I must admit, I’m pretty adept at bullshit. Most students are. Whether undergrad or post grad, you become good at writing bull. Well, not bull in general – we leave that to politicians and newspaper writers – but a specific, academic type. This type is particularly refined; you can smell academic writing a mile off. It is dense, impenetrable to the uninitiated, and enough to make one cringe or scratch one’s head in bemusement.

My brother had his PhD viva on Friday, and it makes me the proudest sibling in the world to report that he passed, and, once he has corrected the five spelling errors his examiners pointed out and submitted his thesis, he will officially become Dr. Mark D. Goodsell. He came down to my parents house on Friday night so that we could all eat together; I was just in awe.

Mark and Kat stayed the weekend, going to a wedding on Saturday, then staying with us on Sunday. Luke buggered off after tea on Friday, to everyone’s disappointment, but he had things to do in Manchester. Yesterday afternoon, after a very good pub lunch, while we were sitting out on the lawn (by which time, I must admit, I had had a bit to drink) mark went and fetched his draft thesis. We all knew full well that we would not understand it, but just for the sake of pride, we had dad read the abstract aloud

I understood some words, such as ‘the’ and ‘and’, but it was impenetrable! If one can judge the quality of an academic work by how understandable it is or isn’t to a lay person, that was very good indeed.

Today is another good day; mind you, me and Esther haven’t done much. It’s the day of the rest of the class’s exhibitions – I did mine earlier this year, a fact which, I feel, gives me certain advantages: for instance, I had the entire gallery, whereas the rest of my class have to share it. I had a week to exhibit my work, whereas theirs is just on this afternoon. Mind you, they too had free wine, two glasses of which have made me feel smug.

Last night was the neon party. I’m not telling you what I wore, but I’ll just say it ruled out going to the loo. I therefore did not drink and stayed sober. I still had a really good time.

Uni rules; I’m going to miss it so badly!

Art is usually but a plaything; a distraction. We turn the box on or open a book of an evening purely to be distracted. I, however, have the good fortune to be a student of art – I produce it n my writing, and I study it’s filmic incarnation. Yet art – be it painting, literature, film or whatever – is more than a distraction. Reitz’s Heimat means something, Moby-dick means something, and that which I saw on Monday evening at half past seven meant something.

My friends were in a play; a short piece, written by Vikki, directed by rocky, about three friends who are involved in a car crash en route to a festival. The piece was commissioned by the council, and they are currently doing a tour, performing it in schools, encouraging kids to wear seat belts. By god, it is powerful – the pen can truly cut to the quick like no other tool or weapon I know. This is why we are here; this is what art is for. That play can save lives, and, as such, it is profoundly noble.

What my friends are doing will save lives, and I salute them all.

I got the best ever email today. It ran as follows

”Matthew,

Defiant is repaired, when would be a good time to bring it back to you?

Love

Dad”

I had expected it to take an age to fix. in the end it took a day. dad just came and dropped my chair off. I’m once again independent

I read today that the Sinclair spectrum is 25 this month. Spectrums? Spectrums? Oh I remember those. The mark had one, and I used to watch him play on it for hours, sitting on his bedroom floor, looking up at the screen. I don’t recall ever having a go, though.

Of course, today gaming has come a long way since the days when games came on cassettes. I recently read of how one can turn your pc into a flight sim – you can get things like altimeters which plug into computers. People have, for example, got old 747 cockpit shells, mounted a yoke and these peripherals on it, used two or three screens or a projector for the visuals, and then played ms flight sim 2000! How cool. Don’t believe me? Go here! I want one, and I bet it doesn’t scream at you while its loading.

link

It occurs to me, in my conversations with Simon Stevens, that there seem to be a shortcoming in the social model of disability. We were talking on msn this morning about his plans to do a PhD on disability and online gaming. games like ‘second life’ are now massive, with thousands, if not millions of players. Matrix like, they recreate the world; yet that world is perfect. As such, disability does not need to exist.

Yet it does. This fact seems to contradict both models of disability: the contradiction with the medical model does not interest me, as it is too obvious; the contradiction with the social model is, however, more subtle. If disability is a social construct, then, in a world where the real, as it were, is determined by the imaginary, then disability shouldn’t exist. In a world where we are free to be ourselves, without the barriers imposed on society, then disability shouldn’t exist.

