Thoughts for the Chronic Somnambulist

On the bus today, I had a memory relapse. A memory relapse, to define the term, is when a random and seemingly insignificant past event of my life unburies itself from the archives of the “best left forgotten” pile in the back of my brain, makes it’s way to the frontal lobe and sits there until I figure out why it’s there and what lesson I forgot to learn from the event in question. In this case, the event happened when I was about 8 years old.

It was the summer between 2nd and 3rd grade and, as I had done the previous who knows how many summers before, I was playing football (“soccer” to the native speakers of Americanglish). I was on the team with the pink jerseys and red numbers and, if I remember right, I was number 9. I played right wing defense. I was flipping wicked.  We were playing the team with the blue and white jerseys, which was captained by a 20-foot tall, 45-stone, 9-year-old named Macey. Her position was ”girl who everyone was afraid of so she always got the ball and scored a goal”. On this particular summer day, I remember waking up feeling something like dread but it was dread with a “you’re probably going to die today so get used to the idea” type twist to it, so I put on my jersey and boots and walked out the door breathing deeply as every breath was inevitably my last. And there I stood in my right wing defense position knowing that at any moment the referee was going to blow the whistle, the ball would go to Macey and she would then come for me, and I would then be trampled like a doormat at a Metallica concert. I braced myself. The whistle. The inevitable train cometh; then a thought came simply thus: ”don’t move”. Come again? “Don’t move. Why should you move? It’s your goal so defend it.” I stood there staring then I leaned forward onto my toes, dug in my spikes and ran towards the charging bull. I overestimated the distance between us and ran right into her. I stumbled backwards but managed to stay standing just long enough to watch her fall to the ground and dish the ball off to the keeper. I fell down to the sound of another whistle ending the play and my parents cheering. I was David and Goliath never took me on again.

If you were to ask my father what the proudest day of his life was up to this point, he would tell you the above story. The day the short and stocky got their own back on the tall and massive. That, however, was not why it trekked to the forefront of my mind. That day was the first day that I remember being brave and, incidentally, the last day that I remember being brave. Against all reason, I rushed towards fear and watched it fall, a phenomenon that hasn’t happened much since.

It seems to me that, as an 8-year-old, I understood things that I do not understand now. I am not now brave but I was brave, in my 16 years of life since football where have I lost it? What is bravery in a big people’s world or does the definition change?

I believe the answer lies in our tendency to bury what we don’t want to be, what society tells us we shouldn’t be; with our bad we inevitable bury our good. Our ability to stand decreases when we constantly find ourselves bent digging the hole for the things of our past. For me, the greatest fear is that I am greater than the sum of my parts. Because of this, I dig further.

There was a day in my life when I was brave. One day when I stood alone, daunted but unmoved. The lesson was to do the same everyday and I missed it. I resolved on the bus today to be brave yet again, and maybe to sort out what that entails. Any thoughts on this would be great! It may seem a silly thing but it is my goal and I must defend it.     

Upon my daily check of cnn.com, I couldn’t help but reflect upon the state of the world…and the state of the men who run it.

As I scrolled down the page to the stories underneath “Ground Troops Enter Lebanon” I came across a story entitled “Bush Expresses Frustration Using Expletive”. Apparently, the leader of the free world was heard to be using the “s”-word while speaking to Tony Blair about Kofi Annan and the fact that he’s not “doing anything” to help end the strife in the Middle East.

The irony of this story hit me on many levels. First, why is a man who is so intent to carry on the war in the Middle East to the last man, and is even eager to open up not one but TWO new fronts of this war, suddenly criticising another for not ending the turmoil in the same region? Could it possibly be jealousy because someone else got there first?

Secondly, I don’t condone swearing in the slightest, I think it makes the user of such words sound juvenile and uneducated, so why is it such a shock that the widely beloved Texas “s”-bomb came out of Bush? This man could nuke the world if he got frustrated enough and you’re writing about his frustrated use of the “s”-word?? Are you serious?

Thirdly and above all, I stand in awe at the state of the world as it is reflected in this story. It’s easy, I suppose, to feel inebriated when faced with such a daunting situation as the one we face today. Never before have I felt that answers are as few and far between as they are now. Never before have I felt that I am the one paying recompense for the mistakes of those whose lives led to my own being. Never before have I known the fear of ages and wept for a past that I didn’t see or live in and ask “how could they have been so blind?” Yet more and more I see my leaders feeling my own angst.

