Vignette XX

I suppose it was inevitable. It had to be. I don't suppose I would have known what to do if it wasn't.

I'm...losing the will. The wrong person, or the wrong time, or going about it the wrong way. Nothing ever goes right.

So. Here's to the end of the week, the end of the degree, and to a certain extent the end of the world. I brought this one on myself, so no sympathy, thank you.

Even losers must make do.

Send the boy away, there is no place for him here. Not now. You need nothing but fire and clay. Go to hell.

...Please turn on your magic beam...

I remember when I met Morpheus. I remember where I met Morpheus. I remember how I met Morpheus. Dream, of the Endless.

I'd been interested in joining the Forum Library for a while. The UEA book bunker doesn't to graphic novels, but thankfully their sheet music collection is pretty good. There's an eight shelf island just past the borrowing machines in the Millenium library that's full of graphic novels, trade paperbacks, one-shots and so on. There's also a six shelf island that's full of Manga. Thanks to the library, I've been able to read the entire works of Nemesis the Warlock, several Batman series, Transformers Spotlights and so on and so forth.

One day, I was getting the train. I'd misread the timing and ended up in town an hour early. I don't know how, but I did. This was my second year, mind you, so I was probably just trying to get out of the house. I pulled into the library, and wandered up to the graphic novel island. Skimming across the shelves, I thought it was time to step up to the plate, and picked up Preludes and Nocturnes. This is the first collected volume of Neil Gaiman's Sandman comic. I say comic. I have difficulty in imagining buying Sandman in a monthly format, having never been a big comics buyer anyway. I'd always been afraid of the Sandman series, due to Dave McKean's artwork on the cover. There's nothing really frightening about it all. It's...how do you say, very primal. Raw and genuine. It is fully in control of its own mesmeric power. Anyway. As a child I was scared and intimidated by it, so I stayed well away. Having polished off Grant Morrison's Batman Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth, illustrated completely by McKean, I felt more confident, and took the plunge.

As the entire world already knows, Neil Gaiman is one of the most incredible writers ever. As you progress through the narrative, the entire mythology of the Endless is built from the ground up, appearing out of nowhere, an immacualte conception of fantasy. The Endless are...well, they are the personifications of universal ideas. Death, of course, being the most obvious, the end of all things, and Destruction, the personification of energy. The others are immaterial in aspect; Destiny, Despair, Desire and Delerium (formerly Delight). And of course, Dream.

Dream of the Endless, in his guise as Morpheus, the eponymous Sandman. Reading his character description on the most ubiquitous of all internet resources, passages like these leap of the page: "He is sometimes slow when dealing with humor, occasionally insensitive, often self-obsessed, and is very slow to forgive or forget a slight. He has a long history of failed romances...", "...defeated by his most tragic flaw, his inability to accept change..." and from Season of Mists, "accumulating names to himself as others make friends, but he permits himself few friends." I feel very close to dream. I too have more names than I will ever have friends. The only thing that reall seems to change about me is my weight and my appearance. Nothing in my wardrobe screams summer more than my current new taste in Cravats, but seeing as they're just archaic ties, where's the real difference anyway?

Ultimately, Dream is the most human of all the Endless, he is like an everyman. He makes mistakes, he condemns jilted lovers (I mean, who hasn't wanted the other party in an unsuccessful love affair to go to hell? Just sayin'), he has a house and grounds to tend to...kind of like normal people, if normal people were near-omnipotent spectral personifications of concepts. The Sandman series is a journey that we take with Morpheus, hand in hand, where we see these things happen. Where we see him consider the important things. Ultimately he makes a choice, whether to change or not. As he cannot, will not, must not, or crucially chooses not to change, he dies instead. What? Sorry, but I am a living spoiler. Morpheus ceases to be, but Dream does not. You must, dear reader, peruse the 10th book, The Wake, in order to discover what really happens in the end.

I'm sure there are times when anyone who's read Sandman can see a little bit of themselves reflected back at them in the shape of Morpheus; maybe, sometimes its something they don't want to see, and sometimes that's important. Criticism, especially when it comes from within is one of the most important and powerful forces of personal development.

The Wake touches me. It makes me cry. You heard me. It makes me sad in a way that I can't deal with. Maybe it makes me think about my death. But I'm not really worried about dying. I don't particularly wish to die, that much is true, but it comes to us all, and when my time is then my time is up. Like the Big Man, I'm not going until I'm done. But you read Morpheus' Wake and see for yourself. There's a copy in Derby Central, I'm sure they don't have it in Norfolk at all because it's too beautiful.

So go and meet Morpheus for yourself. Make your own mind up. Find him, and maybe he'll find you. Sweet dreams.

