My exhibition came down today. By most accounts it has been a great success; I’m thrilled at how it turned out. Sadly, my blog was not up in there for all the time as the tekkies needed their laptop back, but hey you can’t have everything. Everyone I know went to see it.

Taking the photographs and writing down at about half four today, I thought about what an adventure it had been. It had it’s ups and downs: had it not been for this exhibition I would never have gone looking for Simmo, and…well, you know that story. The bottom line is it has been a tremendous experience – one which I might well repeat.

I must say it wouldn’t have been possible without the help of Jim burns. He did much of the organising – I only did the creative arty stuff. He helped me put it all together. I am in his great debt. Thanks Jim!

Nevertheless, seldom have I been more proud of myself than I am now.

check this out and look for the green arms waving energetically near the stage.

Everyone keeps telling me how great I am, so it must be true! I am a genius! My exhibition seems to have been a great success; both strangers and friends have been coming up to me and congratulating me on it. Apparently, it took up the majority of the discussion in a drama workshop, and I wasn’t even there. Best of all, my parents came to see it last night and loved it. All this makes me extremely happy, and my ego is now the size of Jupiter.

Send me the concubines now please!

Today is not a good day. Being woken by one’s father come to take your electric wheelchair for repairs is not a good thing, especially with my choice of night attire. I have great respect for my father but I seem to disappoint him more and more these days. Not academically, as I used to, but with my conduct. He seems to think I’m a lazy pervert who doesn’t look after his equipment, which is more or less true, but I would maintain I get my work in on time, and it is up to a high standard, which, here, is what counts.

Anyway, yesterday did not disappoint. Pool, No Water was marvellous: rocky did a great job, for what she created was simultaneously balletic and violent. Mind you, she had three of the best actors of our year to work with. I would bet a pork pie they’re in for a first.

Air Swimming with tally and Nicky was wonderfully poignant and beautiful. It concerned two women, locked up in a mental institution for about fifty years, their friendship, or perhaps their love. Oh yes, and Doris Day.

Perhaps the most striking piece of the whole weekend was one about a cancer patient – a professor of literature with terminal cancer. It concerned her final weeks in the hospital. It deeply troubled me, for, excellently acted though it was I kept thinking ‘tomorrow, she will not be dead, but will drink coffee in the wes.’ These are just plays, where death is not death; they are not real, but games. In a passing moment, I hated the whole business for it. Perhaps prose, pure symbolism, is the only way to represent reality, but this is a debate for another time and another blog entry.

I better get on with work. I have a script to read through. Before I end and post this, I want to say how much I love my dad and hate disappointing him.

The freaky geeks I found on Friday evening were still there yesterday morning, and they were still there playing their games yesterday afternoon. This LAN party seems tot have been an all weekend thing, since they showed no sign of going away last night. They have taken over brandies! Tres amusing.

As for myself it’s actors weekend, so I spent yesterday going to performances. Most of my friends are actors, so I should support them by watching their shows; after all, most of them came to my exhibition in Thursday night. It must be said, I saw some great things:

First off I saw god’s island, directed by Ben. A great piece which seemed to humanise the bible, satirising it and make it real. I liked it because it actually admitted that Jesus was a bastard.

Next over to ps1 for the blue room, directed by Steve carn (god). to be honest I found the plot hard to follow, since it was very broken and abstracted. Seemed to involve a lot of sex and wit – always a good combination in plays I think.

After a brief interval during which I got into a discussion over the existence of good and evil with Pete (a supremely clever guy), I went into a rather disconcerting piece set in a mental hospital. The dramatis personae were both patients and staff, and it was about the interaction between them. It gave me a nasty, uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

The next one, however, actually was set in hell. Faustus! Well, a truncated version of Faustus anyway. It was very good, very gothic and dark. However, it was an updated version, wherein the director seemed to be drawing parallels between ‘the dark arts’ of Faustus and modern science. I better address this: science can be used for good or ill. Faustus may have sold his soul to the devil for science, but this in no way means that all scientists do so. There seems to be a deep mistrust of science in a few quarters of society, which I think is dangerous. Mind you, from what I was reading last night about cybernetics, we might one day become like the Borg.