I see in our day the culmination of histories, and it is both fascinating and terrifying. What men say no longer accounts for much, which is why, I believe, the study of sciences, maths, and tactics have overtaken the study of languages and literature. I have no bombs to end my frustration, and I reiterate my no swearing stance to the end of my life…unless I mean to sound juvenile and uneducated. I simply wonder if I am witnessing a death I can’t stop. Perhaps the past is not what I should be weeping for but the blindness of men in my own day. Perhaps what is newsworthy is so beyond our comprehension that we fill our lives with what we can understand to make us feel in control and apart from what is around us at all times. Perhaps it is easier to blame the peacemaker than to face the mess you helped to finish. Perhaps meaning lies in what men do not say as opposed to what they do…it is, however, more difficult to quote.      

I apologise to my fans that I haven’t posted in awhile. I have, however, experienced a rather large shift of lifestyles recently and only just surmounted the shock.

I have moved from a doctor’s surgery, one of the most efficient and, dare I say, Hitleresque establishments in the world to an office where I have, as of this moment, completed one fileful of work, checked my e-mail and written this blog and am being applauded for my stringent work ethic.

Please note that I am not complaining, I just cannot wrap my head around it. Twenty people at twenty different desks downing crisps, chatting on MSN and, at most, licking envelopes, all in a vain effort to look busy. None of us have seen our manager for days.  I haven’t decided yet if I landed the best job in the world or if I have condemned myself to a life of shameless boredom simply for the excellent pension. I feel like Marlow in Heart of Darkness.

Does anyone else have a job like mine? Am I wrong to want more excitement and challenge even though I love the ease of what I am doing? Is there a job in the world that combines the two? Queen, perhaps?

I suppose until I have answered these questions for myself my little Filbert (Filbert is the dog who lives on my desk) and I shall nobly plod on until full job satisfaction is reached and I once again (or for the first time) find purpose in my working life.

I have handed in my CV for the Queen position so when that becomes available I’ll be right in there. The pension may not be as good but I think being worth £40 million would do me lovely. If anyone knows of any other jobs of that caliber please do not hesitate to let me know.   

Anyone who knows me will know that I had a friend who comitted suicide over the Christmas holiday. Now, I was not particularly close to this friend but I knew him and he was special to me. Ever since I learned of his death he has not been far from my thoughts and I want to say goodbye my way. This is my eulogy for Dave.

I knew Dave from about the time I was 12. We were in the gifted and talented classes together and I remember him as one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. He was the first person who introduced me to Monty Python & the Holy Grail and he had an obsession about llamas up until the time he was about 15. He was a great musician, a struggling musician who I suppose didn’t want to struggle anymore. Dave had a great big smile unequalled by any smile I’ve ever seen. He was smart and witty and, though I wouldn’t ever have the chance to speak to him, I wish he were still here.

Goodbye Dave. I’m sorry I couldn’t say it in person. But, if it helps at all now, you were one of the best people I knew.  

Circulation
 

“Do you write poetry?” asked my friend.
I believed I did…  
In the shower and in the tub and while watching tv,
While reading, while sleeping, while snoring, while listening, while drinking
And standing and fighting and pacifying and eating.
 

Poetry, I have found, is in your blood and not your heart.
It is pumped through veins, breathes in life and exhales death,
Splatters on a page like vomit on pavement, glorious and relieving all at once!
Yet others look at your handiwork and find it disgusting and unsociable.
 

It is built of cells, some red some white.
It moves, circulates, encompasses, gets clogged up and then stops.
It is made an academic pursuit, riddled with names, categorised, made ugly and complicated,
Yet, after the essay is written, it remains untarnished, it’s meaning still hidden by God, the melody protected by the notes yet to be revealed, its mysteries still lost in words without definition, connotation or pentameter.  
A phenomenon understood by everyone and no one
Like crying and laughing, singing and screaming.
 

Do I write poetry?
My dear friend, no one writes poetry.
Poetry writes you.

One of my new year’s resolutions is to become more like me…or more like what I’m unsure that I might be. Part of this is getting in touch with my inner nerd; that part of me that screams out for binary code and taped-up spectacles, the part of me that has since been suppressed by high school cheerleading, sorority pledges and converse shoes–although some would consider those to be pretty nerdy I love them.

Some of you, my friend Rich included, may be wondering about this name that I have chosen. Am I a sleepwalker, no, fortunately I am not. However, I spend most of my life in a dreamlike daze somewhere between waking and sleeping which I would term as a form of sleepwalking. I love sleep! Like 87% of the world I don’t get enough of it so often the thoughts and experiences I have border somewhere between hither and yon. Often I ask, DID that really happen? Then decide that it must have because I’m not crazy…I think. Reality and life are very distinct in this world in which I find myself. My goal with this blog is to introduce this world to this spacious black hole commonly known as “the net,” to allow it to be sucked down into the inner recesses of nothingness, existing forever but only as fragments of atoms…and even those are being stretched. I hope you find it interesting, funny, sad, alive, alert and enthusiastic but not awake. :]

Welcome to WordPress.com. This is your first post. Edit or delete it and start blogging!