Vignette XIX

Some things are so secret, you can keep them from yourself. And you can even forget that you're hiding it. And then, of course, you remember.

I said I had a rule. I have a rule for a reason; to stop me from making the same mistake again. But...well.

Not to mention I can never tell when it's all gone a little too far.

Oh. Well.

Decisions, Decisions

You may notice that after March and April's fiesta of writing, things have calmed down a little round here. A lot's been going off, actually! Unlike the end of March, when I was stuck in writing my dissertation, the natural reflex was just to keep writing, funnily enough. I'm so much better at dealing with things in this written fashion, as you will well know by now. But this is a tough time. You know. I've two weeks before my final recital, and I haven't sorted my program out at all. TCHAM! Ok. Shit. No, it'll be fine. I mean, since when have I done it any other way? See? It'll be just like the good old days.

However. In the last few days I have made my mind up. About a lot of things, actually. The biggest of these is that I won't be staying in Norwich next year. OUCH. I know. I need a rest from higher education, but I need to stay away from home, basically. If I go back to Derby, what will I do? They won't have me at the Cathedral, and there sure isn't anything more singing in Derby, especially for money. I can't go home for any great length of time. There's no time these days to plan in relative relaxation for the next step, and to be fair, I should have come to this conclusion before the end of last year. But we all know how that year went.

I am casting the net, and looking at the Chuch Times. Oh yes. Time to find a place on the stall and trade my Songman status for a Choral Scholarship. If I want to continue my musical studies in any serious way, I'll need experience. And to me, there is no greater experience for a singer except for singing every day, which pretty much leaves one place only.
I've been very unfortunate at UEA, mostly having the wrong sort of face, or certainly the wrong sort of voice. My characteristic pungency and projection are definitely unwelcome.

With settling on an exit from Norwich, we have to consider the next most pressing matter. What about a girl? Well. What about a girl. It's funny really. I've made so many consecutive bad decisions that I don't know whether it's worth bothering any more. However. Last night, I basically ran into what I consider to be an unofficial Fan Club, made up of a small cadre of girls who live just across the courtyard! I promise to always look to your window when I pass. Hilarious! I still feel too flattered to do much about it, but you know. There's a glimmer of potential. I might just heave myself from my self loathing and do something about it. There's no time like the present, but I'm genuinely worried! You understand all the usual things. Mine is to do and die, regardless of how much of a scaredy I am.
But...I no longer Dream of Spires, nor any other vapid specimen. I've spent a long time wasting my time on people who will not and never will return my affection. I've been very very angry over the past few days about that specifically. People who turn out to be, at the punch, completely useless and not interested, but don't have the wherewithal to say so for definite. Because I so do love wasting my time. I reached this new level of ground a little while ago, but was looking back somewhat. Now, I won't turn around. Not even like Orpheus, out of curiosity. Ho ho!

On a day to day basis though, I'm doing a little more. I'm piling on the pounds after the disaster that was the Easter holiday health crash, and have been eating very serious amounts of very good food. Only two days ago did I make a Pasta sauce from nothing but bacon, garlic, chilis and chopped tomatoes. Absolutely godly! It won't be long before the Captain's Curry House can add a Trattoria next door. I'm getting up earlier on a more consistent basis as well, probably due to the sunlight streaming in through the gap between my shelf and the curtain...and the incredible amounts of booze I have ingested lately. Drinking always helps me get up early, as many a sunday morning can testify...
Ok, not many. But a few. I mean, I'm only saving up my Alcohol unit allowance to one point in the week, right? That's ok? Isn't it?
No, on the whole I'm much more active. It is the sunlight, what with me being solar powered, and the fact that I've now got my bicycle back on the road always does me good.

Now. You will excuse me. I have a lot of washing up to do, and then I must sojourn to the first floor of this flat. I'm far too worried to go to anybody else's for starters, but I have a place here. And will for a long time.

Vignette XVIII

I'll admit it, I can't take it anymore. I'm crushed, and battered, and beaten by disinterest, misadventure and plain idiocy. I am driven to destruction through ignorance. I grimly await the tides of madness to sweep me away. Why won't they hurry?

I have been less angry, shall we say. Hnnn.

I am a bitter man. I live by my regrets for the most part, sorry to say. Follow my words, but not my deeds, as I can't even follow them myself. I don't have very much longer here. I need to sort it all out, and right soon.

I regret.

I regret the pain. I regret the sorrow. I regret not being there. I regret running away and hiding. I regret the hurt. I regret losing touch. I regret all the heartbreak. I regret the fights. I regret the namecalling. I regret my lack of gratitude. I regret being afraid.

I regret not saying that I love you.

