not wanting to sound rude to anyone...

returning to university, everyone i knew last year seems different and evasive. a bit like something big happened in the summer and i missed a meeting.
  it was probably my fault - i'm probably not the best friend in the world. introverted, bookish, not that talkative and pretty antisocial, i'm not made for talking to people. clubbing is uncomfortable due to all the pressure put on me whenever i go - dance, drink, talk to people, get drunk and buy someone a drink. no, i say! fancy dress? no, fuck off!
 
  alright, it's becoming pretty plain why i'm not Mr. popular. i'm unwelcoming and not easy to talk to. it's not uni people's fault - it's mine.

never mind. despite this, i shall continue to be this way. because it's fun and fitting to me. and i'm probably liked, by a select few. those people - thankyou. very much.

im not angry at the other people. not angry at anyone.

i'll be hiding in the quietest corners of the bookshops, if you need me.

glass bottle got stuck on finger.

i'm not sure what made me do it. but i wanted to see if my finger fit in the bottle.

it didn't.

tried to remove it, with all the strengh i could. after ten minutes, i was quite paniced, and i took my hand, bottle akimbo, outside and placed the bottle and hand on the floor.

i also had my hammer.

tap. tap. tap tap. bang. Smash!

ahh!

the bottle was broken, but still wedged on finger. and thumb cut on glass where hammer hit.  mix of flat cola, rain, and blood.

more tapping, this time around neck of bottle. little bits coming off, and more cuts.

suddnely, success! bottlecap broke in two. more cuts.

i'm one of those people who bleeds quite profusely. dried blood all over hands. got the worst off with kitchen towel and had some trouble applying a couple of plasters.

it was thirsty work. now sitting, watching Derren Brown, typing roughly with plastered fingers. am quite thirsty.

i have a few more colas.

broke another bottle out. good old cola.

I wonder...

A missed train

My train from Blackpool Pleasure Beach had been delayed by half an hour due to a signalling failure at Kirkham.  So when we arrived in Preston, there was ten minutes, instead of the usual forty, until my connecting train arrived.
  At this point, I decided to do something that I had never occurred to me before, something that seemed pointless and time wasting and fun.
  I deliberately Missed my train.

This self sacrificing move left me stranded for an hour and ten minutes in Preston. I wasn't in a rush, and had given myself some time to kill.
  I thought of all the things i could possible do while i was in Preston for this prolonged period of time.
  in truth, i enjoyed my forty minutes break. it made a nice stopper between the two trips, and i could pick up a Nero's and walk to the Waterstone's and back. and i wasn't in any hurry to lose it.
  i thought about all the people you see in their suits rushing for the trains, when they are missing the place they have stopped at. you never know what you might find here. I have only been to Preston properly once, about seven or so years ago, and looked forward to a bigger explore.

I started with a trip to Nero's.

As I was heading there, I thought of all the things I could do with my extra time. I could buy something new, or start a conversation with someone I have never even met!
  But I wanted to start with the norm, so off to Nero's. But I wasn't taking away, oh, no. I sat in. I baught a sandwich aswell.
  I sat eating, smiling to myself at the thaught that I should really be in Leyland by now - the joys of train truancy had started to kick in. I felt slightly special, going against the norm.
  As the train arrived at Wigan, I arrived at HMV. Having not really been to Preston in a while, I was going to stay on the main road, towards Waterstone's. I didn't want to get lost.
  There wasn't much in HMV, so I left, walked to Waterstone's, and went back to the station.
 
OK. So it sounds almost exactly like what I used to do. It was, really, with some small changes. But the important thing is that I wasn't on the train. I had opted for a slow day as opposed to a rushed one. I had done something different form the recommended. Experimenting with society and collapsing train civilisation.
  So when the departures board displayed that the next Train to liverpool was Delayed indefinitely, I was the only one still smiling.
 
  This time I sat in Preston station café - since the train could arrive at any movement, I didn't want to wander off - occaisonally reading NME, drinking a big tea, and writing this down in my notebook.
  The signal failure at Kirkham was still raging on, thus delaying all trains going that way. At the other tables people were phoning their bosses or mates.
 after about half an hour my train arrived, and this time I got on.
 

i write scripts now

writing scripts is not too easy. though perhaps its because its non fictional. perhaps i should flee away into a world of fiction and fantasy. good old head. there's never a problem that cannot be solved by ignoring all of reality around you and pretend your somewhere else.
 though i should probably get on with some work.

procastinating is such an ugly word. I prefer "dicking about"

I am writing a journalistic script for my Media group.

