My home computer isn’t up – it keeps crashing anyway – so I’m only able to blog from university. I just got in, and after my mail is checked, I’m, weather permitting, off to a barbeque.

Monster monster was cool it was quite fascinating. It was burlesque-come-porn-cum-light bondage, butt not in a seedy way. It was pretty freaky. My bro Luke and cousin Cyril felt a bit out of water, and the drum and bass music isn’t quite what we usually listen to, but I nevertheless had a great time. Although the place was downstairs, and I had to stand up to see anything (I was on my pins for over an hour, making my back hurt and forcing my early retirement) I most definitely intend to go again.

Well, better make this a brief one. I have emails to read and then sausages to eat. One final question: where does one get body paint?

I really am liking my friend’s music recitals. They’re top mates, so I want to support them, and given that my course is over apart from a few bits and bobs, I go to everything I can. this morning was Becky’s trombone recital, followed one bag of crisps later by Nicky’s singing recital.

Becky gave a competent performance – very competent – but Nicky’s had more umph, I felt. More swing. It was jazz; the type of jazz sung late at night clubs; the type that puts me in the mood for a martini. Mind you, long day tomorrow. Me and Luke are, all being well, going to Monster Monster, and I want to be at peak performance for it. Better not drink. Anyway, where was I? yeah, jazz. It rocked! It was a most excellent performers. The pianist accompanying Nicky was especially good, and sounded like he too should be in a late night club.

Things feel good right now. I think I’ve sorted out my support for the rest of term. Can’t wait till tomorrow though!

it may be lazy blogging, but I’m posting this for nostalgia reasons. It’ll probably mean nothing to most readers, but it’ll have my family jumping up and down with recognition

I just got back from charlotte’s violin recital. She invited me along, as she did all her friends. I must admit I am quite lost for words. It was beautiful. For the duration, charlotte was no longer c or Charlie but miss Jones, a woman with sublime musical ability. It far surpassed my expectations; I daresay in the past I have paid good money to see something of half the quality of that recital.

It’s beauty was not that of a beautiful woman – a vulgar beauty – nor was it possessed of the beauty of a good meal. It’s beauty was far deeper, like the nights sky over Uluru, or that morning in Yosemite. It was a profound beauty: her violin made a haunting sound, textured and subtle. I say this not as her friend, but as one who appreciates good things; as a writer, and as an ‘intellectual’ (although I use that term loosely). I found her choice of music ever so slightly questionable – they weren’t all the pieces I would have chosen – but the inclusion of the theme from schindler’s list at the finale was inspired. It’s just such a spellbinding, heartbreaking piece.

What can I say? It was simply awesome. During the performance I felt myself drift away, letting the music carry me off. I found myself with the profound urge to write again. And read. And watch, and listen and talk. Performances like that fill one with joie de vivre; it made me think of travelling and reading and everything good. It was as if it reminded me, through it’s beauty and majesty, that there is still beauty and majesty to be found in the world. It was just inspirational.

Carrying on with the goat theme, this makes me laugh. It had been a pretty poor day owing to last night’s excesses, but it just got better. You can just imagine it: ‘what are you doing with my goat?’

A few days ago, graham told me about this. did you know that goats climbed trees? well, there’s the proof. they look perfectly happy up there. in fact, it is my considered opinion that they’re nesting, like sheep.

need to research this too!

I am starting to think writing, as an art form is quite limited. Sure it is the central art of culture, we all write and use language – how else would we communicate? Its scope is also huge: this art ranges from the snows of Kilimanjaro, to the Sun. I still adore literature and writing, but part of me says it’s a bit boring. While it can be very powerful, I want now something more, some extra quality. I write by sitting at a computer, typing, just as Hemingway sat at his typewriter in Idaho, or Tolkien at his desk at Oxford. But for all its greatness, for its scope, and rage, and beauty, writing remains a solitary act. Hemingway fished with friends, but he wrote alone.