Lastly – and it was about 6pm by this time – I went to see Trojan Women, directed by Emma. Now, I know Emma, and anything less than superb wouldn’t satisfy her. For one, she chose a great piece of tragic theatre, although, as a person with Greek blood, I feel it was biased. It made the Greeks out to be bloodthirsty baby killers, who took troy using trickery and then pillaged it. If you ask me it was the Trojans fault – I mean, anyone stupid enough to see a great big wooden horse outside their gate and instantly think ‘ah, our enemies have sent us a great present, lets take it in” deserve to get their arses whooped. Oldest trick in the book, innit? Anyway, the acting was great, the directing superb, and it had fire too!

I must say, however, that because my home help come late on weekends I missed the first treat of the day. I really wanted to go watch Steve as Elvis! I had heard quite a bit about the piece directed by rolfie: apparently it had a disabled man, in a wheelchair, being wanked off by an Elvis impersonator. However, they only told me this last detail after the performance, or I might not have let them use My Frigging Wheelchair! I hope they cleaned it up after!

Anyway, all in all, it was a great day, rounded off with a trip to the pub. Today promises to be equally impressive, and I’m especially looking forward to Pool, No water, directed by Rocky and with Switch, Fran and Charlie. Tonight we intend to eat dinner in a pub, and then there’s a huge house party tomorrow night. Given the success of actors weekend, as well as the fact that my exhibition seemed to be a huge success, I feel like celebrating!

Friday evenings, when there’s nothing special going on like Old Boys, are usually dull affairs. Campus is quiet – many people go home for the weekend. So, last night I’d thought I’d go out onto campus for a stroll. First I went into the sports hall to watch the end of a volleyball match. Then, fancying a nice quiet pint of bitter, I headed over to the bar, expecting the place to be deserted.

It wasn’t. what I saw was amazing; it was like a geek’s wet dream. On temporary wooden tables were set up hundreds of computers each with it’s owner – invariably a long haired Goth or suchlike – sitting in front of it. We’re talking some serious computing power here! Where these guys came from, I don’t know, but they weren’t university students. Someone had organised a – what did Luke call it? LAN party.

I was amazed. It was the coolest thing ever! They were playing death matches! When I got in, a bloke in a black top greeted me.

‘so much for my quiet pint’ I said. He laughed, an we got talking. I told him how we once networked a 486 to a Pentium to play doom 2, which quite impressed him. I got myself a Tetley’s, and spent the rest of the evening talking and watching. I kind of hoped they would let me join in, or perhaps give me some pizza, but neither of these things happened.

A couple of hours later, just after 11, I came home. I never saw anything like it, nor expected that anything so geekily cool could happen here!

My exhibition is now up and running; for the next few days you can view this blog from Alsager arts gallery. The opening last night seemed to go exceedingly well, save for a few glitches with the big screen monitor. A few days ago, I was very worried that either nobody would turn up, or that people would come and see an empty room. I was wrong on both counts – people came, and they loved it (or claimed to).

It’s amusing. This exhibition is all about me, and my relationship to disability – am I normal? Am I special? As such, one of my exhibits was my manual wheelchair, another was me eating a pizza with my neater-eater, and the subsequent mess. For me, these things aren’t special – in fact they’re quite mundane – but to others they’re special. Its an odd paradox, really, and something worth exploring. Either way, it’s very amusing – me eating dinner is art!

What kind of mark I’ll get I have no idea. Everyone seemed to like it, and I loved putting it on! I’m very proud of myself this morning.

If you’re reading his from the gallery, welcome. I hope you enjoy the show.

The new reforms to the lords has thrown up some interesting debates. My gut reaction is they’re a good thing – why should the upper house be made up of antiquated old fogies not elected by the people? It’s undemocratic. However, in this article tom Shakespeare points out that the ‘other place’ is more likely to be peopled with crippled since it’s population is older etc. as such, the lords are more likely to be in tune with disability issues. As he says:

” For example, we’ve seen life peerages given to the broadcaster Rosalie Wilkins, and most recently, DRC commissioner, and independent living activist, Jane Campbell.

