Acute Stress Response

I’m sat hear listening to experimental, electronic, down-tempo alternative rock band Portishead, wearing headphones specifically purchased for their ability to block out ambient noise i.e. your stupid voice!

But as you slowly peer wide-eyed over my divider, wearing a maniacal smile like some kind of deranged mime artist, you force me to abandon my aural pleasure mid-lyric.

Not. In. The. Mood!

I take a deep breath and put on my best ‘how can I help you’ face. My heart pounds in anticipation of you saying something vaguely interesting…

Tupperware!

Tupperware? You invaded my fortress of solitude to discuss the cultural and historical impact of f#%king Tupperware?

My right eye begins to twitch. 

The ceaseless onslaught of shrill noise that erupts from your cavernous pie hole pierces my eardrums like an ice pick to the brain where it joins defensive cries of ‘shut up, shut up, SHUT UP you physically repulsive obnoxious harpy’.

A sideways glance towards another colleague finds him returning a look which clearly says ‘bet I stopped listening before you did’.

Red mist blinkers my vision and before I know it I’ve lunged wildly across the desk and wrapped my headphone cord around her neck. Around and around I go on this merry little maypole dance until her face turns a deeply satisfying shade of crimson.

The momentary silence is deafening.

As the life in her eyes fades my grim look of satisfaction does little to conceal the vast gratification I feel as her windpipe finally gives up the fight.

But it isn't long before that false, nasally, snorting laugh of hers reminds me that I’ve once again zoned out completely, and I come crashing back to reality with no recollection of the last 15 minutes.

I find myself nodding and smiling, but these actions aren’t made through any conscious effort: my motor and memory systems are working at maximum efficiency as autopilot fronts a seething desire to SMASH YOU IN THE FACE REPEATEDLY WITH A HOLE PUNCH!!!

Breathe. Just, breathe.

I return my ‘aggression earmuffs’ to their previous position, signalling my lack of interest and dialling down her tirade to a comfortable hum.

A wave of calm washes over me: like being wrapped in a warm blanket. 

She turns her attention to my colleague and realisation hits him like a closed-fisted punch to the temple.  He doesn’t have the footwork to manoeuvre: he’s alone, a single ship sailing towards a horrific storm on the sea of pointless confabulation.

Good luck and Godspeed brave soul.

Passing Blame - Controlling Anxiety

Perhaps it has something to do with seasonal change, a sudden rise or fall in barometric pressure, or the cycles of the moon.  But I just haven't been feeling myself recently!

The aspects of my psyche, like three squabbling adolescents, have been fighting for dominance on how my brain interprets the external world and here I am, sat on the sidelines, scared to break it up in case I get hurt.

Now, I don't regard myself as particularly brave, but by allowing fear - the opposite of bravery - to pollute my thoughts I feel as though I'm constantly running away from an unseen foe, one intent on stoking base insecurities and laughing mockingly in my face. This lack of control makes me anxious, and my anxiety frightens me.

We have a problem...

It's been a long time since I last felt like this, and as much as I'd like to focus the blame on my career, people, or some other overriding influence, I find the hands grasping tightly around my neck are my own!

I've been insecure about my own intellect and abilities, felt jealous, become angry at the most insignificant thing and found myself once again swimming in the waters of nihilistic self-reflection.  Only I don't know how to swim.  And I've left my float on the side of the pool...

What's the point?  Really?! 

• Deep Breathing 
• Progressive Muscle Relaxation
• Yoga 

Hmm, I'll stick to arguing with myself out loud, writing an on-line diary, drinking copious amounts of red wine and throwing myself aggressively down hillsides on my awesome mountain bike thank you very much.

Maybe I just need to get away?

Thankfully my better half now has a government-issued document that certifies his identity and nationality for the purpose of international travel, and we are currently making plans for our first trip away together.

Bruges - I can almost taste the beer as I step out into the night and breathe in the cold winter air.

What is Love?

Now, usually my answer to this question would be 'baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more'...

But not today!

Recent conversation has made me question the meaning of love and the causal use of the word itself: I love my friends, but I also love cheese... Hmmm... But would I sacrifice cheese for my friends?  Or a friend for a decent cheeseboard?

