Infinity

The insurmountable enigma of the limitless universe--the bottomless categories of time, and space--and even the word, infinity, must be one of the best guiding metaphors for understanding perspective. Starting from the ground/base, in language, plenty--arguably all--of communication is in some way rhetorical or persuasive. Simply put, you're convincing your listener, to listen. In argument, for example, convincing or winning over your opponent is, to some extent, a case of making them interested in your point of view and forcing them to question or doubt things. Coming back to perspective, the contradictory concept of a 3rd-person-totality of perspectives, or a perfect/universal perspective, is, necessarily, incomprehensible. Each of our perspectives, are simply (and for the amount of time wasted on overcoming such a matter: can be simply be) regarded as never unequivocally, 100%, factual, objective ideas or pictures of life 'in-itself'. Point of view, in this sense, is metaphorically (seeing as we're shooing away literal meaning completely: everything is fiction...) a spot light of each person's understanding. My argument, here, itself, is a spot light reflection of my understanding.

The bottom line here is that when you seem to be at that momentary tipping point in dealing with someone--where you just feel forced to say something unnecessary back--just see it as you see yourself: as another perspective.

Friday, 31st July 2009

At the sunset hour of one warm summer day a man was to be seen walking down the highstreet, making his way over the Old Harvey's Bridge. He was marked by a particularly meticulous behaviour. As he walked down the highstreet towards 9 Malling Street, he stumbled on a cobblestone-It must've been a cobblestone, he reassured himself. Glancing in the brewery shop window, he gave himself the once-over, brushed himself off and continued on his way.

Wednesday, 04 June 2008

It's been 461 days since I've written. The muse of my now decadent mind clearly went sauntering off to a more attractive debauchery but I find myself sitting here wishing to write something, anything, once again.

A freshly raw and creative honesty inspired by a fresh copy of The Happy Hypocrite's Linguistic Hardcore and a few incredible captures from Fiona Tan has taken hold of my fingers this time and is jabbing them furiously into the keyboard at impulse and random rate, thank you one Gustav Metzger. The simplicity of any creative media free from too much contrived garbage is something I will always strive to find.

Like a king without his crown, keeping it a little loose but trying to keep it tight I find myself playing back a portfolio of haunting memories from the past year on a daily basis and just locking them up and watching them over in my mind. Watching is something I'd say I'm pretty well versed at, yeah. Watching Films. Watching all the people around me scurry off in their lives and daily endeavors. Watching hours of nothing. Watching spiders. I feel like I'm in an astronaut at low gravity desperately trying to run at full pace to catch all his dreams flying by at speed. It's just such a token tragic comedy. "Thing's will be fine." "Keep trucking!" You name it I've heard it, but for those people who think patience is a virtue which is progressively rewarding with easier times ahead, you're mistaken.

Some days I don't care. Some days I feel like I'm a prisoner. Some days I'm just happy to be alive. Some days I just laugh. Some days I feel like spending my whole bankroll on a shipment of pint glasses, drinking beer, wine and scotch out of them first and then finding a very desolate and hard place and smashing every single one of them. It's a lovely cycle. It's not that I feel sorry for myself, or if I do I'm simply in denial, but more that I'm so more comfortable in my defeatist, lonely and convenient ways that I'll sit right there twiddling my thumbs on my arse until someone goes well out of their way for me or I get lucky enough to experience the soulfulness and diversity of this world on my own two feet. Most of all, I can't help but feel more and more lately that the one place I've relied upon and sought my comfort, brutal and unrefined honesty and love is slowly drifting away from me. Like the disappointing look in a young boy's eye at discovering the secret behind a magicians trick, I close my eyes and wish that the magic, that place, will come back. Or rather, that I get up and make it come back. That I find it again.

It's a good thing I have humor the little parrot sitting on my shoulder because I wouldn't see much behind lots of things in my day without a duly laugh. It's a pathetic, naive and an ignorant disdain to what a truly wonderful existence has been placed before me but isn't it always the case that on the days when you're feeling most off balance you feel greatest lack of dignity, grace and care?

I saw one of the most gorgeous girls today and so in the laugh of Shane MacGowan, I leave you. "Eeeeeeshshshshsh."

Si, always a Mitchell.

Thursday, 28th February 2007

At anytime, anyplace, anyhow, anywhere, anyway, be proud. Be so proud to live, be so proud to have or have had a mother, a father, or friend. Be truly proud to know yourself.

Be strong. Be gentle. And smile.

Live to the fullest...age to the fullest...go bald to the fullest...and die with a smile.

Tuesday, 23rd January 2007

....I stepped out the entrance, Vashti Bunyan - Diamond Day in my ears and faced the immediate world infront of me. The sun was gleaming brightly off the rough sea, which was framed by the buildings that lay in my declining foregrounds. The painfully cold air was warmly welcomed....

It was only nine days in hospital, which again, I couldn't be saved from. When you haven't eaten or breathed fresh air for five days, bed-stricken, it's incredible how much you appreciate all the supposedly insignificant things that you've been foolishly taking for granted; being able to guzzle or even sip a glass of cold milk, breathe fresh windy air or have the freedom to go for a walk and end up wherever your legs will take you. I find it strangely sad when you become used to such fundamentals again and stop appreciating them.