One of the real benefits of the Lords has been the opportunity to include people with expertise of different professions, or sectors of the population. The upper house has a vital role in improving legislation, and curbing the worst excesses of the Executive, so it’s good that disabled people are being represented and included in our parliamentary process.”

I’m in two minds about the lords. One half of me says it has no place in the twenty-first century, the other half is quite affectionate towards it. Do we now go back to calling Lord Attenborough Richard? I think scrapping it would be a mistake, for it is a vital way of keeping the executive in check (god forbid if CaMoron gets into power, they’ll hopefully stop him implementing his criminal plans for special education) but it must be more representative of the people.

I have decided I hate doors. They’re evil. Today I was going around campus, organising my exhibitions and investigating elevations. I decided to go into the union building. This apparently is an old ww2 airbase hospital block, believe it or not. Anyway, the first door was open, but through this threes a door into the admin corridor with all the offices along it. In my f55, I had just about got the door open, when I accidentally pushed the joystick left and OUCH! I trapped my left hand between the handle and the wall. God, did it hurt. It’s still hurting, but it’ll fade.

Why cant all doors be electric? Stupid norms with their stupid pushy pulley doors!

[incidently, its less than 24 hours till my exhibition – wish me luck]

I was travelling back from Crewe today on the bus when something must have happened to my chair, because when I got off the bus something was very wrong. The left front wheel shook violently when I got up to speed. Very violently.

Being a dumbass, I just thought it had come out of alignment and simply needed a nudge. WRONG: I got charlotte to look at it, and she noticed what I hadn’t. the nut was missing from the axel. It continued to shake, so, in desperation, I asked Steve carn, a mature student, to look at it. (older males = knowledge of wheels). Steve was aghast, saying it was dangerous, but he knew what to do.

He lead me over to a part of uni hitherto unknown to me – the metal workshop – and asked the supervisor to look at it. Instantly, he went to fetch a box of nuts, from which he selected a size ten, fitted it, and sent us on our way. The nasty shake had gone.

Steve has no idea how much trouble he has saved me. The chair would have had to go for repairs; dad would need to be told; no more mobility for days. As it stands, the defiant seems to be functioning within normal parameters, but I’ll keep my eye on it. I think it’s due for a service soon anyway.

I remembered I had a bottle of leffe in my room. I hope Steve enjoys it.

You know, I’m quite angry at myself for ever thinking otherwise.

Today we watched the opening speeches of the mmu union elections. If you ask me it’s just a shitload of rhetoric and grandstanding, with keywords such as

‘environment’ and discrimination thrown in for good measure. But it got me thinking: as far as I can see, we disabled folk are the most discriminated against, for we have to face things from heavy doors to highly patronising kitchen staff, but we scarcely got a mention. Most other minorities got a mention, but not us. Why? Obviously, there are so few of us in uni to bother about. This made me wonder why?

The answer, of course, is partly segregated education, but it was then I realised that this was only half the story. The other half is doubt. Most people in my position are not encouraged to go to uni; in fact, they are actively discouraged. At school, they’re described as having learning disabilities, a term which, I’d guess, they’d come to accept, and therefore not push themselves. It was then that I remembered that disability history is full of such tripe, of people being written off.

It was then I made a connection. If we want true academia representative of humanity, inclusion must not stop at school level. Before now, I’d been concerned that some people wouldn’t be able to cope at uni, but hold up old boy, isn’t that exactly the language used by the Tories? Further, to have inclusion stop at school level is completely arbitrary – if all means all at school, then all means all in higher education too.

I see no reason why this cannot happen. Syllabuses and assessments may have to be adapted, which was my prime concern – how to make things fair? I don’t want uni to give me less work to do, or reduce my wordcount, since this I felt would remove the point of my being here. How do we weigh the two? Disabled students must be expected to perform to the same standards as their peers, but the method of assessment might have to change. Why can’t assessments be given orally, or essays be written with symbols? I see no reason why not.