I don’t even know what I’m looking for, perhaps it’s a new art. Graham recently opened my eyes to drama. Somehow it seems more alive. Writing for all its wonders will always be words on a page. It can utterly chill someone. It can change lives, but I need something more.

It’s too general, I see myself as a writer, but so is everybody. My brothers write, so they’re writers. But I am thinking of/about pursuing a less general art, something more visual. I love film, so maybe that would be it, but first the difference between film and language still needs work. What are the boundaries of film?

All this intrigues me.

I’ve been all too miserable recently. Things are starting to wrap up here at college, my friends starting to leave. I have to decide whether to go home in two weeks and commute in, since I still have stuff to do here, or stay here in halls, for which I’d need a new p.a, as charlotte is going home on the first. No p.a, no dinner. Hungry cripple. Bad medicine. Cant decide what to do.

This problem is getting to me, as there are too many variables. How feasible is commuting etc. Argh. I prefer essays. Writing essays I can manage. Making decisions never!

Time to cheer up. I heard today of the tragic news about the cutty sark. I should be sad, but I’m not because it will be rebuilt. It is part of our heritage. If that problem can be overcome, so can mine. Okay, I’m not a 19th century tea clipper, nor have I recently been on fire, but you get the idea. Mine is, in the grand scheme, a minor problem.

Right. Time to stop typing drivel and actually do something.

I’m afraid to say things got depressing around here today. Rocky said goodbye, making her the first of our cohort to leave, and there were indeed tears. It wasn’t so much fun, and to be honest it made me a bit homesick. Think I’m ready to go home – not that I want to leave my friends, but when they leave I want to leave myself. Campus without them will just fill with ghosts. Yes, I’ll soon be ready to go home. I still have artscool to work on, but sin ce thats in crewe, I think it would be more viable to commute. (mind you, either way its aa head ache)

Powerful drama

I guess its why academia is so great. One cannot realise how powerful or how beautiful an art form is until you start to study it. Read a poem once and it may strike you as beautiful, but once you start to read and study literature in general, then a whole new world opens up. You get to compare and contrast; you get to see more in that poem when you read it in relation to a whole literature. I have found this with writing and film, of course, as I have studied them for many years, but I have only just discovered the wonders of drama.

Before now, I have seen drama as writing made visual – that is to say, a secondary outlet. But in and of itself, drama can be beautiful. I realised this only after I started hanging around with graham; going to rehearsals, seeing how a play is put together. I got to see how scenes are put together. It isn’t a case of merely reading lines: it is far less clinical, more human, and quite quite fascinating. Whereas writing is a solitary rather simple process – you just sit at a desk and tap away upon your keyboard – creating a piece of theatre takes more time and physical, emotional and, to an extent, intellectual effort. Theatre also kind of bridges the gap between my two loves of writing and film, or else fits comfortably into a tripartite, so knowledge of the dramatic process as well as the literary and filmic ones will almost certainly come in handy with my m.a.

Watching the rehearsal this afternoon, I had an idea. The actors were trying out ways of becoming old people. they were working with a dancer, who was teaching them how to walk like old people. I was suddenly hit by a fascinating thought – is it possible to act disabled? Is it possible for a normal person to simulate something like athetoid cerebral palsy? Earlier today, me and graham had been throwing about ideas to do with working together: if I transformed Moby dick into a script, he would direct it. Now, melleville’s classic has a great narrative, but the narrative is largely secondary to the human story of Ahab and his decent into vengeful madness. It is this which interests me, especially when applied to disability and it’s representations.

My mind is now abuzz with ideas; the two link rather well. Is it possible to explore the nature of disability through drama. I try to bring people into my world through my writing, articulating the paradox of being different, yet the same on my blog. But would it be possible to do this more physically through drama? Can people be brought into my world, not just through writing but through playing? And what would we all learn?

Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating.

