A Moment of Pure Self-Indulgence

In a moment of pure self-indulgence this week I sat down and wrote a little something fictional, something i've threatened to do for a long time now. What follows is just about a page of what I wrote, and it's barely even a first draft, so be nice. (Oh, and I apologise for the page formatting, I can't seem to work blogspot properly).

I

7.00 AM. The alarm rang and tore him from his dream. He had got his eight hours. He stretched out his left arm and deftly turned off the alarm. The sun streamed through his Egyptian cotton curtains and the crack in the open window allowed in the sound of a Chaffinch calling out into the crisp, spring air. It was the same call he heard every morning. He liked the sound of the Chaffinch, his garrulous little friend. He wondered what it was calling for; the celebration of a new day, the seducing of a possible mate, or just something to pass the time as it flew through its morning chores? Whatever its purpose, it suddenly dawned on him that the bird was at least wide awake, something which he had to be, and fast.

          He lay on his back, face up in bed and summoned the will to get up. He took a deep breath and in a sweeping motion, threw his duvet off and swung his legs round leaving him sat on the edge of his mattress. He leant over and, trying to get his bearings in the dimly sun-lit room, reached for his glasses. His thick, black, horn-rimmed glasses. As he put them on he stood up and walked over to the little oak cabinet on the other side of the room. He pressed play on the Hi-fi system, the sole object that sat on top of the cabinet, and watched through the clear gap in the disc cover as the CD span round and whirled into action. As the disc clicked and whirred he stood and counted quietly to three:

          “One... two... three.”

         On cue as always, the speakers threw music towards all four corners of the room, enveloping him in sound. The walls dripped with the sound of James Brown. It was I Feel Good. It was always I Feel Good. Every morning, without fail.

         He took off his pyjamas; a plain white t-shirt and red tartan lounge trousers, folded them and placed them under his single pillow. Ruffling his thick, black hair with his right hand he walked over to the en-suite bathroom. Stepping in, the cold ceramic kiss the tiled floor gave the soles of his feet made him wince as he turned the shower handle two and a half turns clockwise and counted to five as the water warmed up:

          “One... two... three... four... five.”

         He removed his glasses, folded them and lay them down on the shelf above the toilet. He stepped under the shower head and pulled the shower curtain around on its rollers. It resisted in the same places it always did, glided without concern in the same places it always did, and would inevitably not stop the shower water from going all over the bathroom floor, just like it always did. He reminded himself again that he needed to look into that.

        He finished in the shower, turned the handle two and a half turns anti-clockwise, pulled the shower curtain to its original position, stepped out of the shower and, shivering from the sudden blast of cold air that hit his body like a freight train, reached for his thick, warm towel that was hung on the radiator beside the toilet. He wrapped the towel around his waist and looked himself in the mirror. The bathroom door he had left open so most of the shower heat had escaped throughout his wash, however a small amount of condensation was left on the mirror, slightly obscuring the image of his eyes. With one fell swoop of his right hand he removed the condensation and wiped the moisture on his towel. Again he returned to looking at the reflection of his face. No noticeable change. He picked up his tooth-brush, an electric toothbrush with a built in timer, started the timing function and began to brush. He remembered his Dentist’s advice as he went and gave full attention to every section of his mouth, even his tongue. Two minutes past and his tooth-brush beeped at him. He rinsed it in the cold tap water and put it back down in its charging bay, gargled a cap-full of mouthwash for good measure and took one final look at himself in the mirror before walking out of the en-suite and closing the door behind him.

          The music had long since finished and he was never in the mood for any more than that one song in the morning; the reason why he created a CD with just the one song on it. He dried himself thoroughly with his towel then folded it in half and threw it on top of his un-made bed. He walked over to his huge oak wardrobe which stood in the corner of the room next to the oak cabinet, dwarfing its comparatively tiny counterpart. The door creaked as it opened to a reveal a mass of neatly ironed and arranged clothes of varying shades of brown and beige. He stared into the muddy void and deliberated as to what to wear. Thought however was futile, and he dismissed all other possible options out of hand and grabbed his navy chino trousers, a slightly lighter-navy tie, a regular white shirt and his favourite brown corduroy blazer. He found a clean pair of socks lurking in the corner of the wardrobe bottom and took out the shoe box containing his favourite brown brogues. He sat down on his bed to tie them and, once secured, he sat and he stared at them. They were a present. Suddenly realising that he was becoming lost in his thoughts, he stood up again, headed out of his room and went downstairs.

Bird? Plane? Geek!