It’s high time things changed. Academia was started 4000 years ago to reflect human knowledge and therefore diversity. It’s high time it did.

hahahaha. if you type moby dick into youtube, you get this. where this cartoon comes from I dunno, but its fucked up. look out for the dolphin-boy-nazi!

I know it’s lazy, but today I’m just posting a link to this video about moneys, George bush and guns. Guns and monkeys are dangerous.

well, it made me laugh

I was speaking on msn last night to a chap called James, and to be honest I was very perturbed at what he was saying. He has cp, but is staunchly anti-inclusion, not to mention very conservative. No matter how many arguments I put forward, or how many pieces of writing I showed him, he refused to listen; however, he also refused to put forward any sensible argument of his own.

Moreover, he went on to say that some people with pmld should be placed into institutions, and that it was unethical to keep them at him. Now, I appreciate that it can be difficult looking after people with severe disabilities at home, but there are always alternatives to institutionalisation, such as having home help. To lock a child up is an abomination, but this is exactly what this guy seemed to be preaching. Historically, people were detained in ‘long stay hospitals’; I heard one story where a girl with cerebral palsy who was unable to communicate was detained in such a place for 13 years. I find, moreover, very little intellectual difference between segregated education and institutional care, for both are designed to keep us out of sight, and there is absolutely no need for either. All children benefit from playing and learning together, and the benefits of inclusion – increased standard of education, more social acceptance of disability etc – by far outweigh the costs. This mollycoddling attitude the Tories have towards disability is simply asinine, and they would put back disability rights thirty years.

This guy has made me very angry. To try to argue that there might be a need for any such place is unthinkable. After all, where would he draw the line? Would he himself be willingly institutionalised? I suspect not. What he was saying went against almost everything I hold dear, and if he starts trying to implement his backward ideas, I shall personally release all the power of Hades against him. Its not a case of freedom of speech, but freedom itself.

[this is a piece of writing due to appear in my exibition, now to be held next thursday]

Jaques Lacan posited that there are three modalities of being; the real, the imaginary, and the symbolic. We all have ideas of our self, what we think we are like. Our internal selves can only be represented to others via the symbolic – through language. Thus, language is integral to our existence in the world. According to Lacan, you are not a being or subject if you cannot access the symbolic, for how would you constitute yourself? We call ourselves into being with the words ‘I am’; we all have a representation in the symbolic – our names.

If language is this important, it follows that our voice is central to our state of being. In a sense it is the manifestation of the soul, or the imaginary in Lacanian terms, but what if you have no access to the symbolic or you have to access it through other means. The imaginary cannot be constituted fully in the symbolic, and therefore the subject is split completely. Moreover, the claim to subjectivity is lost. In a way you are not a person.

In part, this explains why people with no speech have historically been described as retarded, and locked away in institutions. To render this in Lacanian terms, this is because they have no access to the symbolic and therefore couldn’t constitute themselves as subjects. Furthermore, if you use a communication aid, you constitute yourself through means other than your natural voice. This is why when we first met, my film lecturer asked me why I had an American accent. If you think about it, a guy born and bred in rural Cheshire speaking with an American accent is pretty weird. This is not to say I dislike my lightwriter, after all, it is the means through which I constitute myself. I just think it raises certain quirks when one tries to reconcile Lacan and lightwriter.

I was wrong about yesterday’s social experiment – quite wonderfully wrong. It went down a treat, and the two socials ran alongside each other. At my uni, there seems to be a large divide between sports and arts students, but obviously I’d overestimated this by miles. We played our own games, and generally kept ourselves to ourselves until the disco started up. Then we all got up and danced as one group. The animosity I thought was there simply wasn’t. as for myself, I didn’t drink much, and had a good dance – the most exercise I’ve had in ages!

All in all, a great evening.

