The White Noise or Whale Song of Advice
I feel as though I am awful at giving advice. I can formulate my thoughts into written words which may then be perceived as insightful and taken as advice, but it is purely theoretical. If I am approached for advice relating to a certain situation all I can do is ramble on. This may be a largely self-doubtful view and in actual fact I am not so bad as I think, but I believe there is more to it than that…
The real issue for me is when someone comes to me with depressive thoughts, with such a deep sadness that really nothing you say can even touch on the surface. When I was 16 a best friend of mine began to fall out of touch and it is only in retrospect that I believe this was due to depression. It was around the age of 14-16 that I was first depressed, meaning that at the time I was still scared of it; I had yet to accept it in myself so to see straight away someone else taking the same route rendered me useless, I think I built barriers with the denial. Failing to react to her depression is not something that was my fault nor something I regret per se, but a reminder I often bring to bear, something which now means I stubbornly refuse to let friends fall by the wayside.
I have touched on this issue since, but mostly with those that have come to terms with their depression in the way which I have, that means the ability to discuss it with a certain confidence of control and acceptance of it as a part of our being. The other night though, I’ve had to hear from someone that they no longer wish to “just carry on”. It’s not a surprise, this is someone whom I have openly talked with about our persistent feelings of loneliness, sorrow and absence of hope; but to hear those words is haunting. It has made me think, a lot. As I began to type my response I began to turn into the sort of person I want to ignore when I myself am feeling down and lonesome. Our help can never be what we want it to be. Either we are second guessing and we do not possess the direct experience to truly offer someone advice. Or we have the experience and it’s all too close so that our hearts ache as we recall the emotions; and in the case of depression, we know exactly the words that we ignore, we know just how dismissive we are to any suggestions or any implication of a potentially positive and improved situation because our belief of a future is nil.
It still beats being alone though, to have a voice beside you or a stream of black and white text before your eyes; it’s that tiny reminder that someone cares enough to try to make you feel better. You don’t want to say the wrong thing, but the words probably don’t matter anyway, your advice translates to the psyche like white noise or whale song.
Maybe the sounds just become what you want to hear… when you want to hear it.
Polka Panic
I feel as though I am awful at giving advice. I can formulate my thoughts into written words which may then be perceived as insightful and taken as advice, but it is purely theoretical. If I am approached for advice relating to a certain situation all I can do is ramble on. This may be a largely self-doubtful view and in actual fact I am not so bad as I think, but I believe there is more to it than that…
The real issue for me is when someone comes to me with depressive thoughts, with such a deep sadness that really nothing you say can even touch on the surface. When I was 16 a best friend of mine began to fall out of touch and it is only in retrospect that I believe this was due to depression. It was around the age of 14-16 that I was first depressed, meaning that at the time I was still scared of it; I had yet to accept it in myself so to see straight away someone else taking the same route rendered me useless, I think I built barriers with the denial. Failing to react to her depression is not something that was my fault nor something I regret per se, but a reminder I often bring to bear, something which now means I stubbornly refuse to let friends fall by the wayside.
I have touched on this issue since, but mostly with those that have come to terms with their depression in the way which I have, that means the ability to discuss it with a certain confidence of control and acceptance of it as a part of our being. The other night though, I’ve had to hear from someone that they no longer wish to “just carry on”. It’s not a surprise, this is someone whom I have openly talked with about our persistent feelings of loneliness, sorrow and absence of hope; but to hear those words is haunting. It has made me think, a lot. As I began to type my response I began to turn into the sort of person I want to ignore when I myself am feeling down and lonesome. Our help can never be what we want it to be. Either we are second guessing and we do not possess the direct experience to truly offer someone advice. Or we have the experience and it’s all too close so that our hearts ache as we recall the emotions; and in the case of depression, we know exactly the words that we ignore, we know just how dismissive we are to any suggestions or any implication of a potentially positive and improved situation because our belief of a future is nil.
