‘Wine robs a man of his self-possession: opium greatly invigorates it’

Within my previous blog on Wales, I mentioned Confessions of an English Opium Eater, as De Quincey spirals from fantasy to realism through self dramatic prose. After the heartbreaking grievances following deaths of his father, siblings, children and wife you begin to imagine why he would impart upon the feeling of guilt yet he doesn’t excuse his opium addiction or earlier at Eton, wine as he writes ‘infirmity and misery do not, of necessity, imply guilt’ and ‘Guilt, therefore, I do not acknowledge’ when incidentally the deep anguish inside of him only reveals itself within the depths of his imagination and most surely lead to such a dependence.

Following yesterday’s collection of our essays, it spelled underachievement and disappointment. I need to be getting ‘A’s and ‘B’s not just below as these grades signal those being able to teach, PGCE’s are for the superior students yet my overly elaborate, hugely researched and hurriedly organized pieces are becoming my wine, my opium. I feel, even if this is just the first semester and there’s a long way to go yet, that I have hindered my hopes and there is nothing but anguish inside of me. The end of the year and all students are exhausted, bitterly upset but many have such ability that they will perform much better and could find masses of career options whereas mine is strictly the one: teaching English to the hard of hearing.

My little petite friend, like many others are in the same pernicious situation but at the opposite end of the scale, throughout her four years at the University and swapping from interpreting to teaching she has achieved mainly ‘B’s which will lead her to the elusive 2:1 that is required however now faces the results from two assessments of critical importance that could hamper her development thus lose her prospective enrolment at another University which already had over 2,000 applicants and she found herself being one of 100 chosen for just interviews. Now, that’s pressure.

The transgressive nature emerges through the depth of his sorrow after initially suppressing any forces of doubt attempting to reason with the reader referring to fellow users. Likewise I have distracted myself from any doubt over my future with the amount of reading, writing for various publications thus travelling to various cities also for charity work and socializing; finding employment in a school however is my greatest obstacle it should begin next year will ultimately take up much more of my time. Is it too early to presume my inevitable downfall? At 20 years old, I'm in lecture halls surrounded by likewise aged, disappointed faces and the minority who got the high marks were mostly at least 4, 5 years older than us and presumably read so much more in their lifetime, experienced more and perhaps more apt for teaching yet they do not even realise what they wish to do whereas I do and it tears me apart.

You see, De Quincey had vivid nightmares thanks to his sordid drug abuse, there was deep anxiety found inside of him that ‘literally to descend, into chasms and sunless abysses, depths below depths, from which it seemed hopeless that I could ever re-ascend’ and equally I find myself imagining all sorts of depressing thoughts and wondered if the fortune teller who got so much information spot on, is correct in her observation I shall find myself working for the Police rather than teaching.

Turner Prize: And the winner is...

Richard Wright, the outsider whom I hoped to win due to his admirable ethos and endeavour. Rather than conceptional designs or modernization he seeks pleasures from medieval ways and below is his gold leaf piece, rather stunning isn't it? I've written before of my adoration for the Renaissance period of literature and art which has shown it's vitality over the past year and many outstanding artists emerging yet as Wright's win proves, age doesn't matter- I'm 20 years old and my writing shan't reach it's peak for many years (before I perish in a hotel fire as my frightful imagination whenever I close my eyes reveals). As for the piece itself it could do with a name and with Carol Ann Duffy presenting the award, I'm sure she'd thought of something worthwhile to label it but on a side note-she looked rather stressed and perhaps the joys of sherry and poetry are getting to her. Another problem being Wright's name as it's synonymous with a dead musician at least at 49, he won the prestigious title in admittedly his last possible chance yet one hope it's not the last we see of him...

Of course the other artists had interesting views and ideas in particular: the intriguing manner of Roger Hiorns and the whale's skull by Lucy Skaer (I'll be honest, she wasn't as pretty looking as her name suggests). It showed, firstly the talent dripping through and secondly the merits of the competition and hopefully it's revitalisation in a depressing climate whereby people wish to be inspired and stunned even for a brief fragment of time much like Wright's piece which will soon disintegrate. It is perhaps symbolic, his artwork will not last 5 months nor will it be seen by many juxtaposed with a distant legacy as it'll fail to outshine the financial crisis and climate talks but it'll keep us joyfully entertained for now as 2009 nears an end.