If you ask me what is going to happen tonight is potentially dangerous, irresponsible, inflammatory and lunatic; I love it! Tonight, at brandies, will be held the first (and probably only) arts social, which will run alongside the football social. Now, to understand why this is so dangerous, you have to understand what a social is, so I’ll explain.

A social is a pissup; a weekly drinking match held by the football team.. they all sit in a circle playing drinking games and shouting loudly. I suppose it’s a type of bonding ritual, and it has been held in brandies every Wednesday for a long time.

Someone in my year – possibly Emma – has had the bright idea of mimicking this with arts students. It’s a form of social experiment, to see whether arts students can get into the same frame of mind as their sporting peers. The problem is I find it more than likely that the footballers will take umbrage at it. They will no doubt see it as inflammatory, and accuse us of ‘taking the piss’. Thus the attempt to bridge the gap between the two groups might open it even wider. I rather doubt the sports students will take it in good humour, and might see it as a mockery. Indeed, someone has scrawled cancelled over many of the posters advertising this event obviously, the footballers do not want it to happen.

As for me, I can’t wait. I plan to stay sober throughout, and just observe. My bet is there will be carnage, arguments, possibly even fighting. In the words of James T Kirk, ‘sounds like fun.’

I bought my zentai, thinking I’ll have to keep it as my little secret, but it has proved to be one of the best investments I ever made. It really did surprise me when charlotte said she wanted to wear it to a party on Saturday night, up in Manchester; what surprised me even more is she actually went through with it. She actually wore the damn thing in public, something I am yet to do.

What is yet more amusing is the club offered her a job as a podium dancer, and asked her to bring the suit. Now charlotte plans to buy one of her own, in pink.

I think I’ve started something.

dammit knew I’d forgotten something.

happy 21st birthday to my great little bro!

I spent the weekend at home. We had this odd kind of Christmas two, since we were in Australia in December, so my brothers (including Kat) were there, as well s uncle rich and aunt Jill from Sussex. It was excellent, as ii finally got to open presents (as if a trip to Australia wasn’t a cool enough present).

Everyone seemed to have a good time. Most of the time was spent in the conservatory, playing games and talking. It made me happy to find my uncle was a fellow bond fan, so I got mum to make us two martinis on Saturday night, which put us both out for the count. We also played a game of Lord of the Rings monopoly, which, despite being fun, struck me as something of a heresy – merchandising can go too far.

It was nevertheless great to see everyone, and the weekend went too fast. I see my brothers all too rarely these days, although we talk online – sometimes – and Luke has promised me to send me some more music, including some Berlioz, which I’ve been wanting for ages.

Oh well, back to the slog of uni. Perhaps we can get together in he summer, maybe play some cricket.

I better brush up my Yorker.

as a disabled person, I am supposed to have a ‘climb every mountain’ attitude. If you ask me, this is silly. I ain’t climbing no mountain until jet boots are invented, (and look what happened to the scooter). anyway, adventures are damn uncomfortable affairs, which make you late for dinner. besides, you could fall off, like this.

This cripples not going near no moun-tain.

I was stuck in Crewe earlier, waiting for my bus when I came across this fascinating report of primate tool use. It seems that our cousins are more intelligent than we think. It just goes to show how appearances may deceive – people tend to think I look unintelligent, and historically us spics were dismissed as ”retarded”. But boy did we prove them wrong. I am personally quite expert at poking people with pointed sticks.

link

This morning was the first morning in two weeks where my first thoughts weren’t about rich. They were, ‘better make that bibliography today’. I subsequently made said bibliography.

I am starting most definitely to feel better. I have been going around with a song in my mind all day – one which always cheers me up. Ladies and gents, turn your speakers to max, and click here now!

It’s time to calm down before I kill myself. The last few days have seen me doing some stupid things. On Friday night I was at a house party; I was pretty cut up about Rich and just let rip, downing half a bottle of Jack Daniels. I was at a low ebb that night and frankly didn’t give a rats ass about even getting home, nor perhaps waking up.