Maybe.

To me, loving someone means putting them first, to hand them the power to destroy you and trusting that they won't, to feel your world would be a far emptier place for not having them in it and to stand by them through good times and bad.

I would never tell someone I loved them unless it was absolute, and outside of family and my closest friends I've only ever put love into words for one partner - in fact, I tell them so often that I sometimes feel in doing so it may dilute it's meaning, or that somehow the meaning may be misinterpreted as insecurity: a way of trapping them or forcing them to say it back before being ready to do so.

All I know is that there are people in my life that I can't imagine being without, who make me who I am and push me to great heights.  I need these people, and I believe that to be the better word to use.

If you are lucky enough to have people like this in your life, cherish them, they need you too.

Bullying or Coercion of a Sexual Nature

I've discovered the only difference between flirting and sexual harassment is how good looking you are...

Think about it.

If someone you find attractive looks at you in a certain way or is rather suggestive with a phallic piece of fruit, it's flirting.  But if the same look is given by someone outside of your accepted levels of 'good looking' it's creepy, and before long sexual harassment charges are being filed against me. YOU...

Shut up!

I'm not a person who needs a lot of eyes on them to be seen, but I always try to look my best and occasionally, OK rarely, fine ONCE I was rewarded with an approving glance from a handsome young man and it made me feel great!  But if the same gaze was given by an older, slightly abhorrent individual it would fill me with an unnerving sense of apprehension.  It's the same flattery, so why does my head scream 'SEX PEST, SEX PEST', SEX PEST' so sharply it takes all my strength not to shout it out loud with a pointed finger?

And how far can flirting between friends go before 'banter' starts to make you feel uncomfortable?  Do you allow your better looking mates to push the boundaries further than, let's say, a more facially challenged one?  I guess that would make us incredibly shallow now, wouldn't it?

Wrapping feelings, thoughts or beliefs in humour has always been a fantastic way to deliver a genuine argument without ever seeming preachy - it's also a wonderful way to write off genuine anger or hatred as sarcasm

This refuge heap of pointless waffle got started from having a day of blandishment with a work colleague; but did I flirt because he's attractive, or did I use humour to cover the fact I think he's a prick?

The way we use humour to disguise how we truly feel is something which fascinates me and I shall continue to mine my brain for answers, but for now my torpidity has overpowered me.

G'night all...

Smile, it Might Never... Oh Go F#%K Yourself!

Rage occurs when oxytocin, vasopressin, and corticotropin-releasing hormones are rapidly released from the hypothalamus. This results in the pituitary gland producing and releasing large amounts of the adrenocorticotropic hormone, which causes the adrenal cortex to release corticosteroids. This chain reaction occurs when faced with a threatening situation - such as working with a bunch of exhausting simpletons!

'FUCK YOU' is being typed in bolded, italicized font in an email addressed to senior management; my cursor hovers over the 'send' button...

Ctrl+A. Delete.

I won't send this, I never send these.

LOSER!

Today I feel like the man who makes tea for the guy who makes coffee, an insignificant nonentity that goes about my business like a worker bee; a loyal drone unable to bring into focus what it is I'm supposed to be working towards. 

You spend nine blissful months in an environment of warmth and security, only to have the mother ship attacked by something which insists on dragging you into the real world to join the rest of society.

The first few years aren't so bad... Before school hits... That's when the shit really hits the fan: bullied about your Thundercats lunch box, laughed at in your He-Man pants, and acne has never been afraid to kick a man when he's down.  Then you evolve into a wage slave where you have to deal with demanding bosses, frustrated customers and the same questions day in day out, over and over and ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

I stare at the water cooler.

Did you know that diacetylmorphine causes immediate respiratory suppression; it's amazing how easy it is for your average Joe to get hold of uncut opiates these days.  Interesting.