Especially required now Christmas shall soon rear it's ugly overly inflated head, have we all purchased our presents yet? Typically, as a man I've not probably won't until I damn well have to but spare a thought for poor old Tiger Woods- that's alot of presents he'll have to buy thanks to his transgressions and his black book must be filled with numbers of available, sex-hungry and money influenced ladies so perhaps that'd be a neat gift for a cousin or someone. Let's hope his sorry ass disappears sooner rather than later and the tabloids return to normality... there's more chance of Wright's art dealer, Larry Gagosian suddenly revealing he is in fact, a woman. At least the semester comes to a close on Thursday with Shakespeare with one more assignment to hand in...

Harsh realities set in...

After a unremarkable day of lectures, the distant recollection of the calm weekend have ceased to exist and the impregnable hatred of all around me has returned. Forming a bond of complete ignorance and incompetence, our University tutors ladies and gentleman... one of which, upon marking my research proposal has created a new letter, a cross between 'A' and 'B' revealing a strange Japanese letter shape and in the confusion, nor do I realise I have the highest mark or second. Her explanation for such tawdry marking is due to the masses she has to produce, 78, whilst referring to the complexity of my writing which she finds overly confusing. It seems I have to abide their principles thus writing how I feel it should be wrote- nullified in order to grasp high grades at the cost of high intelligence.

Of all the rioting, conferences and deaths in the evening news; this topic is the one that frequently pops up, deaths on school-trips or in this case hiking for a youth organization. The poor girl stood no chance, the group should in hindsight had returned home from the moors and returned home yet one unfortunate slip lead to her untimely death with a shocking body temperature of 'less than 30C'. This happened to me once, on a school jaunt with the temperatures well in the minus and unaware I was utterly freezing as At 13 year old I wasn't too bothered then on a long hike covered in blisters and shaking yet fought on only to slip into a river almost floated away as my diminutive self of non-existent swimming ability evaporated in the strong current.

Luckily I was surrounded by good teachers who pulled me out otherwise I would've perished then concerned I'd be suffering from pneumonia as had done before at 3 years old but once again, quick thinking allowed me to be wrapped up and taken away without a fuss. In this instant, the girls were left unsupervised and the weather was appalling. Surely this shouldn't have happened but as one of life's expectancies, things happen that we cannot fathom only mourn her loss and retain vilified anger over the mis-management and carelessness.

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/article6947512.ece

'Wales is the land of my fathers. And my fathers can have it'..

A fabulous weekend spent in the depths of lands previously unconquered, a place I found to be ultimately relaxing, inspiring yet deadly concerning as despite it's lively nightlife (some nice bars and clubs however avoid Ice , the most mediocre club in the UK.) It's suffering financially with many shops closing as the shopping centre featuring typical favourites thrive and it's regeneration plans as the City looks no nearer to achieving the targets set. Whilst on the train through the darkness upon returning, I scribbled down a poem explaining my thoughts of Cardiff and Swansea prior to bypassing the likes of Bridgend which isn't a particularly enjoyable place to live by any means.

The poem itself, utterly terrible and as you can see I thought it'd be a chance to experiment rather than follow Thomas' structure with a disarrangement of syllables as hypermetrical lines appear with no thought for rhythm and yet it enabled the poem to find stability within complete chaos (much like the places I saw desperately trying to build a future) whilst the present is uncertain. Strangely, I was reading Thomas De Quincey's Confessions at the time so the poem is inscribed within another complex character's retelling experience of opium whilst Dylan Thomas liked a drink hence the first line is due to him possibly deserving a posthumous knighthood, not only for his poetry but disclosure of thoughts as the title quote shows, well in my opinion anyway.

The home of my idol (Sir) Dylan Thomas,
I transpired through the fields of splendour,
Amongst distant hilly lands thus unemployment harass,
Extenuated by Industrialism galore,
As the ageing ships and fisherman boats pass,
Beautiful surroundings upon the shore,

Now a strong wind blows there’s a sinking feeling,
Fine baroque features and marina tarnished,
As the unpolished regenerative effort is left reeling,
Equivocally economic woes mis-managed,
A City of such history empowering,
The home of my idol Dylan Thomas.