But wake I did. God did I have a hangover. The worse ever. Nevertheless, it was necessary – I needed a peak, a focal point for grief. Something to look back upon and think now I have done that I can let go. What happened to Rich was fucked up, but I need now to get on with my degree.

Taking that road trip Saturday was also very stupid. When they heard about it my friends told me off. Literally told me off, like an errant child. ”What if you had been run over? What if the battery had run out?” They’re right, of course, but on Saturday I was so full of hatred with the world I didn’t care.

It was on Sunday morning that I smiled for the first time in a week. For one, my hangover had gone. For another, after lunch, Charlie asked if she could try on my zentai suit. She’s going to a party on Saturday and wants to go as some kind of lizard. She seems to like it, for she put it on in my flat and walked across campus in it. Best thing I ever saw – a very pretty lady in a skin tight lycra catsuit, complete with feet, hood, and gloves, walking across campus merrily waving to people. The football team walked past and were highly amused. I knew that thing was a good investment.

It’s time not to get on with the business of doing a degree. This morning’s seminar gave me more impetus for my work on post-structuralism. Yesterday I was able to write for the first time in a week. In all my weekend of stupidity has done me lots of good, I reckon.

Or it might just be the sight of C in that catsuit…

what in the name of crap, fuck, and all that is holy is this?

Sorry, I just had to post it. you give yanks books and thats what happens

all i’m saying today is never drive 6 miles from crew in a chair if you dont want a runny nose the day aftter. especially bad after drinking half a bottle of jd through a straw the night before.

life is fun.

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.

nicky, a fellow trekkie and bringer of dinner, showed me this. Laugh away! I must say, It’s particularly inventive

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.

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 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.

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

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

still miserable so me and est have decided to have a ‘stupid day’ (ie much potty humour as possible) to kick us off, go here

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.

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.

and for that matter, who in the hell made this? some people have too much time on their hands. I, however, did 1000 words of my 2500 word film essay. nearly there

what master of cutting made this

Last night was really quite awesome. My friend jenny was holding a 21st birthday party; it was held over in Crewe, by invitation only at the overdraught bar. Jenny expressly mentioned, too, that it was formal wear, which meant only one thing – my tux had to come out.

[at this point I better say my parents rule – they went to the not negligible trouble of dry cleaning my suit and delivering it here. Thanks guys]

so, charlotte having changed me into my suit, and looking stunning herself, we caught a lift over to Crewe. Jenny’s friends and family were there, in kilts, as were most of my friends. There and then, I decided it wasn’t a night for beer.

I went to the bar: ‘Please mix one gin and one vermouth’. I asked. What I got back was quite passable, but not a proper martini. I got talking to my friends, and a while later I saw AF at the bar, so I went over to chat. He complemented me on how smart I looked; I replied I simply had a bond fixation. He asked if I was drinking martini.

‘kind of’ I replied, whereupon he very kindly set about mixing me a proper martini, methodically pouring liquid from one glass to another to a precise recipe. When I tasted it, I recognised it as that which I had in Sydney on new years eve: something which I seem to be acquiring a taste for – Martinis. Quite delicious, even if it lacked the slither of lemon peel and green olive, which seem to give it extra bite.

I was determined, however, not to get drunk last night, so I happily drunk water for the rest off the evening, talking o friends, eating cake and dancing. I had a lot of fun: at one point, Steve thought it would be a good idea to sweep me off my feet and carry me about the dance floor. Everyone had an excellent time; jen made a good speech, and at about half twelve we got a taxi home.

Happy birthday, Jenny. That was great.

Its been a hecic couple of days. Last night, I was in my room, surfing the net, as you do. There was a buz on the intercom – I’d arranged to meet Charlie so I went to answer it. I had just opened the door when I heard a loud smash from back in my room. We got back to find someone had kicked a ball through my window. The uncanny thing is, if charlotte hadn’t come at that precise moment, I’d have been hit by a shower of broken glass. Spooky or what?

Needless to say, security came and put up some heavy duty plastic, and I got a new window this morning. But I still cant quite get over how spooky it was that charlotte came at precisely the right time.