It still beats being alone though, to have a voice beside you or a stream of black and white text before your eyes; it’s that tiny reminder that someone cares enough to try to make you feel better. You don’t want to say the wrong thing, but the words probably don’t matter anyway, your advice translates to the psyche like white noise or whale song.
Maybe the sounds just become what you want to hear… when you want to hear it.
Polka Panic
Desperate Not to Disappoint
I like living alone but I’m ready for a change. A couple of weeks ago I got a reply to my spare room wanted ad and met two guys and a girl of similar ages looking for another house sharer to move to a new place with. I was pleased, they seemed to like me; stayed and chatted so long they cooked me dinner, definitely a good sign! So, the 4 of us began searching for rental properties, initially in the town centres but I soon talked them into searching outside of the box so we viewed a few country cottages to offset the sterile edge-of-town estate houses. We very quickly found a converted chapel and nothing else came close so that is where we’ll soon be living! I don’t wish to pause long enough to shroud these plans with concern and as yet all of my thinking is forwards. Two weeks prior to moving day, I am still blissfully in full-anticipation mode and have yet to worry about making a good impression.
It is only natural to want people to like you, but then we worry more about disappointing those that like us; and worst still to disappoint those that love us can break our hearts. We are often faced with the choice of disappointing either ourselves or others; particularly when it comes to our parents’ expectations, and in that case I choose to aspire to my dreams, not theirs… but it feels like letting them down nonetheless. Nicky Wire (Manic Street Preachers) once said something that has always stayed with me and I often find myself feeling like a “concrete bunker” moment:
“I want to retire to a concrete bunker and never be seen again, so I could never let anyone down.”
During my few brief meetings with my housemates-to-be we have got along well, but of course it is only a matter of time before there is a minor clash or mistake made and even if instantly forgiven it will still linger in my mind; a little grey cloud of worry niggling there ready to pounce at any moment my mind is void of active thoughts – why did I do/say that thing I said, have they really forgiven me, are they just pretending so as not to make me feel like a disappointment? And then of course there are those incapable of forgiveness…
I have no intention to be perfect but I wonder if my desperation not to disappoint is essentially an ambition to achieve perfection? Personally I think human error is a beautiful thing; it reminds me that however mechanical the world becomes, mistakes are not entirely eradicated so long as we are living things. Our drive to be good at what we do is manifested from a fear of failing, if there was no danger of being bad at something then what would motivate us to be good? Occasional failures and imperfections keep us grounded, they make us who we are.
So why the guilt and sorrow when we’ve disappointed someone? Is it in fact their reaction? How honestly they say ‘don’t worry about it’ or ‘we still love you’? Are we really capable of forgiving and forgetting? I don’t think we truly are. When we are in a place where we need those two things we know that they can be said and that the person saying so probably does want to feel them but we are ALL striving for this perfect non-disappointing world, and we want to see it working faultlessly, without people like myself making small and meaningless mistakes. It’s like crumbs… you drop a biscuit, you say sorry, gather what you can with great care, but there will always be one or two crumbs, just enough so as not to forget, and whilst you might forgive me for leaving them on your living room floor, you’ll always wish I had just held on and not dropped it in the first place. You will invite me over again but I may not get a biscuit with my tea.
Polka Panic
I like living alone but I’m ready for a change. A couple of weeks ago I got a reply to my spare room wanted ad and met two guys and a girl of similar ages looking for another house sharer to move to a new place with. I was pleased, they seemed to like me; stayed and chatted so long they cooked me dinner, definitely a good sign! So, the 4 of us began searching for rental properties, initially in the town centres but I soon talked them into searching outside of the box so we viewed a few country cottages to offset the sterile edge-of-town estate houses. We very quickly found a converted chapel and nothing else came close so that is where we’ll soon be living! I don’t wish to pause long enough to shroud these plans with concern and as yet all of my thinking is forwards. Two weeks prior to moving day, I am still blissfully in full-anticipation mode and have yet to worry about making a good impression.