In most ways, I am very happy to be out of hospital for a few days, back at home. But really, I just wish to escape it all completely. It's a combination of all of the things that have bear on my endurance for the last three months which is most tiresome. You must take the current when it serves. Unfortunately mine currently doesn't, atleast not to fresh waters, yet. I'm back up to london on friday for my next cycle of chemotherapy. The last, has left me feeling pretty empty, I wonder how the next will phase me.

The future has no reality except as present hope, the past has no reality except as present recollection.

Wednesday, 10th January 2007

I don't know how well your memory serves you, but mine serves me loyally like a limpid sidekick in the thickest of times. This time and the tens of other that are, could be, have been and will be. I'm sure of it. In the present, for that is where all happens to one, I can conjure an incalculable, inestimable array of cloud-bordered memories and assign them, without doubt, to your name. In it's irony, where doubt was the factor and motive, alongside insecurity, that drove me to say all three of the hurtful and tearful comments at the end of our labelled, part-time, flowered of many walls, agreement, I now feel washed of it with you, and hence, want you to be the reciever of it's ample present outcomes, in repentance and repayment for a more shadowed past.

Writing this has settled and silenced the first ever sneezing fit that i've ever had in my life. A sign? Only you would know.

The fleeting sound of silence would fit far more impressively in this blog entry, however, i'll fight my ground a little longer. My overwhelmed mind is leaking at it's corners, irrepressible unfortunately because of the overload of links, rivers, bridges and commitments of my thoughts to certain aspects of my life. When something profound (good or bad) impacts on a life, like a rain of meteors in your favourite eastern settlement, you can't help neglect so much of what seemed carved in stone to your past. Whether you still consider such routines, conversations, obligations or past-times of urging and utter importance to your life then, now, in the times to come, it's irrelevant. Is it? A future as irrevocable as the past; an answer to void my question. In the past two weeks, I've not had more than four or so nights in my own bed, yet rest is the immediate outlook of someone trying to recover, a priority of the upmost. Relevancy of my priorities has become shot however, as shot as the nerve endings in my fingers atleast, and out of my three favourite things (I'm really not the favourist type), sleeping has taken the deepest hinderance. The ever pressing and toxic character of chemotherapy is of a negative one ofcourse, but so incredibly sly, in the present. It constantly reminds the main character of fatigue and is purposefully ignorant of the pace the main character has had to atone to so that the main character can cope taking more aspects of the main character's life, into the main character's stride. Not a tradgedy, please, I know, not incomparison to some of those to my knowledge, but a sly and nagging needle in my side, preventing me from clearly laying out thoughts when thinking and when writing.

In my family there is the most distinct memory of an occasion, shared by a very close family, which outlines the direction from which nearly all problems have come to arise at us. My eldest brother, Christopher, no more than the tender age of eight or nine, standing certainly no taller than four-and-a-half feet tall, ended up on the floor. We were taking a Mitchell-Price walk in Friston Forest, when eldest, dearest, ran head first, obviously face turned, into a nine year old's head-height pain barrier, he decked straight to the pine-stricken, mossy and muddy earth. A problem. As far as I know, every single one of my immediate relations always has, since, had all their pain dealt to them from the direction they least expect to face. I suppose the only remarkable exception of this would be when mischievously close friend Lloyd, my middle-elder brother Daniel, and myself, stood showdown with a huge cowpat on another one of our common, weekly, Mitchell-Price walks. Even after extensive birdviewing of our target from up a local tree (the pure fascination glowing in the eyes of all three of us obviously), Lloydus and Daniel decided to find the biggest and just-carryable rock in-sight and pledge it right into our little fly-fiended friend, on the count of three. Between us, all again facing our fate, as we threw it, it was I, youngest, and only I, eye, that recieved body and face the rawness of that suprisingly still ripe target, in it's wet form. I'll be the first to state, the smiles on both of my immaculately clean companion's faces, was no consolation, at all, for the rune effect that pile has had on my day, and life to this date, and on a certain box of tissues at the time most likely.

Astair. If ever a sore memory can become of use, it's when your anticipating self-inflicted pain. I'll bare the freshness of that pat in my mind as I inject myself with a somewhat simple GCSF injection into my abdomen starting later today. Today being, after I resign and eventually retire to bed and then regain conciousness ofcourse. A wish. May the repair of my current infirmity be as well supported as the recovery from the short story above, and many other experiences on walks. My thoughts go to Jackie and Victor on that.

There's a slightly favoured metaphor shared between me and a girl that I feel, deserves this space here. Timely or not, I care not. I once said to a girl, whom I earlier teased with the label of the upmost wallflower, that, thinking was like a rocking chair; It gives you something to do, but doesn't get you anywhere. It just so turns out that this girl is the sole person of who I dedicate most of these writings too, in my mind. The same girl, who can't take a compliment for love nor money, well maybe money, who hugely influences my life in the most profound ways and has supported me over the recent struggle that is. Still does. This girl replied to me that she rocks in a chair, not because she wants to get somewhere, but precisely because she wants to dwell and cover the same ground again and again, neutralising her thoughts, giving her the chance to step back and then, while recovering the same ground for the millioneth time, start going deeper (and therefore inevitably further) than she thought possible. Leap your bar. This response and your many other, direct and frank responses have silenced me as equally as The Garden of Forking Paths, and then adding it's millions of time continuums aswell. Although this one paragraph isn't written baring my usual reader in-mind, the last sentance, discluding this one, does.