Amazingly, I had no idea the FA cup final was on until my carer-lady came breezing in, telling me all about it this morning. To be honest its pretty upsetting news me and graham hatched a plan yesterday to meet in the yeoman this afternoon to watch the cricket, but now it seems all pubs will be packed, their televisions set to the football. Mind you, I suspect g forgot too. Ho hum, I guess I could watch the football, silly sport though it is, and watch cricket tomorrow. Mind you, if England bowl as well as they batted yesterday, it’ll be over by kick-off.

I found a decent interview with Michael Palin on youtube yesterday. I don’t get to watch much TV these days, since I don’t have a TV in my room. There’s hardly anything on these days, but oddly I miss the ability to channel hop. You know, when you just want to crash out on the sofa and turn off. Maybe I’m a little homesick, and this has brought forth a need for my old favourites – Palin, Attenborough etc. they both kind of give you a warm glow. I also think my wanderlust is fermenting again. Uni is a little depressing, now everyone’s going away. thats why I drank so much at steve’s party last night. it’s sad.

Ho hum, summer’s almost here. Cricket’s on the TV in the wes, and I’m out tonight. Wonder what Mr. Palin would make of brandies.

link. [warning – 50 mins long]

Those of you who know me quite well will know I’m a sucker for fantasy novels and films. I simply adore Tolkien, ever since dad read it to me and my brothers when I was 8 or 9. you can guess my elation, then, when I came across this yesterday. It seems the film of the hobbit will be out in two years. If lotr was anything to go by, it will be superb.

See also this

its raining here, but it is with great pleasure that I send you here. henceforth this song will be forever one of my favourites.

enjoy

when writing last nights entry, i forgot two things. firstly, ‘hey beautiful day’ is not called ‘hey beutiful day’. Its called ‘when the night fills my soul. I’ve been humming it all morning secondly, the magnificent sum of £47 was raised for onevoice. I think this is wonderful. thanks to evveryone in the gospel choir!

I have turned my computer on simply to record this feeling. This evening’s gospel choir concert was wonderful. It was beyond beautiful. The singing itself was extremely good, but it was something else that made the concert so bittersweet. It acted as a swansong for the entire third year, and once again I found myself wanting to cry.

Charlie did an excellent job. No doubt about it. It was almost intended to make us cry – why else should she include tearjerkers such as Joe and sally singing ‘eye of the sparrow’ and John singing ‘what a wonderful world’? there was sort of a terrible beauty about it, for the entire third year saw it as a final assembly. We all know what’s about to happen; we know our parting is inevitable, but none of us want it to happen.

Of course, there were happy tunes too. It would not be a concert by Charlie if it did not include a bob Marley medley. I suspect that she had me in mind when she left my favourite – ‘hey beautiful day – to last, allowing me to dance with Emma. In all probability, that moment was, at one and the same time, both the happiest and saddest of my life.

Charlie’s most apt inclusion was her own song, Smile When you say Goodbye, written for her brother. It truly is a happy song; yet, as I ay, we all know we will soon part.

At the end of the concert, I just felt…well, I can’t describe it. Both elated and desperately sad. It is both happy and heartbreaking. I find myself wanting time to stand still, to live forever in this moment, with all my friends. But I know it won’t. Time never ceases – there will be other people to meet, other places to see. If uni has taught me anything, it is that there are no barriers.

Sitting there, after the concert, I suddenly remembered a line from what was once my favourite book, and one which I still cherish. The words of a wise old man, delivered at a parting of friends: ”I will not say do not cry, for not all tears are evil.”

It’s been a long long day. I’ve been filling in forms and sending off letters and going to meetings. I’m just knackered, and irritated by all the little things that go wrong, and short tempered. I got the feeling that all my applications for funding would be rejected. I simply do not have experience in those things. I shouldn’t be so down because today Dave told me my mark for my heimat essay – 72, a first. I should be feeling happy, but for ome reason I’m not. Maybe later, after dinner, when I get time to relax, I’ll calm down and cheer up. Anyway, it’s the gospel choir concert tonight; they’re raising money for 1voice. Maybe by then this mood will have passed.