The only thing preventing me from contaminating the water supply or tearing off my own arm just so I have something to throw at you is a cocktail of caffeine, co-codamol (2 x 500mg 4 times a day) and enough sugar to put a small horse into a diabetic coma.  This holy trinity has so far been enough to suppress my fury and prevent the ensuing carnage, but I'm unable to escape my own head and the temptation to jam a pencil into my eye and swirl it around my brain in an effort to dislodge what it is that vexes me still remains.

4hrs left.  There's still time.

Until then I shall continue to hate these people to death from the comfort of my desk whilst listening to the soothing alt-classical sounds of Ludovico Einaudi.

Original Copy

Very often my brain falls out with my mouth and the ability to use my words to form coherent sentences breaks down, causing a huge backup of 'information traffic'.  As I stare into space searching through my vocabulary library people often look at me with a mix of wilful expectancy, confusion and disgust.  This frustrating inefficiency to communicate verbally has forced me to find other means of expression.

Although my natural endowment for expressing myself through the medium of dance is a useful talent to have, using it to get across my point during a high pressured business meeting is for some reason 'frowned upon' - damn societies constraints, damn them all to hell...

So what do I do?

This blog post is example number one.  I write.  Not very well but at least I do it, which is better than being one of these people that tells everyone I'm a writer with no evidence of the fact.  Granted, this blog is new, but I have short stories, scripts, poems and even songs should you require proof this isn't just a fleeting hobby of mine but a passion.  That's not self-promoting arrogance talking, I'm still trying to find my voice and part of doing so has been to explore how my writing style might work in a number of different formats.

In any creative endeavour it's incredibly difficult to be original, stand out or have that next great idea.  Everyone is in such a rush to be the be the first person to do something for the second time, thinking if they apply their idea to a previously successful model it will amass the same success.  You can reduce most narratives down to 5-6 fundamental templates; my better half examines this in a blog post entitled 'The Death of Original Thought' and that got me thinking.  We all borrow, at times unashamedly steal peoples ideas, wrap them up in our own thoughts and feelings and... wait, just wait one darn minute!!!  I'm doing it now, I'm recycling the words of my partner when it would be easier to just quote his far more articulate musings: 'Maybe the template is just a means to insert your own attitudes and beliefs into a fantastic setting through which you engage the reader, and in doing so put across those beliefs without feeling contrived or preaching. Who knows?.'  Of course it is; it's a perfect delivery system.

I found myself recording voice memos at 2am this morning detailing what I wanted to talk about in this post, but just before I went to type it all up I watched a YouTube clip posted by Ze (rhymes with 'say') Frank (rhymes with 'tank') on being a creative professional and it was if the universe was trying to prove my point.  He spoke of fears, doubts, how we speak with others voices as we try to find our own and even managed to describe what I believed to be the private emotional states I often find myself in as I struggle to determine what it is I really want to say.  But he said it better than me! 

This of course made my head implode.

Of course it's naive to think that anything I say or do is unique, that the feelings I have are mine and mine alone, but I'm still taken aback when I look at other peoples work and feel exposed; like pages from my diary have just been posted on the internet - in one hand I hold a welcome sense of relief, rewarding me with the comfort I'm not alone in this world, not crazy to think the things I do and somehow giving me permission to offer up my emotions to complete strangers. But in the other I hold an unnerving sense of dread and quickly fall into a spiralling panic of nihilistic reflection where I find myself saying 'well, what's the point?' and begin a familiar decent into a place where I question the meaning of life and the meaning of it's end...

At the end of the day passion drives us all and it doesn't matter what stokes the fire.  Don't feel like a fraud by adopting another persons viewpoint, be inspired to take existing ideas to new places, reform them to fit around what it is you want others to hear and make them listen. Try things, embrace failure, use it to grow and focus your direction.  And if you have something to say, say it, and say it with conviction.  Find a passion and be passionate about it.  TODAY.  Who knows, you may even inspire others to do the same.

In other news a transvestite has just moved into the house across the street from me.  I'm yet to see him, but apparently he went door-to-door letting everyone know he was queer and he was here.  Fair play.

Also, I baked chai muffins.  My love of chemistry and food coming together in the most wondrous union of cake and butter icing.  I made 12, which isn't enough to share.  Sorry...