Due to the close proximity of the hotel to the marina, the refreshing sea air lead to thoughts of the Copenhagen summit that'll decide the future aims of combating global warming. I thought of a short story to write called Modern Dilemma, as Government shenanigans (inspired by the Thick of It and recent idiotic behaviour by MPs) and coinciding with concise lack of action to solve climate change with an intense rivalry as subplot. Alarmingly, the story isn't too unrealistic with places like the North Yorkshire coast whereby I was brought up with waves pounding any defence in place into submission and once habituated by natural forces as a means of displaying it's powers lead to a hotel crumbling away as this article pinpoints:

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/environment-when-england-falls-into-the-sea-who-picks-up-the-bill-1233625.html

Look at the date on that, 1997 and imagine how this shall be regularly occurring in the future so in the last decade or so no huge improvements on sea defences over the years. Why, perhaps money is tight enough or it's not seen as required at this moment in time? It's incredibly worrying as the weather and Chinese/American polluted air will worsen without unprecedented action.

News Just In: I've Quit The Union Newspaper...

of which I was formerly editor and in doing so I took on the role of Malcolm as seen below from the brilliant Thick of It by stating the draft copy of the latest issue as being 'a consummate piece of fucking incompetence’. So I lambasted the layout designer (put in place by the Union, not me!) for not only the shocking appearance but writing an article openly criticizing the newly elected Diversity officer which the Student Union approved of! A complete embarrassment on her behalf and a shame as the rest of the team assembled did rather well and managed to do some good pieces, I interviewed a top upcoming band and wrote many pieces whilst editing yet the additional articles by the friend of the electoral runner up was horrendously biased and so hurriedly written that I didn't know where to start editing. The underling matter, we were censored from the off and I couldn't stand for any more perhaps I'll look back on this as a moment of madness but for now, I must concentrate on my partner, the degree and charity work with duties as a best man to my brother's wedding to fulfill.

Malcolm played by the inch perfect Peter Capaldi and the writers specifically Armando Iannucci whom I've mentioned before on his excellent Paradise Lost documentary, won one BAFA in 2006 but the new series shows a continuous theme of mayhem with the stellar cast and dynamic, witty dialogue that must be roundly praised for it's ingenuity. From Series One for instance of which I hugely agree with Hugh Abbot played by Chris Langham (according to Ewar), smiling should be banned:

Hugh Abbott: I want a new driver. Get me a new driver. I don't wanna see this guy ever again.

Glenn Cullen: On what grounds?

Hugh: Smiling! Inappropriate smiling! And smirking! Smiling and smirking! I don't wanna see that smile or smirk ever again, OK?

Other news, I shall soon be starting a new placement at an nearby school with a hard of hearing unit arranged by my employers of the Black County Scheme (start soon as the school get the funding to pay me) whom say I'd be ideal role model for the hearing and D/deaf alike so should be a great experience. So an interesting weekend, prior to the dramatic turn of events that took place, I spent the day in Liverpool with the lady visiting Tate Gallery and the museum, walking along the splendid Albert Docks and taking in the architecture and modernity of the largely inspired city following the award of City of Culture in 2008.

How did your weekend go? Do comment, I feel my blog is rather naked without the comments of you dear readers and I'd quite like to know if you feel I acted in the right manner. I'm considering sending an email to the layout designer who supposedly had years of experience of writing for an obscure online publication which doesn't even exist according to Google and as a 30 year old she acted irresponsibly whilst spelling disgracefully through out. Perhaps I'll say ‘By flying so close to your bright sun, like Icarus, I could have crashed to the earth and died but escaped thankfully'. Or is that quite overly dramatic and I should keep my head held high and leave things be?

Goodnight.

There is light at the end of the tunnel...

An update on the Union newspaper of which I'm the editorial mastermind (haha) so for those who may be interested, read on... The utter failure of my PR staff has lead to many missed opportunities but no more so than the Little Boots interview that agents willfully got in touch about and would've arranged something for us yet no one responded nor informed me. Now many of us have completed various assignments for our degrees we can concentrate on making a success of this yet I doubt they are overly concerned so I've taken it upon myself to arrange such meetings, bookings and check/respond/delete over 300 emails, sent many to possible contributors and bands we could help promote whilst clearing the clutter and editing various articles which primarily is my job.

However, I'm fairly confident this can be a successful jaunt with many pieces I've written (fashion, political observation, events also news. disability charity update) and shall announce a meeting next week to discuss it all before print then look for more contributors so if you wish to write something no matter what the topic is then email us at: crywolf2009@hotmail.co.uk

The picture of course is Dylan Thomas, the famous Welsh poet in a stylish attire complete with a neat cravat that reminds me I must purchase some to complete my brooding looks. I shall be visiting his house soon as I'm taking the lady on an early December romantic visit of Wales before Christmas followed by a return home to the delightful setting of North Yorkshire to celebrate the birth of Christ. Next week however shall see more University woes with several lectures before visiting London once again for Youth Workers Party and discussions also a weekend trip to Liverpool with the lady. Plenty to be getting on with but as Thomas once said 'He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest'.