Forms suck. Or rather filling them in sucks. These days my life is devoted to filling in forms. Applications for funding. Applications for support. I understand why it’s necessary, and they come purely through choice – nobody is, after all, forcing me to do a master’s – but they still suck. I suppose they are the best way to do things, so they can’t be avoided. They’re just irritating, and, more to the point, dull.

On a happier note, comments are back. My brilliant brothers have re-established comments with a new improved spam-filter. Hopefully my website will no longer clog up with spam. The downside of this is you can once again disagree argue and prove me wrong once more. Boo.

Ho hum. Back to silly form-filling.

Two couples, one old one young, were walking round b and q. it’s a big massive store so they both manage to lose their wives. The husbands meet each other, and decide to seek their missing better halves together.

‘what does your wife look like?’ Asks the older man.

‘She has nice, long legs; blond hair and is wearing a short black dress. ‘ the younger man replies, ‘what’s yours look like?’ The older man thinks a moment, and then says ‘Oh, forget her. Let’s find yours!’

ever since our visit to australia, I have wanted a helicopter. go here to see why.

Last night was emotional, and as much as I enjoyed it in parts I felt like crying. Last night was my last summer ball, or at least my last as an undergraduate. Therefore it was the last one my whole cohort of friends would attend. I’ve grown to love all pf them these past three years: they are rather like a family; they all care enormously for each other, and it will be hard to say goodbye to them.

Pretty soon – too soon – we will all go our separate ways. It’s inevitable that sooner or later we will loose contact, and I don’t want this to happen. With all my heart I don’t. people like Vikki and Dan, Nicky and switch, Rocky, Steve and Chris. becky, scott and vanessa

Emma. And Charlie.

You know, I sincerely believe Charlie is one of the most beautiful humans ever. Not just aesthetically – although I daresay she is very pretty – but inwardly. She is deeply caring, always smiling, frequently singing. She’s like that to everyone. She’s also genuine. I have grown to know her and her family – Hugh, her brother, frequently visits campus – and they really are nice people. Saying goodbye to Charlie will be especially difficult.

Last night, I realised this, and I wanted to hug each one of them and not let go. It was a wonderful evening. Apart from the casino tables (which I didn’t have a go on) there was a chocolate fountain, a high roller ride, a food stall, a duck-fishing thing, as well as the disco in the bar. Last night, they had a Robbie Williams tribute band in there, and dancing showgirls! I told myself I wouldn’t get drunk, since I wanted to stay to the very end this year. With the help of trusty old Red Bull, I succeeded. I was dancing most of the evening, as, each time I sat down, another of my friends got me up for yet more dancing.

It was great fun, although not completely wholesome, as a few of my friends thought they’d treat me to a lap dance. They were very good at it too!

I ache this morning, but it’s a great ache to have. It’s a sign of a great evening. Indeed, it was an evening I never want to forget, at the end of the best three years of my life.

Its going to rule. It is my small fantasy that commander bond will actually show up, that, when we get there, a grey Aston martin will be parked outside brandies. Quite what business 007 would have at the end of term summer ball at an obscure university I did not know. It could have something to do with the group called the jocks. Either way I know for a fact that nobody behind the bar knows how to mix Martini. No doubt he would have kicked up a stir in M’s office:”Why do I have to go there? Can’t you send somebody else?” M would have replied that he was the only man available and that besides they were having casino tables. At this Bond’s eyes would have lit up.

I wouldn’t be surprised if as we are all partying away in Brandies, we hear the low rumble of a sports car, or the roar of a harrier overhead, preparing to land on the football pitch.

Yes tonight’s going to rule.

As a kid my family and I used to play dungeons and dragons. I loved it – that type of fantasy world appeals 2 me. I often whished it could somehow be more real; I wanted to go charging off into the woods to slay orcs and goblins. Apparently I wasn’t alone. Go here.

I want a go

Btw I got my mark for my exhibition. 70% – a first!