Long and Winding

You know, perhaps I should apologise for dealing out details of my utter health breakdown. I lost a hell of a lot of weight as well, which, when you're me, but still, nobody really wants to know about vomiting and diarrheoa strictly but God damn it I did so there we go. Well, I mean, I suppose I could get rid of them now, but you know I spent a long time writing and editing and posting so I think they can stay. I was very ill after all.

The Wendesday, just a mere two days ago, I went to the Hospital for a Chest x-ray, after having been woken on Tuesday by creasing chest pain. Of course my immediate reaction was that I was about to die of a heart attack...unlucky though guys, you can't quite get rid of me. I went to see the Doctor and he happily (and I do mean very happily informed me) that it could be potential lung collapse (WHAT THE FUCK) with a huge grin on his face. Suffice to say whatever the cause was, it has seemingly resolved itself, and I haven't felt any pain since. Looks like if you need a lung reinflating then I'm your man.

Anyway, I'm getting much better. I'm able to eat, drink, shit and breathe without causing myself any undue pain or discomfort. Super duper! Keeping my public updated. I've been too ill to cast a shadow lately. I've been too ill to see my best friends, my keepers. I've been too ill to leave the house! I miss my friends in Norwich though. Very much so now I'm well enough to as well. I've made some real solid links and genuine friendships this year, and I am pleased and thankful for this.

This is not a roll call. There will be no valediction. I must hurry back though; a week to wait. Then I get to bring my battered old suitcase to that Hotel someplace that is Nelson Court.

As we all know, earlier today, the marriage of Prince Willam and Kate Middleton took place. There's been enough internet commentary already, there'll be a ridiculous amount of post-nuptual editorials...I don't care. I really do not care. I got up to watch the service, and found it a distinctly enjoyable. As wedding services went, it was altogether flawless. Fitting, for such a well-planned event, no? Also, the Bride walking down the aisle to I Was Glad? Inspired. Also, ridiculously epic. I thought it was going to be on the fabulous Harrison&Harrison dream machine they have there, but oh ho no, orchestral it is. Crisis inducing trumpets for the introduction? Oh yes. DEEP JOY.

Cwm Rhondda and Love Divine on the hymns is also deeply pleasing to me. Absolutely beautiful. Anthem...by John Rutter. John Milford Rutter. Actually...it wasn't that bad. Palatable. This does not, oh you naysayers, that I am changing my mind. Not at all. Just that Rutter's 'This is the Day that the Lord hath Made' is actually, after the last few years worth of dross, a servicable composition. Now, I can't remember who dealt the motet, on the classic theme Ubi Caritas, but actually that was rather nice as well. A very well accomplished composition. Hopefully some smart arse will correct me as to who it was.

Now, you must excuse me. I am on the road to recovering my health, bit by bit. Keep thinking of me. I'm watching Ashes to Ashes. We've just started the third series, and its really hotting up. All getting a bit tasty really. Odds on for tears at the end of the series. Right, good, smashing.

...For My Bones are Vexed

Continued.

Saturday was a good day. Emphasis on the day part. I made a one man assault on the food stalls of the Continental market after not eating (and not even being able to) all the previous day. Free range Chicken Breast burger (grilled), Jerk Pork, Currywurst...hugely expensive but worth it, in my book. Well. Was it? I also purchased a new Trilby for myself, having lost the other one to the top of Lorna's car that time she gave me a lift home. I ended up crowning my day's culinary adventure at the Mad Moose, with THE MOOSE BURGER, not actually made out of Moose. Handmade beef burger, cheese, a slice of bacon, a plate full of chips, a little red onion salad on the side. Lovely. Super duper. Cool cool cool. I find myself uncharacteristically full after finishing though, take it a little easy and sup some Staropramen, a fine Czech lager. What happens over the course of that evening, all starts from there. Mark it well.

I'm sat there with Julian of Norwich. Over the course of the night, we discuss various happenings, persons and deeds that have occured in the week previous. I recieve a small but not undeserved dressing down, but no hairs are split. Also there's a small rebuff about my emotional outburst on Friday. Anyway. We have a good meal (...), a good drink, and a good laugh. In a moment of complete brilliance, we decide to go to the Funfair that was set up for the bank holiday weekend in Chapelfield Gardens. We went on Monday while Toon was here, so why not go again? Exactly. The whole place was a rip off, but aren't they always? If you're offended/surprised/taken aback/&c just don't even think about it.