The fact that it does lead us to something of a revelation: the social model takes no account of pride. Disability is part of who I am; yes, it’s a pain in the ass yesterday my wheelchair broke – but it’s part of who I am. I like being Matt, the guy who zooms round campus in a chair; matt who uses that odd contraption in the wes; matt with more friends than he could count! I love being me, and wouldn’t change it for the world!

As Simon pointed out, what is needed is a cultural model of disability. We see ourselves as disabled because we want to. This is, of course, very problematic: who, after all, would choose a world where most of your school mates die? Its not all peaches and cream. This gives rise to a contradiction: do we or do we not want to be disabled? I am proud of being disabled, yet… I still see those men in Weston, and the road back home; such images haunt me. Time and time again, I have been given such news. Granted, had I not gone to special school, things would have been different, so disability and such things are not intertwined completely, but the two are associated. Nevertheless, I would not change who I am; I am proud to have known those boys. In a way they are the reason why I would not take the magic pill, for were I to be cured of my cp I would be denying my roots and my history. To do so would be a betrayal.

This is why disability must exist in things like second life. Disability is part of who I am. If I hated my disability I would hate myself. It was Ahab’s hatred of his disability which destroyed him and his ship, for it inspired his insane quest against the white whale, although this is one reading of Melleville. I am not Ahab. Whales may be ‘dumb brutes’, as Starbuck put it, but they are also beautiful animals, gliding so gracefully though the water. Like Ahab, I can hate my own disability, and like Ahab I can ”shoot my hot hearts shell upon it”, but I choose instead to swim with it.

Thus I think there is a place for a cultural model. I think it has it’s limits, and it needs work – it doesn’t for example explain how disability arises – but, unlike the social and medical model, it opens a space where we can be proud of who we are.

One way or another, yesterday was rather busy. The only accessible busses are at 9 and 11.45, and given we didn’t want to be late for a lecture at 12, we caught the one at 9. this gives us three hours to kill, so est and I worked on my essay; well, she went through the spelling while I had a nap! (nodded off anyway) After my lecture, there’s another wait – till 3 – for the bus home. When we got back, we did some housekeeping, tidied my wardrobe, then suddenly it was teatime; then off to go watch graham rehearse. After this I met Charlie again, with her rather dubious but likable friend peter, for a night at brandies.

My what a hard life I lead.

I had a meeting with Trish, my culture tutor this morning; I wanted to discuss my essay. To be honest I was nervous – this essay counts for 80% of the unit mark, and, to me, there was a distinct possibility of her saying I had grossly misunderstood the question and that I should start again.

She didn’t do this. in fact, she said that, although I couldn’t spell or use apostrophise, it was the best piece of work she had seen from me. She seemed really impressed! Woohoo! This is great news, especially given how worried I was. Apparently, it is less dogmatic than my other pieces, and more academic. I’m very happy now.

My older brother flagged something extremely interesting up for me yesterday (mark may have his uses after all!). he heard on the radio how the university of Sheffield are trying to design a Voice Input Voice Output Communication Aid (VIVOCA) – a device which translates disordered or unintelligible speech and outputs it via speech synthesis. As a person with ‘disordered or unintelligible speech’ this means I could speak into this box and understandable words come out. While this looks promising, I see a major problem in that I never say the same word twice in the same way – people have to rely on context to understand me – so how could this device translate for me? I think one would have to use it in combination with traditional vocas.

Interesting stuff nevertheless. Cheers bro.

go here and here

ever wanted to see a french dalek? go here

Yesterday we took my computer back to uni while I was still home, so I was sans pc for much of the day, and therefore unable to blog. Anyway, I’m here now, and in a good mood. Why? The door into the canteen is fixed!

For three years, almost, I’ve struggled with the main door into the wes. It was heavy and very inaccessible. But today I got there to find that there is now a big button with which I can open the door. Hurrah! No more pulling the heavy handle or kicking it,

Mind you, after I broke it the second time I think they got the message.

I need to record this for posterity: it’s 14 april, and we are able to sip beer outside. In the sun, it feels quite warm, hot in fact! Me, mum and dad were sitting in the garden drinking beer. As dad said, having spent Christmas down under, it feels like we skipped winter entirely. How glorious!

I ate lunch in the pavilion in the park today. Regrettably I haven’t told dad, so he’s probably still wandering where I am. It’s expensive stuff, but nice, and I enjoy the ambiance there.