It is only natural to want people to like you, but then we worry more about disappointing those that like us; and worst still to disappoint those that love us can break our hearts. We are often faced with the choice of disappointing either ourselves or others; particularly when it comes to our parents’ expectations, and in that case I choose to aspire to my dreams, not theirs… but it feels like letting them down nonetheless. Nicky Wire (Manic Street Preachers) once said something that has always stayed with me and I often find myself feeling like a “concrete bunker” moment:
“I want to retire to a concrete bunker and never be seen again, so I could never let anyone down.”
During my few brief meetings with my housemates-to-be we have got along well, but of course it is only a matter of time before there is a minor clash or mistake made and even if instantly forgiven it will still linger in my mind; a little grey cloud of worry niggling there ready to pounce at any moment my mind is void of active thoughts – why did I do/say that thing I said, have they really forgiven me, are they just pretending so as not to make me feel like a disappointment? And then of course there are those incapable of forgiveness…
I have no intention to be perfect but I wonder if my desperation not to disappoint is essentially an ambition to achieve perfection? Personally I think human error is a beautiful thing; it reminds me that however mechanical the world becomes, mistakes are not entirely eradicated so long as we are living things. Our drive to be good at what we do is manifested from a fear of failing, if there was no danger of being bad at something then what would motivate us to be good? Occasional failures and imperfections keep us grounded, they make us who we are.
So why the guilt and sorrow when we’ve disappointed someone? Is it in fact their reaction? How honestly they say ‘don’t worry about it’ or ‘we still love you’? Are we really capable of forgiving and forgetting? I don’t think we truly are. When we are in a place where we need those two things we know that they can be said and that the person saying so probably does want to feel them but we are ALL striving for this perfect non-disappointing world, and we want to see it working faultlessly, without people like myself making small and meaningless mistakes. It’s like crumbs… you drop a biscuit, you say sorry, gather what you can with great care, but there will always be one or two crumbs, just enough so as not to forget, and whilst you might forgive me for leaving them on your living room floor, you’ll always wish I had just held on and not dropped it in the first place. You will invite me over again but I may not get a biscuit with my tea.
Polka Panic
Whose Eyes are Open, Who is Blind?
My turn to good fortune means my mood has improved and I've become my old chatty self, and in particular with one guy at work. He's pretty new to the company and we'd really not known much about one another; turns out we have heaps in common. Making friends nearby after loosing all my local ties has meant a lot to me. But I'm already scared of loosing that. I get on with guys better than girls, always have done. But it's all to easy to get on with guys well enough and quickly enough that you tread into that territory of 'liking' one another, or more often the case one liking one more than the other. Now, that is exactly what has just happened.
He coyly text me telling me he liked me, hoping I felt the same. But I didn't and it's one of those situations where telling someone that you really like them as a friend is conveyed as incredibly hurtful. And this is where my desperation not to disappoint really kicks in. Am I the one at fault for being friendly? If I am just chatting away and smiling because I have plenty in common with someone, but they see that as me being 'interested', does this mean that I am required to tame my enthusiasm and act a bit more mundane? If people like it when I am cheerful and conversational then to tone that down would be absurd. It is all about seeing, it's about whose eyes are open, who is blind - I guess you only see the whole picture when both sides of the story are told. Now the agonising to wait and see if we can still be friends, see if we can keep it together so that work does not become an awkward mess. I have an optimistic outlook right now, but I sometimes think my idealistic view becomes a little unrealistic in the real world.
We shall see...
Polka Panic
My turn to good fortune means my mood has improved and I've become my old chatty self, and in particular with one guy at work. He's pretty new to the company and we'd really not known much about one another; turns out we have heaps in common. Making friends nearby after loosing all my local ties has meant a lot to me. But I'm already scared of loosing that. I get on with guys better than girls, always have done. But it's all to easy to get on with guys well enough and quickly enough that you tread into that territory of 'liking' one another, or more often the case one liking one more than the other. Now, that is exactly what has just happened.