I have it open, at least. some of the words are there. the other ones, the ones the cursor haven't typed yet, are getting impatient because i'm supposed to be typing them.

i'm not supposed to be reading, listening to my Florence and the Machine record, writing something completely different, or, for that matter, updating my blog telling you all the things i'm doing that aren't work.

i think i mentioned that i have no talent for journalism. I showed you some blogs that have too much talent for journalism, some incredibly enjoyable journalistic blogs, that I follow, and read religiously.

another thing i shouldn't be doing, i suppose. why is it so difficult to write jounalism? i have written lots of short stories. perhaps i only have the writing ability for fiction, and am unable to type a report, or study,  or academic journal, or anything to do with my real human feelings. i can only write fiction things. which isn't a bad thing.

but the journalism people can do that aswell...

i can't (unfortunately) write a news report on something fictional, so i'll have to buckle down and write some good old fashioned journalism, even if it kills me.

or i could play videogames, or give the Violin another go. or iron all my socks...

the Harp Spider

From within the web of string,

the Spider's harp begun to sing.

his hammer legs plucked at the maze,

the spider weaves the harp for days.

“It's Matruy. M-A-T-R-U-Y.”

“OK, thanks, I'll write the order number on the receipt. It's out on the 14^th, so we'll see you then”

“OK, thanks. Bye.”

as she left HMV, Viren (Pronounced Ver-ren) Matruy pulled her coat further over her, bracing for the cold autumn winds. She wore a big black woolly duffel, which was perfect for keeping the cold off her in this sort of weather. Her hair, which is very dark purple, neck lengh, and always shaggy, whipped about in the wind.

She had ordered the Blu-ray for Quatermass and the Pit, one of the Hammer films she did not own yet in her collection. She is a keen collector of films, and won't stop until she has converted all of her impressive DVD film collection into Blu-Rays. Her friends always warn her against it; it's needless, expensive, and soon enough a brand new format will come out and she'll have to start again.

Viren loves expensive things. Just look at her. She picked up the Mustard Yellow coloured dress she was wearing from a pricey shop on London's Petticoat Lane. (it is not dissimilar to the colour of the dress worn by the woman on the Stella Artois train advert). It has become her favourite dress, and she had quickly picked up a pair of vintage Doc Martens in the same colour (which weren't cheap). Her black leather handbag is John Lewis, £79, one of the four identical ones she owns. The black Duffel was £200. as far as she is concerned, she is earning the money, who why not spend it on lovely things?

She removed the duffel coat as she entered one of the Café's in her native town, Kenilworth. Today she had shopped around the town, instead of taking the bus to one of the closer cities, like Coventry or Warwick. Despite the easy access, and much larger range of shops available, today was a Kenilworth day.

She was halfway through her Peppermint Hot chocolate and her cream of Tomato soup when she first heard the music. She looked up, though it would be nearly impossible to see her look up, since from nearly every angle her thick, messy fringe covers both her eyes.

The music was coming from somewhere close by. It was a gentle twang of strings, running up and down the octaves like a tidal wave. There was no proper melody, like someone was absent mindedly flicking at the strings without looking, or without knowing how to play.

Viren looked around. There wasn't any harp in the café, and the speakers were playing the usual slow jazz melody tunes those sorts of places usually play.

Pretty much every coffee shop in the world (with exception to all of them in New Orleans) wants to

be like all the ones in New Orleans. The black frame windows, the jazz, the strong espressos. This one was no exception. However, there was no harp player, yet the mysterious plucking continued.

Viren didn't know why new Orleans crossed her mind – to distract from the music, maybe. She hadn't really thought about it before, though she had spent a lot of time, in between shopping, browsing the French Quarter, and visiting the sights, drinking strong, sweet black coffee in the various cafés.

Anyway. The harp music continued to mindlessly twang out. Viren scanned the café. No one else seemed to have taken notice of the music.

his spider heart has picked his love,

the tune will drown them from above.

his hammer legs will never rest,

his spider heart will know what's best.

Viren had spent most of the morning asleep. She had work, but it didn't matter that much.

She worked from her attic. It was drenched in the afternoons sunlight, and the hanging plants form the slanted roof hung around her shoulders like spiders legs.

She sat at her posh desk, turned on her red retro anglepoise lamp, and got to work. She restores the covers of first editions for collectors and dealers. Popular fist editions would sell for thousands. She had restored a first edition copy of the Great Gatsby last month, which had sold at Sotherby's of London for nearly £100,000. there was a lot of money in classic books.