It is as typical as it is ironic – if that isn’t a contradiction – that when I rolled up to use the fund finder software in the student advice centre, I was told that it was housed in a completely inaccessible part of the building. I need to find funding for my MA and was told this software could help me find people to ask. It’s typical its as if they don’t expect us crips to do master’s degrees. Mind you, I was once told I wouldn’t be able to do GCSEs and now look! Anyway, the staff there are looking for me, so, for the time being, I might go watch the cricket.

I went to see new British film This is England with a few friends last night. To be honest I was very ambivalent about the whole thing – I couldn’t quite decide which side of the fence the film sat. it’s about neo-nazis in 1983. a young boy befriends a group of men on the extreme right of the political spectrum. These boys seem very friendly to the boy, who, having a father killed in the Falklands, seems to be taken in by their rhetoric.

This makes for very uncomfortable viewing. These thugs seem like nice people – they are after all, human. They are friendly and tender to the lad. The film is therefore brave in that it does not simply dismiss such people as mindless thugs. It is, I guess, all too easy to do so, and much to simplistic. We must concede that they are not Neanderthals, for were we not to do so would make us as bad as them.

And yet, at the same time, the film almost seemed sympathetic to what they were saying. I disagree utterly with what they were saying – there was not even one tiny grain of truth in it. The fact is, this country needs immigration: without it, we would simply cease to function. Moreover, I think back to the story of my own family: my maternal grandparents came over from Cyprus in the late forties, met, and married. My bappou (grandfather) was a tailor, and had a shop down in London. They worked their socks off all their life: I can still remember watching bappou and yaiya working at their sewing machines up until their retirement. Their offspring are all equally hard working – my aunt doula is a teacher; my uncle is a journalist; my mother is an information scientist (hi mum). They then had six grandchildren: let’s see… at last count, they all have or are doing degrees; two are about to complete PhD’s (hi mark and Chris) I think alex is doing a Master’s; I am about to graduate; I’ve not spoken to my cousin Cyril in a while – does he graduate this year or next year? Luke is also about to enter his final year of his four year bioinformatics degree. That is, all told, one physicist, two biologists, one bioinfomatician, one neuroscientist (something like that) and one film student. So much for this ‘immigrants don’t work’ bullshit.

I reckon it’s a load of urban myths that ‘immigrants take our jobs’ or ‘they just collect benefits’ or ‘they get priority over housing’. Bull. This to me smacks of paranoid xenophobia. I also seriously doubt that they get priority over jobs: while employment quotas do exist, what employer in his right mind would choose anyone because of their ethnicity alone? It is true that most come seeking a better life – which I take as a complement – but it is also true, and often forgotten, that most are fleeing persecution, deprevation, extreme poverty or even torture. Why else would they come all this way. At this point, of course, many point out that migrants could have stayed in the first EU country they came across, and conclude that Britain is seen as a soft touch. I do not think this is quite the case: they come to Britain because they speak the language, or have family here, both of which are the direct result of our former colonial days. Hell, we invited many such people over ourselves after losing India, and windrush. We have a history of welcoming migrants to this country, where they subsequently prosper. Is it any wonder that they want their families to do the same?

There is just so much crap being spoken about the immigration ‘problem’ these days. It plays straight into the hands of the far right, especially when CaMoron starts telling people ‘it isn’t racist to worry about immigration’. It is, because it is born of xenophobia.

I love it when films get everyone talking. This one certainly has. The debate got quite heated on the way home last night. It is also quite important to me too, as I worry that the public mood might be swinging back to the right, which is never a good thing. I fear we are being duped by the Tories once again, and then, as the film I saw last night illustrated clearly, it’s back to the dark days of Thatcherism, but this time with a nice smile.

I came across this yesterday, and laughed my head off when I did. The boys on wheels give us such songs as ‘my balls are ok’ and ‘making love in the handicap toilet’. Of course, it’s obscene filth, and may just give the bloodhound gang a run for its money, but it strikes a chord. It’s the articulation of the sexual repression imposed upon us by the able-bodied. Or just smut.