    

Artful Dodger

I like art and stuff, here is some of what I do...

What's Love Got to Do With it?

Got to do, got to do with it.

Imagine a loneliness you can't even imagine... As a person convinced I would die alone; my discarded, bullet-ridden corpse being savaged by a pack of feral chihauhau's, I never invested too much hope in finding 'the one', the ultimate friend - a soul mate.  But I've recently met someone I know is changing my life; an unassuming man who's presence has pushed me to unimaginable heights.  Because of how good he makes me feel I've selfishly decided to keep him.  Ok, it's because I love his mind, soul, face, limb and body areas.

He may read this and feel all warm and fuzzy inside, he might invlove the authorities.  Only time will tell...

Until then I will continue to strut around wearing a ridiculous cheshire cat like grin on my face, forcing my colleagues to dry-wretch uncontrollably at the sheer volume of love struck giggling.

Screw you all, I'm happy! 

Short-term Detachment

Hi there!

As the title of my first post may suggest this blog has been born from the fact that a lot of my brain activity happens away from my immediate surroundings.  The mild dissociation isn't helped by the array of objects I have strewed across my desk - goods stolen from the stationary cupboard and my quota of 'personal items' do little to inspire creative thought, neither does the piercing glare from the two computer monitors I find my one good eye staring into; the other is currently bloodshot and has been nervously twitching all day causing the woman sat opposite me to read my involuntary tick as some sort of come on...  eeew!!!

Anyway, I've been thinking a lot about my childhood today and the influence of growing up with an older sister, or rather, not growing up with a brother.  After hearing a friends story of how he and his younger brother would chase each other around the house trying to ensnare one another's genitalia in the business end of a high-powered vacuum cleaner, I wondered what other laddish tomfoolery I may have missed out on.

As my family is devoid of brothers, uncles, grandfathers and such the only male figure I had as a role model growing up was my father, but as our relationship was comparable to one you might have with a total stranger it was soon apparent my destined greatness would only be suppressed should I yield to his way of thinking.  My mother's attempt at filling the role of both parents was admirable, but somewhat limited by the uncontrollable rage my genes (red heads are a fiery sub-species) / hormones / arrogant sense of entitlement gave me, so it was down to my friends to provide the testosterone fuelled interaction a growing boy needs in his evolution to manhood.

Making friends wasn't always easy, up until my mid-twenties my appearance provided more than enough ammunition for even the most lackadaisical bully to bring me down in a hail of verbal or physical abuse and the years I spent forging a shield from my witty sense of humour proved a necessary defensive tool.  It wasn't long before I found my talent for self-deprecation wasn't limited to relieving tension and providing laughs for others, but that it could also be used for evil and soon became my weapon of choice when I needed to go on the offensive.  

How the tables have turned!

There I was, this fully formed personality disorder, a chameleon able to blend into both the IT crowd and take part in dustbin jousting or hand out atomic wedgies without being starred at like I didn't belong.  But this newly discovered self-confidence only  fuelled my high-handed swagger.  I missed no opportunity to psychologically torment the outsiders I used to call my own in a blatant effort to gain more friends and become 'popular', whatever that meant?!?   

You eventually find out who your real friends are, the ones who stick around providing light in your darkest times, never afraid to tell it to you straight.  I've come to appreciate a hard truth after hearing far too many comforting lies and these days my old school chums only appear to me as electronic copies via one of the endlessly fashionable social media sites such as Twatter or MyFace, each keeping me updated with attention craving status updates and enough game invitations to drive a man to lunacy.

Anyway, I'd like to end by dedicating this first post to Ian Miles; the skinny, greasy-haired, buck-toothed, mono-browed bastard I spent many a lunchtime driving to tears in secondary school.  You turned out to be one of my best friends and taught me never to judge a book by its cover, or person by their face...

...Whatever, I'm sorry x

In other news, I've ingested vast amounts of coffee today.  Looking at my height x weight / 5 mugs of coffee and 100 grams (that's 3.5oz) of chocolate covered coffee beans = enough caffeine to kill a small rhino.

Soon my heart will explode.  Farewell loyal followers...