Today she had been handed a copy of the Hound of the Baskervilles, that was in a fair, but not fantastic, condition. It was published by George-Newnes, London, 1902. it was not too big a job, as it was only expected to sell for too much. She was getting £1,000 for the job, and the book was expected to sell for about £5,000, if the job was done properly.

This particular job required the cloth cover re-dying, and some cover design restoration. The first job would be the dying.

She was carefully removing the cloth cover from the back when the mindless tune struck up again. This time, she took it more seriously. Yesterday, In the café, she was concerned, but eventually assumed that the music might have been playing from someone's phone or iPod. She was used to people playing music too loud through their earphones on her many bus trips to Coventry or Warwick.

However, this time, there was no other way around it. The music had to be coming from somewhere. It was still the same, tuneless tune, though this time it sounded lighter, and much more pleasant. Like when you listen to a song at first and it doesn't sound right, but when you come back to it later on and it sounds so much better. Your favourite song, and you didn't notice the first time.

Despite the pleasantness of the melody, she felt the need to find its origin. The music didn't sound like it cam from a particular source. In the café, she had located it to an unnoticed web, hidden in the top corner of the café wall, near the toilets. The web looked thin and full; not cone shaped, but a normal, maze-like web. She told the Baristas, and one of the braver ones brushed it away with a dustpan and brush. After that, the tune had stopped.

She searched through the plants, and on the windowsill, and around the corners of the old room. There wasn't any webs. Yet the music still continued, and the more she searched and the more she listened, the more she didn't want it to go away. It felt warm and light.

Despite herself, she tried to put her fingers in her ears. The music continued inside her head.

his spider harp will always play,

his one will never get away.

the tune will tell them deep within,

the spider's love will never thin.

Viren didn't get up today.

She lay on her bed, smiling. She was feeling lazy and content. She hadn't felt the need to dress; though eventually she left the bed to put on a mustard yellow dress she was sure she didn't really care about. She would have thought about what to do; the book needed finishing, she could go shopping, she could visit friends, or pick up her blu-ray from HMV, or go on holiday. If only she could hear herself think.

Her head was full of beautiful harp tunes. The soft, mysterious, mindless melody. She could only hear the repeated twang of the harp strings. She could see thin, black, hammer legs, swinging in the air, tapping on long silky wires that stretched across the room in odd directions, like there was electrical pylons out of sight, all connected, all facing different directions. Though it could have been her fringe, which was always in her eyes.

She felt light, and bright, and full of fire. The feeling, the strong sense of relaxed excitement and deep bliss. She never wanted the melody to end.

The midday sun shone through the bay windows. The wires shone a slight grey-blue, and she thought they were slightly vibrating in the air. She tried to brush her fringe out the way, but was too content to lift her arms.

The harp has caught the spiders pray,

the woven tune has had its say.

the lover's caught deep in the spell,

don't try to leave; it won't end well.

on returning to university, and not going out

  this week was the first one back for the second year of university. if I had the blogging talents of the Fantastic people who make these awesome blogs, (here and here) then perhaps I could go into detail more on some of the events, such as the odd question on the bus, and my awkward introduction to my film course. if these things were made up, perhaps I could talk about them in better (or at least some) detail, however my journalistic and autobiographical skills are no match to other blogs. (did i mention this one and that one?)
  not going out, a past time I enjoy, might be coming back to haunt me, however. the world of the student outside lesson circle seems to take place in the clubs, town nights and house parties. I don't have much talent for such things, and might be losing out as a result.
   it might not matter, though. I have got through life pretty well without going out too many times (I do occaisonally wander in, out of curiosity and a need to keep up with the times and things), and I bet there's other ways to keep up with the student social world without going to town every night. all I need to do is find out how...

(in case you were wondering, I was unnessecarily introduced to my film course by another one of the teachers, for no specific reason. the method used ("hi everyone, this is Izaak, he'll be joining your film course. he's brilliant!") suggested a "he's a bit special and scared of everyone, so please be nice to him" approach. then I could find a chair, and stood about like a divvy for a bit while i looked for one. not the best "how do you do.")

(as for the bus, someone i don't really know from my history, but know enough to say hello, asked me on the bus, unespectedly, and quite loudly, "are you single?". it wasn't until after i made some sort of excuse that he explained that he ment single honours. i had misunderstood. however, throughout the week I did get a cake, and a couple of hugs from a couple of lovely friends, so it wasn't all bad.*)

*just to make sure you know, i'm not a bit special and scared of everyone, despite evidence to the contrary.