He coyly text me telling me he liked me, hoping I felt the same. But I didn't and it's one of those situations where telling someone that you really like them as a friend is conveyed as incredibly hurtful. And this is where my desperation not to disappoint really kicks in. Am I the one at fault for being friendly? If I am just chatting away and smiling because I have plenty in common with someone, but they see that as me being 'interested', does this mean that I am required to tame my enthusiasm and act a bit more mundane? If people like it when I am cheerful and conversational then to tone that down would be absurd. It is all about seeing, it's about whose eyes are open, who is blind - I guess you only see the whole picture when both sides of the story are told. Now the agonising to wait and see if we can still be friends, see if we can keep it together so that work does not become an awkward mess. I have an optimistic outlook right now, but I sometimes think my idealistic view becomes a little unrealistic in the real world.
We shall see...
Polka Panic
Spontaneity: To Have or to Put on Hold
I have a bi-polaresque view on spontaneity. I love the idea of anything happening and being able to make exciting decisions on the spur of the moment. But on the other hand the thought of something I wasn't expecting to happen suddenly encroaching on my well-rehearsed routine fills me with utter fear. How could I possibly go out for an adhoc after-work beverage when I know that I must get home, put the bins out, do the washing up, make the following day's lunch and watch my TV from the moment I sit down with my preplanned dinner at exactly 8pm; not to mention refreshing my browser tabs on numerous social media sites just incase something exciting has happened in the world.
I guess it's about breaking free, when enough external plans enter your world and tip your routine into a frenzy that you finally roll with it, let it take hold, let it become that routine. Because if it's not this then what were you waiting for? Why were you streamlining and simplifying your entire life to gain more time if you weren't planning to let it be filled with stuff worth living for. Having control works for me most of the time but control only goes to make letting go feel that much more amazing. It's about realising where the line is, knowing when you need more in life and when to lose control. It's not about losing control in a way that cannot be regained, it's about filing it away in a safe place, organising it somewhere where it's not cluttering up your life.
I'm not a positive person, but I have my moments.
Polka Panic
I have a bi-polaresque view on spontaneity. I love the idea of anything happening and being able to make exciting decisions on the spur of the moment. But on the other hand the thought of something I wasn't expecting to happen suddenly encroaching on my well-rehearsed routine fills me with utter fear. How could I possibly go out for an adhoc after-work beverage when I know that I must get home, put the bins out, do the washing up, make the following day's lunch and watch my TV from the moment I sit down with my preplanned dinner at exactly 8pm; not to mention refreshing my browser tabs on numerous social media sites just incase something exciting has happened in the world.
I guess it's about breaking free, when enough external plans enter your world and tip your routine into a frenzy that you finally roll with it, let it take hold, let it become that routine. Because if it's not this then what were you waiting for? Why were you streamlining and simplifying your entire life to gain more time if you weren't planning to let it be filled with stuff worth living for. Having control works for me most of the time but control only goes to make letting go feel that much more amazing. It's about realising where the line is, knowing when you need more in life and when to lose control. It's not about losing control in a way that cannot be regained, it's about filing it away in a safe place, organising it somewhere where it's not cluttering up your life.
I'm not a positive person, but I have my moments.
Polka Panic
Streamlining and Simplifying
I have found myself on a mission, one that is always present and applies to everyone's lives but one which I am currently particularly adamant to perfect. It is a well known fact that there are not enough hours in the day, it is a constant bugbear that I would like to achieve more; the answer to these issues is to maximise the efficiency of everything I do presently to create time and space in which to fill with further activities.
First and foremost, and relating back to my piece on life laundries, I must have less baggage. For once I am referring to physical baggage though you could say emotional also, the effort to become lighter and freer in the world, more mobile and liberated, in a position to quickly gather ones life to grab any opportunity. When I lived in NY for a year, I relished in the fact that everything I had there fitted into 3 cases - a large, medium and carry-on... if I bought something, I sold something. It is not about stifling growth but about real reinvention - replacement as opposed to addition.
Filing is another one of my favourites. A life that is organised is one in which we do not waste it searching for lost articles. I belong in an environment where everything else is where it belongs. I need one memory of something in it's place instead of a dozen memories of it's many misplacements.