The terms ‘Geek’ and ‘Nerd’ in today’s society are often contrived. Many people make the assumption that they are same thing. However, apart from a few subtle cross-overs there are several fibres in the make-up of these terms that allow them to be differentiated. A ‘Nerd,’ if I may steal a definition from Urban Dictionary (and yes steal, not borrow; borrow gives the impression I intend to return it once I’ve used it) is someone “whose IQ exceeds his weight.” They are the clever ones. The ones generally bullied in school but who eventually create power-house businesses and generate six-figure salaries. Think Bill Gates and you wouldn’t be far wrong.

A ‘Geek’ however should never be confused with a ‘Nerd.’ Geeks do not have to be smart. They do not lack the social skills that Nerds do but they are most likely not in any way athletic (but still enjoy sport on a non-physical level), they read, watch copious amounts of TV and films, play video games and surf the internet furiously. This is where I come in. I am a ‘Geek.’ I’d like to say it that it took me a while to come to terms with it but I’ve always been one and potentially always will be. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a hermit who stays indoors or essentially a young child stuck in a teenage body but there are some obsessions that I have carried forward since the day I was born. Without playing it I still have a soft spot for Pokemon, love Star Wars and am as obsessed as when I was five at the prospect of Batman. I turn nineteen in August this year and only last week I ordered a Batman poster online and bought a full-length Justice League of America door poster for my bathroom door.

When I was much younger, I would come in from school and immediately get changed from my school uniform into either a Batman, Superman, Spiderman or any kind of –man costume that I could create using the things I would find lying around. I even once commissioned my Mum to make me a Superman cape out of red curtain material to the exact specifications of the one that was worn on the American TV-series that was broadcast over here up until a few years ago, and watched over her as she did it. Looking back, I’d have kicked me if I was my kid. That’s Mums though, the patience of a Saint built into every one.

I appreciate that now I could be much worse and I don’t go round exclaiming to everyone I meet how Geeky I am, I’ll leave that for the upturned jean legged, Dr. Marten wearing Indie kids to do that. Compared to them, I’m not that bad. Besides, it’s not as if when I went home during Christmas I found the aforementioned Superman cape, discovered that it still kind of fit and ended up watching TV “accidently” wearing it for a bit. Oh, leave me alone.

Titles Are Too Mainstream

If you are a frequent reader of my blog you will no doubt be aware that this Semester in my University course I turn my head to poetry. Now, I don’t like poetry. I never have done and although I like to think of myself as open-minded, I fear I never will. The reason why poetry as a whole has never appealed to me is its creation of an undeniable air of pretentiousness amongst its avid readers. If I may elaborate: a student walked, no, swaggered into my Music elective last week wearing a cravat, horn-rimmed glasses with no lenses, holding an old, leather-bound copy of a book containing selected poems by Percy Shelley. They say you form an impression of a person within a few seconds of seeing them and within about a half of one of these precious seconds I instantly decided that I would very much like to test the sturdiness of his face against the business end of a spade.

It is this creature whom I most despise. Don’t get me wrong, wearing a cravat is perfectly reasonable – post turning 90 – and I would be the first to support anyone in wearing whatever style of glasses they liked – as long as they, oh I don’t know, were used for their primary function, not so someone can saunter down the street exclaiming to passers by how ‘indie’ they are. It was no surprise to me that this person was holding the book that he was. He is the kind of person you see on a train very evidently reading Dickens or Shakespeare in an attempt to somehow elevate his social status amongst a group of people who he has never spoken to and who would potentially, depending on the journey, beat him to death for wearing ridiculously over-polished black and white brogue shoes.

As far as I could see, a few years ago these snooty, cravat-wearing tosspots only read poetry. Now it seems that they’re branching out into other areas of popular culture I previously thought they never knew existed, most notably films and music. The favourite band of this kind of human is The Smiths. They will exclaim that Morrissey has written some of the most “beautiful and spontaneously moving” lyrics of their generation, even though he wrote most of his lyrics before the night their Dad’s got lucky 18 or so years ago, and point out that “they have a song for every mood possible.” Which, to be fair, is true; if you constantly feel like committing suicide.

The same goes for films. This kind of creature spends their time at a Cornerhouse cinema or local picture house, not a large cinema chain. They don’t watch films though mind you; they explore their soul through the medium of the ‘contemporary visual arts.’ They are the kind of person who can watch a silent movie and proclaim that it ‘spoke’ to them on “moving, spiritual plain,” because just “liking” a film will surely never do.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have come across this person at a time in which I was tired, it was early and I was reluctant to even be in Uni at the time it was. Or perhaps coming across him was just the thing I needed to start the much sought after revolution we so badly need against these horrific malfunctions of the human race. I’d probably opt for the latter... if it wasn’t so mainstream.