There's hair all over my keyboard and my rocking chair must have a creek because, as you all know, I can't sleep. I have one apology before I try again and slink off as a content old man to my bed, and that is to my reader. Being the amateur and so acutely yet openly inspired writer that I am, I haven't yet learnt to write without drafting in the inspiration of ample authors, hundreds of films, books and people into my words. You witnessed this in the last paragraph and may scold or even caulderise me the next time I do it so horsely. Sorry.

Dreamsworth. I'm in relatively good health (for those of you who wonder, not my usual reader, seeing as my entries are never anything further than a ramble and lack of information of what you really come here to read about) and bid you accept my state worthy of your cloudy realm in the next hour or i'll end up paying for it later today.

S.

Monday, 25th December 2006

Living. Witnessing. Experiencing. Observing. Understanding. Thinking.

Hmm. Subsequential of the age of 18. What are the huge impacts Living at home has on a person? I think living at home is a comfort, it's a man-made safe haven. Some constantly rely on it's advantages, some run from it's disadvantages. Some run from it's advantages, while others are forced to withstand it's disadvanages. Everyone Experiencing, and everyone's experience is completely different.

I think living at home, you're somewhat forced to be passively dependant. As an individual, moving out of home, aren't you both forced and in-choice of being actively dependant?

Witnessing a friend teach foreign languages to students in other countries. Observing how she is living, how they are learning.

I could enter here a little judgemental hypothesis, correlating the personality and the lives of the wealthy progressors and how many advantages they were opportune to, in comparison to the lives of the (and here comes the controversial antonym) poor, or needy, for lack of a better word, and how many disadvantages they were subject to or advantages they were deprived of. However, as you may know of me, to linger on a topic, or act, of this sort a second longer would be embellishing an insult to my single most valued tool.

Understanding. This is the life of the most valued tool. It's the slow or gushing water which fills our rivers, out thoughts. Thinking. Thoughts, the abstract or spiritual gold in my life. Understanding, a concept, a thought, someone elses thought, a life, anything which you enjoy filling your rivers up with, is the solid root (and a trunk maybe?) standing under your piece of knowledge. It's what gives it and a person, it's depth, it's height. The higher the tree, the more branches, more tangents of thought. Different breeds of trees are subject to growing more branches, more fruit, fuller greens. Others less so, and of darker shades and colours.

I wonder, how appropriate teaching someone a definition using the method above would be? It's no dictionary. Much more qualitative. I didn't start even start the blog with it in mind. You see, it's christmas day, I was exhausted, neutronpaenic, lying in bed. Thinking. Like gas to a bunsen burner, thoughts started flooding in. I wanted to burn someone!!

The smaller percentage of my thoughts were about writing. But a huge portion of my experiences with writing, was admiring the work of others: Reading. There's also film and music to consider aswell, who actually both play a larger part in the game. Writing, is evidence of that elusive gold I mentioned earlier. It could be a published story, there for anyone who wants, or more likely, to be fallen across. It could be an undisclosed, unfrequented diary, ownership of the deceased, never to be read. I love the raw, inspired feelings I can reap from writing an amateur piece of work.

The larger percentage of my thoughts were concerning the short story I wrote in the last entry. It was only because of a little bunny that I opened my eyes to this today and sadly, I shant linger on the piece for long. In it's stead, I will retire to my bed again due to my state of infirmity and wait for a later date where my thoughts on this piece will be spelled out. Certainly before I present a re-draft.

My reader knows better than I, that this is a short dream. I was concious before I even started it, that it was going to be an extremely small start. A closed mind of this sort has several effects on me. The imagery is intense. It's a small beaker or water overflowing with imagery. Too intense. It was a complete first draft attempt yet, looking back, it's quite unnatural with self-conciousness and extreme emphasis. Also, it's not directionless, purposeless, but unless my reader is a certain person, I don't think it can be understood that well. Regardless to these criticisms, and many more, I enjoy what it is and where it potentially, could be going. Maybe I'll re-write it considering a few more thoughts and meanings and taking a lot more time over it, not as to disguise it's spontaneity though.

On a health realted point, I'm doing well. I think im understanding and coming to terms with living my life with this burden, or addition. I still feel rather overwhelmed by it's impact on my world, but depending and the company and thoughts of my parents, brothers, relatives and valued buddies, has made it much more bareable. I'm shivering a little, at times; sweating, a little, at night; I can't taste much, but the turkey was devoured; my nerve endings in my fingers tingle a bit; the drugs dull the spots, but they are still a constant annoyance and my head does feel like it has a piano on it at times, it's tiring, but i'm fighting and in relatively good health otherwise.

I'd love to ramble a bit more, another time maybe. For now, goodnight, dreamsworth.

Simon