I thought about all of this whilst riding my bike today. This year I have been making a conscious effort to exercise (enjoyably) and for me this is cycling. It also provides fresh air, stress relief and anger management but that sounds like a blog for another day. As a human coming out of winter hibernation, fitness was merely something I aspired to and 4-miles of country roads was a 45-minute endeavour. Streamlining and simplifying also incorporates constant improvement. To commit to 45-minutes after work each day made considerable impact on my evening, not in a bad way but in a way that it would not always be possible. The same 4-miles now takes me 20 minutes; if I have 45-minutes, like today, I simply do 8-miles and achieve more. As we become better, we get more.
Polka Panic
I have found myself on a mission, one that is always present and applies to everyone's lives but one which I am currently particularly adamant to perfect. It is a well known fact that there are not enough hours in the day, it is a constant bugbear that I would like to achieve more; the answer to these issues is to maximise the efficiency of everything I do presently to create time and space in which to fill with further activities.
First and foremost, and relating back to my piece on life laundries, I must have less baggage. For once I am referring to physical baggage though you could say emotional also, the effort to become lighter and freer in the world, more mobile and liberated, in a position to quickly gather ones life to grab any opportunity. When I lived in NY for a year, I relished in the fact that everything I had there fitted into 3 cases - a large, medium and carry-on... if I bought something, I sold something. It is not about stifling growth but about real reinvention - replacement as opposed to addition.
Filing is another one of my favourites. A life that is organised is one in which we do not waste it searching for lost articles. I belong in an environment where everything else is where it belongs. I need one memory of something in it's place instead of a dozen memories of it's many misplacements.
I thought about all of this whilst riding my bike today. This year I have been making a conscious effort to exercise (enjoyably) and for me this is cycling. It also provides fresh air, stress relief and anger management but that sounds like a blog for another day. As a human coming out of winter hibernation, fitness was merely something I aspired to and 4-miles of country roads was a 45-minute endeavour. Streamlining and simplifying also incorporates constant improvement. To commit to 45-minutes after work each day made considerable impact on my evening, not in a bad way but in a way that it would not always be possible. The same 4-miles now takes me 20 minutes; if I have 45-minutes, like today, I simply do 8-miles and achieve more. As we become better, we get more.
Polka Panic
Emotional Seesaw
I've spent a great deal of this year in a very familiar and all too predictable cycle. I would know that if I have had 3 or so 'good days' I would be due to spend the next few days falling apart. I knew then also that if I had spent 3 or so days as an emotional wreck, my subconscious would soon then allow me a short break from the drain of it all. This systematic cycle appealed to me, most likely because of my OCD. It reassured me when I was down because I knew I'd be ok if I could just weather the storm; it even reassured me when I was holding it all together because being positive on your own is tiring and after a few days I'd often feel ready for a good old curl up and cry.
I think as the heartbreak eased I began to fear the cycle, I wanted to break it. Time has passed and so the cycle has become sporadic at best and certainly nothing that can be known. I am fine most days, but maybe I'm not, perhaps I am confusing fine with busy. I am busy most days, I am distracted.
Last night I let my guard slip: after a whole run of very enjoyable days over the Jubilee weekend, being surrounded by friends and family and going back to places I love, the places I've called home in my life... I am back at work, back living on my own, sat in the evening watching a mediocre hospital drama, and all of a sudden I couldn't feign off the urge to cry. This is a reminder, and it reminds me that even at my happiest, all of a sudden sadness could surface from somewhere deep within. It's a sadness that comes on without warning, is almost utterly out of context and even when I try to think I cannot reason with it... I can list sad things but I couldn't attribute them in that moment.
At that happy time in my life I was a little embarrassed when I couldn't help but be sad, but I take it as part of being me - and given how happy I was then, an ounce of sadness was a small price to pay. In all honesty I think we all need to feel sad sometimes, and to be suddenly submerged in sadness is like a retreat from the world, like being back in the womb - you curl up and there and then nothing but your own survival matters. Kurt Cobain's words often haunt me, but they have every truth and I know just what he meant when he wrote:
"I miss the comfort in being sad".