Not much else to report today, so I’ll just post a link to the ouch pod cast. It seems to be getting more and more obscene by the month – this time, they seem to be alleging that Stephen hawking is a nymphomaniac. (mind you, all cripples are.) listen here

I was out on my usual roll today, thinking. As I’ve said before, rolling helps me to think; it’s far better, anyway, than staying indoors, especially with the weather as nice as it has been. Today, incidentally, is my first jumperless day since Australia. My essay’s almost finished apart from the final touches, which I’ll do when ii get back to campus, so I’m happy.

Anyway, rolling along, in full flaneur mode, I realised how many establishments remain inaccessible. Even after the dda 2004, a lot of shops have huge steps up to their doors, rendering them inaccessrable. It’s quite disgusting. If I want to go in, I have to get out and walk in, which, while ok for me, might not suit others.

In a way, it’s like having a sign saying ‘no cripples allowed’. There’s a semiotic equivalence. All it would take is a bag or two of concrete to put in a ramp, after all. Would we, these days, have signs outside guest houses saying ‘no colourds’? Of course not. So why are we still being discriminated against?

I would strongly advise you all to listen to this year’s Reith lectures. The first was broadcast this morning; in it, Jeffrey Sacks explains why and how the world must change if we aren’t all going to starve. Professor sacks is a highly eloquent, persuasive speaker, and although much of what he says is doom-laden, his overall message is one of optimism. I only hope the right people are listening. go listen

I’m slowly polishing off my Himat essay, and it’s giving me some grievance. While I’m pretty pleased with the content, I fear it is poorly structured and I repeat myself somewhat. This causes me to cut and paste paragraphs, which, rather than having the desired effect, muddles it up. I think I will leave it till I get back to uni; writing it is relatively easy; its editing that’s hard!

I was down in London yesterday visiting my grandmother with my parents. It’s a strange year, this year, as all Easters, regardless of one’s denomination, fall on the same date this year, where usually they are slightly out of alignment.

I must admit I have a problem with religion, or rather I did have. I decided, once, that I hated god, if he existed. What god would kill off over3 half my school friends? What god would do such a thing? God I reasoned is a bastard, and all those who believe in him were cretins.

But they aren’t, though. They aren’t morons, just people trying to make sense of everything. The promise of god brings people hope; to them, death isn’t death, but the next step. In other words they believed in god for exactly the same reason that I refused to. Thinking about this on Saturday night I realised these things – why people needed to believe. Then I realised that I needed to too.

It’s against all my logic, all science, but part of me wants them to be right. I want there to be an afterlife; I want rich, Andy, Dave and Andy w to be up there, sipping beer, talking and laughing. (‘oh god no! matt’s putting on another leotard and writing stupid things on his blog. Let’s go watch lee’). What is the alternative? It’s too sad for me to contemplate.

But that sadness would be pointless. Who would you level your anger at? God? but to be angry at god means one believes in him, which means one can also believe in heaven, which means one needn’t be angry at him. Without god, one cannot be angry, or sad; it would render all grief pointless, which is, I find, heartbreaking.

I understand why the church was packed on Saturday night. Belief in god may be illogical, if not downright stupid, but without the hope that stupidity gives us, we’d all go insane. Part of me, I must admit, needs that hope too. It is easier to believe a lie than to believe in oblivion. The old adage holds true: ‘if god didn’t exit, we’d have to invent him.’

I strongly suspect there’s more to this Iran thing than meets the eye. Of course there is – I doubt we are being told half of what’s going on behind the scenes, yet it still sounds highly dubious.

Take the release of the sailors yesterday. Why did Iran do that? It was a sudden move that meant Iran lost all it’s bargaining chips. If those sailors had been in Iranian waters Iran had every right to keep them. One explanation, therefore, is that they weren’t in Iranian waters in the first place, and Iran released them before everyone found out. Thus Iran made a shrewd move – it appears magnanimous, and nobody has to find out the inconvenient truth. It’s all very iffy.

I saw quite an odd programme on bbc3 last night. It was about ginger people and their place in society. The fellow (who professed to have ginger hair, although it looked more like brown to me) claimed gingers are an oppressed minority, on a par with gay and ethnic minorities.

I think I agree with him. Poor ginger folk have a raw deal, with their pasty faces and terrible acne. They must have such terrible times at school, too. To protect them from bullies, wouldn’t it be better to put them in special schools, where they’ll be among kids just like them? Surely carrot tops can’t cope in comprehensives, even though they are so brave!

