f55’s are quite impressive

I went looking for Michelle today. She was the fianc of rich, and lives in shavington. I got the bus to crew and thence, after a bit of shopping, got the bus to shavington. Although the latter claimed to be accusable, I had a real problem getting defiant on it.

I spent some time looking about the village. It has become a priority of mine to try to trace what remains of my old class at Hebden. Despite the best efforts of myself and a lady who I got to help me, the search was fruitless. It was getting late, so, given the rigmarole I had had with the bus, I decided to drive back to crew – only about a mile – with a view to getting the twenty back to alsager.

The first part of this plan went well. However, I was sat at the bus stop outside the mmu Crewe campus, when the twenty approached, then, to my horror, drove on without stopping. Looking at the timetable, the next bus was not due till half five, and my PA was expecting me. I decided that I had no choice but to drive home before it got dark and cold.

It is six miles from Crewe to alsager, but I made it in about an hour. It’s surprising how quickly I made it. However, it scared me witless; not something I want to repeat soon.

I got home in one piece, wheelchair battery rather low. Nicky was waiting for me – I had worried that she’d have gone since I was about thirty minutes late. I have never been more relieved to see anyone. We went in, and she made dinner.

What a day.

scroll scroll scroll the fiirefox!

For some time firefox has been playing up. I like to scroll up and down with the arrow keys, but for a while there has only been a curser. Thanks to eesther deciding my keyboard was dirty, I just discovered the key which sets this back to normal is f7. yay! I can scroll with keys again.

discos, beer, and pink stuff

Things don’t feel right, and they won’t for some time. But the sun continues to rise, there is still fun to be had. Like discos, beer, and pink stuff.

I was going to go to the disco last night. I got myself all dressed up as Cupid because it was Valentine’s Day, and the idea of a spastic Cupid amuses me. Mind you it was pretty damn cold in a pink leotard and tights, but anyway. I got there about 8pm, and waited, and waited, and waited. The place was completely deserted. Only the staff were there. After about an hour, nobody had showed up ad I was getting cold, I decided to come home. I heard this morning, that it was the least attended Brandy’s disco in ages. Even after I left, very few people showed up. Oh well, at least I got to dress up.

I’m rather hoping there isn’t a Heaven, because when I get up there in 70 years or so, I’m going to get such a ribbing.

the hug tax

The events of the last week have made me realise how precious a friend is. Friends really are dear people – people you laugh with, people you cry with, people it hurts to leave behind. Thinking about this, yesterday, I resolved to do something odd. I need now to let my friends know I care about them – the only other option is to shun all friendship, and become a hermit. Then you never have to say goodbye.

This struck me as cowardly. It was then I came up with ‘the hug tax’. I plan to levy a tax of one hug on my friends; I intend to hug them all, showing them a piece of paper with my reasons beforehand. Upon seeing the paper, most launch into a huge great hug.

Not sure why exactly I need to do it, but it helps. I feel less alone. It’s as if the squeeze of another human lets me know I’m not alone. I have friends here, who care for me, and I care for them.

Hebden green, I suppose, is in the past. Finding out about rich is very painful. But now I must leave that behind, and look to the future. It seems to me that it is now rather possible that I am one of the last few survivors oaf my class. If this is so, I must not give up. I must carry on, and enjoy life. Not to do so would be something of a betrayal.

My quest to hug all my friends will continue. it may appear silly, but it’s the only way. They now seem even more dear to me.

alone. But not alone

I wrote the following last night when my friend vikki was here:

Watching my friend tap away, typing on my bed

She came to keep me company. Tonight, of all nights, I am not alone

For Richard is dead, and I feel like the last of a fellowship. Utterly alone. But not alone for she types away, keeping me company.

And I am deeply grateful for it.

–thanks vicks

lament

I’m still hoping this is premature. I’m still hoping those men last Wednesday were wrong and that I will find my friend Richard alive and well. Yet I must admit to myself that they appeared to be certain, and that their description of the boy I grew up with fitted exactly.