We take on a ridiculous spinning ride first, that is all the spinning, all the time. No problem. Not for £2 a time anyway. Next up? DODGEMS. Oh yes. Some little shite keeps driving into everyone ALL THE TIME and the first time he crashes me, he hits me at the perfect angle to smash my knee into the steering wheel. Suffice to say, I find that rather painful. Did I say rather? It came so keen I had to swap legs to use the pedal with! The cars were extremely short though. Good though! At £2.50 a car I think one round, especially with that kamikaze ankle biter, was more than enough. Not quite as fast as the Old Hunstanton cars either.

We wander off through the fair and scout out two possibles. One which spins both backwards and forwards on a horizontal plane, and another that spins the individual on a vertical plane, in a cage, on some sort of ferris wheel arrangement. Folly. We went on the other one, which was absolutely brutal. The main problem was the hydraulic arms that threw the carriages out didn't follow the track exactly, and extended slightly behind the curve. Folly. To say I, or indeed my companion no longer felt at our best after that would be, er, a lie. Ha ha! We crawled back to the Mullberry unit for a nightcap. And by nightcap, I mean glasses of Coca Cola. Going back to J of N's to pick up my Tan Messenger, I start the journey home, at a resoundingly early half past ten. I run into two of my Choral Scholar fellows on the road (one of them lives in the same street, go figure), chinwag complete and the Captain continues on. Feeling distinctly dicky. I mean, terrible.

On the way I try to get the Waltzer on the line, but to no avail. No problem. Keep walking. Urgh. Home is pretty close in the end though, and urgh. Now really, we come to the part of this story where my digestion really turns into a warzone, my intestines go into open revolt, and my toilet gets sat on for a long time, and very often. I am concious that by sparing details I will often be not believed when I claim that things are as drastic as they can be, but allow me to assure you beyond all shadow of doubt: I WAS DREADFULLY ILL. The Germans call Diarrhoea 'Durchfall' for a reason; it translates directly as 'Through fall'. People call up German for being a harsh and unromantic language, obsessed with efficiency. Except for its word order, obviously. I love that little gem in the lexicon, and always use it over the English expression, usually because I can't remember how to spell the English word! Folly.

And, at twenty five to two in the morning, I finally managed to stop being sick. Not that I had been violently ill since I got back, but I don't remember when I started, because I was slightly more bothered about being violently ill in the toilet, rather than in my bed. Turns out it was a good and well carried out decision, as I was sick so hard I had to check the floor for stray vomit. Even remembering it is making me feel sick again. I'd best not be, or my mother will go insane, and I will be straight round A&E. I was only sick for one round in the night. I brought up the last thing I had eaten (and obviously drank)...which just turned out to be a metric fuckton of...*drum roll* BEEF MINCE! BOOM. Yes, that's right. The Moose Burger gracing our screens again. Delightful. The chips seem to have disappeared, but the burger? It had been knocking about at the top of the pile all night, and I don't suppose that the high-velocity rides did my stomach any favours. Whatever the cause, I have to call up God on the big white telephone. Like I said, one round only. At night. Fitful sleep occurs, and I feel like shite. I don't get up until it's time though, and like a good little idiot, don't tell my mother about it when she gives me a courtesy call to make sure I'm up and getting ready. I shower, shave hastily, and put on my best suit. Instead, the first person I tel about my chronic vomiting and digestive problems is my good friend and all-round mensch, Djinh. I discussed that I thought I'd be able to shake it off, if I just get on with it, I'll be fine. Mistake.

I lasted an hour into the rehearsal. A mere sixty minutes before I feel a projectile coming on. Thankfully La Directa gets wind, and gifts me a sit outside with a glass of water. This "glass of water", however, turns out to be a lukewarm plastic cup's worth. Blegh. Shortly after, MD lets me back in, and I cheerfully report that not only do I not feel any better, but that I was going to go and be sick again. And yea and verily, I was. Boom. There wasn't much. Bile, and warm water. Well, slightly warmer than it was served to me, anyway. I had to go home. I needed to. After surviving the taxi journey home, I went straight back to bed, for a good five hours, missing three texts and only waking up to a phone call...from Jody! Hah! No, I would not be joining you for evensong. That day was characterised by the most violent illness I have suffered and survived since...(notwithstanding last year's food poisoning)...I can't even remember. I had the flu, in one form or another in my first and second years, and now in my second and third years I've had terrible through falling through and vomiting episodes. I slept, off and on, for the rest of the day, and only managed to sit up properly by about 8pm. However, that didn't stop me from being very ill. Very sick. Really. Terrible.

Sunday night? Don't even go there. Every three to four hours I'd get up and take up residence in my en suite, and hold on for dear life, and then consequently retire as best I could again. Waking, doused in cold sweat? To wake to sit through your intestines having an argument? Fuck. My. Life.

Unholy week is over. My insides? Tender. What about that chest x-ray? Next time. There's always next time.