my face in public? Answers on a postcard to the usual address...
p.s. If you can find the DK reference you get points.