If that is so, then my friend Richard is gone, a fact I hate to contemplate. All weekend, I’ve been looking for confirmation either way, looking for obituaries, getting people to wring numbers. No luck. It’s quite upsetting in itself, not knowing: part of me says there may still be hope, there may still be a happy ending. Another part remembers the certainty of those voices.

Keep thinking back to the nursery – to when we both used to crawl across the vast floor to play wrestling on the mats. I remember how we went through school together: how, before I got my lightwriter, rich used to translate for me. The trip to centre parks; going to Glasgow; how I earned the name slasha. I remember his jokes; how he always had a girlfriend.

I find myself wanting to cry. I want to scream. I want to utterly trash a room. I find myself unable to do either of these things – they will achieve nothing. Rich was one of the friends I expected to grow old, get married, maybe get a family. It probably isn’t going to happen now, and knowing that hurts.

It hurts very much. To a certain extent, this is what comes from going to a special school, since I find it likely that rich’s death was caused due to some complication with his spina bifida. In such places one has to cope with your friends dying, moreso than in a mainstream school, I mean, and it’s no easier after you leave. Looking around at my friends in the wes today, I found myself feeling alone, unable to explain, unable to let them no why I felt so bad. I’m not saying they won’t have had similar tradgedies, and they have all been very supportive, but I still felt alone, like I was the last survivor of a band of brothers, in a battle long since over, returning to a pub full of music.

Soon, I’ll join the singing again I’m sure. Rich wouldn’t want me to get too down. But, at the moment, it feels like someone hit me in the stomach. Writing seems to ease it slightly, but it will probably hurt for some time.

I was about to post this when Darren, a friend whom I got to call the vicar at Weston, came. It is true.

no more doubt; no more hope

not right. not fair

I was working on my exhibition yesterday; going over memories of school with Jim. We now have a video, which dad found, of myself in 1992. I saw old rich S, and, remembering he lived in Weston, decided I needed a roll. I caught the buss to Crewe, and wended my way the two and a half distance to the small village. Then, given it’s size, I decided to ask about for my oldest friends. His imput would be great.

I first asked in a pub – no sign. Then, after a short scout, I saw two men talking outside the village hall. I asked them if they knew a guy about my age in a chair. They did.

‘son of a farmer? Younger brother, older sister?’

‘yes.’ I said ‘do you know where I might find him?’

‘I’m sorry to tell you this, but he died last October’.

I had always imagined rich getting old, married, this wise old Englishman. We went through most of school together, from 5 to 16. my gran always reminds me of him: ‘Do you remember Richard? He was always smiling.’ He was engaged to be married. I remember school unihock sessions with him best.

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. I’m posting it to make explaining easier. I’m hoping those chaps were mistaken. It’s possible but unlikely.

Oh fuck it. Fuck it all.

Too much Freud

I may be accused of blasphemy around here, and my lecturers may call for my immediate disembowelment, but I really think modern artistic criticism is too ingrained in Freud. In my culture seminar today, it seemed Trish wanted to relate everything in Heimat to the oedipal complex, to the extent that she seemed to distort it slightly.

Don’t get me wrong – I do have time for Freud. Increasingly, I’m using him in my essays, as well as Lacan. They seem, oddly, to fit: lacan’s tripartite of the imaginary, symbolic and real seems, in fact, to relate to my situation. I have my imaginary self – how I see myself – and my real self – my outward appearance, how others see me. The symbolic bridges the gap between the two; but for me, my symbolic is generated by a machine, which has very little to do with either concept, for it cannot fully reflect my Imaginary self in the real. It’s interesting, if unscientific, you must admit. These hypothetical structures seem to fit some sense of reality: we always think of our inner selves ad different from our outer selves.

Mind you, I still think basing most artistic criticism on this is something of a mistake.