Polka Panic
I've spent a great deal of this year in a very familiar and all too predictable cycle. I would know that if I have had 3 or so 'good days' I would be due to spend the next few days falling apart. I knew then also that if I had spent 3 or so days as an emotional wreck, my subconscious would soon then allow me a short break from the drain of it all. This systematic cycle appealed to me, most likely because of my OCD. It reassured me when I was down because I knew I'd be ok if I could just weather the storm; it even reassured me when I was holding it all together because being positive on your own is tiring and after a few days I'd often feel ready for a good old curl up and cry.
I think as the heartbreak eased I began to fear the cycle, I wanted to break it. Time has passed and so the cycle has become sporadic at best and certainly nothing that can be known. I am fine most days, but maybe I'm not, perhaps I am confusing fine with busy. I am busy most days, I am distracted.
Last night I let my guard slip: after a whole run of very enjoyable days over the Jubilee weekend, being surrounded by friends and family and going back to places I love, the places I've called home in my life... I am back at work, back living on my own, sat in the evening watching a mediocre hospital drama, and all of a sudden I couldn't feign off the urge to cry. This is a reminder, and it reminds me that even at my happiest, all of a sudden sadness could surface from somewhere deep within. It's a sadness that comes on without warning, is almost utterly out of context and even when I try to think I cannot reason with it... I can list sad things but I couldn't attribute them in that moment.
At that happy time in my life I was a little embarrassed when I couldn't help but be sad, but I take it as part of being me - and given how happy I was then, an ounce of sadness was a small price to pay. In all honesty I think we all need to feel sad sometimes, and to be suddenly submerged in sadness is like a retreat from the world, like being back in the womb - you curl up and there and then nothing but your own survival matters. Kurt Cobain's words often haunt me, but they have every truth and I know just what he meant when he wrote:
"I miss the comfort in being sad".
Polka Panic
A Well Brewed Friendship is a Strong One
Today I floated above my own life for a moment and realised the reality. Rarely have I made friends during a time of my life, but instead upon leaving a time of my life. I think of my two best Uni friends and I have no memory of them whatsoever in my first two years (I was so shy I must have walked around cowering under a cardboard box). In my final year I came out of my shell and started to actually converse with people and express my unique style and actually be noticed. Still though, I remember these friends most notably during revision for exams, Summer Ball and our night out after dissertation hand in; yet since, I consider them amongst my best friends.
The reason this occurred to me today was that I met a friend for coffee; a friend whom I knew from my 4 months temping at record store, HMV, 3 years ago. In all honesty, when I left and I received her Friend Request pop up on Facebook, I almost declined as we had exchanged so few words and most were merely 'Hi'. I was depressed my whole time there, I chatted freely to strangers all day yet almost purposely avoided talking to anyone who may ask about me or my life or want to get to know me in any way. At the time I had little identity, little to say about myself, Uni was over yet I hadn't found my way in the world, I didn't know who I was, where I was or where I was aiming for.
But this friend... well I did accept her request. Then last year it seemed we both developed a fondness for all things Italian: mine was a result of being in love, and hers was a result of being out of love. We began exchanging 'Likes', then comments, then recommendations before it turned to conversation and arrangement of coffee and a catch-up.
It seems it takes me 3-years to brew a friendship. Three-years to find the time when myself and the other person possess parallel interests and the right frame of mind and that all essential realisation of the common ground we tread. I guess a well-brewed friendship is a strong one.
Polka Panic
Today I floated above my own life for a moment and realised the reality. Rarely have I made friends during a time of my life, but instead upon leaving a time of my life. I think of my two best Uni friends and I have no memory of them whatsoever in my first two years (I was so shy I must have walked around cowering under a cardboard box). In my final year I came out of my shell and started to actually converse with people and express my unique style and actually be noticed. Still though, I remember these friends most notably during revision for exams, Summer Ball and our night out after dissertation hand in; yet since, I consider them amongst my best friends.