Yesterday was bliss. Pure, undiluted bliss. Once again graham has asked me to help him with one of his plays – this time an adaptation of camus’ The Outsider. It’s a short book, which I whizzed through in two days, so yesterday I was out on the field reading his script. It was hot and sunny and lovely.

We ate dinner outside too. Charlie and I decided to lay out a couple of towels on the grass just outside my room and eat there. I’d planned to eat a ready meal, but had accidentally put it in the freezer rather than fridge, so, rather than wait for it to defrost, I had a pizza. Emma came round later on. Charlie had quite an excellent new Zealand rose which we shared, and all three of us talked while the sun set before our eyes.

It was a moment of heaven: good wine, good food, and the best friends ever.

a day or two ago, est and I were talking about this advert. not sure why. for nostalgias sake, I’ll post a link

Can the people of this country be so stupid as to fall for the obviously hollow promises of that half-brained smiling jackass Cameron? Do they not realise who he is? Sure, he may sound reasonable; he may have a nice smile. But a Tory is a Tory, and 18 years of misrule and mismanagement showed us that they cannot be trusted.

I love my life here at uni. I have flourished. As things stand, I’m on course for a 2:1. (got my film essay mark today; 64% – well within the 2:1 range). But the fact is, under the Tories with their cost-cutting initiatives and reluctance to fund anything which doesn’t help them directly, I simply would not be here. If we once again chose the Tories, disability rights take a step backwards.

I am very scared and very angry at today’s election result. More cursing to come.

Now that my course is over, I guess I can reflect upon it. The old adage that one should never study the books you love does not hold: I have an increased love of both writing and film now I have finished my course. I can probably also appreciate them more. Take Heimat, for instance: in all probability, I would once have dismissed it as boring. It is afterall 15 hours long and in German, but now that I’ve seen it I’ve done the background reading which goes with it, I find myself really liking it. It is problematic in its relationship to the war and the Holocaust and I can see how some can accuse Edgar Reitz of revisionism. But at the same time I can also see his problem – how can you represent the Holocaust paradoxically, you cannot and yet you have to. This is, I think, quite a profound and interesting debate.

Thus I find myself loving films more than I ever did; I wish to know more about them. I also love learning more than I ever did, be it science, or art, or history. At school I met kids who turned their backs on learning completely; while this is a great shame, it also represents a worrying trend more and more I see kids claiming that it is uncool to learn. They value ignorance over learning, they are only interested in Playstations, and ironically films. It is only now that I see the extent to which they are missing out – both academically and socially (for the two go hand in hand) university is great fun.

I was recently asked to prepare a paper on my experiences of uni. I think I’ll write it along these lines. It is vital that we re-envigour the enthusiasm of the youth, both for their sake and that of the country.

I really think life can’t get much better. Today was just spent chilling. Many people finished their degrees today, or are quite close to doing so, so there is quite a festive mood on campus. The sun helps too. I am doing what needs to be done, honest, but have been advised to rest a while before continuing with my master’s.

The firsts were playing cricket. I had intended this blog to be about how glorious watching cricket is, but, before heading across to the pitch with the four-pack I’d just bought, I noticed a few friends sitting on the grass by the wes. I went to join them, and ended up whiling away the afternoon with them. I gave them three of my four cans of Stella. Believe it or not we ended up playing wrestling. Adults my butt!

I eventually got to the cricket just before teatime, and again just before close of play. It was glorious – there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. What’s more, we won.

I’m off out again – can’t waste an evening like this inside!

Oh, before I go, if anyone knows about file recovery on the music programme sebelius, please contact me

It gives me great, almost infinite pleasure to record that I handed in my final essay today. Part of me still can’t believe it, and yet another part of me says I might have forgotten something, even though I’ve checked with my peers a thousand times. If there are no nasty surprises, I reckon I can afford a brief period of respite before organising master’s funding. Now I cant wait to get on with my master’s in september!

I think I will stay at college for some time – I work better here than at home – access to books and films etc. I also need est helping me. besides, all my friends are here. To be quite honest, I don’t want uni to end. mind you, this bit will probably be harder than my dgree!

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.