Talking of the North West, it is there where the flash floods has caused havoc, the tragic news of the policeman swept away http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/article6925387.ece was just terrible. An awful way to die however an heroic act under the duty of his profession and he shan't be forgotten. Rest in Peace.

'Anger is never without a reason, but seldom with a good one...

Another quote by Benjamin Franklin, oh how I admire him. I have a reason for such high inflated sense of aggression- firstly the mundane task on defending either Adam or Eve over their role within the Fall attributed to Paradise Lost that our class must undertake and the Manchester Fiction Prize (if you recall I entered over the summer period two short stories that I took two, three months to write whenever I had a moment to spare). Over 1700 entered from across the Globe and of course I wasn't expecting to win, a dream riddled with doubt nevertheless imagine my surprise at such a list of those shortlisted and whom ultimately became successful.

As a lowly student of 20 years of age and profoundly deaf amongst the literacy wannabes and heavyweights I had no chance. Still, in my naviety, I passionately imagined to be at the award ceremony in a Ralph Lauren suit glaring at those who applauded me and delivering a speech that would knock them off their silky socks prompting them to spill their chateau wine over M&S bought attire. But no, it was never going to happen amongst the calibre of opponents many of which I've never heard and judging by their short stories, ever wish to hear of. Make no mistake, I don't even wish to be a writer but a teacher yet I couldn't possibly bring myself to accept that my stories weren't worth their time as I believed that they were especially considering the tales that deemed success worthy. Taken from the winning story a fairly wonderful piece of literature by Toby Litt, 'a very big black cock, uncircumcised, with a pink bell-end that – when exposed – looked the colour black flesh does when third-degree-burned or napalmed' so there you go truly inspiring as I'm sure you'll agree...

To summarize, I'm not bitter nor envious but angered that a tale about 'fucking' won the title that I ambitiously dreamt about winning- the Young Person's Writers Award won incidentally by a 24 year old teacher from my birthplace of Leeds. Goes by the name of Halmshaw who I'm sure is a fantastic chap with a sharp wit that'd cut my fingers yet the promiscuity of his story doesn't particularly impress me. For instance his opening line: 'It’s impossible to meet women here,’ Petrov says. ‘You talk to a barmaid and she thinks you want to fuck her. Sometimes you do want to fuck her – this is when you’re really screwed. Or you see a woman at the bar. Even if all you want to do is pass the time, she thinks you want to fuck her'. I was positively stunned at the distastefulness and quite brazen way in which the story is conveyed haunted by it's lack of charm. How could he possibly think anyone over the age of 16 and under the age of... 12, would read on? It tried so desperately to be 'cool', certainly isn't demure staddled with a Fight Club complex and a wishful dialogue that neither enhances the story nor does it bring anything but pure disdain and I'm sure my girlfriend would feel the same if she was conscious at this moment (no, I haven't killed her in a rage she's merely sleeping).

Just for kicks, compare it with the opening lines to my entered stories:

- In the Hazy Days of the 1940's, I wrote ' It’s 1943; the war that started on a whim has ravaged the nation with battles still being fought and lives of staggering magnitude lost. In the maddened wind, three men walk over wearily; they are Flight Lieutenants Edward Holmes, Bill Chamberlain and Frederick Lynch of Royal Air Force No.617 Squadron'

- In Vendetta of Silence, 'Placed in a darkened interview room the alleged murderer is at the receiving end of a bombardment of questions by the ruthless Detective Inspector Kuzneski with such intent to immediately provoke his suspect from his comfort within a languid world. On a table were four pictures of recent victims to a brutal dual murder and then just the one of a sullen corspe of what was once, a beautiful woman'

Which would you envisage upon reading onwards with? My setback shan't halt my sideline writing progression as all famous and respected writers had to overcome barriers and fruitless success in various competitions. My main aim is to encourage my students to write, allow their imagination and talent to flourish despite our lack of hearing much like parents hope for the best for their children and I'm determined not to let them down upon my return to Leeds for a Masters in a couple of years. Yet I shall always wonder what shall become of that competition and why such renowned writers overlooked the potential of unknown writers in bid to promote the talents of god-awful writers with the flair of a rotting wall plant draped with human faceas.

As you can see, I'm a perfectly charming person! I bid you good day, take care.