The reason this occurred to me today was that I met a friend for coffee; a friend whom I knew from my 4 months temping at record store, HMV, 3 years ago. In all honesty, when I left and I received her Friend Request pop up on Facebook, I almost declined as we had exchanged so few words and most were merely 'Hi'. I was depressed my whole time there, I chatted freely to strangers all day yet almost purposely avoided talking to anyone who may ask about me or my life or want to get to know me in any way. At the time I had little identity, little to say about myself, Uni was over yet I hadn't found my way in the world, I didn't know who I was, where I was or where I was aiming for.
But this friend... well I did accept her request. Then last year it seemed we both developed a fondness for all things Italian: mine was a result of being in love, and hers was a result of being out of love. We began exchanging 'Likes', then comments, then recommendations before it turned to conversation and arrangement of coffee and a catch-up.
It seems it takes me 3-years to brew a friendship. Three-years to find the time when myself and the other person possess parallel interests and the right frame of mind and that all essential realisation of the common ground we tread. I guess a well-brewed friendship is a strong one.
Polka Panic
Touching from a Distance, Too Close to My Heart
After 3-years sat on my bookshelf, I have finally read Touching from a Distance, finishing it on an all-too-close-to-tears train journey back from Watford Junction. For those who are unfamiliar, it is a biography of Joy Division's lead singer, Ian Curtis, written by his widow, Deborah Curtis, following his suicide.
I already knew this story well, I have seen Anton Corbijn's film adaptation, Control, many times, read from various sources and listened endlessly to Joy Division; I have times at uni epitomised by their music. Yet, nothing but black and white words on a page can allow Deborah to speak to you so directly.
Whilst I wasn't in love with an epileptic nor a rising rockstar, a story can still find it's own way to relate. Many of the smaller details, as well as glaringly obvious parallels such as the affair, has seemed so close to home. Watching someone you love struggle to deal with the feelings in their head and the despair at not knowing what to do and how not to hurt anyone... it's when I found out what unconditional love is. In a time when you should be the one hurting, you feel nothing but concern for the one you love, the one causing the hurt.
Realising unconditional love has probably been one of my most profound moments in life. Time has not yet been able to tell but I'd be certain that unconditional love never quite leaves you. There is a pain where it lingers but it glows brightly too; a beacon of survival and longevity, that I can still feel love after all that has happened. Just like I don't believe in love at first sight, I don't believe in stopping loving or caring; you can't be such a big part of my life and just let yourself out, there is no distance.
Polka Panic
After 3-years sat on my bookshelf, I have finally read Touching from a Distance, finishing it on an all-too-close-to-tears train journey back from Watford Junction. For those who are unfamiliar, it is a biography of Joy Division's lead singer, Ian Curtis, written by his widow, Deborah Curtis, following his suicide.
I already knew this story well, I have seen Anton Corbijn's film adaptation, Control, many times, read from various sources and listened endlessly to Joy Division; I have times at uni epitomised by their music. Yet, nothing but black and white words on a page can allow Deborah to speak to you so directly.
Whilst I wasn't in love with an epileptic nor a rising rockstar, a story can still find it's own way to relate. Many of the smaller details, as well as glaringly obvious parallels such as the affair, has seemed so close to home. Watching someone you love struggle to deal with the feelings in their head and the despair at not knowing what to do and how not to hurt anyone... it's when I found out what unconditional love is. In a time when you should be the one hurting, you feel nothing but concern for the one you love, the one causing the hurt.
Realising unconditional love has probably been one of my most profound moments in life. Time has not yet been able to tell but I'd be certain that unconditional love never quite leaves you. There is a pain where it lingers but it glows brightly too; a beacon of survival and longevity, that I can still feel love after all that has happened. Just like I don't believe in love at first sight, I don't believe in stopping loving or caring; you can't be such a big part of my life and just let yourself out, there is no distance.