Ha! Sarcasm rules. Once I realised this chap wasn’t being serious, I read the programme as exposing the ridiculousness of all prejudices. Interestingly, much of what this chap was saying – increased ginger representation on TV, etc – is akin to what the disabled community seek. Obviously, the programme was meant to be taken with a pinch of salt (or else this guy had an extremely large chip on his shoulder), and so the programme can be taken as a kind of synecdoche: the absurdity of the programme mirrored the absurdity of all prejudice.

It is indeed absurd. Just as my idea about schools for gingers is ridiculous, so is any idea about schools for cripples, but there is still support for the latter. However, whenever I bring the subject up with certain people they accuse me of being dogmatic and akin to a creationist. This is both insulting and untrue; I have a firm belief in inclusion, and know it can be made to work. I have also seen firsthand how damaging special schools are, enough to know exactly why they cannot be allowed to continue. This is not dogma, but a profound desire to improve the education system. Moreover, likening me to a creationist really riled me: given that the vast majority of (peer reviewed) academic research suggests inclusion is the way forward (see http://inclusion.uwe.ac.uk/csie/) this seems a case of pots calling kettles black. Most arguments against inclusion are as baseless as they are patronising, and I have yet to see any academic research opposing it.

Thus the programme serves a purpose. Prejudice of any kind is laughable.

I have been thinking about god again. Oddly the subject of religion is never far from my mind; it is interesting to muse over the existence of a metaphysical being. Until recently, I discounted totally the existence of god – I found it illogical and profoundly unscientific. I must admit there was a time when I laughed in peoples faces when they spoke of god.

To be sure I still find it illogical. To base one’s worldview on a single archaic book still seems rather silly to me, especially when there’s so much support for stuff like evolution which seem to directly contradict the biblical story of genesis. Moreover, events in my life have lead me to reason that god, if he was truly all powerful, could only be a god of hate.

Soon after finding out about rich, one morning in the wes, I began to write something about god. in it I began to dismiss all believers as fools, calling god a bastard. I wanted to pour all my hatred onto god and all those idiots who believed in him. Yet I could not complete it or publish it; it would have been wrong of me to do so.

A friend of mine changed my mind. She is a Christian. If I had posted that ahabic tract, I would have greatly disrespected her. I could not do that.

It was not long after that that I got talking to this friend about rich and Andy, and she said something which was quite beautiful. She said she had prayed, and had seen rich in a dream. As an atheist, I usually do not like such talk, yet something in that gesture I found profoundly comforting. It let me know what I am cared for; that I am loved, which, I suppose is the point of religion.

I don’t know how but she seemed to strike a chord. Maybe god isn’t so bad after all. I’m deeply grateful to her for performing such a kind act. Science is irrelevant what counts is love, kindness and hope.

Progress on my Heimat essay continues apace. The videos still haven’t arrived yet, so I’m composing it mostly from ‘theoretical’ stuff (Freud Lacan etc) and not much close textual analysis. The problem is, while I’m confident that what I’ve written is fairly good, I’m aware I may be waffling. Oh well, there’s time left, and plenty of it since the right-hand motor of my chair broke this morning. No more jaunts down town for a while for me, then! Just my essay. Hmph!` wordcount: 3030 of 4000

I haven’t written much about international politics in ages. this is due,, in part, to my general cynicism about it all – Britain has lost all credibility over Iraq. Besides, this site is supposed to be focussed on disability, my life and so forth. Since the latter is going well (my main worry is my essay, funding, and the safety of my clothes I left at uni) its time I said something about the current situation with regard to Iran.

The first thing to say is that we have no idea where the ships were. Who does one believe: the British or the Iranians? My gut tells me to believe the British, but that’s only because I myself am a brit. Mind you, we are the democratic party, and the most advanced technologically. However, regardless of where they actually were, the Iranians saw fit to capture them.

Here, things get fishy. Why did they let themselves be captured? Why didn’t the Cornwall protect them? If they were in Iraqi waters, why were the Iranians there? If not, why were we in Iranian waters? Its all very odd, if you think about it.

Either way, the question is how to get out of this mess. Send troops in, and all hell breaks loose; likewise with the SAS. Diplomatic methods won’t work, as Iran won’t listen. The language coming out of Tehran is overwhelmingly hostile, and they only have to point to guantanamo bay to make us look hypocritical.

Its all very messy. However, this may be great for Blair in the end. Would he not be hailed as a hero if he somehow brought those sailors home? With that segregationalist jackass CaMoron gaining in the polls, that is surely something to hope for.