A short note that I’ll edit and add a little to later on the advent of Tom Daley’s confession of bisexuality (or pansexuality! usage of these terms is for ease of discussion), but I find it strange that after all the decades of general acknowledgement of gay people’s existence, so many still feel the need to have a sort of ‘coming out’ talk. Obviously some would like to clarify things with their family and friends etc., but why do people in general to this day assume that someone’s default sexuality will be straight? Statistics showing the current dominance of heterosexuality aside, the number of ‘alternative’ sexual orientations is steadily increasing, especially with increased media attention and education [well, kind sorta not really], so the chances of someone being attracted to the opposite sex are decreasing. And that’s not even taking into account the grey scale of sexuality. Really, if someone were to come out to me I think I’d shrug and go, ‘I never cared if you were ‘in’ or not in the first place. Just stop playing around with the furniture. I’m not helping to pull your arm out of the bloody sofa again.’
Which one of you fantastic fuckers was it that was on your way to the MCM London Comic Con this midday? I never realised how infuriatingly close I was to the stadium until, on my way in the opposite direction of it, I saw, to whit:
A group of three, one girls in a bright, multi-tonal purple dress, one boy in full Homestuck makeup with horns and the other in all black (sorry I couldn’t see properly) at CaWh ticket station
A separate group of roughly five in various costumes, possibly Homestuck and Avengers, also at CaWh but already on the train bearing them towards a day of fun
A solo (as far as I could see from the other side of the platform, you have my respect for that) blonde girl on a train at CaWa who may or may not have been dressed as Wonder Woman
A group of boys resembling Goku or some such character (not my fandom, apologies), one of whom had a full white, black and orange outfit and a sabre with him and the other a wig of jet black spikes and a blue bandanna on the escalators at Westminster
And all the while I was on a train for the other side of the central, where I was going to watch Star Wars all day.
Nothing against Luke, Hans and Chewbacca - who probably would have been at the con in person, actually - because I enjoyed watching their poorly special effected antics and sexual tension with Leia, but I wish I could’ve joined those cosplayers, whose existence I could not really, truly fathom or believe possible in London, city of suits, because they seemed, and to an extent, had to be a fairly brave and good humoured lot, tolerant of the stares they must have received in their highly impressive costumes.
Wow. Kudos to my kind [who I expect to send me a message about how jealousy inducingly great their day was if they read this].
~ Shadows of a tree - Vessa - Chios ~
Allow me to start this piece of writing not with a greeting, or an introduction, but with a warning that it is not unlikely that I will delete or radically edit it. I didn’t want this to be the first that I posted in months, especially as I had other, equally significant things to say, but strangely enough, I can’t remember what they were, and so in comparison this requires more immediate attention. You know how, when something happens, the excitement and desire to recount the series of events fills you to the seams? And you have you to that person about it right now? I feel like that, in a way, except calmer. If that is all shouting, clutching at each other and laughing hysterically, then this is all low rolling of thunder, being pensive and looking at the ground. Truth be told, the latter may sound more serious, but we all know that it is far from holding enough weight to resist the breath of time. Yet, what makes this short story valuable is just that; the impermanence of the emotions that it inspires and the meanings that I bestow upon it. Today, I carefully consider, but tomorrow, it will not even cross my mind. Anyway, I’ve built this tale up too much now, let me just tell it.
I attended a writing event this afternoon, and turns were taken to read aloud personal pieces of work for others to comment upon. It was the turn of a boy, my age, who I had seen, earlier, from the sheet, had produced a fragment of a story inspired by Beat writer, which was the first thing to pique my interest. The second was the piece itself. Irvine Welsh has said it before, that there is a problem differentiating between the beliefs of the author and the character, and when that guy started reading, you can make your bets now before you go on here that I wondered if he meant what said. If we’d have been in conversation together, I might have gone ‘Yes, exactly! I think precisely that’ with restrained excitement, but instead I sat quietly and pondered over the possibility of kindred spirits and how embarrassing it is to seriously call two people that, especially if one half of the pair is you. Now the third point of interest was the blatant but envy inducing talent of the author. There he sat by the window, alternating between leaning on the table or reclining in his chair, but never concentrating his eyes on anything but the words - his words, his character’s words - in front of him. And with every one that he read, his narrative voice become more realistic and character more defined, his nuanced mastery of the English language more evident, the power of the imagery increased and the driving sense of a story sped up, nearing the legal limit, until when the boy finished, the rest of the children were silent, and when they spoke they could only fault him on a single, misplaced word.
Perhaps, if the day comes that I am part of that brilliant elite of which Fitzgerald, Hemingway and Faulkner, and Ginsberg, Burroughs and Carr are members, I will not be so moved by the work of this new young Kerouac, and instead, casually say, ‘Yeah, nice work. Anyway, let’s go, get a whiskey or something. Tonight all I wanted to do was sneak out into the night and disappear somewhere, and go and find out what everybody was doing all over the country, but all I got was you, tapping away at your stories. Come on. We’ve got to get you out, out of your distorted view of the world, got to get you some experience.’
Not being shot. At least you’re alive to not be asleep.
Let’s play ‘were those fireworks or did someone on my street just get shot’
and the highly acclaimed sequel: “why are you setting off fireworks? it’s 4 PM on a tuesday what the fuck are you celebrating”
Turns offs? The sight of myself in the mirror.