Polka Panic
Sea Air for the Soul
I remember during my first week of University, having just moved to Bournemouth, I spent an afternoon on the top floor of the library reading a book on the history of the town. The thing that stuck most in my mind was the reason for it's being - the health benefits of the pine trees and sea air. I agree with this whole-heartedly, nothing makes me feel better. The freshness of the air and the freedom of having a constant outlet, only 3 sides enclosed, but one side where there are no boundaries. The waves dancing either playfully or dramatically to always showcase their free nature.
Even living in Newport NJ for a year, my favourite thing, as much as the view of Manhattan, was looking out across the Hudson. Most days I cycled along the waterfront to Hoboken, sometimes Weehawken; at weekends I'd cross to Manhattan and cycle up towards the George Washington Bridge. Needless to say Coney Island had my heart too. I treasured that I could be in one of the busiest cities in the world and not feel inclosed.
This weekend I have been with my family in Lowestoft, today walking around the Pleasure Beach and pier to pier in Gt. Yarmouth. By the sea it seems brighter, sunnier. The people-watching has a higher entertainment rating and the quaint little features like piers, promenades, winter gardens, donkey rides and deck chairs are just charming. It's a hark back to Victorian traditions and it has that lovely bustling feeling, whether still present or in the ghosts of the past. To me it's all epitomised by Brighton's West Pier, I can sit there for hours just watching the waves lap around it's history; sit there for hours until the sun sets and the swallows circle it with life once more. The spirit will never die, sea air is for the soul.
Polka Panic
I remember during my first week of University, having just moved to Bournemouth, I spent an afternoon on the top floor of the library reading a book on the history of the town. The thing that stuck most in my mind was the reason for it's being - the health benefits of the pine trees and sea air. I agree with this whole-heartedly, nothing makes me feel better. The freshness of the air and the freedom of having a constant outlet, only 3 sides enclosed, but one side where there are no boundaries. The waves dancing either playfully or dramatically to always showcase their free nature.
Even living in Newport NJ for a year, my favourite thing, as much as the view of Manhattan, was looking out across the Hudson. Most days I cycled along the waterfront to Hoboken, sometimes Weehawken; at weekends I'd cross to Manhattan and cycle up towards the George Washington Bridge. Needless to say Coney Island had my heart too. I treasured that I could be in one of the busiest cities in the world and not feel inclosed.
This weekend I have been with my family in Lowestoft, today walking around the Pleasure Beach and pier to pier in Gt. Yarmouth. By the sea it seems brighter, sunnier. The people-watching has a higher entertainment rating and the quaint little features like piers, promenades, winter gardens, donkey rides and deck chairs are just charming. It's a hark back to Victorian traditions and it has that lovely bustling feeling, whether still present or in the ghosts of the past. To me it's all epitomised by Brighton's West Pier, I can sit there for hours just watching the waves lap around it's history; sit there for hours until the sun sets and the swallows circle it with life once more. The spirit will never die, sea air is for the soul.
Polka Panic
Blank Canvas of Life
Today I feel as though I got up and ran. I got up on time, got to work on time and got on with it. It's the most together I've been in ages. I want to think it's a new me, but whenever it's happened before I know I run away with myself and tire all too easily.
My ambition is back though; it makes me thirsty. I don't want to sleep now, I want to go out and grab everything, and go far. When ambition takes over it makes you truly discontent with your current scenario. It's no bad thing; being discontent is the best motivator in the world. It goes back to what I said about my life laundry earlier in the week; it's about sorting out and letting go, and when you whittle it down to the bare minimum and the bare bones of your very self, well that's your blank canvas of life.
Polka Panic
Today I feel as though I got up and ran. I got up on time, got to work on time and got on with it. It's the most together I've been in ages. I want to think it's a new me, but whenever it's happened before I know I run away with myself and tire all too easily.
My ambition is back though; it makes me thirsty. I don't want to sleep now, I want to go out and grab everything, and go far. When ambition takes over it makes you truly discontent with your current scenario. It's no bad thing; being discontent is the best motivator in the world. It goes back to what I said about my life laundry earlier in the week; it's about sorting out and letting go, and when you whittle it down to the bare minimum and the bare bones of your very self, well that's your blank canvas of life.
Polka Panic
